The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

by Clive Cussler

  He walked back through the island, rubbing his aching jaw. The canvas strap he’d used to tow McMahon was a little moldy, and Kennedy had swallowed a great deal of seawater. Suddenly, he felt his stomach roil, and he vomited the salty waste into the bushes at the edge of the beach. When he was finished, he raised his head and stared into Blackett Strait.

  The rest of his crew was entering the shallows near the island, and the taller men were finding footing beneath the water. The water was studded with coral outcroppings, and it tore into their feet. Stumbling through the uneven subsurface, the nine men made their way ashore.

  Kennedy helped Pappy to his feet, and the eleven survivors stumbled into the brush.

  * * *

  Upon learning of the fate of PT-109, Reg Evans had alerted his native scouts to search for survivors. He could still see the wreckage, but now that the currents had changed, it was drifting north toward Nusatupi Island. Earlier he had requested an aerial search, and his last transmission of the night was to seek the results. So far he had received no word. Evans settled in for the night.

  * * *

  As night came on August 2, the crew of PT-109 began to understand their precarious situation. Only moments after taking cover in the bushes, a Japanese barge had slowly passed from south to north less than seventy-five yards out into Blackett Strait. The men kept quiet and the barge passed, but it confirmed just how close to the enemy they were.

  Once the barge was safely out of sight, Kennedy motioned to Ross and Thom. Walking a short distance away, the three of ficers held a conference.

  “Okay,” Kennedy asked plainly, “how are we going to get out of here?”

  The men discussed their choices, but in reality there were few. All agreed that as soon as night fell, the other PT boats in their squadron would return to search for them, but how would they be able to intercept the rescuers in the black of night?

  “Our only hope is for one of us to try to swim out in the channel with the blinker,” Kennedy said finally, “and since I’m the strongest swimmer, I’ll go out tonight.”

  The three officers nodded slowly. They knew the waters around the Solomon Islands contained sharks. That, combined with the Japanese nearby, the strong currents in the water, and the fact that Kennedy was exhausted, made the idea about as risky as borrowing money from an angry loan shark.

  “Jack,” Ross said, “I don’t think this is wise.”

  “What other choice do we have?” Kennedy said quietly.

  It was a question without answer.

  * * *

  After a few hours of fitful sleep, Kennedy awoke and stared out at the water. It was a black, limpid pool of the unknown. In the last twenty-four hours, his boat had been run down by a Japanese destroyer and lit aflame. To add insult to injury, he and his crew had been forced to swim to a deserted island deep in enemy territory. They had no food, no water, and very little with which to defend themselves. Kennedy was as scared as the others, but he was also their leader. If there was any chance for rescue, he would take it, even if it meant a nighttime foray into shark-infested waters.

  With his .38 on a lanyard around his neck, he waded into the water and began to follow an underwater reef to the south toward Ferguson Passage. On the northern edge of the passage lay Nauru Island, bordered with a thick coral plate that caused the waves to crash at heights of up to ten feet. The sound of the breakers made it hard to hear the sound of boat engines, and Kennedy struggled to listen. Hard knobs of coral cut his feet and ankles. In places he could walk on the reef at chest depth; other times the coral receded and he would plunge into the black water and swim for a distance. Slowly making his way south, Kennedy awaited the rescue ships he knew were coming.

  Hours passed as he stood in the water, waiting.

  Once he thought he heard a boat, and he signaled with the blinker. But it was nothing. For hours he stood, with only the blackness of the water and the feeling of marine life brushing his legs. Once the sun rose, he struggled onto a small island south of Plum Pudding and collapsed.

  He was out in the open on the sandy beach, but he was too exhausted to move.

  * * *

  A few miles away, a pair of Reg Evans’s Gizo Scouts, Biuku Gasa and Eroni Kumana, were awakening on Sepu Island. During the night, the Japanese had landed several hundred more troops on Gizo Island, and the two scouts wanted to report this development. Sliding their dugout canoe into the water, they began to paddle toward Kolombangara Island.

