Path of the Storm

by Douglas Reeman

  Gunnar felt unable to hide the sense of disappointment the admiral’s last words had given him. If the Communists attacked the island, Hibiscus would be sacrificed to allow the Seventh Fleet’s massive retaliation. If they did not, the ship would be kept hanging about until everyone was either used to her or sick of the sight of her, according to which side he was on. On top of all that there now seemed doubt as to the justification of their presence there at all.

  The submarine commander poked his head round the curtain. ‘Gale’s moderating up top, sir. I think it would be as well for the captain here to get across to his ship before it changes its mind again.’

  The admiral nodded as if it was all arranged. ‘Very well.’ He took a long look at Gunnar’s drawn face. ‘Be ready for trouble, boy, but keep out of it if at all possible.’

  Gunnar asked the one question he had nursed since he had joined the ship at Hong Kong. ‘Was I specially selected for this job, sir? Or did it just happen?’

  The admiral stood up and looked at the clock. ‘The powers that be make many decisions about strategy and tactics, some of them excellent. Unfortunately they are eventually left to mere men to carry out.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck. When Hibiscus returns to the fleet I’ll be there to answer your question. If there is an answer.’ His tone hardened. ‘But Payenhau is not going to be another Cuba!’

  The air thundered into the ballast tanks and the deck tilted once more. Orders were shouted, and Gunnar heard a hatch slam open.

  The admiral followed him to the brightly lit control room. ‘There’s just one more thing. Remember that Payenhau is one tight community. They’ve all got their own little axes to grind and they’ll not like interference. If any trouble was sparked off by unnecessary friction it might leak out to the world press.’ He smiled. ‘If that happens, your popularity rating might fall considerably. Now get going, and watch the signs!’

  Gunnar climbed up to the sea and the storm-filled clouds, a world he knew and trusted more than any admiral’s half-truths. He tried to see himself as he appeared to the distant planners who had selected him for the vague task ahead. Taking it all round, he thought calmly, they could not have chosen a better man for a scapegoat. If Payenhau proved to be a satisfactory ending to some long-hatched plan then others would reap the credit. But if it did not, there was little doubt in his mind as to where the blame would lie.

  5

  Burgess

  ROBERT MADDOX LICKED a fragment of scrambled egg from the corner of his mouth and stepped out on to the maindeck, his eyes automatically squinting against the reflected glare. He had consumed a late breakfast, a lone diner in the deserted wardroom, and was now as ready to face another day as he ever would be. It was an odd sensation to look over the railand see land alongside. Not the distant dried-up scrub of the Payenhau hills, but the pier itself.

  Returning from the fruitless patrol and the rendezvous with the submarine, the Hibiscus had secured alongside the unsafe-looking piles with the delicacy of a man cracking eggs with a hammer. Whatever else Gunnar might or might not be, Maddox decided, he sure could handle a ship. Stern first, with hardly enough power to give the rudder steerageway, he had conned her straight for the jutting mess of timber and iron stakes until Maddox imagined he would ram it on to jagged bits of broken supports below the pier, or even worse, on to the beach beyond. Neither had happened. Gunnar had stayed immobile on the screen above the upper bridge his feet straddled, his eyes fixed on the narrowing gap of water. Then with a gentle nudge, a few curses and a hasty flurry of froth from the propellers Hibiscus had nestled alongside.

  After a brief visit to Major Jago, Gunnar had retired to his quarters and left the ship’s officers to their own devices and an uneasy night. Of the storm there was hardly a trace. Only one roofless hut by the beach and the tough hillside grass, ruffled like the coarse fur of some animal which has been brushed the wrong way, marked its passing.

  Now it was another working day. Another day of confusion and mixed emotions, Maddox thought, as he watched Lieutenant Regan’s stiff shoulders leading a crocodile of seamen down the pier and then right towards the headland. The ship felt listless and deserted, and Maddox had to brace himself to greet Chief Tasker who stood with his usual melancholy expression as he pondered over a list of working parties.

  He saluted and said, ‘’Morning, sir.’ His hollow eyes moved briefly over Maddox’s frame as if in silent criticism for his late appearance. ‘Both boats away, sir. Mister Kroner’s gone with the gig, and Chief Anders has taken the other boat to the shallows by the West Channel with a sounding party.’

