Night Over the Solomons (Ss) (1986)

by L'amour, Louis

  It wasn’t going to be enough to get away. He had to lose them. Yet on one side was the plain, and if pushed into the open they would cut him down in an instant. On the other side was the river.

  His breath was coming in great grasps, and his lungs cried out with pain at the effort. Yet he kept on, for speed meant everything now. He had crossed a small clearing and was entering the woods along the river when suddenly another shot rang out, and he plunged head first into the soft, yielding moss. The shot had come from in front of him! Turk Madden was mad.

  Suddenly, something had seemed to burst inside of him.

  The traitor, whoever he was, was up ahead, trying to kill him.

  “All right!” Madden said suddenly, savagely, “if you want it you can have it!”

  He slid the Colt into his hand. Four shots left. He felt in his pocket for the extra clip.

  Well, they hadn’t taken that! Flat in the moss, he began to worm his way through the damp green softness, gun in hand, a fierce, leaping rage within him.

  He crawled, and he felt the moss thinning. Was the watcher keeping an eye on him? This guy knew a thing or two, as he was the same one who had dusted the brush so thoroughly on that first day. There was a crashing in the brush back the way he came. Wish he’d shoot some of his own men! Another crash and then he could hear someone breathing hard. The man had stopped to stare around. Slowly, Turk gathered his knees under him, and then he straightened.

  The man, a huge fellow with a blackish, greasy face, was not ten feet away!

  As Turk arose, the fellow stared stupidly, then gave a gulp and jerked up the rifle. He was much too slow. Turk put a bullet through his heart, then sprang across the ten feet of space, and grabbed the man’s rifle. Then, without hesitating, he threw the rifle to his shoulder and dusted the woods, firing ten shots and spacing them neatly across the forest behind him.

  Then he dropped the rifle and plunged down to the gravel shore of the stream. For thirty minutes he twisted and turned in the woods, and then finally straightened out and headed for home. As he walked, he exchanged clips.

  As he came up to the shelter, he found Shan Bao, a carbine in his hands, standing by the door.

  “Where are the others?” Turk asked.

  “Around. They all went out into the brush. Thought we might be attacked. Each one took a position.”

  Shan Bao looked at Madden’s head, and the blood. “You have had trouble,” he said. “I hope you killed the man who did that.” Turk dug out a cigarette and lighted it. Then he looked at the Manchu. “I don’t know, Shan, but he’s got one in the stomach he wishes he didn’t have!”

  Runnels came out of the woods. He looked flurried, and his eyes were narrow. He glanced at Turk’s head.

  “Looks like you had it tough!”

  “Plenty!” Turk snapped. “Better get your gear aboard the plane. We’re moving!”

  Moving?” he frowned. “Winkler won’t like that. Better wait to see what he says. After all this is his show.”

  “Up to a point,” Turk Madden replied shortly. “That happens to be my plane.

  Anyway, they came too close just now. They’ll be back. We cant stay here.”

  “And why shouldn’t we stay here?” It was Major Winkler. His face was hot and his eyes looked angry. “I heard what you said, Madden, and we’re staying, whether you like it or not.”

  “No,” Turk replied shortly, “we’re not.

  At least, I’m not. I’m taking my ship and getting out. I’m going, back in the hills until tomorrow, back where we’ll all be safe!

  “You’ll stay right here.” Winkler’s carbine lifted, and Turk cursed himself for a fool. “You’ll stay here, and like it.. Panola, tie him up! This is mutiny. I’m in command here. We’re in no danger, and we’ll stay right here until tomorrow.”

  “I don’t believe the gun is necessary, Major,” Runnels protested. “Madden will stay.”

  “You bet he’ll stay)” Winkler declared sharply.

  “I’ll personally see that he stays. Tie him!”

  Runnels looked at Panola, and the Italian shrugged, then he stepped forward and jerked Turk’s hands behind him. Yet even as Panola tied his hands, Turk knew the officer was not tying him tight. Was it because he sympathized or because he hoped he would try to escape, and be shot escaping?