  While the men were not large by Western standards, just a shade over five feet tall, they were lean and strong. As their canoe paddles bit into the water, they began to chant. It was a song of the sea in their native language, and the cadence carried them forward. Finding some floating debris, they stopped and placed it in the dugout. Implements for shaving, a few olive-drab pieces of cloth, and a letter they could not read. They continued on.

  * * *

  The sun was roasting Kennedy as he awoke on the sandy shore. He tried the blinker and found that he had left it on and the battery was dead. Tossing it outside, he stared to the north. He was about a mile south of Plum Pudding Island, and he began to walk and swim toward the other men.

  Ensign Thorn had posted night guards, but they reported no sign of Kennedy. Thorn feared his friend had been swept away or eaten by sharks, but there was little he could do. He could only tend to the crew as best he could. McMahon’s bums were festering. Thorn ordered some coconuts felled and then hacked them open with a knife. He tried to rub the oil on the wounds, but it did little to alleviate the suffering. Harris tried to use the coconut oil to lubricate their handguns, but the experiment proved a failure. The oil gummed up the slides, and Harris was forced to strip all the weapons and clean them. Just then, Maguire saw someone in the water.

  “Someone’s approaching,” he said, pointing.

  Ross waded into the water and helped Kennedy to his feet. Taking a few steps, Kennedy stopped and vomited up seawater. He was barely coherent as he struggled ashore. Collapsing in a clearing just off the beach, he managed to croak, “Barney, you take it tonight.”

  “Okay, John,” Ross replied.

  The day passed, waiting for a rescue that did not come.

  Johnston and Starkey passed the time trying to catch fish. Zinser tried bathing his burned arms in salt water, but it did not help. Whenever he felt sorry for himself, he had only to look at McMahon. The older man was obviously in pain, but he suffered his discomfort without complaint.

  That night Ross waded out into the passage, but again no boats were seen.

  REG EVANS HAD explained to Biuku and Eroni about the wreck of PT-109 and asked them to keep an eye out for any survivors. They stayed at Kolombangara to rest before beginning the long trip back across Blackett Strait the next morning.

  * * *

  Kennedy had regained his strength by the time Ross returned early the next morning.

  “Nothing, Jack,” he said disgustedly. “I don’t think they’re looking for us at all.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Kennedy said to Ross and Thorn, “that we should move to that island.”

  He pointed south to an island named Olasana located about two miles away.

  “It’s closer to Ferguson Passage, as well as larger,” he said. “Maybe we can find something to eat there. If not, at least we wouldn’t have to swim as far on our nighttime journies.”

  Thom was not a strong swimmer, but he was game.

  “It looks like the reef runs there,” he said. “We should be able to walk a lot of the distance.”

  “Then it’s agreed,” Kennedy said. “I’ll tell the crew.”

  Tonight would mark the fourth night of the ordeal, but the men took the news well. The tension was taking its toll, and the crew was glad to be doing something. Just waiting for rescue or capture was stressful; doing anything about their situation was preferable. They set off for Olasana Island. Hours later, the crew struggled ashore and made their way into the trees. The currents had pr
oved stronger than expected, and everyone was tired.

  That night no one swam into Ferguson Passage. Help would have to find them.

  * * *

  Biuku and Eroni were flying across the water. The sea was slick, and the day’s rest had given them strength. Mr. Evans had shown them the wreckage of a vessel through the spyglass. It had washed ashore on the south side of Nauru Island, where the breakers crashed on the coral reef. They decided to check it out on the way home — maybe there was food or fuel aboard.

  * * *

  “Sitting here doing nothing is killing me,” Kennedy told Ross. “Let’s swim over to Nauru.”

  “Our planes should be flying over,” Ross agreed. “Maybe there’s a clear spot of sand where we can write a rescue message.”

