South by Java Head

by Alistair MacLean

  “Barracuda!” The shocked whisper left no doubt but that she had heard all about them, the most voracious killers in the sea. “But Alex! Alex! He’s out there! We must help him, quickly!”

  “There’s nothing we can do.” He hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, but the knowledge of his utter powerlessness affected him more than he knew. “There’s nothing anyone can do for him now.”

  Even as he was speaking, Sinclair’s agonised scream came at them across the water. It was a frightening sound, half-human, halfanimal, and it came again and again, strident with some nameless terror, as he flung himself convulsively about, at times rising halfclear of the sea and arching so far back that his hair almost touched the water, his hands churning foam as he beat insanely at some invisible enemies. The Colt in Nicolson’s hand crashed six times in rapid succession, kicking up gouts of flying water and spray around the soldier, quick, unsighted shots that could never have hoped to accomplish anything. Careless, almost, one might have called them, all except the first: there had been nothing careless about that shot, it had taken Sinclair cleanly through the head. Long before the smell of cordite and blue wisps of smoke had drifted away to the south, the water was calm again and Sinclair had vanished, lost to sight beneath the steel-blue mirror of the sea.

  Twenty minutes later that sea was no longer blue but churned to a milky, frothing white as the sheets of driving torrential rain swept across it from horizon to horizon.

  Close on three hours had passed, and it was about the time of sundown. It was impossible to see the sun, to know where it was, for the rain-squalls still marched successively south and in the failing light the sky was the same leaden grey at all points of the compass. The rain still fell, still swept across the unprotected boat, but nobody cared. Drenched to the skin, shivering often in the cold rain that moulded and plastered thin cottons to arms and bodies and legs, they were happy. In spite of the sudden, numbing shock the death of Sinclair had given them, in spite of the realisation of the tragic futility of his death with the life-giving rain so near at hand, in spite of these things they were happy. They were happy because the law of self-preservation still yielded place to none. They were happy because they had slaked their terrible thirsts and drunk their fill, and more than their fill, because the cold rain cooled down their burns and blistered skins, because they had managed to funnel over four gallons of fresh rainwater into one of the tanks. They were happy because the lifeboat, driven by the spanking breeze, had already covered many of the miles that stretched between where they had lain becalmed and the now steadily nearing coast of Western Java. And they were deliriously happy, happier than they had dreamed that they could ever be again, because salvation was at hand, because miracles still happened and their troubles were over at last.

  It was, as ever, McKinnon that had seen it first, a long, low shape through a distant gap in the rain-squalls, just over two miles away. They had no reason to fear anything but the worst, the inevitable worst, and it had taken only seconds to lower the tattered lug and jib, knock the pin from the mast clamp, unship the mast itself and cower down in the bottom of the boat, so that it had become, even from a short distance, no more than an empty, drifting lifeboat, difficult to see in the mists of driving rain, possibly not worth investigating even if it had been seen. But they had been seen, the long grey shape had altered course to intercept their line of drift, and now they could only thank God that it had altered its course, bless the sharp-eyed lookouts who had impossibly picked out their little grey boat against its vast grey background.

  It was Nicolson who had at first incredulously identified it, then Findhorn, McKinnon, Vannier, Evans and Walters had all recognised it too. This was not the first time they had seen one of them, and there could be no possible doubt about it. It was a U.S. Navy Torpedo Boat, and their torpedo boats couldn’t be confused with anything afloat. The long, sweeping flare of the bows, the seventyfoot plywood shell driven by its three high-speed marine motors, its quadruple torpedo tubes and .50 calibre machine-guns were quite unmistakable. It was flying no flag at all, but, almost as if to remove any last doubts they might have about its nationality, a seaman aboard the torpedo boat broke out a large flag that streamed out stiffly in the wind of its passing: it was approaching at a speed of something better than thirty knots—nowhere near its maximum—and the white water was piled high at its bows. Even in the gathering gloom there was no more mistaking the flag than there was the torpedo boat: the Stars and Stripes is probably the most easily identifiable flag of all.

