Path of the Storm
Page 9
Over his shoulder Gunnar said harshly: ‘Why the curiosity, Doctor? Did you want to perform on them too?’
Connell’s face was hidden. ‘I was curious, Captain. I still am.’
Maddox interrupted, ‘Leave it, Bruce, for Christ’s sake!’
The doctor said quietly, ‘I am just curious to know how our men were bayoneted by those guerrillas we just saw.’
Gunnar wheeled round, his face white in the dim light. ‘I see what you mean!’ He gripped Maddox by the sleeve so that they all hung together in a small swaying group. ‘Those machine guns which were taken off them don’t have bayonets …’ He paused uncertainly. ‘Unless there was something else?’
Connell shook his head. ‘No, Captain. Whoever did that to our boys, it wasn’t either of those!’
Gunnar broke away and began to hurry towards the pier.
Maddox said, ‘For God’s sake, now look what you’ve done to him!’
The doctor shrugged. ‘I know, Bob. But it’s us I’m worried about now.’
Ahead of them Gunnar hurried along the rickety pier, heedless of the treacherous palings below his feet. It was all dropping into place at last. The Reds knew well enough the importance of Payenhau as a base for the Americans. They would not be fooled by the pretence of keeping it as a prison camp or anything else. It was the same old pattern of agents, spies and saboteurs. Ruse and infiltration by terror, and poor Inglis had stumbled on some of them by mistake. Where were the others, and how many were there?
It would be easy to land guerrillas by submarine or PT boat under cover of darkness, but the garrison was already aware of that fact. There was something else, something missing. He was still pondering as the gig nudged the piles of the pier and the coxswain called the boat’s crew to attention.
Gunnar sat quietly opposite the other two officers and was aware how steady his nerves felt even with this additional burden. Yet he was more conscious than ever of the tightness of his command and the importance of mere individuals perhaps for the first time.
* * *
The wheelhouse of the Hibiscus was stuffy and humid, and only by constant use of the fans and clear-view screens could the watch-keepers see beyond the ship’s corkscrewing bows. Heavy droplets of rain blew against the toughened glass windows, and black, heavy-bellied clouds scudded across the angry, restless rollers which broke with spasmodic fury into long, yellow-capped crests as they cruised to meet the slow-moving submarine chaser.
Mark Gunnar rubbed his knuckles across his teeth to stifle another yawn and felt the cold tiredness tugging relentlessly at his limbs. He desperately wanted to sit down and rest his legs and body from the deck’s vicious pitching motion. Several times he let his eye stray to the tall, uncomfortable chair in one corner of the wheelhouse which seemed more enticing with each passing moment.
For hours they had plunged and bucked their way towards the angry horizon which had suddenly faded into a pewter haze of rain squalls and broken water, with every rivet and plate groaning and jarring in protest. Occasionally an extra powerful roller would lift the ship’s stern clear of the sea, so that the screws raced with released madness and shook the hull from end to end like a wild thing. The next instant the stern would bury itself, and the fantail and canting steel deck would sluice down with white foam and flying balls of spume. At this time of year storms were infrequent but sudden, widely scattered across the vastness of the China Seas but all the more savage in their search for victims. For two days the little ship had prowled round the islands, invisible from the land, but checking each blurred flash on the radar screen, and straining the nerves of every man aboard.
Out of the blue had come a radio message. A coded rendezvous, a small pencilled cross which had to be translated into a factual spot on the madly tossing water.
Hibiscus had sighted two junks heading for Payenhau and had stopped both of them. The weather had not worsened at that time, and Gunnar conned the ship directly alongside each vessel in turn, while helmeted gunners swung the slim muzzles of the twenty-millimetres across the much repaired and patched junks, covering the scurrying Chinese sailors as they manhandled the ribbed sails and peered curiously at the grey warship.