  Leaving Ensign Thom in charge, the two men made the short swim to the southernmost island bordering Ferguson Passage. Because of the islands’ strategic location directly on the passage, Kennedy and Ross figured that the Japanese might have a post there, but they found no sign of habitation. Walking through the trees to the southern side, they stared out on the passage and noticed the wreck of what appeared to be a Japanese barge. A few boxes had washed ashore, and Ross pried one open and found it filled with hard candy. After eating their fill, they decided to return to the others and share the windfall. Walking along the shore, they came upon a pair of dugout canoes and tins of fresh water. The canoes had been stashed by the scouts, but Kennedy and Ross had no way to know that.

  * * *

  Biuku and Eroni anchored their canoe near the Japanese barge and set out searching the interior. They found a Japanese rifle, took it, and climbed back aboard their canoe. They were just starting to paddle when they looked toward Nauru.

  * * *

  “Look,” Ross said, pointing.

  Kennedy stared across the water and saw the two men in the canoe.

  Were they Japanese?

  Kennedy and Ross had no way to know, so they filtered back into the bushes and hid.

  * * *

  “Japanese?” Biuku asked Eroni.

  “Don’t know,” Eroni answered.

  The men were paddling furiously away from the encounter north on Blackett Strait. If not for Biuku becoming thirsty at just this instant, history might be very different.

  “Let’s stop on Olasana and drink some coconut milk,” he said.

  Luckily, Eroni, now clear of the possible Japanese, agreed.

  * * *

  On Olasana, Thom watched the men approaching. He stared at them carefully. Even at this distance they appeared to be natives, but were they islanders consorting with the Japanese? At that instant, he made a decision that would seal their fate. He waded into the water and began to call out to the men. The natives stopped and began to turn away. Then Thom got a brainstorm.

  “White star,” he shouted, “white star.”

  The natives had seen the emblem on the lower wings of the American planes. In addition, most knew that if they helped an American pilot, there was usually a reward.

  “American,” Biuku said at last.

  So they paddled over. With help from Thom, they stashed their canoe in the brush.

  After a hurried conference, Thom convinced them to take Starkey in their boat back to the base at Rendova. It was almost forty miles distant and the sea in Blackett Strait was choppy now, but the three men set out.

  * * *

  Kennedy had loaded the water tins and hard candy into the dugout. After leaving Ross to guard Nauru, he was paddling back toward Olasana Island. His plan was to share the spoils with the crew, then have them all move south to Nauru.

  Biuku and Eroni made it partway into Blackett Strait before they had to turn back because of the worsening weather. At the same time, Kennedy was returning to Olasana with the water and candy. The two canoes met near the island and glided onto shore.

  * * *

  That night, Kennedy and Ross tried to paddle out into Ferguson Passage, but their boat overturned and they nearly drowned. They managed to swim to Nauru and fell into an exhausted sleep.

  The night passed slowly on Olasana. A few of the crew were distrustful of Biuku and Eroni and spent the night watching them carefully. Not knowing whether the native men were loyal, they feared the two would slip off into the night and report them to the Japanese for a reward. On the other side, the massive men armed with black handguns intimidated Biuku and Eroni. They wanted to explain that they only wanted to help, but what little English they spoke would not allow them to get their point across. The Gizo Scouts slept, but with one eye open.

  The following morning, when Kennedy returned to Olasana, he knew it was time to do something. Kennedy needed to trust the natives — it was their only hope. Taking a knife to a coconut, he scratched out:

  NAURU ISL.

  NATIVE KNOWS POSIT.

  HE CAN PILOT II ALIVE NEED

  SMALL BOAT

  KENNEDY

  He asked the two natives to deliver the message, and they set out for Rendova at once. Stopping in Raramana, they showed the coconut to Benjamin Kevu, the English-speaking leader of the scouts. Kevu knew that Evans was moving his base, and he sent a native to deliver a verbal recap of the message on the coconut. Biuku and Eroni continued on toward the American base at Rendova.

  * * *

  Reg Evans had moved from the top of Kolombangara Island down to water level on Gomu Island. As soon as the native arrived with the message from Kevu, Evans began planning a rescue. Drafting a reply, he ordered seven of his scouts to leave in the morning for Olasana. The text of the message was:

  ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE

  TO SENIOR OFFICER NAURU IS.

