"And you've sat on this for how long?" asked Spruance, incredulity struggling with fury in his voice.
"We haven't suppressed it at all. These signal traces are less than fifteen minutes old. I was informed on my way here to meet you. We're still analyzing them."
Spruance exploded.
"Goddamn it! Have you got any of your precious analysts evaluating what sort of a mess we'll be?"
17
USS HILLARY CLINTON, 0612 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942
Later, as the survivors of the combined task forces steamed back toward Hawaii, Kolhammer sat alone, in silence, staring at the flatscreen on his stateroom wall. It displayed an image of his home in Santa Monica, with his wife, Marie, in gardening gloves, attacking a dense wall of agapanthus. Lucy, their black Labrador, lay under a eucalyptus, sheltering from the sun.
As Kolhammer gazed at the scene his throat grew tight and two tears squeezed out like hard little bullets of grief, tracked down his freckled face.
"I'm sorry Marie," he whispered to her. "I promised to come home and now… I just don't know."
He stared a while longer, then reached for the control stick and thumbed through a series of flawlessly reproduced images. More garden shots. A picture of Marie and Lucy on the old couch in the sunroom. A few pictures of their son, Jed, killed off Taiwan. No grandchildren, sadly. But a few much-loved great-nephews and — nieces. And other family portraits, becoming stiffer and more formal as they moved back through the years, tracing the Kolhammer family journey from the German city of Magdeburg in 1934 to the New World, and then west across the continent. Following a trail laid down by generations of the damned.
Kolhammer froze the slide show on a sepia-toned studio image of his great-uncle Hans and great-aunt Hilda. The photograph had been torn before being digitized long ago, and Kolhammer had asked the image bureau to leave the imperfection as it was. He liked it that way. Family photographs, he firmly believed, should be weathered and a little damaged by age and handling. It was proof of one generation handing on history to the next.
He stared at the portrait of Hans and Hilda, peering into the hollow space around their eyes. Knowing and yet not really understanding what misery and horror danced slowly in there. The photo had been taken in New York in 1952, but both were still draped in heavy European clothes. Kolhammer accepted that the long sleeves weren't simply an expression of emigre formality. He remembered spending many hours with his great-uncle as a boy. And he knew that under the heavy serge suit was a tattoo of which Hans was unspeakably ashamed. It had been burned there by a minor functionary of Heinrich Himmler's SS and it marked him as a survivor of the Final Solution.
Hans had kept it hidden for many years, but late in his life-just after a young Phillip Kolhammer had taken his commission in the U.S. Navy-a trembling, wasted Uncle Hans had left his nursing home and traveled across the continent to visit his nephew. The trip was unannounced. Hans simply up and left one day and there was hell and high interest to pay when he got back. He was struggling with the latter stages of Parkinson's by then, a foe that would claim him where the fuhrer's minions had failed.
Young Phillip was surprised, enchanted, and little concerned when the old guy turned up without warning. He hadn't taken his medication with any sort of regularity, and the cross-country road trip in a Greyhound bus had been awfully tough on his old bones. But Hans had waved that aside, seized his favorite nephew in a weak, shaky bear hug, and told him how proud he was to see a Kolhammer in the uniform of his liberators. After a few hours of drinking and bullshitting and of Marie fretting endlessly, Uncle Hans took Phillip aside. They had men's business to discuss, he told Marie, as he led her husband into a bedroom.
They stood in there, alone, and a terrible stillness came over his twitching face as he stripped his sleeves and bared his arm, pointing at the tattoo.
"You promise me now, nephew," he said. "Promise me that for as long as there is breath in your body and you wear the uniform of a free country, you promise me that you will never allow this evil a place in the world again."
Phillip Kolhammer had promised.
PART THREE
ALLIANCES
18
THE SARUWAGED RANGES, NEW GUINEA, 0445 HOURS, JUNE 1942
The last village lay a thousand feet below them. Amyen, a small, tight cluster of bark huts, was set among limestone lakes and gardens of sweet potato, which gradually gave onto forest at the foot of the ranges. It was unmarked on any maps, unknown to the colonial authorities in Port Moresby.
