Path of the Storm

by Douglas Reeman

  Rickover was more of a thinker than most marines, and Jago suspected, far better educated than himself. He was prepared to see Gunnar’s point of view, and even hinted that he thought the islanders had a genuine grouse about their situation.

  Rickover watched the back of Jago’s bullet-head and smiled to himself. He knew exactly what the major was thinking, and how worried he was becoming. He suspected that if Gunnar had been killed by the mine Jago would have been more pleased about that than concerned about the death of his sergeant in the same jeep. Jago had gone on about it at some length, but Rickover, who saw most of the radio messages, knew there was another, more pressing, reason for Jago’s behaviour.

  If everything went well, with no extra strain thrown on the distant U.S. administration, Jago’s chance of promotion was very promising. Every so often a helicopter flew in from a passing carrier with mail and despatches, and Rickover wondered with secret amusement if Jago had already sent for a new uniform and the much coveted eagles. If Gunnar, or anyone else for that matter, fouled up this chance of glory for Major Jago, Rickover pitied him very much indeed.

  Still, that was service life, he thought philosophically. The enlisted men fought each other in the open, but officers schemed and back-stabbed. It was always like that, and as far as he could see it would never change. A sergeant’s life was the best. Enough authority to be comfortable, but insufficient to be bothered by the brass.

  Jago suddenly said aloud: ‘If I could just persuade Washington to give me one hundred marines, fifty even, I’d show these bastards!’ He turned and looked directly at his sergeant. ‘It would take some of the weight off your shoulders too!’

  But Rickover stood firm. You can’t draw me, Major, he thought cheerfully. You stay your side of the fence and I’ll stay mine. Aloud he answered dutifully: ‘It’ll come, Major, It’ll come.’

  * * *

  Mike Bella sat unmoving in his canvas chair, his elbows propped on the littered desk of the tiny ship’s office where he carried out his duties as yeoman. A fan whirred overhead, making the papers and files flutter and the dust to swim in the filtered sunlight from the open port. Apart from the foremost part of the ship’s hull, only the superstructure was higher than the pier alongside, so that Bella’s small room was in deep shadow and pleasantly cool. If he thrust his head through the port he could look straight down into the green water below the pier, shadowed by the barlike structure of the planks above, and so inviting as it lapped and sighed around the piles. It was very clear, and Bella had seen the shelving sandy bottom, the rusted metal and fossil-like pieces of wood which had crumbled from the pier over the years. It was as if the ship was a permanent structure, actually sitting on the deceptively near sand and shells.

  Bella stared at the notepaper and the few lines of his round handwriting. How could he go on? What was the point? The letter had been started when the ship had weighed from Hong Kong, and he had painstakingly added a little each day. They had been in Payenhau for three weeks and showed no sign of leaving, ever. The anchorage and coastline had been mapped and recorded several times over, and the concrete bases for radar reflectors had long since dried in the unwavering sunlight. The ship’s energy was now expended outwards, like arms of a central being. Some of the men actually seemed to be enjoying it, especially the crew replacements, some of whom were getting away from routine shipwork for the first time. As most of the replacements were misfits like himself, Bella knew that they were escaping minor persecutions, also for the first time.

  He licked his pen and stared hard at the paper. Each time he ventured ashore with some message or other for the marine major, Bella had peered into the smooth Chinese faces of the islanders, seeing in each a tiny agonising memory of the girl he had left in Hong Kong. Even her name, Peach, which he had laughed about in those early days, rang in his mind like a distress call.

  Her English had been poor, and she was one of a refugee family newly settled in the Crown Colony. But with patient happiness Bella had coaxed away her shyness, and even broken down her family’s caution with his gifts and readiness to help. For the first time in his life Bella had been needed, had become an essential part of a family life. He rarely thought of racial difference, and when he did so it was more with understanding than concern. He knew enough about his own family struggle to feel a common bond of trust and love.

