The Red Guard

by The Red Guard (fb2)

  She turned to Nick and made rapid talk with her hands. They had practiced this, just as Nick had practiced dactylology hour after wearisome hour. Every AXE agent had to be able to speak with his fingers.

  Fan Su was going through the entire routine, on the million-to-one chance that the guard, or a watcher, knew the sign language.

  Nick nodded and dug into his baggy pants for his papers. He handed them to the girl, who gave them to the guard. He took one look at the filthy wrinkled mass of paper and handed them back. "Even they smell bad. But go on in, comrade. You are fortunate that Comrade Captain Chou is working late tonight. Fourth floor at the front." He pointed over his head. "Right up there."

  As they started into the building the guard called after the girl. "You had better hurry, comrade, or you will miss it." He pointed to the cage. "They are going to take him down again soon. The dung turtle is going to lose another flipper."

  They passed through an ornate lobby that smelled of urine. Up four flights of stairs. Nick took over now and halted briefly on each landing to glance up and down the corridors. He was pleased. Most of the offices were deserted and, toward the rear of the building, the lights were out. On the third floor they heard the clicking of a solitary typewriter.

  The fourth floor. To their right the corridor ended in a rectangle of brilliant light overlooking the square. To their left, from the stairwell back to another window, the corridor was dark.

  Nick Carter had the Luger in his hand. Fan Su fumbled in her trousers and took out the little Jap pistol. If they were caught prowling they would have to fight their way out.

  Nick, always a man to worry about his exits, nodded to the left. "Check that back window. Hurry. I'll wait here."

  She went away, running on tiptoe. In a minute she was back. "There's a fire escape down to a courtyard. It's very dark."

  "Is there an alley? Or a passage through to the next street? A courtyard is only a trap."

  "There is an alley. I am certain of it. I have been in this building before."

  Nick touched her arm. "Okay. Wait for me. Wander aimlessly. If anybody wants to know why you're loitering stick to the same story — except that I am being questioned in private by the Comrade Captain Chou."

  Her eyes glittered at him. "I don't think anyone will come. They are all out there — waiting for it to happen again." The little Nambu moved in her hand. "If they do come I know what to do."

  Nick Carter was standing tall and straight now. The hump seemed even more grotesque than before. "Get that back window open," he told her. "And get your track shoes on, honey. When we leave this place, if we leave it, we'll be going like bats out of hell!"

  He moved swiftly. He went down the corridor toward the blaze of light and the roaring-surf sound of the crowd. There might be very little time left if they meant to haul Po-Choy down and cut him again.

  It was the last door on the right. A bright wedge of light leaked into the corridor, mingling with light from the window. Outside, a loudspeaker blared for a moment. The crowd roared on a deeper note. Nick felt the sweat break on him. If they hauled the poor guy down before he could get in a shot…

  He transferred the Luger to his left hand, snapped the stiletto down into his right. For a second he stared down at the light under the door. Then he turned the knob and stepped into the room, gambling that Comrade Captain Chou would be alone. If he wasn't, Nick would have to use the Luger and things could get very messy.

  Captain Chou was alone. He was sitting at the desk and staring out the open window at the cage. His swivel chair squeaked as he swung around. "What do you wa…"

  The stiletto quivered in the Captain's throat. Nick flicked off the lights and sprang like a tiger for the desk. The man was still making agony sounds and plucking at the stiletto in his flesh. Nick got one brawny arm in back of his head, found the hilt, and brought the weapon around in a nearly full circle.

  By the time the body hit the floor, Nick was kneeling at the window. He was just in time. At the foot of the pole two soldiers were loosening a halyard belayed around a cleat on the pole. The cage was swaying back and forth.

  Killmaster cursed between his teeth. A moving target was twice as tough to hit.

  He checked the Luger, then poked the muzzle out over the sill of the window, putting everything out of his mind but the suffering naked thing in the cage. Using two hands, as he had in the street fight in San Francisco, he tried to bring the Luger's sight to bear: He had filed the sight down until it was barely visible, to prevent it from catching on leather or cloth, and now he wished he hadn't.