Warrant Officer Peter Ryan huddled in the mouth of the cave and peered out into the freezing mists. He knew that seven thousand feet below them lay the Wain and Naba country, and the flatlands of the Markham River. Were it not for the accursed mountain weather he'd probably be able to see Lae and Salamaua, where the Japs were already busy digging in.
It was another world down there, oppressively hot and humid, with thick, primordial jungle clinging to the edge of fast-flowing rivers. For Ryan, the dense, superheated air of the lowlands was reminiscent of a big Chinese laundry, or some other confined place where you'd find large quantities of boiling water. Up here, though, the conditions were practically arctic as they clumped together in the cramped limestone cave.
A thick, foul-smelling fug of body odors, and smoke, and human grease reached out for him from the dark recesses of the cave. The last of his native carriers were huddled together in there on sheets of beaten bark. He'd set out from Amyen with fifteen stout boys. The last four had gone down with a fever in the cave the previous night. Ryan knew he'd get no more work from them. His native sergeant, Kari, had offered to try and get the bearers to their feet, but Ryan told him not to bother. They were best left there, under the watch of Constable Dinkila, while the two of them made the last push up to the ridge.
"We'll move faster without them or the baggage," said Ryan.
"They won't be here when we get back, boss," Kari argued. "Then we won't need baggage. Just coffins."
Ryan essayed a weak smile at his friend.
"Needs must when the Devil drives, Sergeant. There's something quite odd going on up this mountain. And I'm Johnny-on-the-spot."
Just before dawn a freezing gale howled down from between the jagged, broken teeth of the Saruwageds, blowing away the mist and their last excuse for staying tucked up in the relative warmth and comfort of the cave. Ryan and Kari ate three tins of bully beef and a packet of biscuits, washed down with a canteen of water collected from the many trickles of condensation running down the smooth black rock face outside their shelter. They put on their last dry socks and best boots, gave Constable Dinkila strict instructions about caring for and guarding the carriers, and then they set off, carrying their Owen guns and long lengths of vine rope.
They traversed a sickeningly steep, razor-thin ridgeline on their hands and knees before plunging back into the forest. Ryan thought it akin to stepping into a darkened basement from a bright-lit garden. A soft dark green, evil-looking moss covered everything, sometimes to a thickness of a foot. Trees took on the appearance of fleshy, bloated green monsters from one of Grimm's fairy tales. Walking was a matter of sinking their feet into a spongy, moss-covered sludge of rotting vegetable matter. Sometimes they sank in up to their thighs. At one point, curious about the true depth of the strange, clotted mulch, Ryan pushed in sharpened stick. It was eight feet long and met no resistance. They trod more carefully after that.
The complete absence of hard edges or solid surfaces served to dampen any sound. Their voices sounded flat and alien to them, and they found that after a while they had fallen into the habit of talking only in harsh whispers. Ryan thought the silence unearthly. Their footfalls made no noise apart from a sort of muffled squelch as they withdrew their boots from the sucking green ooze. Occasionally a small rat would dart out and run off. But no skittering or rustling attended its flight.
Eventually, the eerie forest gave way to sparse stunted upland of twisted, dead, iron-gray tree trunks.
Many exhausting hours were spent threading their way through the tangle. Ryan wondered whether the carriers would have been able to come this far anyway. Rain began to fall, and Kari pulled on a curious, tentlike cowl of laced pandanus leaves, giving Ryan the impression he was walking behind a native hut on legs.
It was one of the few light moments of the trek.
A sharp, stabbing pain had settled into his chest, just below the heart. His nose bled and he was thirsty all the time, no matter how much he drank. When they passed out of the rain band, Kari stopped and built a small fire from a supply of kindling he had tied to his belt. They warmed themselves and heated a pot of water for tea. Ryan produced some sugar from a small cloth bag and tipped it in. They revived their spirits with the strong, black brew and a couple of Constable Dinkila's yam pancakes, eaten cold with a smear of Vegemite.
