Beyond the Great Snow Mountains (Ss) (1999)

by L'amour, Louis

  Turk swung the ship lazily, detecting a rift in the fog.

  Then, quite suddenly, he saw the freighter.

  She was moored fore and aft, just inside the river mouth. A freighter of no less than four thousand tons tied up at a rocky shelf in the mouth of a lonely stream on a coast that rarely saw anything bigger than a fishing smack or occasional whaler. Since the war had begun, even the few Udehe fishermen had gone back up the coast to colder but safer waters.

  Glancing back, he saw Diakov was awake. The big Cossack's black eyes were alert. You see something?

  What is it?

  A ship, Madden said. A big freighter, tied up in the river.

  No Russian ship would be here, Diakov said. I think not.

  I'm going down and have a look-see, Turk said.

  He rolled the plane around in a tight circle, heading upstream.

  His sense of direction had always been his greatest asset. He remembered that river, too. For two weeks he had been flying over it every day, and before that at odd times. Upstream there was a wide bend with a little backwater where he could land . . . with luck.

  He landed.

  Fog was around them like a shroud. Diakov straightened, his face pale under the tan. Well, he shrugged, I tell myself it is your life, too, so why should I be afraid?

  Nevertheless, I am afraid.

  He leaped ashore and took a turn around a tree with a line, making the plane fast, then another tree, lashing it bow and stern. Then he got out skis and checked his rifle.

  How far you think? he asked.

  About three miles. Turk grinned at him, the smile making his lean brown face suddenly boyish. You stay here, Muscovite. If I don't come back, you go over the mountains to Sidatun.

  The Cossack lifted an eyebrow. Even a ghost couldn't cross the Sihote Alins now, he said. We fly out, or die.

  It would have been simpler to have flown to Khabarovsk to report the ship, but finding a thread of river on that coast in a fog like this would be harder now than finding a Jap in Chungking. This way he could investigate first and have something definite to report.

  A snow-covered forest trail followed the river. An expert on skis, Turk made good time and in only a matter of minutes stood on the edge of the forest, not a hundred yards from the ship.

  The ladder was down, but the name of the ship was invisible in the fast-falling snow. Vladivostok, the nearest Siberian port, was miles away to the south, almost four hundred miles, in fact. Across the narrow Sea of Japan, however, were the Japanese islands.

  Could it be a raiding party from Japan? An attempted invasion? It didn't seem likely. In any case, it was his job to find out. It was a chance he had to take.

  Already, falling snow had covered him with a thin sifting of flakes. Moving carefully, taking every advantage of flurries of wind that veiled his movement, Turk crossed to the ship. He had abandoned his skis in the brush, so when he reached the ladder, he did not hesitate, but mounted swiftly.

  There was no challenge, only the whisper of snow.

  The deck was white and still, unbroken by a footprint.

  Hesitating, flattened against the bulkhead, he studied the situation. Something here was radically wrong. It was almost an hour since he left the plane, and the snow had begun then, yet there had been no movement on the deck in that time. Every sense in his body was alert, and he hesitated, dreading to move, aware that his steps would be revealed in the snow.

  Turk slid his hand inside his leather coat and loosened his Colt. Then he moved swiftly to the passage that led to the saloon and the officers' quarters.

  The door opened easily under his hand, and he stepped into the warm passage. The door of the mate's cabin was on his left, but a glance showed it to be empty.

  Before him was the door of the saloon. He opened the door, pushed it wide with his left hand as his right gripped the butt of his automatic.

  A man lay with his cheek on the table, face toward the door, arms dangling. Between his shoulder blades was the protruding haft of a knife. His cap, bearing a second mate's insignia, lay on the table.

  On most freighters the second mate had the twelve to-four watch. The man had been murdered while eating, so apparently he had been killed just before taking over his watch. It was now nearly four.

  Turk stepped back and closed the door gently, then mounted to the bridge. The wheelhouse was empty, except for a man lying sprawled on the deck. Even before he knelt over the body, Turk could see from the way the head lay that the man's neck was broken. There was a large welt on his head, and over him, a broken shelf.