  Tied on his bed, Turk relaxed and lay quiet. How soon the Baron would find them, he couldn’t guess. Obviously, it couldn’t be long.

  The possible areas now were so limited, for they knew he had come from some place within walking distance, which meant no more than ten miles, or perhaps a bit more.

  It was rough, rugged country, but they would be looking.

  Working a little, he loosened his ropes. Major Winkler had been lying down for several minutes now, and Runnels was sitting in the door.

  Panola was nowhere in sight. Had he gone to warn von Walrath finally to make contact? Yet somehow, despite the apparently obvious evidence, Turk found himself doubting that Panola was the guilty man.

  But even that left only Runnels and Winkler, and Winkler was in command.

  He would be blamed for the success or failure of the effort.

  Winkler got up suddenly and walked outside.

  He said something to Runnels about being nervous.

  “Nothing must happen now,” he muttered.

  Turk lay still. His hands were free. Now where was Shan Bao? He drew his knees up and worked on the ropes on his ankles. Runnels still sat in the doorway. There was no sign of Panola or Major Winkler. He put one foot down beside the cot, then turned carefully and sat up. Runnels had not moved. His head lay against the door post, and he was apparently asleep. Turk got up and in two quick steps had crossed the room to his carbine.

  He picked up a handful of extra clips and thrust them into his pockets. He retrieved his automatic and more ammunition, then he stepped over to the back wall. In a few minutes he had worked his way through the branches and leaves of the shelter and stood outside.

  A shot rang out, and he heard a muffled curse, and then he saw men come streaming into camp.

  He had made it none too soon. He saw Runnels start up and then go crashing down as he was struck by a gun butt. Then they charged inside, and he heard a shout as they failed to find him. “And they knew where to look,” Madden said viciously.

  He moved swiftly through the darkness toward the cliff. He knew where he was going now. He needed shelter, and there was the cave above. He climbed swiftly, and found his way to the cave. For a while he had been afraid he would not able to find it in the dark, but he did. Then he crawled in and lay still.

  They were searching down below, and he heard the voice of von Walrath as well as that of Farales.

  Something had gone wrong, apparently something more than the fact that he was gone. They kept searching, then finally gave up. But they remained below. He was bottled up, unable to do a thing. Where was Shan Bao? Had Runnels been killed? And what of the others?

  Unable to sit still, he turned on his flashlight, shielding it with his hand, and went to the back of the cave.

  It was a steep, winding passage, and he went down, walking swiftly. It took a sharp turn, and suddenly he realized it was going toward the shore of the pool! There was dampness here, and occasional pools of water.

  He walked on, then feeling the air moving against his face, he proceeded more cautiously. It was a large opening, almost concealed behind a fallen log. But he was looking over the pool-and there, not a dozen feet away, was the Goose! How far had he walked? And what was the Goose doing here? Considering, he realized he must have walked at least twenty minutes inside the cave. He could have come a mile, but probably it was no more than half that far. In his mind he ran his eyes along the edge of the pool. Then he knew. Somehow, some way, the Goose had been slipped away and hidden in this inlet at the extreme end of the pool. It was only a delay, for with daylight they would find it with ease.

  And by daylight the Goose should be wingi
ng out to sea instead of lying here. He crawled over the log, then moved ahead slowly, carefully. He was going to be aboard that plane or dead within the next few minutes.

  Suddenly, right ahead of him, something moved.

  Turk froze. Then he saw a tall, lean form rise before him. Instantly, he grinned with relief. Shan Bao!

  “Shan!” he whispered hoarsely, and saw the figure stiffen. Then the Manchu turned and beckoned.

  “What is it?” Madden whispered as he came up. “How’d the plane get here!” , “Panola,” Shan replied softly. “Panola and me.”

  “Panola?” Madden scowled. Then Panola wasn’t the one. Crawling out along a log to the door of the ship, he puzzled over that. Then he slipped in. The Italian moved, and touched his arm.

  “Madden? Man, I’m glad you’re here! I can’t fly this thing good enough. We towed her down here with the rubber boat. Maybe we can take off:” “We can!” Turk shifted his carbine. “Panola, who’s the traitor, Runnels or Winkler?”