  Maddox grunted. It was strange how they named places and positions with such casual indifference. It was as if they had been here for years. He peered at the small party of seamen on the pier who were rolling fifty-gallon fuel drums to wards the town, their progress slow and unsteady because of the rough planking under their feet. When the ship had left Hong Kong the upper deck had been burdened with these drums which contained petrol for mobile generators which were required for supplying power ashore. Concrete and cement had to be mixed for firm bases upon which the crude-looking radar reflectors could be mounted at several vantage points near the main entrance channels to the anchorage, although Maddox secretly doubted if the captain of a super nuclear submarine would ever depend on such aids to navigation.

  The reflectors, wrapped in canvas covers, were already lying on the pier, and the space they had left on the ship’s narrow deck already seemed to make the Hibiscus quite spacious. Maddox knew that the captain was unwilling to allow the deck cargo to go ashore until it was actually required, but after the ship’s behaviour in the sudden storm there was little choice. With the top hamper playing hell with the vessel’s fine-edged stability the Hibiscus had rolled and bucked from one impossible angle to the next, and Maddox knew that had they been required to perform some extra manoeuvre they might have been in real trouble.

  ‘How many men left aboard, Chief?’

  Tasker squinted at his list. ‘Twelve engine-room hands and this working party of ten, sir.’

  ‘Go and ask Mister Malinski if he can spare a few more, Chief. We want to get this unloading and stacking completed as soon as possible. They’ll be flopping down in the heat otherwise!’

  Tasker grimaced. ‘Do ’em good,’ was his sour reply, but he shambled away nevertheless, deep in his own thoughts.

  Maddox walked aft to the fantail and looked towards the silent town. There was, of course, no traffic noise or the sound of industry, but all the same it did appear more deserted than usual. The soldiers who normally guarded the end of the pier were absent too, and Maddox wondered if they had gone to join with the bulk of the garrison in the manœuvres or whatever they were in the north of the islands. Gunnar had mentioned the troops’ activity upon his return from Jago’s H.Q., and Maddox imagined the marine major would by now be in his element. Playing at soldiers, he thought bitterly, like all the rest of his kind. He kept thinking of Inglis, and try as he might he could not drive away the idea that he had died needlessly and because of someone’s stupidity.

  He heard a scrape of feet and saw Malinski’s sallow features peering at him around the gun shield of the forty-millimetre. ‘I’ve sent up nearly all my men, Bob,’ he announced wearily. ‘There’s not much for ’em to do here anyway.’

  Maddox smiled. ‘Thanks. It’s this sort of life which demands a constant supply of beer, ice-cold and in very large bulk!’

  Malinski nodded. ‘Too right.’ He wiped his greasy hands. ‘What’s the celebration ashore then? An election?’

  Maddox grinned and turned his head. ‘More like a day of mourning, it’s just about——’ He broke off, his jaw dropping in amazement. The wide dusty arrowhead of roads beyond the pier which had been so completely deserted had just as suddenly been blocked with figures. A silent, slow-moving crowd of townspeople, their shapeless, work-stained clothing binding them together into something sinister and somehow frightening.

&n
bsp; Malinski saw Maddox’s face and said, ‘Trouble, d’you think?’

  Maddox licked his lips. He felt as if he was losing control of something, but he could not clear his thoughts enough to decide. The mass of people approaching the pier seemed to mesmerise him, to hold him with its quiet, shuffling approach. ‘Hell, I can’t make them out!’

  Malinski darted a glance at the small working party on the pier who were already standing upright and peering first at the crowd and then back at the ship.

  Maddox said tightly, ‘If this is trouble we’d better do something, and damn quick!’ To the shore party the ship was a haven, a safe place. But Maddox knew what would happen if a mob like that reached it. He shook himself angrily. ‘It’s probably a demonstration or something!’ Hell, what am I thinking about? No need to get in a panic! But his voice said, ‘I think I’ll call the captain.’

  Malinski said slowly, ‘I’ve seen ’em like this before.’ Then more urgently: ‘I’ll get the skipper, Bob. I suggest you get that party of men together.’ Then he was gone.