  Another cap lay nearby. Turk picked it up and glanced at it. Third Mate. He sized up the situation.

  Nine bucks to a dime, he muttered thoughtfully, somebody came in the port door. This guy rushed him, and the guy used judo on him. Threw him into that shelf.

  Grimly, Turk stepped out on the bridge and closed the door. Visibility was low. He'd be unable to take off in this. He descended to the captain's deck and tried the starboard door. It was locked. Rounding the deckhouse, he tried the port door and it opened gently under his hand.

  The very pretty brunette with the gun in her hand showed no surprise and no fear. Come in, she said, and close the door, or I'll kill you.

  Thanks, Turk said, it's getting cold out there.

  If she had said she'd shoot him, he wouldn't have been surprised. But she said kill, and he had a very good idea she meant it. No need to hold that gun on me, he said pleasantly, unless you're the one who murdered the mates.

  She stiffened. Who . . . murdered?

  Yeah, he said. Somebody played rough around here. Somebody who uses jujitsu and a knife. They got the second and third mates.

  Not Richards? Aaron isn't killed? Her eyes were wide.

  Turk frowned. I don't know your pal Richards. I only know that you've got two less mates than you had, and I want to know why. I also want to know who you are, what this ship is doing here, and where the skipper is.

  She stared at him suspiciously, making no move to put the gun down.

  It's all right, he said, exasperated. I'm an American. I've been flying coast patrol for the Russians because of the war.

  She hesitated, then decided to believe him. This is the Welleston, out of Boston. My father, Mace Reardon, was in command. We were bound for Vladivostok with aviation fuel, machine oil, and M-3 tanks when Pearl Harbor was bombed. We had trouble with our radio, and the war had been going on for several days before we heard of it. Dad took the ship north around Sakhalin Island, hoping to slip down the Siberian coast to Vladivostok.

  When we got this far, Aaron-I mean Mr. Richards, the mate-suggested we tie up here and communicate with Vladivostok to get an escort through the most dangerous water.

  Madden nodded. Not a bad idea. Your Mr. Richards was smart. But how were you to communicate with them? Your radio would warn the Japs, and this is an American ship.

  We didn't use the radio. Aaron told Sparks to set out overland for Sidatun.

  For where}? Turk's eyes narrowed.

  Sidatun. It's several miles back from the coast.

  Sparks was good on skis, so he went.

  And Richards sent him? Turk was beginning to understand ... or suspect. Where's Richards now?

  I don't know. The girl was frankly puzzled.

  Mutiny broke out, just after Sparks left. My father was ... She hesitated, and for the first time her poise wavered. ... killed. Then Aaron told me to stay inside and not to let anyone in but him.

  A breath of cold air on the back of his neck warned Turk. He turned, letting his gun slide into his hand with that smooth efficiency that only comes from long familiarity and practice. He was just a little too fast for the tall, handsome man who stood in the doorway. Hold it, buddy, Turk said softly. I never like to kill people I haven't met socially.

  Aaron! the girl cried out sharply. I've been so worried. Where have you been?

  Richards ignored her question, his eyes intent, staring at Turk. He was
a bigger man than Turk, which meant that he was well over six feet and weighed more than Madden's compact one eighty.

  Who is this man? Richards asked coolly.

  The name is Madden, Turk replied, studying the man keenly. I'm an American. I run a commercial airline in the East Indies. Made a long flight up to Siberia with a special passenger, and then went on patrol for the Soviet Army of the Far East. Come in and close that door.

  Richards complied, moving warily and keeping his hands in sight. He didn't do anything suspicious, but something told Turk he was to be carefully watched.

  Richards faced him again. I'm afraid, Tony, he said to the girl, that anything this man has told you is a lie. He cannot be on patrol. No plane could possibly land in this weather.

