Mike knew he was covered, knew a move meant death. Yet he moved suddenly and with violence. He had drawn his hands back to his sides unconsciously, and with a sudden push up he hurled himself forward against the soldier’s legs.
A gun roared in his ears, and he felt the man go down before him. He lunged to his feet, and Ishimaru, wild with fury, fired from the ground. A searing flame scorched the side of Thorne’s face, and then he dove head first onto him.
Like a cat, the Japanese officer rolled away. He came up quickly and, as Mike lunged in, grabbed at his wrist. But Mike was too wise in the ways of judo, swung away, and whipped a driving right to the chin. The officer went down, hard.
Feet rushed, and Mike saw a man swinging at him with a rifle butt. He dropped in a ball at the man’s feet, and the fellow tripped and fell headlong, rolling over the edge of the cliff. The Japanese made one wild, futile grab with his fingers, then vanished, his scream ringing into the heavens.
Mike’s rifle had fallen from his shoulders where it had been slung. Now he grabbed it up and fired two quick shots, then dove into the brush. He staggered through the jungle toward the place he had chosen to start the fire. Heedless of danger, he dropped to his knees, scraped together some sticks, and with paper from his pocket, lit the fire.
A shot smacked dully into the log near him, and he rolled over. The flame took hold, then a volley of shots riddled the brush around him. By a miracle he was unhurt. A Japanese came leaping into the growing firelight, and Mike’s rifle cracked. The soldier fell headlong. Another, and another shot.
The flame caught in a heap of dead branches, flared, and leaped high. In a roaring holocaust, it swirled higher and higher, mounting a fast crescendo of unbelievable fury toward the dark skies. The scene around was lit by a weird light, and into it came the Japanese.
Desperately, yet methodically, making every shot count, Mike Thorne began to fire. He sprang to his feet, rushed, changed position, opened fire again. A bullet stung him along the arm, something struck his leg a solid blow. He raised to one knee, blood trickling from a cut on his scalp, and fired again.
Then, suddenly, another rifle opened fire across the clearing. Taken on the flank, the advancing enemy hesitated, then broke for the jungle.
Suddenly, over the roar of the fire, Mike heard the roar of motors. Their planes, taking off!
He saw them mount, swing around, then a bomb dropped. He heard it one instant before it exploded and hurled himself flat. The earth heaved under him, and the fire lifted and scattered in all directions, but roared on.
* * *
THEN OUT OF the night he heard the high-pitched whine of a diving plane, and the night was lit with the insane lightning of tracer gone wild, while over his head the sky burst into a roaring, chattering madness of sound.
Battle! Planes had come, and there was fighting up there in the darkness. He rolled over, swearing in a sullen voice, swearing in sheer relief that his warning had been successful. He fired at a Japanese soldier, saw the flames catch hold anew, and then as his rifle clicked on an empty chamber, he lunged erect, hauling out the smatchet.
Suddenly, something white loomed in the sky, and then a man hit the ground beside him. It was a paratrooper! An American! Then the night was filled with them, and Mike staggered toward the man. A dozen had landed when the Japanese charged.
Mike shouted hoarsely, and whirling, sprang toward them, his face weirdly lit by the roaring flames, his smatchet cleaving the night in a gleaming streak of steel. His first blow cut through a Japanese arm like a knife through butter, and suddenly they were all around him.
Then the paratroopers hit in a solid wedge, more came, and the Japanese began to scatter.
A shouting officer grabbed Mike’s arm. “What is it? Where the devil are they coming from?”
Mike roared the information into his ear, and the officer began a crisp recital of the information into the radio.
A plane roared over, then explosions camom the chasm below, the night changed from the bright rattle of machine-gun fire to the solemn, unceasing thunder of big bombs as the bombers shuttled back and forth, releasing their eggs over the enemy field.
Mike staggered back, feeling his numbed leg. It wasn’t bleeding. Evidently a stick knocked against his leg by a bullet, or a stone. He turned, dazed.