Each time Maddox had returned with his boarding party shaking his head. Food, fish and a few goats seemed to comprise the average cargo. Gunnar remembered how men and guns had been smuggled in similar vessels before, by way of false bottoms fixed in the holds of these ancient craft. The idea had first blossomed during the Japanese occupation of Hong Kong and Singapore, when friendly Chinese had smuggled refugees and stores for the starving and ill-treated British. The concept stayed with many a junk captain as one war and disaster followed another. It was easy to dodge the patrols, and far more profitable than bags of rice. But Maddox found nothing even after Gunnar had made him return, and the weird, batlike craft had vanished astern. Gunnar wondered how they fared in the sudden storm, how in fact they managed to navigate at all.
He wrenched his wandering thoughts back to the coming rendezvous. Kroner had checked the coded numbers, and Gunnar knew that the submarine he was to meet was the Grampus, one of the navy’s reconditioned subs which although conventionally powered was fitted with Regulus guided missiles. He glanced at his watch, it would be any minute now. The sonarmen had already fixed the submarine’s steady approach, and no doubt her skipper had taken several looks at the pitching Hibiscus.
Gunnar tried to concentrate on what lay ahead rather than allow the lurking anger to blunt his judgement. He was neither trusted nor consulted, he and his ship were like underprivileged messengers. Jago must have known full well about this rendezvous when he dreamed up the island patrol, and probably jumped at the chance to arrange it if only to rid his small dominion of Gunnar’s interference.
‘Submarine surfacing on the port bow, sir!’
Gunnar hung to the rail and pulled himself out on to the unprotected bridge wing. The hot, stinging wind forced his clothes against his body, and the spray and heavy raindrops soaked him to the skin even as he levelled his glasses. With something like envy he watched the ugly black hull heave itself bodily from the depths and bury its snout into the first challenging roller. Spray ran from the conning tower where he could already see small oilskinned figures shining like seals on a sea-swept rock, and the jumping wire above the boat’s whaleback which glittered with droplets like a string of diamonds.
Recognition signals flicked briefly across the pitching water, and within minutes a rubber boat was being shoved clear of the submarine’s ballast tank to take its chance on the crossing. A hastily thrown heaving line was seized by one of the boat’s handlers and within two more hazardous minutes it was squeaking against the Hibiscus’s pitted plates.
Gunnar gritted his teeth against the wind and lowered himself down the ladder to where Maddox and Regan waited by the rail. He had to shout above the wind, and saw that Maddox’s face was apprehensive and set. All his good humour had vanished since Inglis’s death, and the gloom in the wardroom had helped to add to the general air of watchful resentment.
Gunnar shouted: ‘Stand off and rendezvous again as ordered! I’ll be as quick as I can!’
Maddox tugged on his cap and bowed his head against the spray. ‘Right, sir! The glass is still falling!’
Gunnar slung his leg over the rail and realised he had not brought his lifejacket. The tiny rubber dinghy rose level with his knee and then fell just as suddenly into another black trough. It would probably solve everybody’s troubles if I drowned, he thought. No struggle, no fight, just sink into nothingness. He shook himself. ‘Run for Payenhau if it gets any worse and lie to leeward!’ Then he had stumbled into the rubber cockleshell amongst the straddled legs and straining seamen, and was just as suddenly clear of his own ship’s side. It was strangely peaceful after the Hibiscus’s swaying bridge, only the motion was cruel and eager, the sounds and anger of the weather were muffled and indistinct as the boat swam through the high-sided troughs like a water turtle.
It was another world, and Gunnar tried to follow each precise movement and listen to every terse command. The slender depth needles began to move, while the planesmen spun their polished wheels and sat back in their chairs to watch instruments like tote operators at a racetrack. The captain, a small nuggety commander in a spray-spotted parka, grinned at Gunnar and gestured towards a swinging green curtain by one of the doors off the control room. ‘The brass is waiting, Captain!’ Over his shoulder he said: ‘Steady! Up periscope!’ With a hiss one of the periscopes slid from its bed, and after a preliminary inspection the captain said, ‘Want a look?’