  The cage was swaying crazily, a metronymic motion that baffled his best efforts to bring his sights into line. Once he almost squeezed off the shot, then he let his finger relax. Damn! He would have to wait. Every second he waited increased his danger in terrible geometric progression.

  The cage banged into the pole, a jarring banging crash that was drowned by the ceaseless roar of the crowd. The naked man moved and clutched at the bars with one hand. The cage slowly began to descend.

  Now! Shooting down in artificial light was tricky. You had to allow for, and correct, a tendency to shoot too low. Leading was no problem — the cage was going down slowly. Nick Carter took a deep breath and held it. In the last micro-second he remembered that the last time on the targets the Luger had been shooting a little high and to the right. He made the correction. Now!

  He pulled the trigger. He saw the thing in the cage lurch and roll for an instant, then subside. The cage, spinning on the halyard, came around so that at last Nick could see the face. He had seen many dead faces. This one was dead, with most of the right frontal lobe missing. The roar of the crowd went on and on. They had not heard or seen. Not yet.

  Killmaster went down the corridor in long strides. Fan Su was waiting a few feet from the open window and the fire escape. Nick waved her to go on. He smacked the compact rear of her quilted pants. "Here we go again. Run, baby, run!"

  * * *

  North of Shanghai, near the Chapei district, there is an emergency airfield. Long in disuse, the buildings and lights and everything of value had long ago been removed. The asphalt runway is full of potholes and the only close neighbors are peasants who till a mou or two of land and mind their own business. A rutted track leads from the airfield to the main Shanghai-Nanking highway some two miles distant.

  The four old trucks that bounced along the track were running without lights. Nick Carter and Fan Su were riding in the cab of the first truck and Nick was wondering how the driver of the truck, a kid not yet out of his teens, could stand it. He and Fan Su didn't mind each other because they had both made the trip in the «honey» sampan. It had been loaded to the rails with fetid kegs of the stuff, night soil gathered from Shanghai and being shipped to the outlying districts to be spread on the paddies. By now both the AXEman and the girl were aromatic to a degree that had to be smelled to be believed.

  When they reached the field the truck deployed according to a prearranged plan. This was a crucial point in the operation. The plan from now on depended on brashness, on pure and unalloyed brass. If boldness could do it — then Yellow Venus had a right to succeed.

  The trucks parked two at each end of the narrow runway. The drivers waited for their signal. There were just the six of them, four drivers and Nick and the girl. To risk more of Undertong's slender cadre would have been foolish.

  They waited in darkness and, for the most part, silence. Nick and the girl withdrew to stand beneath an ancient ginkgo tree, its fan-shaped leaves already frost-tainted. Nick badly wanted a smoke, even the butts in his tin coolie box would have tasted good, but he had forbidden smoking.

  The girl was worried about the weather. The rain had stopped now, there was no hint of moon, and a light cloud layer muffled the glare of central Shanghai in the distance. Nick smiled in the gloom. There was going to be a hot time in that old town tonight The Provost would be tearing his hair.

  He glanced at the clouds again. "Stop w
orrying," he told her. "I don't know who's flying this mission, but he'll be the best. Just hold tight." He knew her nerves were jumping. His own were a little frayed around the edges.

  "Hold your hat down, Nick."

  He shielded her pen light with the coolie hat as she consulted her watch. "Five after midnight. He's late."

  "So he's la…" They heard it then. The drone of an old piston plane somewhere in the clouds and off to the east.

  "There he is!"

  They ran to the edge of the runway. Fan Su handed Nick a cigarette lighter. He clicked it into flame and waved it slowly back and forth three times.

  The truck lights blazed on. Two at each end of the runway and at the edges, limning the parallelogram for the pilot overhead. Fan Su clutched Nick's arm. "It doesn't seem like much, does it? How can he possibly see it and get a big plane down." Her voice was shaky.

  "He'll make it," said Killmaster. He, whoever he was, had better make it. Red radar would have picked him up by now. Nick wondered if the Chinese had any night fighters worthy of the name. The question had never come up. You always overlooked something!

