The Hungry Blade

by Lawrence Dudley

  As Hawkins came out onto the deck, swinging the vest back to throw, a man leapt from behind a cabinet and tackled him, slamming him against the rail. It was one of the hostages from the engine room, a tall but paunchy man with a droopy burnside mustache curling around his chin. Sweat ran down his face and bulbous nose, streaking over oddly white skin that obviously never saw the deck and sun. Damn it—damn it—damn it all! Hawkins thought. There’s another one? Hiding in the hostages? What in hell? Why? Something’s wrong. He knew it instantly, at the bottom of his gut: this was very dangerous.

  Hawkins tried to pull up the Hi-Power and shoot him but the man blocked his arm, pushing him back through the hatch into the passageway. Hawkins got his footing again, tightly clutching the life jacket bomb to his chest, turned and managed to slam the man’s head against a pipe, then stepped back and slammed him back against it again, leaving a small bloody mark on the pipe. The man cursed, crying in pain, then with a huge primal grunt spun Hawkins out and around and through the hatch onto the deck again. Hawkins planted a foot on the raised lintel of the hatchway and shoved them both forward against the rail. They turned and spun around against it, rolling along the deck, eye to eye, cursing. There was rage but also fear in the man’s eyes.

  “Don’t!” Hawkins shouted. “You can’t get away!” No reaction. They spun again. Bloody fool, Hawkins thought, anger surging again. “You can’t get away!” Bastard. Fool! Is he a Nazi agent? Hawkins wondered. He repeated in German, “Anschlag! Sie können nicht weg erhalten!” Nothing. “Vous ne pouvez pas partir!” Nothing. Might as well be barking like a dog. The man grunted and hurled them through another turn, both men locked in a tight embrace around the life jacket, trying to rip it away from the other.

  “Du bist Eckhardt?” Again, like the man in the radio shack, no reaction. “Ihr name? Eckhardt—” Ah, this is ridiculous, Hawkins thought, he doesn’t understand. Who cares, anyway, going to get yours, too.

  A bullet zinged past their heads. The man looked up, startled. Didn’t expect that, did you? Hawkins thought. But—who’s shooting? There’s a fourth? Two? Sure. Three? Maybe. But four! What! Why? Ah, bugger it all. The shot was high, it must’ve come from one of the forward cargo gantries. With a tremendous heave the man shoved them forward against the bulkhead and out of the line of fire. Hawkins spun him around again and onto the edge of a deck cabinet, banging the man’s head against it, and again, as if sense could be pounded into it.

  “See,” Hawkins shouted, “they don’t give a damn about you! Let go!” Instead, the man heaved back, spinning them around again, and tried kicking Hawkins, missing and hitting the bulkhead between his legs. “Why are you doing this? Warum? Warum?” Total incomprehension in his eyes. “Pourquoi? Pourquoi faites-vous ceci?” Damn it! If I only knew some Spanish … “Eckhardt? Eckhardt?” Still no reaction. Hawkins tried kicking back, tripping them both. They fell to the deck with a painful, jolting crash. The fall broke both men’s grasp. The man jumped up, then looked out, startled, into the distance, as Hawkins struggled to get back to his feet and aim.

  The man grabbed the life jacket and flung himself under the chain in the gangway opening in the rail, sliding over the side. Hawkins barely had time to roll and catch the little wood handle before it slipped away, getting his chin over the side in the nick of time to see the man going down, clutching the life jacket to his chest, a smile on his face. The man was looking sideways at the empty lifeboat he’d already dropped, laughing, thinking he’d gotten away, until a split second later when he finally saw the gleam of the wire, a flicking look of alarm in his eyes.

  He doesn’t know the bomb’s there, Hawkins thought, knew, in a split-second flash. Then the lanyard played out, the slightest tug on the handle.

  The life jacket instantly exploded, a quick white spark, a flashbulb going off, then a big pink cloud, a bright cherry-blossom pink, the lovely color of a cheery spring dress on a young woman waiting to be taken somewhere sunny on a nice date. Hawkins blinked and felt droplets of blood and spoor stinging his face. He blinked again, his eyes red with blood, wiping them with his sleeve. There was something in the depth of his mind—or his gut—that went, very quickly, as fast as a flashbulb—don’t feel. Don’t feel, he felt more than thought, so quick. Batten down that hatch. Feel nothing. Be fast. Think fast. Go cold. Keeping fighting. No anger. No disgust. Stay alive.