"Getting close now, boss," said Kari. "You want to finish it today or tomorrow."
Ryan really wanted to be home in Melbourne, curled up with a good book in front of a warm fire. But he said, "Today. It's important. The orders came directly from MacArthur's HQ."
"Maybe the big fellah should be here himself," Kari said, grinning. "If he's so keen to know what's up there."
"Maybe," Ryan agreed. "But he's not. And unfortunately we are. So it's onward and upward."
They cleaned up the makeshift rest site, kicked out the small fire with deep regret, and set their course for the next ridge. It was early afternoon, but darkness was gathering as the daily shroud of mist appeared and the sun passed over the top of the range. Light and heat leaked out of the day. Ryan checked their map.
"The possum hunter's hut should be just over that saddle," he whispered, pointing ahead about five hundred yards. "And then the crash site, another hour beyond that."
"If the village headman wasn't lying," said Kari.
"Yes," Ryan agreed, "there's always that."
They hauled themselves through an increasingly dense field of the limestone outcrops. Sometimes the slabs were so large they presented the blank facade of a great wall. Ryan felt giddy and nauseous from the thinness of the air. He stopped at one point and made the nearly fatal error of sitting down. At once, deliciously warm waves of lassitude stole through every muscle in his body. Sinking down against the hard wet rock felt as luxurious and decadent as crawling into bed in some opulent hotel suite. He recalled, in almost Proustian detail, the soft pillows and thick blankets of his childhood bed. How nice it would be to tuck himself in under the covers for just a few…
Sergeant Kari manhandled him to his feet.
"Sorry, boss. No good to be sleeping up here. Never wake up again."
Ryan apologized for his weakness. They'd been on patrol for weeks when the new orders came through for them at Kirkland's, down near the river crossing. He was really in no fit state for this Lord Jim jungle wallah nonsense.
He put one foot in front of the other and painfully got himself moving again.
When they crested the saddle, there was no possum hunter's hut, and thus no shelter for the night.
"Damn them," cursed Ryan.
"Listen boss. Shush now."
Kari cocked an ear to the higher ground.
Ryan couldn't hear anything at first, but after a short time he noticed a faint, metallic banging, and perhaps the sounds of human voices.
"Japs," said Kari.
"Good Lord, so they are here. We'd best push on for a look-see then," said Ryan, a small surge of adrenaline flushing the fatigue from his bones.
From that point on, they slipped around through crevices and over nearly vertical naked rock faces like a bead of water running over a fat pandanus leaf. There were more banging noises and voices-definitely Japanese-as they neared the lip of the plateau. Ryan was quietly impressed that they had made it up here before him.
A stiff breeze quickly strengthened into a hard, cold wind and, within a few minutes, into a howling pitiless gale. That was good. It was blowing from their direction. Down from the peaks. The Japs wouldn't hear him approach now. They would have to take care not to run into a sentry, but he didn't think that likely. This mountain was evil. Men huddled together on its face. None would stray too far.
On hands and knees they slithered forward until he'd reached the lip of the little plateau. Crab-walking sideways until he made the cover of a small bush, Ryan chanced a peek over the edge.
About three hundred yards away, clearly visible through the thickening gloom, was a ship. A giant gray warship, sinking into the mountain, her bow pointed to the heavens.
The ship was posed as though she were about to go down, slicing through the rocky spine of the Saruwageds as she would pass through the waters of the Coral Sea on a death plunge to the ocean floor. And yet, she remained poised, knifing into the mist and the sky, as though she had always been there.
While Ryan's mind adjusted to the discovery, he began to take in other features of the tableau. The platform into which the ship was forever sinking was covered by a field of giant toadstools, thousands of them, with caps a foot or more across. The moss had colonized them, too, and presented the onlooker with the bizarre vision of a dense mat of knobbled green felt, high in the sky. An occasional granite spike thrust up out of the blanket of moss and fungi. And sheltering in the lee formed by the warship, a dozen tents strained at their ropes as the roaring wind tried to carry them away. He wondered idly how they'd been tied down.