  They were all sitting up in the lifeboat now, and one or two were standing, waving at the M.T.B. A couple of men on the M.T.B. waved back, one from the wheelhouse, the other standing by one of the for'ard turrets. Aboard the lifeboat, people were gathering their few pitiful possessions together, preparatory to boarding the American vessel, and Miss Plenderleith was in the act of skewering her hat more firmly on to her head when the M.T.B. abruptly slowed down her big Packard motors, jammed them into reverse and came sliding smoothly alongside, only feet away, dwarfing the little lifeboat. Even before she stopped completely, a couple of heaving lines came sailing across the gap of water and smacked accurately fore and aft into the lifeboat. The coordinated precision, the handling of the boat clearly bespoke a highly-trained crew. And then both boats were rubbing alongside, Nicolson had his hand on the M.T.B.’s side, the other raised in greeting to the short, rather stocky figure that had just appeared from behind the wheelhouse.

  “Hallo there!” Nicolson grinned widely, and stretched out a hand in greeting. “Brother, are we glad to see you!”

  “Not half as glad as we are to see you.” There was a gleam of white teeth in a sunburnt face, an almost imperceptible movement of the left hand, and the three sailors on deck were no longer interested bystanders but very alert, very attentive guards, with suddenly produced sub-machineguns rock-steady in their hands. A pistol, too, had appeared in the speaker’s right hand. “I fear, however, that your rejoicing may prove to be rather shorter-lived than ours. Please to keep very still indeed.”

  Nicolson felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach. With a queer sort of detachment he saw that his hand was no longer resting loosely against the ship’s side but was bar-taut, each separate tendon standing out rigidly from the back of his hand. In spite of all the water he had drunk, his mouth felt suddenly as dry as a kiln. But he managed to keep his voice steady enough.

  “What kind of bad joke is this?”

  “I agree.” The other bowed slightly, and for the first time Nicolson could see the unmistakable slant, the tight-stretched skin at the corner of the eyes. “For you it is not funny at all. Look.” He gestured with his free hand, and Nicolson looked. The Stars and Stripes was already gone and, even as he watched, the Rising Sun of Japan fluttered up and took its place.

  “A regrettable stratagem, is it not?” the man continued. He seemed to be enjoying himself thoroughly. “As is also the boat and, alas, the passably Anglo-Saxon appearance of my men and myself. Though specially chosen on account of this last, I can assure you we are not especially proud of it. All that, however, is by the way.” His English was perfect, with a pronounced American accent, and he obviously took pleasure in airing it. “There has been much sunshine and storm in the past week. It is most considerate of you to have survived it all. We have been waiting a long time for you. You are very welcome.”

  He stopped suddenly, teeth bared, and lined up his pistol on the brigadier, who had sprung to his feet with a speed astonishing in a man of his years, an empty whisky bottle swinging in his hands. The Japanese officer’s finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger, then slowly relaxed when he saw that the bottle had been intended not for him but for Van Effen, who had half-turned as he had sensed the approaching blow, but raised his arm too late. The heavy bottle caught him just above the ear and he collapsed over his thwart as if he had been shot. The Japanese officer stared at Farnholme.

  “One more such move and you will die, o
ld man. Are you mad?”

  “No, but this man was, and we would all have died. He was reaching for a gun.” Farnholme stared down angrily at the fallen man. “I have come too far to die like this, with three machine-guns lined on me.”

  “You are a wise old man,” the officer purred. “Indeed, there is nothing you can do.”

  There was nothing they could do, Nicolson realised helplessly, nothing whatsoever. He was conscious of an overwhelming bitterness, a bitterness that he could taste in his mouth. That they should have come so far, that they should have overcome so much, overcome it impossibly and at the expense of five lives, and then that it should all come to this. He heard the murmur of Peter’s voice behind him and when he turned round the little boy was standing up in the sternsheets, looking at the Japanese officer through the lattice screen of his crossed fingers, not particularly afraid, just shy and wondering, and again Nicolson felt the bitterness and the angry despair flood over him almost like a physical tide. Defeat one could accept, but Peter’s presence made defeat intolerable.