Jerry Brandon came running toward him. “Mike! Are you all right?”
“Sure,” he said. “Where…?”
“I came up the trail. I thought maybe I could make it, and when the fighting started up there, I got through all right.”
The Army officer walked back through the smoke and stopped beside Mike. “This is a good night’s work, friend,” he said. “Who are you?”
Briefly, Mike told him. The officer looked curiously at Jerry. Mike explained, and the officer nodded. “Yes,” he said dryly, “we heard about you. Incidentally, your father’s safe. He got into Henderson Field last night.”
They turned away. Mike looked at Jerry, smiling wearily. “Lady,” he said, “tired as I am, I can still wonder at finding a girl like you in the Solomons. If there wasn’t a war on…” He looked at her again. “After all,” he said thoughtfully, “what’s a war between friends?”
Jerry laughed. “I think you could handle the war, too,” she said.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
* * *
MISSION TO SIBERUT
Even in those knockabout years I was trying to write, but the few stories I found time to do were returned unsold, some of them following me about for months. Some were lost, and along with them much poetry that I mailed off that never found a publisher or a return address for me.
Yet wherever I went I tried to learn, to store memories of what lay ahead. The western shores of Sumatra were experienced but briefly, long enough to soak up some atmosphere, to observe and to study the sailing directions, and to ask questions of those who had been there before.
The duration of one’s visit is less important than the intensity of one’s observation and study. Siberut is one of the Mentawi island group, an island about sixty miles long by twenty broad, a high, forested place. Emma Haven, the port of Padang, was the nearest of any size at all. The natives on Siberut were wary, but seemed willing to be friendly.
Siberut was not on the tourist routes. To get there you had to have reason. The tourist boats go to the obvious places, where there are comfortable accommodations, where John and Mary can see the same things seen by Henry and Ethel. Off the beaten track the things you most wish to know are not repeated to you because the local people take them for granted.
MISSION TO SIBERUT
* * *
STEVE COWAN CUT the throttle and went into a steep glide. He glanced at his instruments and swore softly. If he made it this time, he would need a rabbit’s foot in each pocket. Landing an amphibian on a patch of water he had seen but once several years before, and in complete darkness! But war was like that.
The dark hump beneath him would be Tanjung Sigep, if his calculations were correct. Close southward was Labuan Bajau Bay. The inner bay, visible only from the air, was the place he was heading for. It was almost a mile long, about a thousand yards wide, and deep enough. But picking it out of the black, jungle-clad island of Siberut on a moonless night was largely a matter of instruments, guesswork, and a fool’s luck.
Cowan saw the gleam of water. Guessing at four or five feet, he leveled off and drew back gently on the stick. The hull took the water smoothly, and the ship lost flying speed rapidly.
At one place, there was about an acre of water concealed behind a tongue of land overgrown with casuarina trees. Taxiing the amphibian around the tongue of land, Cowan anchored it safely in the open water behind the casuarinas. When he finished, the first streaks of dawn were in the sky.
Mist was rising from the jungle, and on the reef outside Labuan Bajau Bay he could hear the roar and pound of surf. There would be heavy mist along the reef, too, lifting above that pounding sea. Cowan opened a thermos bottl
e and drank the hot coffee, taking the chill of the night from his bones.…
Two days ago in Port Darwin, Major Garnett had sent for him. Curious, he responded at once. Garnett had come to the point immediately.
“You’re a civilian, Cowan. But you volunteered for duty, and you’ve flown over most of the East Indies. Know anything about Siberut?”
“Siberut?” Cowan was puzzled. “A little. I’ve been on all the Mentawi Islands. Flew over from Emma Haven on the coast of Sumatra.”
Garnett nodded.
“No Europeans, are there?” he asked.
* * *
COWAN HESITATED.
“Not to speak of. The natives are timid and friendly enough, but they can be mighty bad in a pinch. Villages are mostly black inland. It’s heavily jungled, with only a few plantations. There are, I think, a few white men.”