  Another bullet rang out from the gantry and he hurled himself away behind the bulkhead, thoughts ricocheting like bullets in the engine room, only speeding up and rising in a frantic pitch instead of slowing down.

  He didn’t know the charge was there, Hawkins thought, sorting it all in a frenzy. So he was a hostage. Or—they weren’t working together? Or was he a plant. Then who—what’s next? In the distance he saw what had startled the man: a large approaching biplane. Finster, thank god we have the plane, bloody goddamn foul-up. Flushing them out? Necessary. Using ourselves as bait? Mistake. Three? Another shot rang out from above and forward. No—four! Wasn’t aiming at the man with the droopy mustache. Aiming at me, he thought. Only need one or two to guard the shipment, maybe three. Why four? All biting each other in a circle, angry dogs going wild in a yard. His fury suddenly, unexpectedly rose again, now at himself. Damn, damn, damn … shouldn’t have assumed they would only guard it, wouldn’t lay a trap, too. Damn it! Damn it!

  -7-

  Finster’s Stranraer was gingerly floating down for a landing, coming at the Santa Lopez at a steep oblique angle, nose slightly up. It was getting late in the afternoon and a stiff wind had picked up, blowing a good rolling six-foot chop, at least two feet higher than before. The plane settled down and caught evenly across the first wave, a shuddering deceleration, Hawkins could see Finster and his flight crew painfully snap forward in their safety harnesses. It went up, the nose lifting, and hit the next wave at an angle. Hawkins inhaled and held his breath as the plane wrenched up again at a high climb for a heart-stopping second, nearly vertical, then tipped over and belly flopped onto the next with a huge splash that almost hid it for a moment. It bounded up again, twisting at an angle, starboard wingtip slicing the waves, the outrigger float plowing deep in, then rebounded again, digging in the port side. A couple of slamming, twisting bounces and it began cutting through the waves like a race boat, throwing up huge V-shaped waves, washing the lower wings. A controlled crash, indeed, Hawkins thought. Finster and his copilot revved one motor, almost standing on the rudder, and aimed the nose of the plane straight at the accommodation ladder on the side of the ship. It missed it, softly butting nose-first into the Santa Lopez with a dull thud.

  Down below Lieutenant Commander Blake—he’d clearly taken command of the boarding party—flipped open the hatch on the flying boat’s forward gun station, climbing up, standing on the bow, his men boiling out behind him, all slapping shut the bolts on their .303s. More sailors began climbing out the rear gun station and the cockpit hatch. Finster killed the motors. Blake threw a rope and a grappling hook over the rail and his men began hauling up a rope net with surprising speed. The skipper pulled a big Webley .455 from his uniform blazer—he still very properly had his white officer’s cap on, too—seized the rope ladder with one hand and without looking back shouted, “Follow me!” and began scrambling up the net. Several sailors, shouldering their Lee-Enfields, followed him, the ones behind the cockpit running across the wings, the heavily painted and varnished canvas cracking and breaking under their shoes.

  Finster popped his head out. “Not on the wings! Not on the wings!” Another shot rang out from the gantry. Finster ducked. The men on the wings looked up, saw something and fired a ragged volley as Blake reached the top. Finster and his aircrew gave up on the wings—it was too late, anyway, there were rips, pockmarks and indentations all along them now—lashed the Stranraer to the net, drew their pistols and followed Blake and the sailors up the ladder. Blake waved a hand behind him, checking his sailors and the airmen back, and carefully peered
over the rail.

  Hawkins was edging to the corner of the bridge castle, looking up for the sniper. As the navy men fired, he spotted a man in overalls hastily climbing down the back of one of the cranes. The sailors fired and hit him, several times, halfway down. The man jerked back, his head flipping around in a circle, one foot catching and wedging in the steel rungs, swinging him around and upside down at an angle. His rifle fell and clattered to the deck, followed first by a splattering of blood, then a messy plop as his shattered brains slid out of his open skull.

  Hawkins waved at Blake and pointed at the sniper hanging down.

