by Joe Poyer
When the radio operator nodded vigorously at them, the Maori smiled broadly and went below to chivvy up his troops. Keilty remained where he was, crouching into the open hatchway to escape the cold, blowing spray that was spurning back from the bow. He, like Charlie, was wondering how he had ever gotten himself involved in this mess.
Ten miles to the southeast, the Vietnamese destroyer was coming fast. The sea conditions, which were worsening steadily, had hidden them from the destroyer's surface radar when they had dropped Charlie minutes earlier, and they were now roaring northwest in the direction of the research station. Charlie, with the limpet bomb, was waiting for the destroyer. If everything went off according to plan, the mine would explode in about twenty minutes and the destroyer would be damaged severely enough to have to turn back in these heavy seas. Keilty had spent twenty minutes on the run south explaining to Charlie just how and where to plant the bomb.
The message that had just come in was from the Bradley. Two Indonesian destroyers were rushing up from Sumatra and an Australian mine layer from Singapore was on its way to supplement the Bradley, but wouldn't arrive for at least eight hours or better. The two MTBs were detailed to go in immediately Charlie was recovered and word was received that the Vietnamese destroyer was out of action. They would land their component of marines under covering fire if necessary. The station must be secured as fast as possible to prevent the crew on board destroying the bomb and the evidence that it had been prepared for this special operation.
Keilty looked at his watch in the dim glow from the interior of the small bridge. Just about five minutes to go. He hoped that the second MTB had not missed Charlie in the stormy
seas. Peter Owterry, the Maori lieutenant, slid in next to him, grinning from ear to ear.
Àll set on this end. It promises to be a bloody good show ...
Keilty raised his hand. 'Quiet a second' And indicated the radio operator scribbling on his pad again.
He tore off the sheet and handed it to the boat's commander, who swung round, and grinning from ear to ear, said, `Looks as if your dolphin made it, Dr. Keilty. He's been picked up, and without the mine'
Suddenly, the storm-shrouded horizon was lit by a brilliant flash, revealing heavy clouds banked tier on tier. As if waiting for the signal of the explosion, sheets of lightning ripped the sky, and were followed by heavy rolls of thunder; rain poured down on the small boat, causing a steady drumming. Before Keilty could pull his slicker tight around him, he was soaked clear to the skin by the heavy drops. The rain cut effective visibility to next to nothing.
Owterry, staring up into the driving rain, laughed. 'This rain is certainly going to be a help. It seems that the elements are conspiring with us instead of against us for a change.
The rain will hide us from lookouts and the waves from surface radar'
The radioman interrupted again to announce that the flash had been the explosion of the Vietnamese destroyer. The Bradley's radar showed she was steaming at about four knots for the nearest point of land, which was the extreme southern tip of Sumatra.
Keilty hung on to the bridge stanchion as the deck whipped beneath his feet. The MTB, taking the full brunt of the pounding waves, leapt from wave to wave in the heavy seas.
The rain fell harder and was thrashed by the wind into the flying spray until it seemed to be a solid sheet of water.
The two boats hammered on northward skirting the larger of the islands until shortly before dawn, when the commander throttled down. Keilty went down into the cramped cabin where he could watch the radar building a picture of the research station. The short-range sweep showed the Bradley some ten miles west, steaming on at close to thirty-five knots. The British commander swore softly to himself when he heard the Bradley's speed.
'She was built during the latter part of the war,' he said to Keilty in his soft west-country accent. 'She must be taking a
terrible pounding in these seas.' Then he brightened, 'I'll bet all those high muckety-mucks aboard are wishing they could die.'
Keilty agreed whole-heartedly with the picture.
The MTB came round the tower at almost full power in a heeling, skidding turn that would have done credit to an outboard. Her sister ship broke off to rendezvous with the Bradley.
