Free Ship of the Damned by James F. David

driver’s seat. Compton walked to the edge of the crowd and talked to one of the men. Then she turned and nodded at Jett, staying with the crowd. Jett got back on the phone, giving orders to his perimeter teams. A minute later Compton strolled back to the car.
    “He’s talking,” Compton said. “The crowd thinks he’s out of his head.”
    Sirens sounded, coming closer, then stopped.
    “We’ve got to shut him up,” Pierce said. “Let’s go.”
    “Sit down,” Jett ordered as Pierce pulled on his door handle.
    Pierce hesitated, flushing from anger, but then sank back into his seat.
    Jett’s phone buzzed and he held it to his ear. Then he ordered Pierce to drive. Pierce started to protest, but Jett slapped the back of his head. They left the crowd and drove two blocks away to where one of their teams was holding the ambulance. The attendants had been taken away, uniforms left behind.
    “One was female,” Jett said, tossing a uniform to Compton.
    They changed in the ambulance, Compton wiping off her makeup and tying her hair back, effectively changing her looks so that those in the crowd wouldn’t recognize her from her first trip. When they were ready, Jett turned on the siren and drove to the wire factory, Pierce and Sloan following. Grabbing a medikit from the back of the van, Jett and Compton pushed through the crowd to the man who was still sitting on the ground, injured. He was wearing sailor dress whites, the pants bell-bottomed. The uniform was torn in places, but was in remarkably good condition for clothing as old as Jett knew it had to be. The man in the uniform was young, maybe twenty years old, with black hair and dark brown eyes. He wore dog tags, and there was a wedding band strung from his neck chain. The sailor had a head wound and held his left arm. Jett took charge, examining the wound, talking to the man.
    “Do you have any other wounds besides your head?”
    “My arm.”
    Compton touched the arm, feeling the length of it.
    “It hurts. I think it’s broken.”
    Compton felt the sailor’s legs and his other arm, then announced, “Nothing else is broken.”
    “Sir, can you stand?” Jett said. “We need to get you into the ambulance.”
    “I think so.”
    Jett and Compton helped him to his feet.
    “Shouldn’t you use a stretcher?” a woman said from the crowd.
    Now the Special looked at the woman and then at Jett.
    “You should have checked his blood pressure and heart rate,” the woman said, coming through the crowd. She was middle-aged, and studied them suspiciously.
    Now the Special looked frightened.
    “I’m okay,” he said. “Let me go!”
    Jett tightened his grip, Compton speaking to calm the Special.
    “It’s going to be all right,” Compton said. “We’re going to treat you in the ambulance.”
    “He could have internal injuries,” the woman said.
    “Let me go,” the Special said.
    They were only a few steps from the ambulance when the Special began to struggle.
    “I’m not getting in there,” he said, pushing on Jett with his good arm.
    Jett held on, Compton tightening her grip on the other side, hurting the broken arm. Pushing with his legs, the Special slowed them, and now they were pulling him toward the ambulance. Then Pierce stepped around the ambulance, reaching into his coat and pulling his weapon. The Special reacted instantly, stiffening in Jett’s grasp. Suddenly, as if hit in the stomach by an invisible boulder, Pierce buckled in the middle, breath exploding from his body. As the Special turned toward Jett, Jett head-butted him, then shoved him toward Compton, the three of them falling in a tangle. It was a wrestling match now, the Special’s broken arm giving them the advantage; but as they struggled he seemed to feel his injury less. Just as they had him pinned face down, the crowd circled them, men in work clothes pulling on Jett and Compton.
    “Get off of him,” someone said.
    “You’re hurting him,” another said.
    “We’re federal