  The two nurses were sitting one on either side of him, Lena’s dark, sooty eyes wide with terror, Gudrun’s blue ones with a sadness and despair that all too accurately reflected his own feelings. He could see no fear in her face, but high on the temple, where the scar ran into the hairline, he could see a pulse beating very quickly. Slowly, involuntarily, Nicolson’s gaze travelled all round the boat, and everywhere the expressions were the same, the fear, the despair, the stunned and heart-sickening defeat. Not quite everywhere. Siran’s face was expressionless as ever. McKinnon’s eyes were flickering from side to side as he looked swiftly over the lifeboat, up at the M.T.B. and then down into the lifeboat again—gauging, Nicolson guessed, their suicidal chances of resistance. And the brigadier seemed almost unnaturally unconcerned: his arm round Miss Plenderleith’s thin shoulders, he was whispering something in her ear.

  “A touching and pathetic scene, is it not?” The Japanese officer shook his head in mock sorrow. “Alas, gentlemen, alas for the frailty of human hopes. I look upon you and I am almost overcome myself. Almost, I said, but not quite. Further, it is about to rain, and rain heavily.” He looked at the heavy bank of cloud bearing down from the north-east, at the thick curtain of rain, now less than half a mile away, sweeping across the darkening sea. “I have a rooted objection to being soaked by rain, especially when it is quite unnecessary. I suggest, therefore—”

  “Any more suggestions are superfluous. Do you expect me to remain in this damned boat all night?” Nicolson swung round as the deep, irate voice boomed out behind him. He swung round to see Farnholme standing upright, one hand grasping the handle of the heavy Gladstone bag.

  “What—what are you doing?” Nicolson demanded.

  Farnholme looked at him, but said nothing. Instead he smiled, the curve of the upper lip below the white moustache a masterpiece of slow contempt, looked up at the officer standing above them and jerked a thumb in Nicolson’s direction.

  “If this fool attempts to do anything silly or restrain me in any way, shoot him down.”

  Nicolson stared at him in sheer incredulity, then glanced up at the Japanese officer. No incredulity there, no surprise even, just a grin of satisfaction. He started to speak rapidly in some language quite unintelligible to Nicolson, and Farnholme answered him, readily and fluently, in the same tongue. And then, before Nicolson had quite realised what was happening, Farnholme had thrust a hand into his bag, brought out a gun and was making for the side of the boat, bag in one hand, gun in the other.

  “This gentleman said we were welcome.” Farnholme smiled down at Nicolson. “I fear that he referred only to myself. A welcome and, as you can see, honoured guest.” He turned to the Japanese. “You have done splendidly. Your reward shall be great.” Then he broke once more into the foreign language—Japanese, it must be, Nicolson was sure—and the conversation lasted for almost two minutes. Once more he looked down at Nicolson. The first heavy drops of the next rainsquall were beginning to patter on the decks of the M.T.B.

  “My friend here suggests that you come aboard as prisoners. However, I have convinced him that you are too dangerous and that you should be shot out of hand. We are going below to consider in comfort the exact methods of your disposal.” He turned to the Japanese. “Tie their boat aft. They are desperate men—it is most inadvisable to have them alongside. Come, my friend, let us go below. But one moment—I forget my manners. The departing guest must thank his hosts.” He bowed ironically. “Captain Findhorn, Mr. Nicolson, my compliments. Thank you for the lift. Thank you for your courtesy and skill in rendezvousing so accurately with my very good friends.”

  “You damned traitor!” Nicolson spoke with slow savagery.

  “There speaks the youthful voice of unthinking nationalism.” Farnholme shook his head sadly. “It’s a harsh and cruel world, my boy. One has to earn a living somehow.”’ He waved a negligent, mocking hand. “Au revoir. It’s been very pleasant.”

  A moment later he was lost to sight and the rain swept down in blinding sheets.

  TWELVE

  For what seemed a long time no one in the lifeboat spoke or moved, except to ride with the slight rolling of the boat: oblivious of the cold driving rain they just stared blankly, stupidly, at the spot where Farnholme had been standing before he had disappeared.