  Now she was hundreds of miles away. When Hibiscus left Payenhau his chance of seeing her again was nil. Taiwan, back to the fleet, and then Stateside, back into the melting pot of sameness, the endless, boastful, empty life of enlisted men and their unreal dream-world of women and personal conquest.

  He closed his eyes and tried to hold her face in his mind, but felt again the pang of fear as the outlines became more fuzzy and unsure. One day he might be completely unable to remember her sad, childlike beauty, let alone hold the touch of her hands in his mind as he had once done without effort.

  ‘You busy, Mike?’ The rough voice behind him made him start from his thoughts. Pirelli slouched in the doorway, a mop and bucket held loosely in his big hands.

  Ever since that first meeting and the fight which had nearly ended in disaster, Bella had nursed a grudge against the big seaman. Pirelli had symbolised all the things he disliked and feared, and he had found real pleasure in usurping Pirelli’s place in the small, tight world of the mess table. Yet after the shooting he had found a kind of sympathy for the man. Grout’s death had changed Pirelli from a grinning, take-it-or-leave-it sailor to a grim, in-looking shadow. A man with a grievance who was watched with caution by chiefs and enlisted men alike.

  ‘Yeh, come in and squat.’ Bella kicked some files from a seat and watched as the other man laboriously began to roll a cigarette. He saw the big fingers, strangely gentle, and wondered how a man like this could kill with such hatred.

  Pirelli had been confined to the ship, had grown more morose with each day of activity ashore and the simple delights of some of the other men when they had returned from patching some boat or building a hut for a worn-out old villager. Like a lot of crawling Boy Scouts, he had once said, but the others had ganged up on him in a way they would have once never dared. Deep down Bella knew he had helped to cause Pirelli’s loss of power, but it no longer gave him satisfaction.

  His mind began to tick over. There was no work in the afternoon, and two-thirds of the crew would be ashore. Some of the officers were going sailing in a borrowed boat, no doubt suitably accompanied by a case of Scotch, and only Lieutenant Kroner would stay as O.O.D. Bella’s dark eyes strayed to a pack of leave cards which had been introduced for the ship’s stay in Payenhau. A run ashore would do Bella good, but he knew it would be fatal to go alone. His misery would grow rather than disperse with only his own company. He picked out a card and began to fill it in. They were already signed by the first lieutenant, as Regan was a great believer in time-saving, and the rest would be simple. Kroner spent most of his duty in the wardroom, reading and sleeping, and the gangway watch could not care less provided a card was produced.

  He said carefully, ‘What about a walk in the town?’

  Pirelli picked up the card as if it was a piece of delicate porcelain. ‘Did you do this?’ He turned it over. ‘Jesus, what a break!’ He stood with sudden determination. ‘I shan’t forget this, Mike. I know a place where it’s quiet, we can get a fair drink an’ then we——’

  Bella was embarrassed. ‘Hell, get a move on then! Go and change and I’ll meet you on the gangway in ten minutes.’

  As predicted, it was too easy. The gangway watch took the card, winked at the captain’s yeoman, and allowed Pirelli to pass without a word.

  Fifteen minutes later Kroner checked the cards as he mustered the duty watch. He saw Pirelli’s name and almost decided to make enquiries. Still … if Regan had signed the card … that was good enough. You never argued with him.

  Soon the figures of Bella and his tall companion dwindled and were swallowed up within the sun-bathed town, which from the s
hip appeared so peaceful and uncomplicated.

  * * *

  Maddox winced as his water-softened feet took the weight of his body on the sloping rocks. Below him the borrowed boat floated above its shadow in the clear water, the faded sail carelessly furled on the bottom boards, the food basket half empty. He stepped quickly off the rocks, which were hotter than he had anticipated, and stood in a tiny patch of cool sand. He shook himself like a dog, the exhilaration of his swim and a rare sense of freedom making his skin quiver. He plucked at the waistband of his trunks and then sat down heavily on the sand. It was a sheltered place at the western end of the anchorage, beyond the headland which halted the fishing village and directly opposite one of the small islets. Regan was drinking thoughtfully from a plastic cup, his eyes hidden by dark glasses, and Malinski was squatting on the crown of a rock like a contented gnome. There was a splash, and Connell lurched panting from the water, and pausing only to grab a tin of cheroots and his lighter from the boat he joined Maddox on the sand.