“How about that trouble of yours some years back? Weren’t they white men?” Garnett asked keenly.
Steve Cowan chuckled.
“You check up on a guy, don’t you? But that was no trouble. It was a pleasure. That was Besi John Mataga. He’s a renegade.”
“I know.” Major Garnett nodded. “Furthermore, we understand he is negotiating with the enemy. That’s why I’ve sent for you.”
He leaned forward.
“It’s like this Cowan. Intelligence has learned that fifty Messerschmitt 110s were flown from Tripoli to Dakar across the Sahara. They were loaded on a freighter heading for Yokohama. War broke out, and temporarily the freighter was cut off from Japan.
“Just what happened then, we only know from one of the crew, who was supposedly drowned. He got to us and reported that several of the crew, led by the chief mate, murdered the captain and took over the ship.
“The chief mate had some idea of striking a bargain with the Japanese. He’d claim the ship was injured and that he could tell them where it was—for a price.”
“And the mate is John Mataga, is that it?” Cowan asked.
“Exactly. Mataga had signed on under an assumed name, but was dealing with the Japanese as himself. Naturally, the freighter had to be hidden until a deal was struck. Our advices are that the deal is about to go through. Of course, I needn’t tell you what those fifty Messerschmitts would mean to Japan.”
“No,” Cowan frowned. “Plane for plane we’re much better than they, even though we’re badly outnumbered. But those Messerschmitts would be tough to handle.”
“That’s it,” Garnett agreed. “So they must never reach Japanese hands. They must be found and destroyed—and we know exactly where they are?”
“Off Siberut?”
“Yes. Lying in Labuan Bajau Bay. You know it?”
“You bet.” Cowan sat up. “What do I do and when do I start?”
“You understand the situation,” Garnett said. “We can’t spare the pilots for an attack. Indeed, we haven’t planes enough. But one ship, flown by a man who knew the locality, might slip through. It’s one chance in a thousand!”
Cowan shrugged.
“That makes the odds about right,” he said. “You want that freighter blown up?”
“Yes.” Garnett nodded vigorously. “You’ve had no bombing experience, so we can’t trust to that. You must land, and…”
But that had been two days ago.
The first night, Steve Cowan had flown the amphibian to a tiny inlet on the south coast of Java, where he remained all day, hidden from hostile scouting planes. Then when darkness fell, he took off again. Time and again he had narrowly missed running into the enemy. Once, south of Bali, he had come out of a cloud facing a lone Japanese plane.
He recognized it instantly. It was a Kawasaki 93, a bomber-reconnaissance plane. In the same instant, he banked steeply and sharply and fired a burst at its tail as it shot by him.
Cowan had the faster ship and could have escaped. But he was conscious of nothing but the realization that if the pilot broke free, it would be only a matter of minutes before speedy pursuit ships would be hunting him down.
His turn had brought him around on the enemy’s tail, and he gunned his ship. The Kawasaki tried an Immelmann and let go a burst of fire as it whipped back over in the tight turn. But Cowan was too close behind for the pilot’s fire to reach him.
He pulled his ship up so steeply he was afraid it would stall, but then he flattened out. For an instant the Kawasaki was dead in his sights.
Cowan’s burst of fire smashed the Japanese tail assembly into a stream of fragments. But their crew was game. They tried to hit Cowan with a burst from the observer’s gun.
Cowan saw the stream of tracer go by. Then he banked steeply and swung down in a long dive after the falling ship, pumping a stream of steel-jacketed bullets into his target. Suddenly the Kawasaki burst into flame. An instant later, a red, roaring mass, it struck the sea with a terrific smash.
The entire fight had lasted less than a minute. Cowan pulled back on his stick and shot upward, climbing until he saw the altimeter at sixteen thousand feet. Then he had leveled off and headed straight for Siberut.
* * *
COWAN DRANK THE coffee slowly, then ate a bar of chocolate. It would be daylight in a matter of minutes, he knew. Beyond the clump of casuarinas on the shore would be the renegade freighter. Beyond the trees, and probably a mile away.