  It probably wasn’t a long time, it just seemed that way, it was probably only a matter of seconds before Nicolson heard Miss Plenderleith call him by name and say something. But in the swish of the heavy rain in the sea and frenetic drumming on the torpedo boat’s deck, her voice was only a meaningless murmur. He turned and stooped, the better to hear, and even in that moment of shock her appearance caught and held his attention. She was sitting on the port side bench, her back as straight as a wand, her hands clasped primly in her lap, her face quiet and composed. She might have been sitting in her drawing-room at home, but for one thing: her eyes were flooded with tears and, even as he watched, two large drops trickled slowly down the lined cheeks and fell on to her hands.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Plenderleith?” Nicolson asked gently. “What is it?”

  “Take the boat farther back,” she said. Her eyes stared sightlessly ahead, and she gave no signs of seeing him. “He told you. Farther back, at once.”

  “I don’t understand.” Nicolson shook his head. “Why do you want us—”

  He broke off abruptly as something hard and cold struck painfully at the back of his neck. He whirled round and stared up at the Japanese who had just prodded him with the barrel of his machinegun, at the smooth, yellow face shining in the rain.

  “No speaking, Englishman.” His English was far poorer than his officer’s. He looked dangerous, the kind of man who might welcome the opportunity to use the gently waving gun in his hand. “No speaking, anyone. I do not trust you. I will kill.”

  “You heard what I said.” Miss Plenderleith’s voice was firm and clear, without the vestige of a tremor. “Please.”

  The sailor moved his gun till it was lined up on Miss Plenderleith’s head, and dozen pairs of eyes watched as the knuckles of his right index finger whitened under the pull. His lips were drawn back in an evil smile and Nicolson knew that the Japanese—many of them, at least—required far less provocation to kill. But Miss Plenderleith just stared up at him with an expressionless face—almost certainly she wasn’t seeing him anyway—and he suddenly lowered the gun with some angry exclamation and took a pace backwards. He jerked his head at the other armed sailor—the officer had taken the third with him when he had gone below—and gestured that the rope made fast to the lifeboat’s bow should be brought farther aft. Nicolson and McKinnon paid the lifeboat along the torpedo boat’s side, and very soon they were streaming off its stern at the end of a couple of fathoms of rope. The two sailors stood side by side on the poop of the torpedo boat, side by side, cocked carbines ready in their hands. Their eyes searched the lifeboat hungrily, searched for the slightest movem
ent, for anything at all that would give them an excuse to use their guns.

  The torpedo boat was moving again, engines throttled back to dead slow but still enough to send it cutting through the water at three or four knots. It headed north-east, into the sea and the heavy rain, rain so heavy that, from the lifeboat, the bows of the torpedo boat were almost lost in the murk and the gloom. The lifeboat itself was beginning to pitch at the end of the tautened rope, but not heavily.

  Miss Plenderleith had her back to the rain and the guards. Perhaps there were still tears on her cheeks, it was difficult to say—the heavy rain was soaking through the straw brim of her hat, and all her face was wet. But her eyes were clearer now, and they were looking straight at Nicolson. He caught her glance, saw her drop it to the carbine lying by her side where Farnholme had left it, saw her raise her eyes to his again.

  “Don’t look at me,” she murmured. “Pay no attention to me. Can they hear me?”

  Nicolson stared ahead at the guards, his face bleak. The tiny shake of his head must have been imperceptible to them.

  “Can you see the gun? Behind my bag?”

  Nicolson looked idly at the bench where Miss Plenderleith was sitting and looked away again. Behind the canvas and leather bag where Miss Plenderleith kept her knitting and all her worldly possessions he could see the heel of the butt of the carbine. Farnholme’s gun, the carbine he had used so effectively against—Suddenly there flooded into Nicolson’s mind the recollection of all the times the brigadier had used that gun, of the damage he’d done with it, how he’d blown up the big gun on the submarine, how he’d beaten off the attack by the Zero that had attacked the lifeboat, how he’d saved his, Nicolson’s life on the beach of that little island, and all at once he knew that there was something fantastically wrong with this desertion and betrayal, that no man could so wholly alter—