"I'm Mayo," Jim held out his hand, "and you'll be Colonel Warren? Nice to have you aboard."
Warren nodded. "My men will be along directly. May I see their quarters now? Will their cabins be amidships?"
"Sorry, Colonel, but they'll have to bunk in the 'tween decks. We don't carry passengers as a rule and only have three cabins available. Two of them are occupied. I'd planned to put you and Captain Aldridge in the other."
"The 'tween decks?" Warren was incredulous. "My men are officers, I'll have you know, and-"
"Sorry," Jim repeated. "Officers, men, or gods, they ride the tween decks or swim.
You'll have to remember, Colonel," he added drily, "that this is wartime. People don't get what they want. They take what they get."
"Very well." Warren's blue eyes were frosty. "However, you had no business taking passengers aboard for such a trip. The Admiralty won't approve.
I suppose you know that?"
"Colonel Warren," Jim said quietly, "for all I care the Admiralty can go to blazes.
My first duty is to these passengers." The flyers were coming aboard, a pink-cheeked, healthy lot, all except two in their late teens or early twenties. These two turned toward the bridge. Ponga Jim's eyes sharpened.
The men were both as tall as Ponga Jim himself, and one of them was as heavy. He was a powerfully built man with rustyred hair, freckles, and a scar along his jawbone.
His nose was broken and slightly askew. His manner was cocky, aggressive.
He stepped up to Mayo with his hand out. "Hi, Jim!" he said, grinning. "Long time no see."
Mayo's eyes brightened.
"Ring Wallace!! I haven't seen you since China!"
The second man watched them with interest. He was wiry, handsome in a dark, saturnine way, and there was something crisp and efficient in his manner.
"Captain Henry Aldridge," Warren said, "my second in command. "
Aldridge bowed from the hips, smiling.
"How are you, Captain? I've been hearing some interesting things about you. That Qasavara affair, for instance."
"Yeah," Ponga Jim looked at him with interest. "It was an ugly business. But I never look for trouble, I just take care of what comes over my way."
"I hope," Warren said drily, "that you won't find it necessary to indulge in any of your freebooting expeditions on this trip. I can't say that we Britishers approve of pirates!"
"No?" Jim said quizzically. "Ever hear of Sir Francis Drake?"
Warren started as if struck, and his eyes blazed. Then his face flushed, and he spun on his heel and went below. Ring Wallace grinned and winked at Jim.
"He's all right. Just needs a little seasoning. He's a good man, Jim."
Aldridge studied them both carefully. "I think Wallace is right," he said then. "Colonel Warren is a good man. But I think we Englishmen and Australians have a little to say about freebooting, eh, Mayo?"
Jim looked at him curiously. "Which are you? You don't have the lingo, somehow."
"Australian," Aldridge said. "From back in the bush, but educated on the Continent."
Slug Brophy and Gunner Millan came up to the deck. Jim turned to them.
"All set, Skipper. Number five battened down, all standing by fore and aft," reported Slug.
"Then send Selim up to the wheel and let's get out of here." He watched his mates go, one forward, one aft. Selim, his dark, pockmarked, knife-scarred face cool and expressionless, came to the wheel.
"You've an odd crew," Aldridge said. "Quite a mixture." Jim nodded. "Selim and Sakim are brothers. A strange contradiction themselves. Afridis from the Afghan hills who went to sea. Used to be smugglers on the Red Sea and down the coast of Africa. Big London is from the Congo. Lyssy is a Toradjas from the Celebes. Tupa and Longboy are Bugis. Boma is a Dyak. They are a mixture. And all fighting men.
"The Gunner there," he nodded aft, "did ten years in His Majesty's Navy. Brophy was in the American Marines, went to sea, and then was with me in the Chaco and in China."
"What about your passengers, Captain?" Aldridge asked politely. "I haven't seen them around."
"You won't," Ponga Jim replied shortly. He stood by with a megaphone, directing the movements of the ship. When the tug was cast off, he took her out himself, watching the endless panorama of Singapore harbor, the hundreds of ships of all sizes and kinds, the white houses, red islands, and dark green foliage.