  Maddox walked slowly down the gangway his heart thumping against his ribs. This was ridiculous, stupid, he kept telling himself. The menace was in his mind, made rotten and enlarged like everything else had become since Inglis’s murder.

  He waved to the seamen. ‘Pull back, men!’ Then just as quickly his racing brain connected with the pile of petrol drums and the cumbersome reflectors. ‘Hold it!’ He beckoned to Chief Tasker who stood like an interested onlooker by the edge of the pier. ‘Take charge, Chief. Form the men in line across the pier between the stores and that crowd!’

  ‘What the hell goes on?’ Gunnar’s voice sounded harsh, even nervous.

  Maddox felt a wave of relief. ‘I’m not sure, sir.’

  ‘How many petrol drums are ashore?’ The captain looked red-eyed and worn-out. He was unshaven and appeared to have slept in his khakis. To confirm this he said unexpectedly, ‘Christ, what an awakening!’ Then in a calmer tone, ‘Just the day for Jago to be away.’

  Maddox followed him through the thin cordon of sailors and halted a few feet from the inshore end of the pier. Quickly he worked out the possibilities. The line of unarmed sailors across the pier would keep the crowd from reaching the ship’s fantail, but on the other hand the stern wires securing it to the big wooden bollards had already been reached and swallowed up by the crowd. Apart from cutting the wires, there was no quick way of releasing the ship from her moorings, and what might a hostile crowd be doing while the cutting was going on? Maddox was beginning to sweat. Now that they were closer, he could see the uncertainty on the faces of some of the Chiese, but there was also a hint of open anger and hostility. As if to fan his growing fears he heard a sullen rumble from the back of the crowd, which grew with surprising suddenness into a twittering chatter of shouts and what sounded like cat-calls. There seemed to be no leader, no set plan, and the crowd’s front swayed and staggered as if pushed on by those behind. About two hundred, Maddox thought anxiously, with some more coming down the main road.

  Gunnar said sharply, ‘What the hell do they want?’ Without waiting for an answer he stepped clear of Maddox and stood directly in the middle of the crowd’s path.

  Over his shoulder he said coolly: ‘Send two men back to the ship to reinforce the gangway watch with rifles. Chief Tasker, tell the radio room to try and contact Jago, and tell him what’s happening.’ He looked up towards the distant citadel, above which a flag hung listless in the still air. ‘There can’t be anyone left up there!’

  The crowd stopped so that their nearness and the noise of confused shouts seemed suddenly engulfing. Two or three had reached the pier itself, and Maddox could feel the timbers shaking under his feet. He felt an unreasoning fury replacing his fear, and was surprised to hear himself say hoarsely, ‘The bastards!’

  Gunnar said: ‘That’ll do, Mister Maddox! Keep still, and stay calm!’ Without turning his head to the ship he shouted, ‘Gangway watch in position?’ There was an answering shout, and Maddox heard the sharp clink of metal.

  Gunnar sighed. ‘Right then, let’s get started.’ Ignoring Maddox and the others behind him he took two paces towards the crowd. He could smell them, feel their confused anger and resentment, could have touched their patched smocks and work-roughened hands. Unlike Maddox, he felt neither fear nor anger. It was more like a cold elation, the sensation of a man committed to something he knows is terrible but already beyond his control.

  He held up his hands. ‘Get away from my ship!’

  The crowd fell silent for a few moments, but shrill urgent voices began again from the rear, urging, jeering, insistent, like snapping dogs. Gunnar could feel the sweat gathering beneath his cap. It was happening yet again. Just like that other place. The senseless, headless mobs, the cool agitators using them like clubs to destroy the intruders. He remembered what the rear-admiral had so glibly explained about the ‘Payenhau situation’, left to mere men to carry out, he had said. From the corner of his eye he saw a stone flash through the air and heard a man cry out behind him.

  It was a kind of signal, with one heaving push the crowd surged forward, and all at once Gunnar was surrounded, muffled and choking in a clawing, struggling mass of bodies. Someone punched him in the stomach he felt a strong grip on his arm pulling him down. A plank splintered, and a man screamed as his leg was trapped in the rickety pier and he was pushed hard down by the crush from behind. There was a madness, a blind urgency or purpose already replacing the crowd’s earlier apathy, and Gunnar knew that within seconds it would be all over.

