Path of the Storm

by Douglas Reeman

  ‘Stop playing this stupid game!’ Looking back he wondered how he had tolerated that first display of rage on her part. She had pushed him away, her mouth ugly with temper. ‘I’m sick of playing second string to your damn ship!’ And so on.

  Each time it got a little bit worse, but when Gunnar had been posted to Viet Nam as an adviser he had believed that the sudden prolonged absence in hostile territory would change her. It did. In her letter she told him in cold, almost insolent, style that she had decided to leave him. There was someone else. This someone was apparently on another plane, a man of drive and energy who made Gunnar seem like an idiot child. He later learned that the man was in fact Jack Fenton, a flabby, fast-talking business representative employed by Janet’s father, who lived, it seemed, entirely to grant Janet’s every wish and desire.

  It was from that moment Gunnar started to make a series of mistakes. He had still failed to grasp the essential fact that Janet had made up her mind, just as she had when she had decided to marry him, that she did not want him any more. Furthermore, if Gunnar had been less busy with the day-today effort of helping to build up the South Vietnamese defences against the impending communist assault from the North, he might have understood that she had made her plans long ago, had probably even selected her new partner with the same clear-thinking efficiency which made her so much like her father.

  Gunnar had, of course, helped her by accepting the difficult assignment in Viet Nam. By taking the one challenging job which, if successful, would certainly earmark him for promotion and advancement, he had in fact given her the opportunity to act. In Janet’s view distance was a great healer, and who knew what might happen in Viet Nam?

  The next mistake he made was to plead with her. Most of his letters went unanswered, and in any case her replies became more vague and fewer as the weeks dragged by. He still wondered why he had started the affair with Laya, the Vietnamese girl in Qui Nhon.

  She was tiny and black-haired, almost like a child compared with Janet’s bright worldiness. After each hard, nagging day Gunnar returned to his quarters and found her waiting for him. No word of love was ever spoken, no promise or plan for the future even hinted at, yet from this strange acceptance Gunnar derived some happiness in those months before his world finally fell apart. He still asked himself if he had in fact found love in the strange, quiet-spoken Laya, or if in fact he had only allowed the affair as if by so doing he would hurt Janet and make her repent.

  All this inner unrest and more beside was tearing him apart that day when he had been ordered to arrange the shipment of ammunition and stores by way of a small coaster which the local forces used for that purpose. Laya had been rather withdrawn for a few days, and Gunnar had believed she was sickening for something. She came of a good local family, her father being a merchant of high repute who was very pleased with his daughter’s social progress, and Gunnar suggested that she stay with her family until his return.

  She had become excited, tearful and wretched as he explained that he would be out of town for two weeks at least. He had to go some fifty miles inland to contact the commander of one of the montagnards, who in turn would be responsible for making a final collection of the coaster’s cargo once it was shipped on to road transport. There was so much terrorist activity on the roads and railways at night that every precaution had to be taken. Security was at a premium, and the hard-pressed American advisers could never afford to lose patience with the slap-happy arrangements enforced by the South Vietnamese. All this he had tried to explain to Laya, more like a father to a daughter than a man to the girl whose bed he had been sharing. But she was like that. He felt protective towards her more than anything else, just as he found a kind of peace in her desire.

  One week later the small convoy with which he was travelling was ambushed by the Viet Cong. There were three trucks of Vietnamese soldiers and one of stores for the journey. All were soon ablaze, and the dusty road was running with blood as the hidden machine guns cut through the unsuspecting guards.

  In a daze of pain and apprehension Gunnar had been dragged through one jungle path after another, urged on by blows and curses even as searching helicopters prowled above the interlaced branches overhead.

  The Viet Cong took no more prisoners from the convoy. The blackened, mutilated and stripped corpses still guarded the road when an army patrol stumbled across them two days later.

  But Gunnar was special, and was to be afforded the full treatment. Even now he did not understand what last physical barricade had held him together under the torture. There had been other prisoners in the jungle hideout. Peasants and soldiers, grey-faced and terrified victims of a war they did not understand. Slowly and methodically the Viet Cong went on with their interrogations and executions, only falling into silent watchfulness when a patrol or a prowling aircraft was reported.

