Edge of Valor

by JOHN J. GOBBELL

  “Damned if I know.”

  Toliver screwed the barrel back in place. He heard a click. “What’s this?”

  “Sir?”

  “There’s a ridge at the other end—”

  “Chief? Here he is.” Two shore patrolmen dressed in blues with web belts and .45s led in a small man in handcuffs. He wore dungarees and a blue chambray shirt, and a peacoat was jammed under his arm. His straw-colored hair was mussed. A fresh bandage was taped over his right forehead.

  The man stumbled into the room, his eyes darting about.

  “Has he had dinner?” asked Derickson.

  “You bet, Chief.” One of the SPs rumbled, “He eats like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Toliver walked up to him. “What is your name?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed and settled on Toliver. “Dudek,” he said. “Karol Dudek.” Then his eyes continued searching around the room. He stiffened slightly when he saw the table nearby with his money, life raft inflator, switchblade, and seabag.

  “Thank you. Where are you from, Mr. Dudek?” asked Toliver.

  “Yeaaaagh!” the man screeched and shoved Toliver aside. Before anyone could react he was at the table and had his knife in hand.

  The room was small, and only one SP could get at him. He charged, billy club raised.

  Dudek quick-jabbed the man in the belly. The SP screamed and fell to the floor, moaning and clutching his stomach. Dudek reached down and yanked the wounded SP’s .45 from his holster. “Hah!” With a victorious grin he waved the pistol back and forth between the other SP, Toliver, and Chief Derickson. “Back!” he yelled. “Hands up. Now!”

  Toliver and the others backed up.

  The SP on the floor rose and reached for the pistol.

  Dudek slapped away his hand, cocked the pistol, and shot him in the chest. The blast in the small room was deafening, making Toliver’s ears ring.

  The SP fell to his back, arms splayed and eyes wide open.

  Dudek waved the pistol back and forth and then seemed to make a decision. “You next, big officer.” He leveled the .45 at Toliver.

  Four blasts in quick succession roared from the doorway. Karol Dudek’s chest blossomed with large red splotches. The force of the shots slammed him against the opposite wall. With a groan, he tumbled to the floor and was still.

  The room was smoky with cordite. Standing at the doorway were the two Marines, their pistols leveled at Karol Dudek. Chief Derickson walked over and kicked the pistol away from Dudek. He felt Dudek’s wrist, then his neck. “Done for.”

  Toliver’s head was still filled with noise and cordite. “What’s that?”

  The chief yelled, “I said, it’s curtains, nine innings, lights out. The son of a bitch is dead.”

  “Got it, Chief.”

  The SP reached down and checked his buddy. “So is Torres.” He nodded toward Dudek. “That dirty bastard got what he deserved.” Then he hauled Torres’ body to the other side of the room and carefully arranged the dead man’s arms and legs. “I’m sorry, Pancho. You was a good partner.”

  Toliver looked at the Marines. “Thank you, fellas. That was close.”

  The captain holstered his .45. “Timing is everything.”

  Others rushed in the room. People crowded in the hallway trying to peek over each other’s shoulders.

  Toliver said, “Chief, call the coroner and keep everybody out except for our witnesses.” He walked over to the Marines and held out his hand. “Toliver, ONI.”

  The captain said, “Bergstrom, brig commander, and this here is Sergeant Hallen, my top kick.” They shook hands. “We heard the scuffle. Sorry we didn’t get here in time to save your SP.”

  Toliver looked over at Dudek’s inert form. “He was quick; handcuffs and all, he surprised us.”

  “For sure,” said Captain Bergstrom. “Something weird here. So the Russian embassy in D.C. wanted him? Got an idea.” He walked to Dudek’s body, dropped to one knee, and forced open Dudek’s mouth. After a moment he pulled out a brownish tooth.

  “Rotten?” asked Toliver.

  “No, sir. This is a cyanide capsule. Meant to be bitten on when captured. Death is almost instantaneous. Did you see his jaw working just before we opened up?”

  “To tell you the truth I was scared out of my pants.” Toliver was surprised he hadn’t wet his britches. He hadn’t thought of it at the time, but he sure did now. “But no, I didn’t.” He nodded to the tooth, “Never seen one of those before. But I’ve heard of them.”