Gunnar lowered his head, sensing the other man’s eyes on him, for a moment he could see nothing and then involuntarily he ducked as a giant distorted wave-crest reared towards him and burst over the lens. It was a weird sensation. Like swimming alone in a storm yet feeling nothing in a mad, silent sea. It was even hard to believe that the boat had dived to periscope depth, but for the gentle dials and the steady tilt of the deck. The lens cleared and then he saw her. At this angle she looked unprotected and strangely helpless. The Hibiscus held the storm’s grey light on her hull so that the spray-soaked steel gleamed like phosphorescence and the vessel’s sickening motion became more apparent. One moment Gunnar could see her streaming deck and the lashed depth-charges, the next he could see part of her bilge keel and one brightly racing screw. Helpless she was too, he thought grimly, held in the periscope crosswires like an insect in a spider’s web. He stepped aside and watched the periscope slide back to its bed.
The submarine’s damp, musty air made him feel slightly sick, and he was conscious of the other smells of sweat and oil fuel, of food and men packed closely together. All around the world men were living and acting like this. Or dying like Inglis and the others. And for what? Most of the people at home were ignorant of what was happening, enjoyed their TV wars and the knowledge that ‘someone’ was doing the job of keeping the peace.
The other captain said quietly: ‘You go on into the wardroom. There’ll be coffee and a bite as soon as you’ve finished your conference.’ He grinned so that his bristly face seemed younger. ‘You must be in the top league to warrant this treatment!’
Gunnar forced a smile. If only you knew, he thought. Then with a nod to the other man he walked into the tiny wardroom, where a thin, hollow-cheeked officer sat staring at a chessboard. He was in khakis, but unlike the submarine’s officers looked relaxed and well groomed. He was a rear-admiral, but had the grey-haired severity of a schoolmaster. He shook Gunnar’s wet hand. ‘I’m Sanders,’ he announced crisply. ‘I expect you’ve heard of me.’ It was not a question or a boast. Merely a dried-out statement suitable for such a man.
Gunnar seated himself on a bench seat. Of course he knew Sanders. One of the C.-in-C.’s top intelligence brains. He popped up everywhere, and although he shunned publicity he sometimes appeared on the corners of impressive power groups in the newspapers of a dozen different countries. N.A.T.O., S.E.A.T.O., United Nations, or a top-level foreign conference, Sanders was never far away.
Now he was sitting at a littered table opposite Gunnar in a submerged submarine in the middle of the South China Sea. He pulled a manilla folder from a much used briefcase, and Gunnar observed that it was dog-eared and patterned with tiny pencilled notes.
Rear-Admiral Sanders stared at the open folio and said:] ‘I heard about your patch of bad luck. I was sorry to hear about young Inglis. He came of a good family. Might have done something with him one day.’
Gunnar remembered Inglis’s nagging indecision and lack of confidence and tried to see him as the admiral was doing.
Sanders added: ‘Still, that’s how it goes. Might be killed by Red snipers or you could get flattened by a drunk driver! That’s our advanced way of life, I guess.’ He swivelled his eyes on to Gunnar’s tired face. ‘How are you finding things in Payenhau?’
It was a loaded question and Gunnar answered slowly, ‘I’ve nearly finished the survey assignment.’ As there was no immediate reply nor any change in the admiral’s steady eyes he added, ‘I expect to be ordered to Taiwan soon to hand over my command.’ He kept the bitterness from his tone but saw the other man’s face stiffen.
Sanders said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t promise you any changes yet.’ He tapped the papers. ‘Things are moving everywhere, and right now I need your ship in Payenhau.’
‘I don’t quite see——’ Gunnar was cut short.
‘Of course if you’d rather hand over command to another officer, I guess I could fly someone out?’ The admiral’s voice was casual. ‘Naturally I’d rather keep everything calm and quiet, with you at the helm, so to speak.’
Gunnar tried again. It was useless trying to look for an opening. ‘I just want to know what’s going on, sir. It’s obvious I’m not welcomed by Major Jago, and the place itself is as open as a prison!’
