The Orion Assignment (18 page)

Right through the lungs, Morgan thought.

Incoming stimuli: first, the mule kick to his right shoulder. The slight ringing in the ears, despite ear plugs. The thunder of horses' hooves as the wanderers charged the smugglers, hollering all the way. The comforting smell of cordite. Then Felicity's voice, more strident than before.

“Number two is to the right about ten feet, standing in
a raft.”

Morgan had faith in his partner. She knew the field of vision through the rifle scope was too narrow for him to scan for a target. Also, a moving target, even a slow one, would be impossible to hit at this distance. In the seven tenths of a second it would take for a bullet to reach the shore, it would be easy for a man to move six feet in any direction. She had accounted for all these variables in less time than that, and chosen the best target.

The face he zeroed in on was quite intent. The smuggler was concentrating on his own telescopic sight. No doubt he was locked onto an approaching wanderer. Morgan squeezed the trigger again, and his sight picture went out of focus.

“Low and left,” was all Felicity said. Morgan shrugged to loosen his shoulder and looked again. His target must be a pro, he thought. He did not move, even though the heavy bullet had smacked the raft no more than two inches from him. Morgan took a deep breath, held it, and fired again. This time the man at the other end of the scope dropped his rifle and clutched his abdomen. Considering the power of his rifle, Morgan knew his target was dead before he hit the ground.

Half a mile down range, Danny O'Faolain fired his rifle from the saddle with uncommon accuracy. At a full gallop, he hit one out of perhaps three men he fired at. But he knew that was enough to keep the smugglers hopping. Leaderless, they lost precious time looking for someone to tell them what to do. Meanwhile, the mass of Gypsies whooped like wild Indians, picking off the invaders with ease.

Machine gun fire rattled across the tiny bay and two of the wanderers fell from their steeds. A few reined up their horses, intimidated, but the chief's son charged right toward the gunner. The AK-47's barrel swung on line with Danny's chest. The wanderer shouted in defiance and spurred his mount forward. The AK
released a long string of bullets, but they were all too high. The smuggler flipped backward and sprawled on the ground.

Morgan dropped his head on his arm. It was a hell of a shot, and just in time. He liked the kid and did not want to see him killed in this silly fight.

“I can't get any more from here,” Morgan said. “I'd as likely hit friend as foe with so much movement going on.”

“Well then, let's go join the party.”

By the time Morgan and Felicity galloped down to the land's edge, the action was over. Twenty corpses lay on the ground or bobbed in the surf. Most had succumbed to gunshot wounds, a few to knife attacks. The black rafts cluttered the shoreline, looking like punctured inner tubes.

The wanderers scurried about, cleaning the smugglers of their personal knives, guns and currency. They also harvested cigarette lighters, binoculars, watches, anything that might fetch a price on the open market. Morgan had seen and even done this type of scavenging before. It was obvious from her face that Felicity was no stranger to it either. To the victors belong the spoils in this type of situation, but Morgan was interested in a different kind of booty.

He was using a large Bowie knife he had found on the ground to pry one of the crates open when he felt a hard slap on his back.

“That was a rare bit of a romp, eh?” Danny O'Faolain said. The stiletto he held in his right hand was black with blood. “You know, I'm the sort of man what says he's wrong when he's wrong. I want to tell you, you've got the eye of a hawk and no mistake. I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with me own eyes. Never have I seen shooting like that.” Danny held out his hand
and Morgan took it. The shake was firm and solid.

“I had my share of luck too,” Morgan said. “Now, help me find out what's in this box, will you?” The two pulled on the wooden crate's lid, and others who saw them turned to the crates nearest them. This, it seemed, was where the real treasure would be.

With the squeak of ten-penny nails forced from green wood, the top planks pulled loose. Felicity leaned over to look into the dark box. Morgan noticed birds singing overhead for the first time. He realized they had stayed away since the gun play. Now their song signaled a return to normality. It was a false signal.

Morgan plunged his hand into the crate and pulled loose his prize, wrapped in rags and covered in gun grease. He pulled the rags away revealing the metal object within.

“Sweet mother of mercy,” Danny said. “What on earth kind of a gun is this, now?”

What Morgan held aloft bore a vague resemblance to a rifle, but with a too-wide barrel, an oversized tin can jammed into the middle of its plastic butt, and a carrying handle shaped somewhat like a suspension bridge.

“This ten pounds of death, boys and girls, is called the Pancor Jackhammer,” Morgan explained. “Thirty inches long, eighteen inch barrel. This, folks, is a submachine gun. This cylinder behind the hand guard is a rotary magazine and chamber.”

“And if you don't mind me asking, what's so special about it aside from its bizarre appearance?”

“Well, Danny, this particular machine gun fires twelve gage shotgun shells,” Morgan said, scooping up a handful of shells and pushing them into place. “You load your ammo into this ten shot cylinder and you can fire these shotgun shells singly, or at the rate of two hundred forty rounds per minute. That's four in a second, just by holding the trigger down.”

To demonstrate, Morgan swung the weapon toward the rocks they had just abandoned and squeezed. A
three shot burst pumped forward. A vertical string of explosions rained shattered stone down onto the rocky ground. All eyes were fixed on the devastation.

“One man armed with one of these in an urban environment is more dangerous than a squad with rifles,” Morgan said. “He can clean out a house or a narrow street in nothing flat. Our friend O'Ryan is dealing in some very awesome ordnance here.”

“Perfect for fighting in the city,” Danny added after a low whistle.