  The pilot made two passes over the field and then circled away. The sound of the engines died. They waited, time stretching into infinity like a great rubber band that must soon snap. Waiting… stretching… waiting…

  The sudden swoosh of the plane startled even Nick. It came out of the night like a sudden hawk, talons down, gliding in just over the trucks nearest the two. The plane had no lights. It glinted a dull silver in the truck beams. It hit and bounced, hit again and stayed down, running hard for the far end of the runway. There was a squeal of brakes and the faint odor of scorched rubber.

  "Come on," shouted Nick. He took her hand and they ran for the plane, already beginning to turn at the far end. As they approached he saw red and gold Chinese lettering on the silver sides: Southwest China Airlines. It was a DC3, an old and reliable type much used by the small commercial lines in the country. It would be authentic to the last detail, Nick knew. Pilots, papers, the works.

  The door of the plane opened as they panted up. A ladder came down. A flashlight was beamed on Nick. "Yellow Venus?"

  "Yes," he snapped. "Sawtooth? And get that damned light off!"

  "Yes, sir." The light flicked out. A hand helped them aboard. The owner of the hand was a young Chinese wearing the insignia of a radio officer. He slammed the door behind them. Nick said: "Tell your pilot to use his lights on take off. Potholes. You're lucky you missed them coming in."

  "Yes, sir." The radio officer left them. Nick sank into a comfortable seat beside the girl. He grinned at her. "Fasten your seat belt, honey. Regulations."

  She did not answer. She was sitting very quietly, her eyes closed, her fists clenched. He was silent. Like a great many women, she was superb in a crisis, but when it was over she needed a letdown. He found himself almost wishing she would have a small case of hysterics. Might do her good. He needed her as much as ever to bring off Yellow Peril — he was going to report that Yellow Venus, Undertong, was certainly worth aiding in every way possible — and they were just now getting into the really tough part. His grin was hard. They had, in the words of the song, come a long way from St. Louis. They still had a hell of a long way to go!

  They took off. He glanced down and back and saw the lights of the trucks go off. He wished them luck as he made his way up to the cabin.

  Nick recognized the pilot at once. His name was Dze Shen-peng, but for some reason he was called Johnny Cool. Nick did not know why. The man was a Colonel in the Nationalist Air Force, and a living legend — in his own way, and field, as much of a legend as Nick himself. He had been around a long time, was crisply graying, and was the only man who had ever outflown Earthquake McGoon back in the CAT days. Hawk had picked the best.

  All three of the men in the cabin stared as Nick entered. He could not blame them. He did not even blame the radio officer for sniffing so audibly. He must smell pretty bad.

  Johnny Cool did not recognize him, which was not at all surprising. Nick gave them all his black-toothed smile and said, "Thank you, gentleman. That was damned well done. We were beginning to sweat a little."

  Johnny Cool gave the plane to the copilot. He and Nick consulted a sheaf of maps on the radio officers' tiny desk. Nick restrained a smile as he noticed that the pilot stayed as far from him as possible.

  The pilot took a sheet of typed flimsy from his breastpocket. He glanced at the AXEman. "For a check-off, sir, and the sake of clarity I'd like to run through this."

  "Go ahead."

  "Yes, sir." If there was anything incongruous about the neatly uniformed, clean-shaven veteran flyer deferring to this evil-smelling, filthy, villainous-appearing coolie, he did not seem to notice or resent it. Johnny Cool was following orders. For a moment Nick was tempted to remind Johnny of the last time they had had a drink together in Hubie's Bar in Hong Kong. He didn't.

  Johnny Cool read from his list. "Two packs, Class A. They are back in the lav, sir. I'll have to ask you to sign for them, sir."

  Of course. If you wanted a rope to hang yourself you would have to sign for it.

  "My orders, sir, are to set you down as near as possible to the village of Meinyang, roughly fifty miles south of Chungtiene. There's a lot of desert around there — we shouldn't have any trouble getting down. If there is trouble, or questions, our cover is that we lost an engine and had to make an emergency landing. Jibe so far, sir?"

  Nick Carter nodded. "We'll have to land in daylight? This old crate can't do more than three hundred, can she?" He was accustomed to jets.