  “There! Come—” But another pair of shots crackled out, this time directly above, from the bridge overhead. Both rounds missed, one going over the lieutenant commander’s head, another ricocheting off the inside of the steel railing. Blake ducked back down.

  Goddam it all, Hawkins thought, more? More! How many can there be? One dead in the engine room, one lying on the floor of the radio shack, the pink cloud, the dead sniper on the gantry, there had to be at least one below setting the fire and—given the speed of those shots, two men firing from the bridge. Six? Maybe seven? Eight? Makes no sense. Why would they send that many? Too many mouths to flap. And how could they spare that many agents? Insane. Every bit.

  The men standing on the wings caught the shots and began firing at the bridge. Hawkins angled around the corner and looked up. The muzzle of a rifle pointed out, barely a puff of smoke, then jerked back at a hard angle. Forward, some smoke was starting to rise from an open hatch. Broken glass tinkled down as the men on the wings shot out the bridge windows trying to hit the shooters, pinning them down. Blake poked his head up, followed by his men. Hawkins waved. With a huge heave Blake clambered over the rail and flung himself against the bulkhead next to Hawkins. More shots rang out overhead followed by another volley from the rail and the wings. Hawkins began loading more bullets into the Hi-Power as Blake checked his Webley.

  “Where’s your cutlass?” Hawkins said. It was the tense banter of men trying to distance themselves from an ugly world whirling around them. Both eyed the other, thinking the other man was grimacing and breathing very hard.

  “They don’t issue us cutlasses anymore.”

  “Pity. I suppose they got rid of grog, too?”

  “They’re trying. Today’s navy has the soul of an accountant.”

  “It’s the way of the world.”

  “Was that pink cloud what I think it was?”

  “It was.”

  “That must’ve smarted.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “What’s going on? You were right they’d guard it—but—”

  “There are more men than I thought. Sorry. I’ve fouled up here.”

  “How many?”

  “Six, seven, maybe eight. I’m not sure.”

  “What? What the hell for!”

  “I know. Makes no sense at all. Crazy. Simply crazy.”

  “Bugger. Glad I have a ship with a cannon and a crew.”

  “Yes. I’ve got to get below. Do you need me?”

  “Young man, the Royal Navy has been boarding ships for four hundred years. We don’t need any help from the air force.” In the distance HMS Dendrobium was rapidly bearing down on them at full throttle, smoke billowing from its funnel. More shots from the men on the wings.

  “Ah, yes. I happily stand corrected. There’s two wounded men in the shack, one of whom will talk. He needs attention right away before he bleeds out. We want him alive.”

  “Righto. We’ll retake the bridge, then get the wounded over to my ship.” He gestured Hawkins off. He saluted with his Hi-Power, took a deep breath as Blake waved his men up and bolted back into the hatch and down the passageway. Another volley of shots rang out behind him.

  -8-

  Hawkins exited a hatch onto the upper tween deck. Massive flat rows of tires were stacked to the ceiling. Somewhere tires were burning, filling the hold with growing, billowing clouds of acrid, choking smoke. Hawkins began carefully crawling on hands and knees along the top of the stacked tires, staying low, trying to avoid coughing and giving himself away. He stopped and tied his handkerchief over his mouth. It didn’t help much. His eyes started watering. Overhead he could hear the sharp ping! of bullets hitting the deck, then here and there the quick thud of footsteps as Blake’s sailors began running from derrick to raised hatch and on to another derrick, seeking cover, followed by the muffled cracks of their .303s.

  Nearly impossible to see, a row of lightbulbs stretched toward the bow, dim stars in a cloudy, dirty sky. Hawkins began crawling from one wobbly stack to another, edging toward a deep long well that ran through the center of the hold from the engine room to the bow. He leaned over the edge, peering down. There was another tween deck below the one he was on, giant balconies stuffed with tires, the bottom of the hold obscured in total darkness.