  “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You mean one of them isn’t on the level?” “That’s right. And I thought it was you! You, because of your rifle. Somebody fired on me that first day, and your rifle was the only one fired that day.”

  Panola grabbed his arm.

  “But Turk!” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t have my own gun that day. I got another by mistake. Major Winkler had mine!”

  “Major Winkler?” Turk’s jaw set. “Then Winkler is Wilhelm Messner, the Gestapo agent!”

  He turned sharply. “Panola, you stay with this ship. Stay with it and don’t let anybody aboard but Shan or me. I’m going ashore.”

  “But what can you do?” Panola protested.

  “Only two of you?” “Watch)” Turk snapped harshly. “Shan is worth a dozen. Watch, and you’ll see how it’s done. This isn’t cricket, but it’s business!” He walked back to the gun case and took out a submachine gun, and slid in a magazine. He thrust three more in his belt. Then he went ashore. He went through the woods fast with Shan, also armed with a submachine gun, following close behind.

  There was no effort at concealment when he stepped up toward the shelter. His very carelessness made the guard relax. Turk stepped out of the brush and saw the guard suddenly stiffen. Then he let out a low cry and grabbed for his gun.

  He never made it. Turk opened up with the tommy and cut him half in two with the first blast of fire. Men scrambled to their feet and the two men mowed them down. Leaping into the open, Turk felt a gun blast almost in his face, and then he shoved the tommy against the big man who lunged at him and opened up.

  The Baron charged from a door, gun spouting, and Turk Madden cut down on him and saw the blasting lead of the tommy almost smash his head to bits. The man went flat and rolled over, grabbing feebly at the earth, his hands helpless, his gun rattling on the rocks.

  Then someone leaped from the shambles and made a dart for the outer darkness. It was Winkler!

  Dropping his tommy gun, Turk sprang after him. Plunging wildly through the brush, the man charged at the cliff and began a mad scramble up its surface with Turk close behind him.

  They met at the top, and Winkler, his features wolfish with fury, whirled to face him. He aimed a vicious kick at Turk’s face as he came over the edge, but Turk ducked and grabbed his foot.

  His hold slipped, but it was enough to stagger Messner, and before the Gestapo man could get set, Turk Madden was on top.

  In the darkness there on the brink of the cliff; they fought. Turk, sweating from his climb, leaped in for a kill, and Messner, like a tiger at bay, struck out. His fist smashed Turk in the mouth, and Madden felt his lips smash and tasted blood, and something deep within him awakened and turned him utterly vicious. Toe to toe, the two big men slugged like madmen. There was no back step, no hesitation, no ducking or dodging. It was cruel and bitter and brutal. It was primeval in its fury. Turk went down, and then he came up swinging, and Messner, triumph shining in his ugly eyes, smashed him down again and leaped in to put the boots to him. Turk rolled over and scrambled up, smashing Messner in the stomach with a wicked butt.

  Staggering, the German couldn’t get set before the furious onslaught of those iron fists. His face streaming blood, his nose a pulp where the bone had been crushed, he backed and backed.

  Relentless, ruthless, Turk closed in. He ducked a left and smashed a wicked right to the body.

  He felt the wind go out of the German, and he stepped in, hooking both hands to the head and then the body.

  He caught a long swing on his ear that made his head ring, but he was beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond doubt.

  It was a fight to the death now, and he fought. He stepped under another swing and battered at the German’s body with cruel punches. Then he straightened and whipped up a right uppercut that jerked the German’s head back. Then a crushing left hook, and as the German went to his knees he smashed him again in the face.

  The man fell back and then rolled over and got up. Turk started for him, and the man turned, gave a despairing cry, and sprang straight out from the cliff! It was a sheer drop to the jagged rocks and upthrust roots and jagged dead branches below.

  Turk stepped back, his chest heaving with effort, his eyes blind with sweat and blood. Then he turned, and slowly and with effort he walked back to the path and went down to the shelter.

  Runnels met him, a tommy gun in his hands.

  “Get him?” he asked.