Sakim came up the ladder with a yellow envelope. "A message, Nakhoda," he said, bowing.
Jim ripped it open. It was terse, to the point.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION. BELIEVE RAIDER INFORMED OF EVERY ACTION. ARMED MERCHANTMAN
OF TEN THOUSAND TONS OPERATING IN INDIAN OCEAN. YOU MAY HAVE ENEMY AGENT ABOARD.
ORDERS HAVE GONE OUT YOU ARE NOT TO REACH THE RED SEA. LUCK.
ARNOLD.
Jim passed the message to Brophy and Millan. "William's on the job," he said. "Looks like our work's cut out for us."
Millan looked aft thoughtfully. "I don't like that Warren," he said. "Could it be him?"
"Might be anybody," Jim replied. "Not necessarily a German. A lot of people who don't see beyond the surface think dictatorships are best. They forget their supposed efficiency is because they censor news of mistakes, or shoot them. Warren is Australian, but he might be that kind of person. On the other hand, there's Wallace."
"You and him have always been on opposite sides," Slug suggested, "maybe-"
"We've got to keep a weather eye on them all," Jim said. "But the main job will be getting to the Red Sea. At least one raider has us marked for sinking, and we've got thirty planes aboard and twenty-three flyers, to say nothing of two passengers and some munitions." Jim's jaw set hard and his eyes narrowed. "And we're going through if we have to sink a couple of pocket battleships!"
Day in and day out the Semiramis steamed south by east, through Banko Strait, around Sumatra, and through the Straits of Sunda and into the wide waters of the Indian Ocean. On deck and on the bridge there was an endless watch.
On the after deck, the two 5.9s painted to resemble booms and further disguised with blocks hooked to their muzzles, were never without a crew. The gun crews slept on deck in the shadow of their guns, ready and waiting.
Still the Semiramis headed south and a little west. The shipping lanes for India and the Red Sea fell behind. The lanes for the Cape were further south. When they reached the tenth parallel, Ponga Jim changed the course to due west.
Twice, Ring Wallace came to the bridge. His face was grave and his eyes hard. He said nothing. Each time he looked pointedly at the sun, indicating to Mayo that he knew they were off the course for Aden, but Jim ignored him.
It was the day he changed course to due west that Colonel Warren came to the bridge.
His eyes were cold and suspicious. "I want to know what you're doing this far south," he demanded.
Mayo started to speak sharply and then shrugged. "Come here," he said patiently.
He stepped into the chart room. "Look," he pointed to the chart. "We're off our course, but we're on a better one. How much shipping have you seen in the last couple of days?"
"Why, none," Warren said, puzzled. "What has that to do with it?"
"Simply that if there's a raider active, he'll stay close to the shipping lanes.
Looking for us down here would be like looking for one particular fly in Dakar. But when we turn north-"
"But we're south of any possible help," Warren protested. "And what about the radio?
Sparks tells me you've ordered no messages to leave the ship, no reports, nothing."
"Right. Radio makes a trail. My orders are to get this ship to my destination on the Red Sea. I'm going without convoy. This is my ship, and I'm going through."
Warren hesitated and then went below, but he was not satisfied. Ponga Jim rubbed his chin and looked after him thoughtfully.
The tension mounted daily. Everyone watched the horizon now, when they weren't watching the blank, unspeaking doors of the two cabins. But the
passengers remained unseen.
The steward went to them with one guard, and neither man would talk.
Ring Wallace, pointedly wearing a gun, had taken to idling about the deck amidships.
The R. A. F. men were uneasy. Only the crew of the Semiramis seemed undisturbed.
One night Ponga Jim got up, slipped on his coat, and casually checked the load in his automatic. It was habitual action, born of struggle and the need for a gun that was ready. Then he picked up his cap and stepped toward the door.
"Hold it."
Mayo froze. That would be Wallace. He turned slowly to face him. Ring was just inside the opposite door, his face grim. The gun in his hand was steady.
"Why the artillery?" Jim asked mildly.
"Mayo," Ring said slowly, "I've known you for about ten years. We ain't seen things eye to eye, but a good part of the time you have been nearer right than me. This time, I ain't so sure."
"You asking for a showdown, Ring?"