  The pilot's finger traced a line on the map. "Broad daylight, sir. That doesn't worry us too much. As I said, we've got good cover for a little while. Planes from the carrier made an anti-radar sweep before we took off, and we're dropping dipoles automatically as we go. The chances are good that they won't pick us up at all. We've got extra tanks, of course, that we'll jettison as we use them. After we leave you we'll go on to Nepal or Sikkim, depending on gas and weather."

  "That's great for you," said the AXEman a bit sardonically, "but I'm more concerned with our ETA?"

  The pilot scratched a pencil over a pad. "Well be bucking headwinds. I figure, roughly, about eight hours' flying time. Maybe a bit less." He glanced at his watch. "We should get you down about eight-thirty or nine."

  "Not too close to Meinyang," Nick told him. "We want to walk into the village, with no tie in with the plane if that is at all possible."

  Johnny Cool looked dubious for a moment, then said, "We'll do the best we can, sir. It might be possible, at that. It's rough country around there, with a lot of valleys and mountains and dry lakes. And desert, of course. We'll try our best, sir, but we won't be able to stray too far from the Yangtse. The river is our guideline in."

  "Okay." Nick grinned at the pilot. "Well want to sleep now, after we clean up and eat. Can do?"

  Johnny Cool recognized his voice then. His eyes flickered for a moment and a smile touched his lips, but he only said, gravely, "Can do, sir. It's all back there. They worked on this baby for a week, like beavers. You want me to show you things?"

  "Never mind. We'll find what we need. Wake us up an hour before landing time. I'll want a last-minute check with you."

  "Yes, sir."

  When Killmaster had left the cabin there was a little period of silence. Johnny Cool took the plane back from the copilot.

  The radio officer sniffed loudly and said, "Who in the hell is that. Must be VIP, Johnny, the way you were sirring him."

  The pilot nodded. "Big shot. Bigger than you'll ever be, my friend."

  The radio officer sniffed again. "Maybe so. But big shot or not — he still smells like shit."

  Chapter 9

  It had been like stepping through a magic mirror, from the new China to the old. Teng Fa, the old warlord, still ruled this desolate corner of the country with a medieval hand. None of the comrade nonsense, t'ung chih, about Teng Fa. He was a hundred y
ears old and death held no terrors for him. He held himself aloof, with his eunuchs and his concubines in their chastity belts, and the lao pai hsing, the peasants, paid their taxes to him and not to Peking.

  Fan Su explained all this to Nick on their first night in the rambling adobe-and-tile castle that stood on a hill overlooking the village of Meinyang. From the window of their spacious room he could look eastward and see a thin white glimmer along the horizon — the very first low hills of Tibet. They were still five hundred miles from their goal, the Chumbi Valley.

  The landing had gone well. There had been eyes, of course, but for now Killmaster thought he could discount them. In country like this, with its lack of roads and communications, it might be days before they were brought to the attention of the authorities in Chungtiene. By that time it would be too late, either way you looked at it.

  After taking a careful fix on the landing site — for they would have to use it again — Nick and Fan Su walked twenty miles to the village of Meinyang. They were clean now, and dressed simply as travelers. They carried long sticks of ash against wild dogs, and were man and wife. Nick had discarded the hump and the wig, covering his shaven head with a dogskin cap. The packs were heavy — the AXE people had not forgotten anything — and a certain death warrant if they were caught.

  The weather was brisk, the far-off mountains wreathed in mist, and they trudged through dun-colored fields of rice stubble framed in autumn's sere yellows and browns. As they went Nick kept glancing at the sky; it could not be long now until the first heavy snow.

  Teng Fa welcomed them without question. Their cover story, for the old man's ears alone, was that they were escaping from China by way of Tibet. He made no sign of disbelief — or belief. Fan Su was the great-granddaughter of a very old friend, long dead, and that appeared to be enough for Teng.

  It was the second night of their stay. When they finished dinner, a simple meal of roast pig, eggs, cabbage and boiled millet, the old man beckoned to Nick. "I would speak with you, young man. Alone."