  He kicked a man in the knee and pushed another away with the palm of his hand. He came up hard against the wooden bollard, and in spite of the water glittering below him he hauled himself up and on to the worn hump of timber, his eyes already seeking out his scattered seamen. Maddox was hatless, a streak of bright blood on his forehead. Two seamen were swimming in the water below the pier, but whether they had been thrown there or had chosen it as the safest place, Gunnar neither knew nor cared. One face was fixed in his stare, the one man who at that moment could be relied on.

  On the fantail, an M-14 held in his fists like a toy, Pirelli stood quite still, his eyes watching the wave of destruction with something like eagerness. Pirelli had been kept aboard since the death of his friend Grout, in case he decided on some personal vengeance. It was well known that he had a record of violence, but at this particular moment Gunnar knew he was the man he wanted. A clawed hand pulled at his ankle, and from the edge of the crowd Gunnar saw another man aiming a stone at his unprotected body. Gathering his strength he yelled, ‘Shoot over their heads, Pirelli!’

  From the fantail the big seaman watched the surging mass of bodies with cold satisfaction. The rifle butt felt warm against his cheek and very slowly he moved the muzzle until the wooden bollard upon which the captain was struggling was dead in the centre. There was a single hand reaching from the screaming mob like a tentacle and already it was gripping at Gunnar’s leg pulling him back and down. Once on the ground he would be a dead man.

  Pirelli held his breath and squeezed. The whiplash crack cut through the air even as the unknown Chinese screamed like a tortured beast. The hand vanished, and Pirelli saw the droplets of blood had splashed across Gunnar’s leg. He fired again and again, the kick of each bullet making his heart sing with desperate satisfaction. He saw Grout’s smashed body through the smoke and Inglis writhing on the bloodied sand like a blinded animal. He was still firing when Chief Tasker knocked the rifle aside and pushed him back from the rail.

  ‘That’s enough, you goddamn maniac!’

  But Pirelli’s eyes were blank, empty of everything, and he allowed himself to be thrust aside. Crazed with sudden fear, trapped by the press of people behind, the mob started to break up. At the sound of shots they had fallen into a frozen silence, so that men stayed with open mouths and raised fists like those caught in the lens of a still camera. Then as the first screams of agony filtered through the smoke from Pir
elli’s shots the panic started. Within minutes the street was as empty as before, but for a wounded man who hopped on one leg, grotesque and terrified. Two still figures lay sprawled in the dust, one shot neatly between the eyes, the other crumpled but moving in short sporadic efforts to drag itself away.

  There was a screech of brakes and two jeeploads of helmeted soldiers spilled out on to the roadway above the beach. There were shouted orders and a short burst of firing.

  Gunnar leaned against the bollard and rubbed at a bruise on his arm. A sailor was vomiting on the pier, and two others were having their heads bandaged.

  He heard Connell’s voice, ‘This one’s a kid, Captain!’

  Gunnar turned painfully to watch as a seaman lifted up the last victim of Pirelli’s shooting. It was a child, a dark-haired girl of about twelve, her rough jacket glittering with scarlet in the harsh sunlight.

  Connell said hotly, ‘It was murder!’

  ‘Would you rather lose the ship?’ Gunnar eyed him coldly, conscious of the stillness which had engulfed the town like a shroud. The doctor turned his back and stooped down over the moaning child.

  Maddox staggered across the pier dabbing his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Jesus!’ He peered at Gunnar’s bruised face. ‘A near thing, Captain!’

  Gunnar ignored him and yelled to the deck, ‘Put that man under arrest, Chief!’ To the pier at large he said flatly, ‘I’ll have him court-martialled for this!’

  He saw Tasker take Pirelli by the arm and guide him below deck and knew that he was really punishing himself. There must have been some other solution? Others might say that Pirelli had disobeyed orders and that it was not Gunnar’s fault. But Gunnar knew differently. Deep down, he knew he had wanted the man to shoot as he had. Not over their heads, but into their stupid mouthing faces! He staggered and felt the old sickness sweeping over him. He heard the child whimper once more and knew that he wanted to go to her aid. Instead he said harshly: ‘We’ll have an armed guard in future, Mister Maddox. And when Major Jago returns I’ll have a few words with him too!’