"Sure, I want to know what we're doing hundreds of miles off our course. I want to know who your passengers are. I want to know what your intentions are.
"Maybe for the first time in my life I'm doing something without thinking of money.
I'm going to the Near East to fight because I don't like dictatorships."
Wallace broke off to give Mayo a hard, direct glance and then plunged on in a flat-toned voice.
"Sure, I know a lot of this stuff is the old blarney. It's propaganda. England's leadership has been coming apart at the seams for years. Her people are all right, but at the top they've been a lot of wealthy and titled highbinders. They don't want a democratic England. It's the same way in the States. When you look for pro-Nazis look in the higher brackets of income, not the lower.
"But their time is past. The real England's coming to the top in this war. I figure democracy with all its faults has an edge over anything else.
England and America, battling side by side, will prove that to Germany and Japan.
Well, I've fought for money, and I've fought for the heck of it. This time it's for an idea.
"So maybe I ain't so smart. You could always outfigure me, Jim Mayo, but this cargo gets through or you go over the side-feet first. I'm not kidding, either."
"Put up the heater, Ring. This time it looks like we're pitching for the same club.
Look!" He took him to the chart. "Somewhere in this ocean we're scheduled to be sunk.
There's the route for low-powered steamers. Here's the route we could have taken.
It's dollars to guilders both routes are covered. So what do I do? I stop the radio and then drop out of sight. To all intents and purposes we're lost!
"Look here," Jim handed a message to Wallace. "Sparks picked this up last night."
S. S. RHYOLITE SUNK WITH ALL HANDS TWO DAYS OUT OF SINGAPORE. S. S. SEMIRAMIS
REPORTED MISSING. NO WORD SINCE LEAVING SUNDA.
"See? The Admiralty's worried. Intelligence is worried. But we're safe, and a third of the distance gone. Tonight, however, we change course. After that, anything can happen."
"So I'm a sucker," Ring said, grinning. "Chalk it up as a well-meant mistake. Be seeing you."
Hours passed slowly on the bridge. The night was dark and still. The air was heavy with heat. Along the horizon a bank of black clouds was building up, shot through from time to time with lightning. The barometer was falling, and Ponga Jim mopped his brow.
A sudden flash of lightning lit up a cloud like an incandescent globe. Mayo dropped his hands to the railing and stared. By the brief glimpse he had seen something else.
There, not even a mile away was the black outline of a ship! Instantly, Jim stepped into the wheelhouse.
"Put her over easy," he said quietly. "Put her over three points and then hold it."
Instinctively, he knew the long, black ship was the raider. But with any luck he was going to slip away. Obviously, the raider's lookout hadn't seen him.
The Semiramis swung until her stern was almost toward the raider. Ponga Jim glanced aft as they started to pull away. Then almost before his eyes, and on his main deck, a light flashed. From over the way came the jangle of a bell.
Swiftly, he stepped to the speaking tube. "Red," he snapped. "This is it. Give her all you've got."
He sounded the signal for battle stations, and still in complete darkness, felt his ship coming to life. Millan emerged from his cabin and dashed aft. Other men appeared from out of nowhere.
Catching a gleam from aft, Jim knew the two 5.9s were swinging to cover the raider.
A gun from the German belched fire. The shell hit the sea off to port. Then a huge searchlight flashed on, and they were caught and pinned to the spot of light.
A signal flashed from the raider, and Sparks yelled, "He says stop or he'll sink us!"
"Tell him to try to sink us!" Jim roared. Grabbing the megaphone, he stepped into the wing of the bridge. "Let 'em have it, Gunner! Knock that light out of there!"
He took a quick glance around to locate the cloud. It was nearer now, a great, rolling, ominous mass shot through with vivid streaks. A shell crashed off to starboard, and then the 5.9s boomed, one-two.
A geyser of water leaped fifty feet to port of the advancing ship, and then the second shell exploded close off the starboard quarter.
"That rocked her!" Jim yelled. "Keep her weaving," he told the quartermaster.
"Taiyib," Sakim said quietly.
Despite the fact that the freighter was giving all she had, the raider was coming up fast. The guns were crashing steadily, but so far neither had scored a hit.