Keilty wondered how Charlie was taking all this. His conscience had been bothering him since Charlie had gone overboard. Events had moved too fast for the dolphin to keep up with them. He had been confused and nervous, and if Keilty had not known better, he would have thought the dolphin was scared silly. But the animal's nervous condition was close to actual human fear. He had almost huddled in his tank aboard the tossing craft, his flippers and tail making fluttering motions against the side of the tank, his eyes rolling back until the whites showed against his almost black skin. Keilty had done his best to calm him, stroking his flanks, moistening him with a large sponge and promising a long, quiet airplane ride when this was all over.
Keilty knew that the dolphin was aware that this mission was much more dangerous than the other. He would be completely detached from Keilty and would not even see him when it was over. He would be depending on others to look after him and pick him up. In addition, the storm had frightened him. He had never been involved in a surface storm before, and the lashing waves and the tossing motion of the boat were rapidly giving him a classic case of seasickness. But then, when it came time to put him over the side, these symptoms disappeared and the dolphin shot over the side and sounded deeply. Keilty only hoped he had not been frightened so badly that he would revert to his native state.
Owterry plopped down beside him and shrugged out of his slicker. 'Have to clear the decks for action,' he said cheerfully. 'Can't move at all in that blasted thing. Besides, I couldn't get any wetter.
He peered over the side at the thrashing waves and then to where the bulk of the station could be seen dimly outlined against the black sky. 'Looks like we may have to go in under fire. The Bradley's not in position yet and she couldn't fire from where she is without hitting us.
`Hell of a fine fix to be in on a night like this,' Keilty muttered. He shrugged his shoulders against the pelting rain
that was seeping beneath his collar and down his neck. The deck boards had a nasty habit of dropping away suddenly and then smacking hard against him as the boat slammed sharply upwards. The MTh tightened the circled approach until she was less than a hundred yards away from the tower. Owterry climbed unsteadily to his feet for a better look.
`Damned station's awfully quiet. . .' As if waiting for just this cue, the Vietnamese opened up with a withering blast of light-arms fire. Keilty pressed himself into the deck to escape the hail of lead that stitched into the hull with amazing accuracy. Owterry dropped half on top of him, squirmed into the open hatchway, and then reached a huge hand up and around Keilty and dragged him in. He caught a glimpse of the second MTh returning off their stem.
`Captain,' he shouted against the screaming of the wind and engines, 'can you run us in under the deck of the tower?'
Keilty looked at him slowly. It would be suicide to get in under the deck in these seas.
One heavy wave could crush them against a supporting column, or even the underside of the deck. The commander obviously thought so too, but Owterry rushed on before he could interrupt.
'Get in under the overhang of the deck and around to the far side of that ladder. MTB
two-oh-three can stand off and sweep the decks with machine-gun fire until the Bradley gets here. By that time, we should be aboard.' He paused to take a quick look at the tower, illuminated now by heavy flashes of lightning and by the quick, small flashes of the fire fight. The accuracy of the station gunners' aim had fallen off drastically in the heavy seas. As Keilty watched, the station was hidden from view by a large wave until only the upper works of the tower showed. As they crested the station was in full view, and then lost again.
Ònce we get in and onto the ladder, you put out quickly and keep them busy around
the top of the ladder so they can't get to us,' Owterry finished.
It took Owterry only a few minutes to convince the boat's commander that, under the circumstances, it was the only way to secure the research station and the bomb.
Signals were made to MTh 203 advising her of the plan and then to the Bradley. With the commander at the wheel and the twin Rolls turbines screaming to full rpm, the boat went in on a straight course from a point two hundred yards from the ladder. The MTB sliced through the heaving seas at forty-five knots, bouncing like a surfboard, then straightened out and beat her way through the twenty-foot waves. Water boiled around her stern from the creaming bow wave, sweeping half as high as the slanted mast. Keilty, crouching in the bow with the initial ten-man landing party, hung on for dear life. He hung back slightly, trying to stay out of Owterry's view. The New Zealander was busy trying to gauge the distance and the effect of the shells and bullets that were beginning to converge
0n 202.