He already knew who had raised them in this strange place. Japanese soldiers had beaten them to the scene.
19
OAHU, 0548 HOURS, 9 JUNE 1942
The bodies lay undisturbed for hours. They had been seen during that time, but were ignored. Three sailors on a small motor launch puttering through the bay noticed the forms entwined on the beach and assumed a hard-partying couple had fetched up there after a night on the booze. An hour and a half later an Army Air Force officer riding a motorcycle through the dunes briefly caught sight of them, but he actually had been drinking all night, and was far too inebriated to bother with the sight of a couple, necking down on the sand. He had to sober up get back to barracks and get rid of the stolen bike.
Eventually a squad of marines from the Eighty-second MEU, pounding the soft sand on an early-morning run, discovered the corpses. Sergeant Clifford Hardy, jogging a few feet in front of his men, was the first to notice the dark shapes at the water's edge a couple of hundred meters down the beach. Like the others who'd seen the bodies from a distance he immediately assumed them to be a couple flaked out after a long night. They were entwined closely enough to be lovers. Bouncing along, five kilometers into an eight-kilometer run, with sweat in his eyes, he caught just a glimpse at first, a watery blur, and was inclined to ignore the sight. If anything, he was slightly pissed at the prospect of having to detour around them, but when a stronger line of shore break closed out just a few feet from the couple and washed right over the top of them, he knew straightaway they were corpses. The bodies rolled with the white water. One of them, a much darker one, he realized then, flipped right over with the lifeless heft of the dead.
Sergeant Hardy was a twenty-year man. He was well acquainted with the dead.
"Yo! Hold up!" he yelled.
The line of marines, deep in the trance of a long-distance run, stumbled over each other at the unexpected halt.
"S'up Sarge?" cried Warlow. "Your ticker giving out. You need your pills?"
"Shut up, Warlow," Hardy said quietly, his stillness silencing the men.
They all switched instantly to a watchful keenness. They were dressed for PT, not combat. None carried weapons. One man rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Another cracked knuckles within a closed fist. All of them shifted on the balls of their feet, turning outward, scanning for threats.
The morning was warm and fresh. A small, half-meter swell broke on the soft crescent of sand in regular sets of three waves at a time. A light onshore breeze ruffled the men's hair and cooled the sweat that slicked their bodies.
"Warlow, run up that big dune there and have a look around," said Hardy. "See if we got any company."
The marine took off with a stealthy lope. All of the backchat and sass were gone from him.
"They dead, Sarge?" asked a giant rifleman.
"What do you think, butthead?" said Hardy, his eyes traversing like gun barrels.
"Looks like," said Private Bukowski.
"They ours?" another man asked.
Hardy turned around. It was Snellgrove.
"What makes you think that, Smelly?"
The marine, a raven-haired boy from Kansas, inclined his head toward the bodies. Another wave washed over them.
"Looks like a mixed couple. And you can see their implant scars, I reckon."
Warlow yelled down from the heights of the dune. "All clear, Sarge!"
Hardy took in a deep draft of clean air. It was so much cleaner here. You simply couldn't deny it. Made a man wonder about the shit he'd been breathing all his life. He took another look at the empty beach. It was a pity to fuck up such a nice-looking place. The sea would be just about perfect for bodysurfing. The glassy green rollers crunched in with a nice hollow boom, and the sand was so white you just knew it'd blind you when the sun got higher. There wasn't a single piece of trash to be seen anywhere. No condoms. No broken glass. No discarded syringes.
"Okay," he sighed. "Y'all know the drill. We'll take it like any other atrocity site. Just pretend you're back in Yemen or Syria. Form a box, two hundred meters out. Bukowski, you come with me. We'll have to drag 'em up or else they'll get washed away. We'll walk over there through the surf. But keep your eyes peeled anyway. We might get lucky. Lazy fuckers might've tossed a weapon into the water.
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