Sanders gave a small, wintry smile. ‘I gathered Jago is not mad about you either!’ He dismissed it all with a shrug. ‘Can’t be helped. He’s a good man, and you are available.’ He cocked his head. ‘Hear that?’
Gunnar listened as the admiral watched him across the table. Faintly at first, and then more insistent above the purr of the submarine’s electric motors he heard the steady beat of machinery, like the distant mutter of a freight train.
The admiral grinned. ‘Your ship, Captain. She’s up there, and every man aboard is wondering like hell what you’re up to. Well, let ’em, it’s good for their souls!’ He wriggled in his seat. ‘Now listen, my boy, and listen good. I know your record, and I know a lot more about you than many others do. And I can guess what I don’t know for sure. You’ve a chip on your shoulder and you’re bitter. The tangle will sort itself out, but I’ve not the time to worry about your personal troubles. There are more urgent things happening. Payenhau’s fast becoming another problem. Something’s brewing up and we don’t know the whole picture as yet. But one thing is definite, the Reds have got their beady eyes on it, and they’re not fooling. The trouble is,’ he peered at his small chessmen as if looking for a solution, ‘they have a good angle this time. Payenhau does not in fact belong to the Nationalists any more than to the Reds. It was merely a fishing community, a stopover for traders and so forth under the old regime. The Nationalists put their prison camp there without asking a soul, and then reinforced it with a military governor and so forth. We had to play along without much caring either way. But there was a self-supporting community there before the troops took over. Some say the old leaders are lying low and waiting for the troops and prisoners to go. You and I know that will never happen.’
Gunnar found that he was no longer tired nor even conscious of the strange surroundings. ‘What can the Reds do, sir? The Seventh Fleet would wipe out any invasion threat surely?’
‘It’s not that simple. If the Reds can convince the islanders from within that their cause is just, that the commandant is merely a lackey of the imperialists, and that he intends to allow a giant U.S. base to be built, they might just be able to spring something.’
‘I still don’t see the problem, sir. We could swamp the place with men,’ he remembered with sudden clarity Major Jago’s words, ‘give me one hundred marines’, ‘or the Nationalists could do it from Taiwan.’
The admiral touched a pawn and shook his head. ‘Not now. Too tricky. We have already been approached by certain parties through the British at Hong Kong, warned if you like, that a build-up of our forces would be seen as a threat to security.’ He shook his head more firmly. ‘No, it’s not on. Not for the moment, that is. We’ve got enough fuss in South East Asia and the damn offs
hore islands without adding to the mess. In addition, we’ve got two big fleet movements going on at present which leave our forces a bit thin on the ground round Payenhau. We must contain this problem not fan it into flame. We’ve got the nuclear subs and rocket conventional like this one, but they are useless for this sort of caper. Like trying to kill a fly with a depth-charge!’ He smiled and added, ‘They’ll do when the “crunch” comes, but not until.’
Gunnar listened for the sound of Hibiscus’s engines but they had faded again. He wondered whether the storm had worsened, and if Maddox could cope with the ship. It was odd that he felt a sense of loss now he was away from the old Hibiscus and all her faults. They were not of her making, any more than they were his. Down here it was hard to imagine weather or even time. There was no motion, and little sound but for the motors’ even purr and the tick of a clock in the damp, oil-laden air. He said, ‘As I see it, sir, my ship is a sort of guinea-pig?’
‘I like to think of her as my “feeler” in Payenhau. To be honest I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but my British friends assure me that the Reds are afraid of our becoming wholly involved there. We are not, we must make the Nationalist Chinese stand on their own feet and fight for a belief and not just a nation. The United States is pouring billions of dollars into every country outside the Communist bloc. It therefore follows that we must occasionally bolster up countries and regimes which are otherwise unworthy. Countries whose only asset is that they are not committed to the communist way of life. We do not want total involvement out here, but we will not budge from our obligations.’ He paused and drummed thoughtfully on the table. ‘Go back to your ship and return to Payenhau. If the storm breaks we will help you all we can later. But at the first sign of trouble it may be your discretion which is all that will count in the long run.’