  The chief interrogator was young and sleek, and Gunnar suspected he was Chinese. His English was flawless, with an almost British accent.

  He only appeared on the second day after Gunnar’s capture. After two days of beatings and humiliations. The softening up.

  He had sat in a small canvas chair, his jungle-green uniform clean and well pressed in spite of the squalid surroundings, a warm smile on his bland features.

  ‘Well, Commander Gunnar? Time is very short, so let us get down to business.’

  Gunnar had been kept in a small wooden cage, too small to lie, sit or kneel in. Every muscle ached, and his body felt raw and racked with pain. They knew all about him. His background, the men under his control, even the hours he worked in Qui Nhon. There was just one thing they were not sure about.

  The nameless interrogator had smiled almost apologetically. ‘I must have the exact inland route of your ammunition convoy and the pick-up area.’ He had watched the surprise on Gunnar’s bruised face with open amusement. ‘Surely you did not think my group would betray its position merely to wipe out your little convoy the other day for nothing? It was you we wanted!’ The man’s casual air had vanished. ‘Time is short. You will be killed very shortly, Commander, so we must get on!’

  Gunnar had forced a smile. ‘If I am to die there seems little point in continuing with this argument!’

  ‘On the contrary! Tell me what I require and I promise you a bullet in the neck. I will even do it myself if you wish.’ He sounded cool and reasonable. ‘Otherwise you will be praying for death for a long long time. My men are experts. They have to be. If they kill a man under torture their own lives are forfeit!’

  And from that point Gunnar’s life had changed into a living hell. With small breaks the torture went on hour by hour. The agony, the white-hot horror of the bamboo knives and the sounds of his own screams. He did not remember telling them the secrets of the ammunition convoy, but at the same time he knew he must have done so. The agony stopped, and like a bloody carcass he had been thrown into a pit on top of a pile of torn bodies like an animal in a slaughterhouse.

  Then something quite unforeseen even to the vigilant Communist guards had happened.

  A sentry had reported the sound of an approaching aircraft. Through the mist of pain and despair Gunnar heard someone order the dousing of the cook’s fire, as had happened several times during his captivity. What happened next he could not be sure. Possibly the camp cook in his excitement upset some oil or petrol amongst the scattered embers, but without warning a great gout of flame seared through the shadowed trees, followed immediately by a tall column of thick blue smoke.

  With every last ounce of his fading strength Gunnar had pulled himself blindly over the edge of the pit in which he had been thrown to die. The cold dead hands of earlier victims clawed at his torn, naked body, but he still struggled and tugged until he was across the trampled earth and hidden in the first barrier of bushes. He had heard the changing note of the aircraft’s engines, had guessed what would happen next. He had so often heard the tired pilots complaining of their fruitless patrols, of the wasted napalm bombs which always hung read
y in the hunt for terrorists and their invisible camps. That column of smoke would be all that this particular pilot could dream of.

  Stubbornly, desperately, the breath choking through his pain-clenched teeth, Gunnar had crawled on. He did not even look back as the holocaust broke behind him, and he no longer felt the searing heat which scorched the very air in his lungs. He was past fear and beyond the pain of death. That was why he survived, if survival it was. Some hunters found him days later and took him quickly to the nearest army post. For charity or reward, he never knew or cared, nor did he ever see the faces of the men who had found him.

  When the hospital restored his sanity and did its best with his lacerated body he heard the other half of the story. The ammunition convoy was safe, because it had been delayed inadvertently by the old coaster having an engine breakdown. A brother officer who visited him briefly before he was flown back to the States for more advanced treatment told him about Laya. On the day Gunnar had gone on his mission, she had disappeared.

  Gunner could still not believe what he knew must be true. She had been planted on him, and, love or not, had betrayed him to the terrorists. Over and over again he tortured his mind with the knowledge that hers was not the real blame. Because of his own stupid personal troubles he had been the one to make betrayal possible. He had dropped his guard, left open the one gap which men like the sleek interrogator were always seeking.