  FRIDAY II AM HAVE JUST LEARNED OF YOUR PRESENCE ON NAURU IS & ALSO THAT TWO NATIVES HAVE TAKEN NEWS TO RENDOVA. I STRONGLY ADVISE YOU RETURN IMMEDIATELY TO HERE IN THIS CANOE & BY THE TIME YOU ARRIVE HERE I WILL BE IN RADIO COMMUNICATIONS WITH AUTHORITIES AT RENDOVA & WE CAN FINALIZE PLANS TO COLLECT BALANCE OF YOUR PARTY

  AR EVANS LT.

  RANVR

  Before dispatching the trio of canoes, Evans loaded them with supplies. Rice, C rations, cigarettes, cans of hash along with native pawpaws, boiled fish and stoves to cook, tins of water, matches, and fuel. As soon as the natives reached the shipwrecked crew, they set to work fashioning shelters out of palm fronds, cooking food, and lopping off coconuts so the men could drink the sweet milk. Then they showed Kennedy to a canoe and hid him under palm fronds, so planes flying over could not see him. They began to paddle back to Evans with Kennedy.

  Meanwhile, Biuku and Eroni had reached the base at Rendova.

  It was almost six that evening when Kennedy slid from under the palm fronds and shook Evans’s hand. Evans motioned to his crude hut. The men immediately began to discuss the rescue plans.

  “Have the boats stop here and pick me up,” Kennedy noted. “I’ll lead them through the reefs.”

  “You’ve been through a lot,” Evans said, staring at the skinny, sandy-haired man. A beard covered the man’s face, and his lips and cheeks were chapped and red. Only the man’s eyes were clear — they burned with a conviction that brooked no argument “Why don’t you let us handle it?”

  “I’m going back for my men,” Kennedy said, “period.”

  “Okay,” Evans agreed. “I’ll radio Rendova.”

  The signal to the boats was to be four shots in the air. After checking his .38, Kennedy realized he had only three shells left and borrowed a rifle from Evans. Then he set off with the natives in a canoe for a nearby island where they would meet the rescue boats.

  At 8 P.M. that night, he heard the engines of the boats and fired into the air.

  PT-157 pulled close, and Lieutenant Cluster shouted across the water.

  “That you, Jack?”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Kennedy said.

  Hauled aboard, Kennedy took a place on deck with Biuku and Eroni, who were there to help guide the boat. The PT boats roared up the channel. In half an hour, they
were off Olasana.

  “Slow down,” Kennedy said, “and lower a raft. We will lead you through the reef.”

  Climbing into a rubber raft with Biuku and Eroni, Kennedy led PT-157 safely through the coral. Once inside the reef, he began to call to shore.

  “Lenny, Barney, come on out,” he yelled.

  The crew of PT-109 walked into the open. They could scarcely believe the ordeal was at an end.

  The survivors were ferried out to the PT boat in the raft. Once they were all aboard, Kennedy showed the helmsman the way back through the reef. It was almost 10 P.M. when PT-157 reached open water and the skipper set a course for Rendova. As soon as the boat was gliding over the water at close to forty knots, a bottle of brandy appeared and the crew took a drink.

  “Thank you,” Kennedy said to Biuku and Eroni.

  Biuku smiled, but he could not resist the urge to kid with Kennedy. “You loosim boat, no find ever again, but you still a-number one,” he noted.

  II

  I Have a Special Room in My Mind for You 2001

  Craig Dirgo:

  “You and Dirk go over there and see what you can find,” Clive said.

  I was staring at a chart; the water showed two-thousand-foot maximum depth in the Strait.

  “What do we use for a boat?” I asked wisely.

  “Not to worry,” Clive said. “My son Dirk has been talking to the local dive shop owner. He has a few boats for charter.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “I’d get a malaria shot if I were you,” he said, “and typhoid — just get whatever immunizations they have.”

  It was late July 2001, and I was sitting on the back porch of Clive’s house in Colorado. It was all of about sixty degrees outside, we were discussing malaria and tropical breezes, and I was looking at a map of a series of islands halfway around the world.