  Maddox took one of the cheroots doubtfully and watched the blue smoke hover motionless above them. ‘I enjoyed that swim,’ he said.

  Connell nodded. ‘It was great.’

  Payenhau was such a small place when one compared it with world events, Maddox thought, yet they had been here long enough already to appreciate its variation. Here, for instance, swimming and relaxing, perhaps for the first time. It felt safe, its isolation unmarred by the threat of danger. Yet only on the other side of the island Inglis and the others had died in similar, innocent surroundings.

  Although the ship and the town were invisible around the headland, Maddox knew the area was well patrolled, yet he noticed that Regan carried his pistol and occasionally glanced up at the cliffs. But then he was like that. Contemptuous and arrogant one minute, cautious and watchful the next. A man wasted by inaction.

  Connell said quietly: ‘What d’you make of things now, Bob? The skipper seems to have calmed down a bit, wouldn’t you say?’

  Maddox thought about it. It was true that Gunnar was more approachable, yet at the same time he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts. Whereas he was keen to leave Maddox to deal with day-to-day routine, he checked and vetted the outside operations and changed them if he desired without giving any reason.

  ‘He seems better,’ he admitted, ‘but he doesn’t give much away.’

  ‘I was wondering if we were all beginning to imagine things a bit.’ Connell idly watched a gull hovering overhead. ‘When Peter was killed I must admit I felt the captain might be right. But now I’m not so certain. They might have given him this command just to break him in again after his experiences and hospital treatment, and nothing more than that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Maddox’s thoughts returned to Burgess and of course to his daughter. The Englishman had seemed a bit quieter during the last week. He had apparently been unable to arrange a meeting between the headman, Tao-Cho, and the captain as he had promised, and seemed afraid to meet them socially. Gunnar too was keeping his distance, as if he understood that the revered Chinese leader was watching to see if American deeds matched their words.

  ‘I keep thinking about that mine,’ continued Connell thoughtfully. ‘It shook me up I can tell you. To see those poor soldiers dying like that, it was horrible!’

  Maddox twisted sideways. ‘I know. But I’m surprised you’re not hardened to that sort of thing, Doc.’

  ‘Not to unnecessary and violent death. Perhaps I joined the navy to beat that weakness, if weakness it is.’ He touched the little crucifix about his neck. ‘I was amazed the skipper took it so calmly.’

  Maddox said, ‘Did he?’

  ‘Like a cop at a road accident. Like ice. I guess his own experiences have hardened him.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s as well for us, Doc.’

  ‘You can make steel brittle by hardening it too much, Bob!’ Then Connell laughed. ‘Never mind, there’ll be a chopper flying in tomorrow they tell me. That means mail. I could sure use some.’

  Maddox lay back and pretended to doze. Mail. He wondered if there would be news from Mary. Either from her direct or from a helpful friend. He wondered too if a letter would be less worrying than the lack of one.

  He heard Connell ask, ‘What would you do if you were asked to die for a place like this?’

  But Malinski answered from his rock, ‘I’d never forgive them!’

  Regan called thickly, ‘Open another bottle, somebody!’

  The doctor laughed to himself. In a way they had both answered correctly.

  * * *

  The commandant’s long room was just as Gunnar had remembered it from his first visit. When he looked across the window’s wide sill he had a momentary sensation of loss at the sight of the empty stretch of inviting water. Only by leaning right out into the harsh glare could he see the Hibiscus at her shore mooring, and even then the bulk of her was hidden by an outcrop of rock below the window. Colonel Tem-Chuan still sat in his giant carved chair his eyes magnified and broken by the massive lenses, but he was no longer smiling.

  Gunnar had answered the commandant’s unexpected summons with a feeling of relief. Something had to break, someone must speak soon.

  The colonel said, ‘I think you do too much for my people here, Captain.’