  The medal had been the final mockery. Heroism in the face of the enemy, making his escape in spite of his wounds, devotion to duty, etc. etc. God in heaven, how he hated the very sound of the citation!

  It was incredible to remember how swift and easy he had made his own disgrace and downfall. The fact that he had not kept silent under torture, the knowledge that the convoy would have been destroyed but for an accident, helped to rip away the last of his inner strength.

  And now, in spite of all that happened, he was still not to be spared. He was being thrown straight back into the thick of the unseen war, with even more lives resting in his hands.

  The admiral’s last despatch did not fool him any more than the bald context of his orders. There was something in the wind, and Hibiscus was to be the bait.

  He sat up violently on the bunk, the sweat trickling down his bare chest and arms. They did not trust him with the full details of the operation, that was why he was entering Payenhau like a blind man. They needed his services and experience, but no longer believed in his judgement.

  He thought of the resentment amongst his own men, the unspoken attacks on the constant drills and exercises he had made them all carry out. Well, let them complain! If anything went wrong this time it was not going to be because the ship was unprepared. It would not wipe out past events, but it might help to ease the pain of them.

  The telephone buzzed discreetly.

  He heard Regan’s harsh voice: ‘Captain, sir? Just picked up the Payenhau Group on the radar.’ He paused and Gunnar heard the sigh of the bow-wave close in his ear. Regan continued, ‘Dawn coming up now, sir.’

  Gunnar nodded. ‘I’ll come up.’ He dropped the phone and swung his legs off the bunk. It was all starting again. He felt for his small box of tranquillisers and reached for a glass of water.

  There was no past. The future was uncertain, but it was there.

  3

  The Island of Tin Gods

  LIEUTENANT ROBERT MADDOX paused for a moment on the top rung of the bridge ladder and leaned backwards on his heels. It felt strange to hold the handrails and not feel the engines’ steady vibrations, and stranger still to see the unattended wheel and the bare chart table. He sighed and heaved himself on to the upper bridge.

  The captain was standing on the gratings, and Maddox felt that it was as if Gunnar had always been there, would remain there until the ship broke up around him.

  He saluted wearily. ‘Ship secure, Captain.’ Maddox was torn with the desire to drop into his bed and sleep away the tensions of the trip from Hong Kong, yet something stirred him to come alive again from the moment but fifteen minutes earlier when the anchor had shattered the flat stillness of the Payenhau anchorage. Now, as the Hibiscus swung gently at her cable, glittering like a toy ship in her own reflection, it was indeed hard to recall the nerve-jarring approach in the dawn’s half light, the captain’s sharp helm orders, and the wild impression which Maddox knew he had shared with others on the silent bridge that the ship was heading straight for disaster. The channel between the first tiny group of islets which surrounded the main hump of land like broken fragments seemed invisible, and now in the first glare of morning it was even more difficult to see how Gunnar had groped his way to the centre of the placid anchorage. It was more like a giant lake, with the surrounding islets overlapping and concealing the narrow slivers of burnished water and the open sea beyond.

  Gunnar was speaking to Lieutenant Kroner, who beside the captain’s rumpled and weary figure looked out of place and unnatural in a new crisp outfit of fresh khakis, a pistol prominent at his hip.

  ‘And while we are here I want a good lookout maintained at all times.’ Gunnar’s tone was still terse, still on guard. Across his shoulder Maddox caught Kroner’s eye and saw the communications officer blink like a disapproving owl. The captain continued: ‘The gangway watch will always be in undress whites, and each O.O.D. must see that the flag is a good one when it’s hoisted each day. Not some ragged old relic used for sea purposes.’ He glanced quickly at Maddox. ‘Anything to add, Bob?’

  Maddox swallowed, caught off guard. Gunnar seemed so alert and wide-awake, although Maddox knew he had hardly closed his eyes since joining the ship. ‘Sounds okay, sir.’ He forced a grin. ‘Seems more like a courtesy visit to see the ship dolled up like this.’