  Turk nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced toward the east where the sky was beginning to lighten. “Shan, fix some coffee. Then we’ll get the ship warmed up.

  We’ve got us a job to do. his “Madden,” Panola said slowly, “I did some looking around myself. Rathow, the atomic scientist, and Miguel Farales are back at the house. The bomb that is to be dropped is there. One of them, anyway.”

  “You saw it?” Turk exclaimed, incredulously.

  “I wired it,” Panola said, grinning. “I wired the blasted thing.” He added, then, “The other comes over the house about nine. It will be in a big bomber and guarded by a fighter plane. There will be another plane, a big passenger job, of scientists.”

  “Then that’s our job!” Turk said. “We’ve got to get the fighter. If we can knock out the fighter, the others are sitting pigeons.” He turned to Panola. “How’d you wire that bomb?”

  “The first person who slams the door on the back of the house will blow that whole cove into the mist,”

  Panola replied grimmly. “It isn’t more than half the size of our Hiroshima bomb, though.”

  When Madden’s amphibian took off; all were aboard. Turk Madden scowled at the sky, and his hard green eyes searched the horizon for the oncoming planes. They should be along soon. He reached for altitude and squeezed the Goose against the low hanging clouds.

  Getting a fighter was anything but simple, and he knew there was every chance it would end in failure. Of course, he could go ahead, observe the experiment, and return so they could report their findings.

  Yet, if all could be destroyed, the experimenters who remained in Buenos Aires would be unsure of just what had happened and where the mistake had been made. It would certainly slow up experimentation and increase uncertainty and fear.

  Shan Bao saw them first. The Manchu leaned over and touched Turk on the shoulder and gestured.

  The bomber was flying at about six thousand feet, with the passenger plane and its observers on right and a bit behind. For a moment the fighter eluded him, and then he saw it high against the sky, flying at probably nine thousand, his own level. He eased back on the stick and climbed, hoping with all his heart that the fighter pilot had not sighted him. it would be touch and go now. There would be no such chance as with the other fighter, a few days before. He could not hope for such a thing twice. Even the maneuver was risky, and the chance of the pilot making a mistake was slight. The man in this ship would probably be tough and experienced. He had one chance in a million, and only one, that was to dive out of the clouds and get a burs
t into the fighter before he realized what had happened.

  They were a good eight or ten miles from the house on the cove now. He leveled off at eleven thousand, thankful it wasn’t as heavily overcast as usual, and watched the planes below him.

  Suddenly, the Goose seemed to jump in the air.

  Startled, he looked at his instruments, and then a rolling wave of sound hit him and he jerked his head as if struck, and at the same time the ship rolled heavily. ““Also” Panola screamed, and following his outthrust arm and finger, they saw a gigantic column of smoke and debris lifting toward the sky! “Somebody slammed a door!” Runnels said grimly. Turk was jolted momentarily, and then suddenly, he saw his chance! “Hold everything!” he yelled, and swung the ship over into a screaming dive.

  The fighter had been jolted, too, and the ships ahead were wavering. In the picture that flashed through his mind, Turk could see their doubt, their hesitation.

  Something had happened. What? The bomb at the house had gone up but how? Why? And their own bomber was carrying another bomb. Would there be enough radio activity at this distance to affect it? Who among them knew? After all, this was a new explosive, and how volatile it was, they could not guess. And what had caused the other explosion? Might this one go, too?

  The fighter pilot must have sensed something, or his roving eyes must have caught a glimpse of the plane shooting down on his tail. In a sudden, desperate effort, he pulled his fighter into a climbing turn, and it was the wrong thing.

  Turk opened up with all his guns. Saw his tracers stream into the fighter’s tail, saw the pursuit ship fall away, and then banking steeply, he sent a stream of tracer and steel, stabbing at the fighter’s vitals like a white hot blade!

  There was a sudden puff of smoke, a desperate effort as the fighter flopped over once and fired a final, despairing burst that streamed uselessly off into space. Then it rolled upside down and, sheathed in flame, went screaming away down the thousands of feet toward the crags below.