Keilty watched the big Maori at work, marveling at the calmness of his Oxfordian voice deeply resounding above the racket of the storm. Earlier, one of the marines had proudly told him that Owterry was educated in England at St. James, had been New Zealand boxing champion, and had almost taken the Commonwealth boxing crown until the war interrupted. Owterry himself had told him that he had fought from Burma down the Malay Peninsula in 1944-45, and then back up against the Communists in 1947-50.
`You're lucky we're in the strait and not on the mainland,' Owterry had grinned. 'This is relatively clean. Malaya has jungles like nowhere else on earth: Keilty had noticed the leech scars on his hands, wrists, and ankles, and mentioned them.
À doctor once told me that the scars on my ankles form a ring of scar tissue nearly an inch deep,' he had replied. After that, Keilty was prepared to believe anything about Southeast Asian jungles.
The distance was now less than a hundred yards. A flurry of light 1.5-inch shells splashed and exploded dead ahead of them. The concussion and the water they kicked up almost washed Keilty over the side. The commander kept the boat steady on its course.
Keilty watched the tower loom ahead of them, seeming to grow larger with infinite slowness. A second salvo hit closer, bracketing the boat and lifting the bow high in the air. For a moment it hung suspended.
Keilty had time to notice that the rain, which had become almost horizontal in the wind, was no longer pelting him for a brief second as the hull came between him and the watery horizon. Then the MTB slapped down hard, jarring every bone in his body. He tasted blood in his mouth where a tooth was broken. His back was on fire where the FN
carbine on its loose sling had crashed down. Dazedly he noticed that the boat was skidding into a hard starboard turn as the engines cut out and then screamed up as the propellers reversed and the boat slid under the overhang, port quarter first.
The commander idled the engines down enough to maintain steerageway and turned her towards the single narrow ladder, outlined dimly by the hooded beam of the boat's searchlight. They drew alongside the ladder and were held fast by two ratings as they piled over the side into two rubber life rafts. Keilty was the last over. He ignored Owterry's shout, and watching the bobbing raft, jumped and landed half across the stern and was hauled into the bottom of the raft.
`Where the hell do you think you're going?' Owterry stormed at him from the other raft.
`Where the hell do you think?' Keilty shouted back. 'Stop yelling and let's get going. I've got a vested interest in this operation.'.
Owterry waved the MTB away. It idled away from them and then slipped into full power and shot from beneath the deck, its two quad .50s blazing away at the station decking.
Keilty watched it roar away, swinging in a wide circle to allow the gunners to track their target, and then he lost it in the rain and fog.
The noise of the fighting came to them in a mishmash of hollow sound, reflected from beneath the steel tower by the chopping seas. The rafts were made fast to the tower ladder and the combined units of New Zealand and Australian marines swarmed up first, followed by the Indonesian unit. They had shed their packs on the MTh and wore only shirts and shorts, with their weapons slung over their shoulders within easy reach to leave their hands free for the ladder. They went up professionally. Keilty was pushed back until he was last man on the ladder. Gunfire sounded above and a brief spray of bullets swept past him. A body came hurtling down; which side, he was unable to tell.
Then he was being yanked over the top and pushed down behind a hastily constructed barrier of empty oil drums. Owterry was waving four men around the far edge of the barrier in a flanking movement to the drilling rig. Snipers in the rig took two of the men before they had taken five steps. Cursing horribly, his eyes white-rimmed in the flashing lightning, Owterry landed beside him, directing a barrage of fire to the rigging. Keilty unslung his carbine, worked the slide to make sure it wasn't jammed, and aimed at a figure crouching
behind a web of bracing halfway up the tower. He fired three shots and missed. Rain water sluiced down the barrel and spattered into his eyes. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes clear, ignoring the stinging, then turned his attention back to the sniper. He slid the catch to full automatic and opened up. The figure straightened, took a quick 'step backwards, arched its back, and sailed off into space. He landed with a sodden thump on the steel deck plates. Grinning savagely, Keilty jammed another magazine home.