  Captain Bergstrom palmed the false tooth. “This is sophisticated stuff. Like he was supposed to kill himself if he was caught.”

  Telephones were jangling and Chief Derickson was trying to answer them. Two lieutenants barged in, then a four-striper, all demanding answers from Derickson.

  “What else did he have?” Toliver wondered aloud. With Bergstrom and Hallen he walked over to the table to examine Dudek’s belongings again. He picked up the black barrel, screwed it tight, and looked again at the ridge.

  “Just for kicks.” Toliver aimed it across the room and thumbed the little ridge. “Phhhfft!” The barrel jumped in his hand. Something plinked against a glass-framed photo of the battleship Maryland across the room and then rattled on the desk beneath.

  “What the hell?” said Bergstrom.

  “I’ll be a . . .” The three walked across the room. The other officers and Chief Derickson joined them. The photo’s glass cover was cracked. “This thing has a kick to it.” Toliver bent down to find a gleaming little pellet on the desk just below the picture. “Chief, you have an envelope?” He held out a hand.

  “Yes, sir.” Derickson yanked open a drawer and handed one over.

  Using a paperclip, Toliver poked the pellet into the envelope, then sealed it.

  “What do you think, Commander?” asked Captain Bergstom.

  “I don’t like what I think. Chief, did you count the money?”

  Derickson said, “Yes, sir. Five grand. Couldn’t you do a number at the track with all that? Think of it. Del Mar in the summertime. Horses prancing in the surf. And the dollies. Lotsa dollies. Hubba, hubba.” He picked up the money and waved it.

  Toliver said, “Yeah, Hubba, hub—” He sniffed. That odor. Only a faint tinge, but it was there: Aqua Velva. On both the money and the envelope. “Son of a bitch!”

  “You okay, Commander?” asked Captain Bergstrom.

  Toliver barked, “Chief, get the Fort MacArthur Infirmary on the line. Doctor Chandler. Hurry!”

  Derickson stepped to his desk and picked up the phone.

  Toliver sniffed again at the money. “I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  3 December 1945

  En route to Shakhtyorsk, Sakhalin Oblast, USSR

  As Peoples had predicted, the weather was bumpy. They flew under a high overcast at ten thousand feet only to look down on a hoary mist obscuring the seascape. It got worse as they approached Sakhalin, with the overcast blotting out the sun and darkening their surroundings.

  Small talk had long been exhausted. The Marines kept busy, and Ingram envied that they had something to do. Rifles and pistols clacked as they were fieldstripped, the Marines running the actions. Ammo boxes and field packs were examined and reexamined as they closed on Sakhalin. Time and time again, Sergeant Boland polished his binocular lenses while his radioman fiddled with his equipment, checking frequencies and poring over codebooks.

  With darkness falling, Ingram walked to the flight deck. Right now, Berne, the navigator and radioman, was the most important man on the plane. Every hour or so he checked in with Atsugi while updating his navigational plot.

  Peoples turned in his seat, “How ya doin’, Todd?”

  Ingram said, “Middling to unfair.”

  “That means you’re anxious. We’re doin’ just fine, so you don’t have to worry.” Peoples winked and returned to his controls.

  “I’ll try.” Ingram leaned over Berne’s shoulder. “How’s it lo
ok, Jon?”

  Berne fiddled with radio dials. “Eh, win a few, lose a few. Atsugi rogered our sitrep, so we’re okay in that department. But the navigation is for the birds. I haven’t had a fix for the past four hours, and we should be making landfall pretty soon.”

  Berne raised his voice, “You get that, Leroy? All dead reckoning. No guarantees.”

  Peoples turned slowly in his seat. “DR roger, Jon. So tell me somethin’. We’re still on autopilot. Do you think we should take it off?”

  “No, I—”

  “Then we’ll go with what you got, Jon.”

  Peoples was dead serious. Ingram had to hand it to him. The man was putting his trust in Berne and letting him know it—a real confidence booster. Peoples wasn’t a Bucky Radcliff, but in his own way he had become a good leader.

  Berne gave a broad smile. “I appreciate your vote, Leroy. Still, no guarantees.”

  Peoples said, “Your recommendation is guarantee enough. Now get busy and give me a time, course, and speed to let down in this muck. Any luck with their tower yet?”