Carefully Cowan stowed his gear, then checked his guns. He was carrying two of them, a .45 Colt automatic for a belt-gun and a .380. The smaller gun was strapped to his leg inside his trousers. There was a chance he might need an ace in the hole.
The explosive he’d brought along for the job was ready. It had been carefully prepared two days before by one of the best demolition experts in Australia.
Cowan made his way ashore through the mangroves that grew down close to his anchorage. Then he swung down from the trees and walked along the sand under the casuarinas.
Besi John Mataga would not leave the freighter unguarded. There would be some of the crew aboard. And if Steve Cowan knew Besi John, the crew members would be the scum of the African waterfronts where they had been recruited.
How he was to handle that part of it, Cowan didn’t know. You could rarely plan a thing like that; so much depended on chance. You knew your objective, and you went there ready to take advantage of any chance you got.
The Japanese would be hunting the ship. They wouldn’t pay off to Besi John without having a try for it. But on the other hand, they couldn’t afford to delay for long. The planes were needed too badly, with streams of new Curtiss, Bell, and Lockheed pursuit jobs pouring into Australia.
Cowan halted under the heavy branches of a casuarina. The outer harbor was open before him. There, less than a half mile away, was the Parawan, a battered freighter of Portuguese registry.
It was at least possible, even if improbable, that Besi John did not know of the inner harbor. In any case, no large ship could possibly negotiate the channel without great risk. The entrance, about two hundred yards wide, was shoal water for the most part and out of sight behind the point of casuarinas.
The Parawan lay in about sixteen fathoms, Cowan judged, remembering the soundings of the outer harbor. On the shore close by was a hut, where traders used to barter for rotan and other wood products.
Moving along the point toward the mainland, Steve Cowan studied the freighter from all angles. He would have to get aboard by night; there was no other way. In any event, it wasn’t going to be easy.
Keeping under cover of the jungle, Cowan worked his way along the shore. Several times he paused to study the sandy beach. Once he walked back under the roots of a giant ficus tree, searching about in the darkness.
A ripple in the still water nearby sent a shiver along his spine. He watched the ominous snout and drew back further from the water’s edge.
“Crocs,” he said. “Crocs in the streams and sharks in the bay.”
Coming to the bank of a small stream, he hesitated, then walked upstream. Finally he found what he sought. In a clump of t
hick brush under the giant roots of a mangrove, he found a dugout.
Cowan had known it would be there. The natives would want a boat on this bay, and all the boats would not be upstream at the villages. He was going to need that dugout. The bay, like all the waters around Sumatra, was teeming with sharks.
Walking along the shore under cover of the trees, Cowan stopped abruptly. He had been about to step out into a clearing. There in the open space was the hut where the traders used to meet. Two men stood in front of it.
* * *
BESI JOHN MATAGA had his back to him, but Steve Cowan recognized the man at once. No one else had that thick neck and those heavy shoulders. The other man was younger, with a lean, hard face and a Heidelberg scar. Cowan’s eyes narrowed.
“They won’t find this place!” Mataga said harshly. “It ain’t so easy spotted. If they do, they’ll never get away. We got our own spies around here.”
“You’d better have.” The stranger’s voice was crisp. “And don’t underestimate the Aussies and the Yanks. They might locate this place. It must be known to other people.”
“Sure.” Besi John shrugged. “Sure it is, Donner. But it ain’t the sort of place they’d figure on. White men, they never come here. One did once, but he won’t again.”
“Who was that?” Donner demanded.
“A guy named Cowan. I had a run-in with him once out there on the beach. I whipped the tar out of him.”
“You lie!” Steve Cowan muttered to himself.
He studied Donner. Instinct warned him that here was an even more dangerous opponent than Besi John. Mataga was a thug—this man had brains.
Collection 1986 - Night Over The Solomons (v5.0) Page 3