  Whoever set the fire had to be down here—but where? And how far down was it? One way to find that out. He pushed a tire off the stack in front and listened, counting. One thousand one, one thousand two … A soft thunk and then a springy bouncing sound. Thirty-two feet per second, around sixty feet, he thought. Won’t try jumping that …

  He began moving forward again, carefully staying away from the swaying tires on the edge of the well. He stood, holding on to a steel rafter, peering forward. One of the dim stars broke from its constellation and began moving, swaying slightly, abruptly growing larger, accompanied by a rolling, whirling sound. It was a large ball of burning tires. As it zoomed closer he could see it suspended by a chain on a traveling crane overhead, coming straight at him. He tried to step aside and duck—it followed him. A man must be behind it, pushing it.

  Hawkins instantly fired three shots into the burning mass, sparks and shards of rubber flying off. No effect. Too many tires! It half-passed him in the dark and swung back around, a blast of fiery air and smoke as it passed. Hawkins holstered the Hi-Power and grabbed the steel rafter overhead with both hands. As the burning ball rushed in, he heaved up and kicked the chain with both feet, slamming it back around. A man’s cry, faint, behind the tires. Another push, the tires flaming in toward Hawkins, another kick back. Then another swing and pass straight at him, another kick back.

  He can’t see, either, Hawkins thought. His own eyes were watering madly now. As the flames receded for a second he stretched down, felt with his feet, and dropped straight into a stack of tires, catching himself with his arms and elbows, ducking his head. Eyes closed tight, he felt the intense heat waft overhead, opened one watery lid and saw a foot and ankle. He reached out and grabbed the ankle, pulling hard, yanking the man off balance, tripping him forward. The ball of burning tires swung back and slammed right into the man. A loud scream—“Ah! Ah!”

  Hawkins scrambled up, feet climbing tires like rungs on a ladder, standing atop the stack again. With no one pushing them, the burning tires aimlessly spun around, slowing. Still impossible to see. Something lightly grazed his head. He reached up and touched it. A steel pipe, a handle. He seized it. Now he had the tires! The man scrambled to his feet, still grunting and crying in pain. Hawkins shoved forward, toward the sound. A jolt and cry as it connected again. He shoved the tires away, down the trolley. The man was barely visible for a split second, an outline of glowing sparks and tiny flames of burning bits of tires and clothes. He saw Hawkins, too, and reached into his pocket. A gun! Hawkins drew his Hi-Power first, blasting away at the general direction of the fading silhouette. Most missed, uselessly ricocheting off the rafters or the opposite tween deck. But one had hit true. The man cried out, slightly stumbling and tripping, falling, pushing the swaying tires. He started to go down, grabbing at the edge, then slipped and fell all the way to the bilge, a loud receding cry.

  All the tires now started tumbling. Hawkins barely caught a rafter overhead with one hand, swinging crazily, holstered the Hi-Power,
then grabbed with his free hand as all the tires began a rumbling avalanche into the well. Swinging hand over hand, he inched back to a still-standing stack, and finally got one shaky foot on it, then another, onto safety.

  A blast of light. One of the Royal Navy sailors had thrown open a hatch over the well, sunshine pouring through the venting smoke. Several .303s poked over the edge.

  “I got him,” Hawkins shouted. A hand waved.

  Hawkins made his way back to the hatch and then forward. A single thought struck him—The paintings, are they all right? As he reached the hidden compartment Chief Martindale and Davies were peering out, coughing lightly, pointing their rifles. They’d climbed inside, picked up the steel plate that’d been cut free and wedged it in front of them for armor.

  “Did you get him?” Martindale said. “We knew he was there but we couldn’t see him.”

  “Yes. You can come out.”

  Martindale nodded and he and Davies began angling the plate away.

  Hawkins headed back to the deck. When he got outside the fresh air triggered a paroxysm of coughing. Blake ran up, still waving his Webley.

  “You all right?” It took a second for Hawkins to wheeze yes. Blake took him by the arm and guided him to a seat on a hatch. After a minute the coughs started tapering off. Blake wordlessly began picking small pieces of bone from Hawkins’s hair. He reached up and felt them too.

  “Ah, god, the pink cloud.”

  “’Fraid so. I think you owe someone a new uniform. I don’t think a dry cleaner’s going to be able to do much with that. You’re absolutely covered with blood.”

  “I’ll have to put a voucher in,” followed by another rack of coughs.

  Davies popped out beside them, a huge smile on his pimply face, almost jumping up and down, saluting. He burst out, full of excitement, unable to restrain himself.