  “Nothing yet. I’ve been trying every five minutes. They just don’t answer.”

  “Are we transmitting properly?”

  “Checking it five ways from Sunday, Leroy. Radios are working all right.”

  “What does Atsugi advise?”

  “Same as last time,” said Berne. “They say ‘use your own judgment.’ The bad news is that we’re almost out of voice range. When we start down we’ll be on CW for sure.”

  “Okey, dokey,” said Peoples.

  A moment later Berne said, “In 4 minutes, at 1517, descend to 1,500 feet and maintain present course, speed 135. There should be no obstructions around the field for at least 20 miles.”

  “Very good. Mr. Lassiter, if you please?”

  “Yes, sir.” Lassiter began calling out the landing checklist.

  Hammer rose. “Might as well tell ’em now.” He went to the door and called for everyone to buckle up and prepare for landing. Then he returned and sat. He leaned over and said, “That goes for you, too, Commander.” He nodded to the jump seat.

  “Thank you.” Ingram sat and buckled up.

  Peoples asked, “Is 1517 still good, Jon?”

  “Sure is.”

  Peoples counted off on his fingers and then chopped the power. Moments later he eased the yoke forward and said, “Flaps fifteen when I give the word, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Flaps fifteen on your word, sir,” said Lassiter. Soon he reported, “Passing through 5,000 . . . 4,500.”

  “Flaps fifteen.”

  “Flaps fifteen,” replied Lassiter. He reached down and tweaked the lever. The plane bucked with the lift as the flaps lowered.

  “Jon, give Atsugi a sitrep, please,” said Peoples.

  “Roger.” Berne twirled dials on his radio equipment. “Lost them on voice. Going to CW.”

  “Right,” said Peoples. When the altimeter read 1,500 feet Peoples called, “Okay, speed 135. Gear down.”

  “On its way,” said Lassiter, throwing the lever.

  “Flaps twenty.”

  “Twenty,” said Lassiter.

  With the others, Ingram looked out the window. It was nearly pitch black; he couldn’t see a thing.

  Peoples said, “Try Shakhtyorsk again and keep working it.”

  Berne gave an eye-roll. “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ve been here before, Commander,” said Peoples. “You cain’t trust these bastards, remember?”

  “How can I forget,” said Ingram.

  “What do you recommend, Mr. Berne?” asked Peoples.

  “Pucker up and be ready for anything,” said Berne.

  “Descending to five hundred feet,” said Peoples calmly, again pulling back the power.

  The cockpit became quiet with the engines at idle. Ingram and Hammer traded glances as they realized Peoples was acting as if he were riding a bicycle down Main Street.

  Hammer mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Shit, we don’t have an altimeter setting.”

  Ingram pulled his strap tighter. He knew that the C-54, in poor visibility, could fly into the ground without the proper altimeter information provided by the tower.

  Lassiter said, “I wonder if—”

  “Mr. Lassiter, please!”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  Ingram knew how they felt, and he envied them as he did the Marines; they all had something to do. All he could do was hang on and pray and think of Helen.

  “Five hundred feet,” called Lassiter.

  Peoples pulled back on the yoke and eased in some throttle. “Runway three-four?” he asked.

  Berne said, “Affirmative, three-four. And according to this we should be on top right now.”

  “Going to 250 feet,” said Peoples, leaning forward, peering at black cotton.

  Suddenly, wisps of gray shot past and they saw the ground. “Hey!” said Lassiter. “There. Ten o’clock.”

  Indeed, Berne had planted them on their downwind approach to the airport. Over their left shoulders they spotted the runway. Slick with moisture, it glistened in the dimming light.

  Peoples called over his shoulder, “Son of a gun, Jon. Fine job. Damned fine job.”

  Berne fairly beamed. “All part of the service, Leroy. You’ll get my bill.”

  “Except, where the hell’s the lights? There’s no lights at all,” said Hammer.

  “Yeah, no beacon,” said Lassiter. “How’s that for diplomacy?”

  Ingram caught something at the edge of his vision. He looked aft and spotted a long, narrow shape off the coast. The Soviet cruiser. The Admiral Volshkov. Barely visible, she was anchored about a thousand yards offshore.