Across the deck near the main shaft of the tower, were a series of low corrugated-iron sheds. As Keilty glanced towards them seeking another target, the door in the nearest one was flung open and four men poured out. They dove for positions around the shaft, setting up a machine gun. The entire movement was performed so quickly that it took the marines off guard. The machine gun opened up fast. Keilty ducked back around the oil drums just in time. A sharp clang, and a steel sliver was nicked from the drum where his head had been. The machine gun traversed the row of drums and was followed by rifle fire, while the gunners turned their attention to the two men who had reached the rig. They were all now effectively pinned down. Keilty ducked back deeper into the safety of the oil drums. Owterry yelled something that was lost in the rattle of the machine gun and the series of clangs from the drums.
The man next to Keilty struggled into a sitting position while he fumbled in his shirt.
Then, going to his knees, he straightened up and started to hurl a hand grenade. Two fifty-caliber slugs stitched across his chest and he fell back, dropping the live grenade into Keilty's lap. Keilty was so surprised that he stared stupidly for a moment, then straightened convulsively and kicked out with his foot, pitching the grenade over the side of the deck where it exploded. Owterry rolled his eyes to heaven – whether in thankfulness or supplication, Keilty could not tell. Then the machine gun was back.
Keilty could now see the two flankers clearly. And they were clearly pinned down. They had depended on the main party to furnish them with covering fire while they flanked and came up on the main body of the defenders holding the deck. Now that the main party was pinned down, they were exposed to a flanking movement themselves and this was precisely what was happening to them. From their left, three Vietnamese soldiers were crawling towards the party, using the cover furnished by equipment and machinery. The flankers were kept
pinned by the machine gun and could not effectively cover themselves.
Keilty pulled the remaining two grenades from the shirt of the dead marine. The pictures that Charlie had gotten from the sea had shown a small ledge running the circumference of the top of the main deck. It was only about five feet below the level of the deck, but it had looked wide enough to walk on.
Ignoring Owterry, he crawled back to the ladder, careful to keep the drums between himself and the machine gun. One of the snipers in the rig saw him and began firing. The bullets slammed and ricocheted viciously around him. With one sliding leap, Keilty grabbed the edge of the ladder and all but vaulted over. His foot caught the rung and he ya
nked his head down below the deck.
The ledge was there, but it was not really a ledge, more of a catwalk with ladderlike rungs. He crouched down and slung his rifle with one hand, being careful to keep one hand on the ladder. The wind had picked up now and was blowing close to thirty knots.
The rain pelted down in huge, swollen drops that all but blinded him. He worked the hand grenades into his pockets and began inching his way along, carefully placing one foot on the rung ahead, hanging on to the slippery edge of the decking. The wind tore at him, pulling at his sodden shirt and Levis. In spite of the waterproofing he had applied earlier in the day, his leather boots were soaked through with the heavy monsoon rains.
After what seemed an eternity, he stopped and raised his head carefully above the decking. He could see the dim outline of the barrels and to his right, still some fifty feet away and hidden by the machinery, the flashes of the machine gun.
The wind was now so loud in his ears that nothing else seemed real. The flashes of the guns were soundless in the immensity of roaring wind and water. He lowered his head and started forward again. Once he slipped and caught himself only by his fingers from falling into the water seventy feet below. He managed to hook a leg around a rung and rested for a moment. Then he was moving ahead again. He never knew how long it actually took him, but it seemed forever.
At the end of another hundred feet, he stopped and raised his head for a careful look.
Almost in front of him and some fifty feet away, crouched the gunner and the man feeding the belt. On the other side, two riflemen with automatic weapons were firing carefully and accurately over the top of the rigging machinery.
Keilty levered himself up into a half crouch, one leg hooked around a support rod. He fumbled with a grenade which resisted his efforts to pull it from his wet pocket. He cursed the tight Levis he was wearing. Keilty had made a turn coming around the edge of the decking, so that he was now taking the full force of the wind against his right side.