  So it’s my people now, Gunnar thought. ‘Little enough Colonel. It’s mainly to keep my men occupied.’

  The colonel weighed up this piece of news. ‘I see. Well, I am pleased to hear it, very gratified indeed.’

  Gunnar kept his eyes steady and impassive and tried not to reveal the inner revulsion he experienced by the colonel’s appearance. Tem-Chuan was naked but for a short, sarong-like cloth, his vast, sagging body made up of countless fleshy circles like the Michelin tyre advertisement. He must weigh a ton, Gunnar thought, probably only moves about for the basic requirements.

  ‘Anyway, Captain, there is another matter I wish to discuss.’ He sounded as if he had only just made up his mind, and Gunnar half expected him to broach the subject of his proposed meeting with the headman.

  ‘I have certain information for you. I shall be interested in your enlightened comment.’

  Here it comes. Another effort to hold his flimsy world in one safe piece. Gunnar waited, his fingers gripping his pockets.

  ‘There is a terrorist on the island, Captain. My information is sparse, but reliable. This man came to Payenhau before you, whether by coincidence or design I do not yet know. But he is here. He is called Bolod.’ The commandant fell into sudden silence as Gunnar sprang to his feet and walked quickly to the window. ‘Do you know him, Captain?’

  Know him? Bolod? Who did not know of this notorious Chinese organiser and terrorist? The months rolled back and the shaded room seemed to fade into the distance of time itself.

  Viet Nam again. Could he never free himself of the horror and the treachery? Cameo after cameo coursed through his brain. The derailed trains, their butchered passengers lolling like bloody dolls, the mined roads, the despatch riders decapitated by snares of barbed wire; all these and countless more atrocities had been engineered by the man, Bolod. A mere name, in fact no one could be quite sure if the name covered several men. But every work of cruelty and destruction, every ‘execution’ bore his mark. And now he was here. It was again personal, a real and definite battle.

  When he turned his face was composed but taut and pale. ‘I have heard of him, Colonel. He is a professional. Have you confided this with Major Jago?’

  ‘This morning, Captain. He has gone off with my second-in-command to alert all the posts. He suggested that this man might have killed your officer and laid that mine.’

  The mine, yes. The murders on the lonely islet were more by chance, Gunnar felt quite sure of that. ‘Perhaps. But how did your informant find this out?’

  The colonel rubbed his protruding belly with irritation. ‘That is my affair!’

  One of the fishermen most likely, Gunnar thought quickly. It was too much of a coincidence
. It was more imperative than ever to meet the headman. But it could not be forced. Experience had taught him the folly of pushing your ideas on such people. He felt the sweat on his arms. Bolod of all people! He tightened his fists at the prospect, just one more chance of finding the man.

  The colonel said just as suddenly: ‘And how are you feeling these days, Captain? More rested in yourself?’ The man’s face was bland and empty, the small mouth like a flower. ‘You miss your wife perhaps?’ He hurried on as if to mask the astonishment on Gunnar’s face. ‘I did hear something. News is all we have here.’ He made a small gesture to a curtained doorway. ‘But if you are lonely? I could arrange a young girl’s company to pass away the slow-moving wheels of time.’

  Gunnar swallowed hard. ‘That will not be necessary, thank you.’ He wondered who had spread the news ashore, but knew he was wasting valuable effort. The colonel was right. News of any sort was welcome amongst strangers.

  The gross Tem-Chuan went off at a tangent. ‘And Commander Burgess, has he been of use to you?’

  ‘His boat has been a great help.’ Faintly from the pier he caught a spasmodic burst of jazz from the ship’s loudspeakers. Kroner was evidently treating the inhabitants to a little culture of his own. In fact, everyone was occupied elsewhere. The officers sailing, the men stretching their legs or hunting out spare women. Perhaps he was the only fool after all. Through that curtained door might lie the one thing he lacked. He half smiled at his own uncertainty. ‘I must go now, Colonel.’

  Tem-Chuan shrugged weightily. ‘As you wish. Will you watch for this man, Bolod?’