The black cloud was nearer now. Jim wheeled to the door of the pilothouse when there was a terrible concussion and he was knocked sprawling into the bulkhead.
Almost at once, he was on his feet, staggering, with blood running into his eyes from where his head had smashed into the doorjamb. The port wing of the bridge had been shot away.
Millan's guns crashed suddenly, shaking the deck, and both shots hit the raider.
The first pierced the bow just abaft the hawsepipe and exploded in the forepeak.
The second smashed the gun on the foredeck into a heap of twisted metal.
"Hard aport!" Jim yelled. "Swing her!"
Then the storm burst around them with a roar, a sudden black squall that sent a blinding dash of rain over the ship.
A sea struck them and cascaded down over the deck, but the Semiramis straightened. Behind them a gun boomed. But struggling with a howling squall they had left all visibility behind them.
Slug Brophy came up the ladder. He was sweating and streaming with rain at the same time.
"Take her over," Jim directed briefly. "And drive her. Stay with this squall if you can."
Lyssy appeared on the deck below, his powerful brown body streaming with water.
"Go below and tell Colonel Warren I want all his men in the salon-now!" Jim bawled.
For a few minutes he stayed on the bridge, watching the storm. Then he went down to the salon. The flyers, their faces heavy with sleep, were gathered around the table. Only Warren and Aldridge appeared wide-awake. Aldridge was running a deck of cards through his long fingers, his dark, curious eyes on Mayo.
"What does this mean?" Warren asked. "Isn't it bad enough with a raider and a storm without getting us all up here?" Ponga Jim ignored him. He looked around the table, his eyes glancing from one to the other.
"Before we left Sunda Strait," he began suddenly, "I had word there was an enemy agent aboard."
Warren stiffened. His eyes narrowed. Wallace let the legs of his chair down hard and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Aldridge held the cards in his left hand and flicked the ash from his cigarette. His eyes shifted just a little, toward Wallace.
"Tonight," Jim went on, "I had concrete proof. We were slipping away in the darkness, unnoticed, when someone on the main deck flashed a light!"
"What?" Warren sat up straighter. "You've captured him?" "No," Jim said. "I don
't know for sure who he is. But he's in this room!"
Warren was on his feet, his face suffused with anger.
"I resent that!" he said sharply. "What about your own crew? These men are all mine.
Why must one of them be the traitor? That's impudence! It's unfair!"
"It sounds like it," Mayo agreed, "but my crew have been with me a long time. Each of them has been in battle against Nazis. They have no love for them."
"Natives and renegades!" Warren protested angrily.
"But good men," Ponga Jim said quietly, his eyes dark and brilliant. "I've fought beside them. They aren't interested in ideologies. The traitor is."
He hesitated, looking around. "I wanted to warn you. One of you undoubtedly knows who the guilty man is. Just think. When you decide, no matter who it is, come to me.
"There are, as you know, raiders in this ocean looking for us. Our chances of reaching Aden without encountering one of them are small. Every hour that spy is aboard makes our risk greater. But whatever he does, he will have to be alone to do it. So stay together.
And under no circumstances must any man be found on deck alone!"
"And the passengers?" Aldridge asked softly. "What of them? Those very mysterious passengers who never appear on deck. Mightn't one of them be the spy?"
"No," Jim said quietly. "There is no possibility of that."
He turned and left the salon, hurrying down the passage toward the two mysterious cabins. He tapped lightly on the door. There was a murmured word, and the door opened.
Jim stepped inside, closing the cabin door softly.
Two people faced him, a man of perhaps fifty and a girl of twenty-five. The man was tall and finely built, with a dark, interested face and a military bearing. He got quickly to his feet, even as Jim's eyes met the girl's. General Andre Caillaux and his niece had been famous in the Paris that preceded the Nazi attack.
And for years in North Africa, General Caillaux had been one of the most loved and feared officers in the French army. Known for daring and fair dealing as well, he had great influence among the men. So enormous was this influence that the wavering Petain government sent him to a position in New Caledonia. Now, hoping that his prestige might swing the Foreign Legion and other powerful detachments to their side, the British were returning him to North Africa.
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