  Peoples saw it, too. “There’s your German cruiser.”

  “Strange,” said Ingram.

  “What?” asked Peoples.

  “She’s not showing lights either. Anchor lights are required. Especially in peacetime. Even our ships in Japan show lights now. What the hell’s going on? No beacon, no lights. Nothing.” He swept a hand toward the horizon. “And I don’t see the Maxwell.”

  “Would she have her lights on?”

  “Don’t see any reason why she wouldn’t. Tubby White knows the drill.”

  “You still want to go in?” asked Peoples.

  Ingram thought it over. “We’ve come this far. Might as well.”

  “I smell a skunk.” Peoples turned the C-54 onto the base leg.

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “Don’t think so. But I’m glad we have them jarheads,” said Peoples. He eased yoke and rudder and put the C-54 on final approach.

  “I’ll say. They’ll be the first ones out,” said Ingram.

  “Okay, final checks, if you please, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Jon, what about the Commies?” asked Lassiter. “Anything yet?”

  “Nothing,” said Berne. “Hold on. Sending a sitrep. Whoops! Now what? A long one coming in. Whoa. Priority. For Mr. Ingram’s eyes only. Amazing.” Berne bent over his code key and tapped with his left hand while writing the message on a blank pad with his right.

  “What’s amazing, Jon?” demanded Peoples.

  “It’s . . . top priority . . . top secret, and . . .” Berne twirled his pencil trying to keep up. “. . . Never seen anything like it. Damn thing’s in plain English.”

  “Get it down, Jon,” said Peoples.

  “Doin’ my best.”

  Peoples eased off some power and called, “Full flaps.”

  “Coming down,” said Lassiter.

  Peoples barked, “Landing lights. You got landing lights?”

  “Sorry.” Lassiter threw a switch and the haze before them became opaque. But now they could make out the numerals 34 painted at the runway’s threshold.

  They were five hundred feet from the runway when Berne said, “Got it.” Then, “Jeez.” He keyed his acknowledgment as the plane flashed over the threshold.

  Peoples chopped throttles and the C-54 began to fl
are.

  Berne reached over and handed the message to Ingram. “Best you look at it now, Commander.”

  “In a minute.” Ingram snatched it away and jammed it in his pocket just as the C-54 touched.

  “Holy shit! Damned thing is still there,” said Peoples.

  A glance toward the runway’s end told the story. The wrecked M-16 halftrack was still in the middle of the runway, about three quarters of the way down.

  The C-54 bounced and then held. “Flaps up now, Mr. Lassiter.”

  “Got it,” said Lassiter, yanking the lever up.

  With some lift gone, the plane settled on its mains; then the nose came down. Peoples began a delicate dance on the brake pedals, knowing the C-54 could easily go into a skid on the slick surface; maybe even a ground loop.

  “Come on,” he urged. The dark gray hulk of the M-16 grew larger in the windshield. “Git your butt down.”

  One hundred yards to go: the C-54 was still moving, its nose dipping as Peoples stood on the brakes.

  “Yeaggh!” Peoples yelled. “Cut the damned power. Everything off. All master switches!” He yanked back the mixture and throttles.

  Lassiter flipped off magnetos. Hammer frantically flipped off fuel switches and everything else he could find.

  “Brace yourselves!” yelled Peoples.

  The C-54 drew to a halt ten feet from the half-track—so close they couldn’t see it below the nose.

  “Shit!” said Hammer.

  Lassiter whacked Peoples on the back. “Great job, Skipper.”

  Peoples said, “Aw right, aw right. We need power. Hammer, reengage master switches and start number two immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hammer flipped switches. Soon he and Lassiter were spinning the port inboard engine. Immediately, it burst back into life. The cabin lights and instrument panel blossomed as the generator came back online.

  “Welcome to Karafuto, lads,” said Hammer.

  “Sakhalin, you jerk,” said Berne. “We mustn’t insult our comrades.”

  Peoples opened the cockpit window and stuck his head out. “Brrrr. It’s cold out there.”

  “See anybody?” asked Ingram.

  “No, sir.” He slid the window shut.

  Ingram’s left hand was shaking. So was his right. He flexed his fingers, making them work. Then he unbuckled, leaned forward, and said, “Good landing, Leroy.”