  I land planes in all kinds of weather, Turk said calmly, and what you think or do not think does not happen to matter in the least. I am an officer of the Soviet government at the moment, and the cargo of this ship is the property of that government. The ship is flying the American flag, and I am a citizen of the United States. I want to know exactly what has happened on this boat.

  There was a mutiny, Richards said coldly, a very minor one. I handled it. Everything is now under control.

  We need no help.

  The man was listening for something. Turk remembered the door behind him was locked, the ports dogged down. Yet he felt an acute sense of impending danger.

  I wonder if the second and third mates thought it was minor? Turk demanded. Who murdered them?

  Did you?

  Richards stiffened, and his eyes widened just a little, then turned cold and dangerous. I think we might ask the crew about that, or you. You might be a Jap agent.

  Turk laughed. Yeah, I'd bet a lot of dough one of us is, and it isn't me. The second mate wasn't murdered by a stranger or by a crew in mutiny. He was murdered by someone he knew and trusted.

  How do you know that? Tony asked sharply.

  Because he was stabbed in the back while eating by someone he knew was behind him. The third mate was killed by someone with a knowledge of jujitsu. But he was expecting trouble.

  Well, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Richards sneered, his eyes hard, you think you have it all figured out, don't you? Trying to pin it all on me? Well, I think you're a renegade, that you haven't any plane, and have no connection with any government whatsoever.

  Tony Reardon was looking at Turk, her eyes cold.

  Maybe you'd better put up that gun and leave, she said. Whatever you came here for won't work. I know Mr. Richards, and now that my father is dead, he is in command. Your efforts to prejudice me against him won't do. I've known him for over a year, and he is not only the captain now, but my fiance.

  Turk grinned. Which apparently makes him the head man around here. All right, darling, suppose you ask him why he sent Sparks out to die.

  What do you mean? she demanded.

  You said he sent him to Sidatun to communicate with the Soviet officials. Sidatun, baby, is not several miles away, but several hundred, and across a range of mountains. In this weather even a man who knows the country couldn't make it.

  I don't believe it! Tony said desperately.

  Turk was watching Richards. The mate was half crouched, his eyes malevolent. Madden slipped his hand inside his coat and tossed a roll on the table. Look at that map, honey.

  There was a sudden step on the deck outside, and a sound of footsteps on the ladder. Triumphant light leaped into Richards's eyes at the sound, but Turk sprang for the door. Richards leaped to intercept him, swinging even as he sprang. Turk was lunging right into the path of the blow, and there was no way to avoid it. It struck him a smashing wallop on the chin and knocked him staggering into the wall. Even as he fell back, Richards steadied himself and lifted his gun.

  Off balance and helpless, Turk was cold meat, when Tony caught Richards's arm, jerking it aside. The shot smashed a picture an inch over Turk's head.

  Before the mate could free his gun hand, Turk sprang close and, grabbing him by the collar, literally jerked him from his feet, dragging him to the door. Throwing it open, Turk dumped Richards out at the feet of three startled Japanese sailors.

  Madden drew back swiftly and slammed the door, turning the key in the lock. Tony Reardon's face was deathly pale. What is it? she asked. What's happening?

  I don't understand!

  A shout of anger came from outside, and then a pounding on the door. It was a steel door, and Turk was unworried.

  Her face was strained and Turk could see she was on the verge of hysteria. She had kept her father's death bottled up inside her, and now this.

  Hold it, kid, Turk said kindly. You sit down and take it easy. We'll get out of this. The way I figure it, this Richards has sold out to someone. Now the Japs have arrived.

  Richards must have got in touch with them somehow.

  He checked his gun. Without doubt they would move the ship at once. Every minute they stayed was dangerous.

  And that meant that unless he could do something promptly, they would be out on the Sea of Japan headed for a prison camp or death.

  Turk crossed the room in a stride and peered out the port. A Jap seaman was opening the valves to get steam into the winch, another had put down his rifle and was clearing a line that had become fouled with some tackle.

  They would be casting off in a matter of minutes.