  Gunnar’s eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses but his mouth remained stiff. ‘They’ll be watching us from the shore no matter what we’re doing.’

  Kroner grunted. ‘I’ll carry on then.’ He paused by the ladder. ‘Any liberty, sir?’

  Gunnar shook his head. ‘Negative. There’ll be time enough when I find out exactly what’s happening ashore.’

  The three officers looked towards the broken line of white buildings which swept down the sloping side of one of the hump-backed hills which rolled over the island like a green and brown desert. What Maddox had first assumed to be a line of white surf around the base of the hills was in fact a strip of narrow beach upon which lay a few grounded boats, and as he watched, Maddox could also see a few tiny figures standing motionless as they stared at the anchored warship.

  There was a crude, spidery-looking pier constructed of Weed-covered timbers and a slatted boardwalk which looked as if it had been there when the island first appeared, and a few moored fishing boats seemed to make up the total vessels of Payenhau. Except, that is, for a gaunt, rust-covered wreck which lay in solitary decay on a long sandspit below one jutting headland. Maddox guessed it had once been a small coasting steamer. There were still hundreds of such craft on the China Seas, scraping a living from any odd cargo or freight left unwanted by the more opulent companies. The wreck’s bridge sagged in the middle where scavengers had long since ripped out the sparse fittings and woodwork from the wheelhouse, and the stack had crumpled with rust and weather until only a short stub protruded above the buckled plates like a decayed tooth.

  Maddox eyed the simple derrick mounted on the narrow pier and guessed that too had been filched from the abandoned coaster. It seemed to sum up the whole place, he thought grimly. Decayed and forgotten, bare and uninviting. There appeared to be no trees on any of the islands, just small stunted vegetation with the usual lush green of forced growth and parched roots. What a place for a penal settlement. He noticed also the long low buildings above the town which he had first taken as the prison. As he lifted his binoculars he could see it was a fairly new structure of rough concrete with deep shadowed slits at regular intervals which were probably gun mountings. Jesus, what a dump! He heard Gunnar say, ‘I understand that the island
’s prison population is housed on the other side of that big hill above the headland.’

  Kroner replied sourly, ‘I’d imagine a cemetry’d be more in keeping!’

  Maddox kept silent. There was no point in adding to the tension which daily seemed to mount within the small ship. Just get the damned job over and then the hell out of it. It would probably hurry things along once they could start this stupid assignment. He tried to visualise the giant whaleback of a nuclear submarine basking in the still anchorage. The modern world alongside this wilderness of a past life. Crude buildings, ancient sailing craft, matched against the self-contained power of the most terrible force controlled by man. Maddox mastered his gloom with an effort. The Free World. What a mockery it appeared at this particular moment.

  Gunnar said: ‘I’m going to shower and change. Have the boats lowered and awnings rigged.’

  Kroner hitched his pistol belt. ‘Both the boats?’

  ‘Yes. We don’t want the seams opening in this heat.’

  Kroner looked as if he was past caring if the Hibiscus’s own plates cracked open, but he clattered down the ladder and could soon be heard yelling for Anders, the chief bosun’s mate.

  Gunnar took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. They looked tired and filled with inner strain. He said, ‘It looks quiet enough.’ Then he glanced round the deserted bridge and climbed on to the ladder. Something made him add: ‘Keep the men on their toes, Bob. We don’t want to be caught out!’ Then he was gone.

  Maddox pulled a grubby handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his chin. A lookout? Keep them on their toes? Did the captain still believe that outside forces were deployed for the sole purpose of destroying the Hibiscus? At any other time it would have been funny. But all the humour had gone from this situation.

  Maddox climbed down to the maindeck where already the duty watch were rigging the awnings. It would be hot enough soon, Maddox thought gloomily, anchored in the centre of a sheltered, shadowless bowl with not even a breeze to fan away the unwinking sunlight. He had earlier suggested that anchoring nearer the headland at the mouth of one of the channels would be better, also it would be closer to the pier where the boats would be tying up. Gunnar had merely said: ‘Too risky. We’ll keep well out from the land so that we can make the decisions!’