“And worse,” Felicity said, “unlike ordinary machine guns, the ammunition for this thing is readily available anywhere.” She turned and walked toward the shore, and the other two followed. “Looks like there must be four or five dozen of these guns here. There are people up north waiting for these thingies. But I don't think they'll go out and do the dirty deeds O'Ryan requires if he doesn't come through with the firepower. And, you know, his foreign masters will be most unhappy if no terrorist activity takes place.”

“That's right,” Morgan said, nodding. “And if they ask about what happened to their money, he won't even be able to point to new weapons. They'll never believe somebody just ripped him off. Any way you look at it, this should be the final nail in his coffin.”

“Well, we can make sure a use is found for these beauties, aside from shooting at people,” Danny said. He signaled his men to load the bodies onto the rafts and drag them into the ocean.

“All but one,” Morgan said, checking the gun's weight. “I'll be taking a souvenir.”

“They'll make for some exciting hunting,” Danny said, sighting down a barrel. “You know, we ought to go on a hunt tomorrow and try these things out.”

“Sorry, Danny,” Felicity said, watching the gulls circling above. “We have to get back home. My uncle Sean will be worried sick about us.”

“Nothing truly funny has been written in America in thirty years,” Felicity said through a guffaw. “But every one of Robert Benchley's stories is hilarious.”

The long rowboat began to rock with her laughter, and Sean glared at her over his shoulder.

“Child, do you want to scare every one of the fish away?”

Sean sat at the stern of his wooden vessel, his line in the ocean, working at fishing in what even Morgan saw as a studious manner. Sean was a serious fisherman. Flies he tied himself adorned his special fishing hat. A knife, a hook disgorger and pipe tobacco were tucked into their specific pockets in his special fishing vest. His once red tackle box was filled with every imaginable type of bait. He had already flipped four fat whitings into the boat.

“I think you're off base,” Morgan said, moving as little as possible. He was lying along the center bench, a folded jacket propping up his head. “Now it's true, the humor of that time stands out. I kind of dig James Thurber myself…”

“You just like looking at the pictures.”

“Funny girl,” Morgan said. He was a casual fisherman, but appeared to have a natural feel for it. He seemed to choose bait at random and jerked his pole one way or another from time to time. But in three hours of floating on the tide he landed five flapping white fish.

“Always got a kick out of Ogden Nash myself,” Sean chipped in.

“Me too,” Morgan agreed, “But humor didn't die in nineteen fifty. You need to read some Woody Allen. Not see, mind you. Read. Funny as Thurber, I'm telling you.
Far outshines his movies.” Morgan reached into the water, into a net hanging off the side of the boat, and pulled out a bottle of Guinness Stout. He was again moved by how clear and tranquil the ocean seemed here. Joe Montana could throw a touchdown pass to shore from where they were. The water was shallow there and excellent for fishing. He knew there was cod, herring, probably some mackerel around, but why work at relaxing?

After the messy job with the wanderers, Morgan needed to relax, and he knew it was the same for Felicity. They had returned the same night, riding to within a couple of miles of Sean's house in a colorful wagon drawn by four proud stallions. They said long good-byes to old and new friends. Then they enjoyed a special walk together, in a deep silence filled with meaning. Something they could share with each other but could not share with anyone else, that calm time after a caper.

After a good night's sleep, Sean suggested fishing as a way to pass a peaceful day. In an unaccustomed flash of domesticity, Felicity rose early and packed a picnic basket with rolls and cold fried chicken from the night before. Shortly after dawn they grabbed fishing gear and a couple of books and headed out.

Now they floated at anchor over the Irish Sea. Felicity sat curled up with a book in the bow, in a heavy wool sweater. She needed no pole or reel to relax. The morning's light conversation appeared to be enough.

“Got to admit, I'm impressed,” Sean said.

“Well, that was out of nowhere,” Felicity said. “I'll say thanks, but what did I do?”

“Guess it just struck me how well the two of you can really let go,” Sean said. “Even here in Ireland, there aren't many left in this day and age who can appreciate the blue of the sky, the quiet lap of tiny waves or the gentle rolling motions of a small boat. You two are city people, but you still know how to set the fast pace aside
and enjoy the smell of fresh salt air.”

“Guess you've kept us from getting bored with good conversation,” Morgan said.

Sean snapped his rod, but failed to set the hook and some fish lived to swim another day. “That's another thing. In the time we've been out here, we've talked about books, shotguns, old movies, jewelry and Irish poetry. Felicity's always been a reader, but I've got to admit I'm surprised at how well read you are, Morgan.”

“Well, as a mercenary soldier I use to end up with a lot of free time on my hands between jobs,” Morgan answered. “That was before I hooked up with your niece. Besides, it pays a merc to be knowledgeable, especially about history and geography.” He was pulling in his line to check his bait when Felicity made an innocent request.

“Would one of you kind gentlemen please pass me a piece of that chicken?”

There was an eerie silence as each member of the trio glanced at the other two.

“Uncle Sean?”

“I had me tackle box,” Sean said.

“I was carrying all this fishing gear,” Morgan said, curling one corner of his mouth. “I even had a pole and reel for Felicity that she ain't even using.” He turned to glare at the girl. “Your hands were empty.”

Felicity managed to stop her blush at her neck. “Well fellows, shall we be heading for the shore? Packed us a really good lunch, I did.”

“Photographic memory,” Morgan muttered, getting the oars into the water. “You'd think you could remember a little thing like a lunch basket.”

“I notice the stout found its way into the boat.”