  Tony came up to him. Her eyes were wide, her face tear-stained, but she was composed again. He looked down at her. You've got nerve, kid, he said, and that's what it's going to take.

  What are we to do now? she asked simply.

  We've got to get out of here and away, he said, an' there's a good chance we'll get killed trying. They can't release that line up there, an' don't dare cast off aft until they do, else they'll have the ship broadside to the current, an' probably run her aground.

  They will be getting up more steam now. When they do, the chances are someone will slip ashore an' cut the line. Then, like it or not, we'll be headed for Japan.

  Turk hesitated. I'm going to open that door and shoot the guard. It doesn't seem like there's many of them. Then we'll get down that ladder as fast as we can.

  The snow will help some. They can't see ten feet beyond the bow. It will be the last thing they expect, so we got a chance.

  Tony picked up her gun, her chin firm. Okay, honey, he said, open the door an' follow me. We're blasting out of here.

  Luck was with them. The guard stood by the rail, and even as he turned, Madden slashed him on the temple with the .45. They were halfway to the ladder before they were seen. A Japanese sailor patrolling the bridge let out a shout of alarm and threw up his rifle.

  Turk spun on his heel and snapped a quick shot at the man. It lifted the cap from the man's head, and he dropped out of sight behind the bulwark.

  A shot glanced from the deck right ahead of them, and then Tony was running down the icy ladder. Turk turned coolly at the head of the ladder and laced the deck with a pattern of fire. Then he half ran, half slid, down the ladder. He stopped dead still and slid another clip into his automatic before he moved, then ran close alongside the hull.

  Glancing back, he saw a sailor leaning out from the ship to level a rifle, and Turk fired. The man's face blossomed with crimson and he lost his hold, sliding through the rail to fall into the opening between the ship and the ledge.

  Then, from the edge of the woods, a barrage of fire opened up, sweeping the ship's rail and bridge with a stream of bullets. Running, gasping for breath, the two plunged through the last of the snow and stumbled into the shelter of the forest.

  Diakov met them on the edge of the woods, his face beaming, the CZ light machine gun cradled in his arms.

  Skis here, he said. We better leave quick.

  What about her? Turk protested. She-?

  Skis for her, too. The Cossack winked broadly. I find a Jap out here on skis. I brought them along ... a rifle too.

  Turk glanced quickly at the trail to the plane. Obv
iously, the Russian had been here some time, for his footprints were covered over with new snow. He turned at right angles to the river and started off through the timber. Wrong way, Diakov protested.

  We'd get there just a few minutes ahead of their pursuit, Turk said, and not time enough to warm up the plane and take off. No, we've got to lead them back in the hills.

  Diakov's eyes lighted. In the Sihote Alins? I hope they all follow us, comrade. We will show them something, no?

  In silence the three struck out through the timber.

  Behind them they knew pursuit would be organized. The Japanese dared not leave when there was a chance that other planes would catch them before they were far out at sea.

  Turk said nothing as he followed Diakov through the timber. The big Cossack was a marvel on skis, and it took only a few minutes for Turk to see that Tony Reardon was able to muddle along.

  What kind of shape are you in? he asked her.

  She smiled for the first time. I'll get the hang of it. I used to do this when I was a kid in upstate New York.

  Don't worry about me.

  After that it was grim business. There was no chance of eluding their pursuers, but they had a lead that they increased after a few miles. Diakov didn't look for easy going, and as often as possible he led them across bare, icy spots where the skis left no trail.

  After a while Turk stopped. You go ahead, he said to them. I'm going to give these boys something to worry about.

  The two headed away. He and Diakov in a murmured conversation had settled on a lonely peak for a rendezvous, deciding shortly after their start that would be their destination.

  Turk took a limb from a tree and brushed the trail.

  The fast-falling snow would fill in the gaps. Then he walked back over a bare spot, carrying his skis. Down below, a half mile behind, he saw a knot of men, several others scattered out behind.

  He rested the captured rifle on a branch and steadied it against his cheek. Allowing for the cold, he took careful aim, trying the rifle from several positions.