A Korean Tiger

by Nick Carter

  It was the far-off distant hum of a plane that decided him. He searched the gray overcast without hope, but the idea came. That plane was miles away but there might be others. It had stopped raining now and the skies might clear suddenly, the sun come out. It did that in Korea.

  He went back for Bennett, thinking that he must have at least an hour of grace. He was betting that the guerrillas who had attacked the train, at least some of them, had come from this place. They would return. They would get a hot reception if Nick could arrange it. Beyond that he did not think at the moment. He had to go to ground somewhere, had to get his back against a wall, and this was as good a place as any. A lot depended on what he found in that hut.

  As he passed the impaled man he thought that he could expect the same if the guerrillas took him alive. It was unlikely they would harm an insane man. Bennett might come out best in this deal after all.

  Bennett was Still babbling to himself as Nick released him from the sapling and pushed him along the path. The man was on a real talking jag. He moved slowly now, jerkily and with reluctance. He was in a near catatonic state. Nick had read enough to know what to expect — alternate periods of stupor and activity, of babble and incoherence broken by an occasional period of lucidity. He hurried the man along down the path and through the cliff face. There were a lot of big ifs looming on the horizon and Bennett was only one of them.

  Nick replaced the bamboo screen after him. No use warning them too soon. If he could catch them off guard, and punish them sufficiently with the first few bursts, they might just leave him alone. If he found the cache of arms he was counting on — if... if... if...

  The hut was disappointingly barren. Large for its type, it had a trodden earth floor. There was a large earthenware water jar in one corner, half full. A rusty tin cup with Made in Japan on it floated in the water. He and Bennett drank. He found a coil of straw rope in a corner and made Bennett lie down, then he tied his legs. All this time the man was babbling on and on and on...

  "I want my little tiger," he said. "My little tiger — I want it. Gimme it. It's my tiger. They gave it to me a long time ago only it was two tigers then and the man said wait and someday they would come and match the tigers and they would pay me and I loved my tiger and the man never came — he never came at all and I waited so long and I listened and listened and I waited but they never came and I never got paid they owe me such a lot..."

  Nick, listening with only half an ear, wished he had a tape recorder. If you could slow down the man's babble and play it over and over you might get something out of it. The tiger bit, for instance, was coming clear. The thing had been a talisman of sorts, given to Bennett when he was recruited by some astute Russky who had known the sort of kook he was dealing with. Meet me at midnight in the cemetery! Bring your half of the tiger! Match them up and begin plotting! That sort of thing — Bennett's poor brain was a mishmash of it, of all the thousands of bad books, and the way-out TV programs, that he had seen and believed in over the years.

  There was a large brazier in the exact middle of the hut. Nick picked up a lump of charcoal, found it still faintly warm. Overhead huge Norway rats rustled and slithered in the thatch. Bennett babbled on wildly in his corner. Nick stood looking around the barren hut and swore. There must be something around here! Guerrillas were kept well supplied by their employers. Yet — nothing. Rats. A little water. A brazier. A crazy man. Nick kicked the brazier in an excess of disgust.

  "I didn't mean to kill Jane I didn't really but then she was so boring and so fat and ugly and so boring and they never got in touch with me like they promised and sent the beautiful girls like they promised and I had my own little place where I could sit and pretend and it was all right but you can't pretend all the time and I took pictures of Jane and she wouldn't do it any more and I know it was wrong but I killed her and waited and they never got in touch with me..."

  The brazier tipped over on its side. Nick Carter stared at the earthen floor beneath it. It looked a little different, somehow disturbed. He fell to his knees and began to claw the dirt aside. Almost immediately he ran a long splinter into his finger. Boards. Planks. Under the earth.

  He pried up three planks in as many minutes. As he removed the last one a faint ray of sun slanted in through a window. It was clearing.

  The hole was a large one. Nick leaped down into it and stood shoulder level with the floor. He began hauling out the goodies. Machine guns, Russian made. Plenty of ammo in clips, drums and bandoliers. Stick grenades made in Germany, probably captured in World War II and carefully stored. Half a dozen huge revolvers still wrapped in brown paper and cosmoline. A large stock of rice and dried fish, the latter stacked like kindling. A couple of earthenware jugs containing ginseng booze, real popskull, about 175 proof. Nick took a solid belt and winced and shuddered, then felt the fire running through him. Just what the troops needed.

  In a far corner of the hole was a cache of gasoline — a dozen jerricans marked U.S. Army. Nick Carter began to work fast. The Three Bears would be home anytime now. His grin was taut. They would be pretty sore bears — and there would be more than three of them. Hurry, boy!

  "So I watched and I listened and you know I never forget anything and they told me they would pay me a lot and I could have all the girls I wanted and I never saw the girls except fat old Jane and I did try to get in the CIA and they laughed and the FBI they laughed and they all laughed and said I was too weak and I couldn't pass the tests and they always laughed and the Army said I should stay home and be four eff and oh how I like the beautiful soft girls with their softness and breasts and thighs and to strangle them so they won't laugh at me..."

  Nick had all he needed out of the hole. He took two of the jerricans of gas outside the hut. He lined them up with the rock fortress, placing them just underneath the overhang of the thatched roof. He opened one of the cans and sloshed gas up over the thatch and down the side of the hut. He left the cans there and went back into the hut.

  "He never came back he gave me the little tiger and then he never came back with the girls he was going to bring he never did..."

  Nick made Bennett swallow some of the ginseng liquor. "Drink it, fella. Might do you some good. You can't be any worse off than you are."

  Bennett spat out the liquor. "I can't that's horrible I can't drink blood there was so much blood you know when I pulled the hatchet out of her head I tried to stop it I put the hatchet back in but it wouldn't stop it was like a river I couldn't..."

  Nick Carter's flesh was crawling. He was tempted for a moment to gag the man. No. Bennett might turn lucid and spill something worth hearing. Meantime get on with it!

  He picked up the man, still bound hand and foot, and ran all the way to the jumble of boulders on the slope. He put him against a huge rock and ran back to the hut. There had been burlap sacks in the hole and he filled one with rice and dried fish and the jugs of Korean booze. Into another sack he flung all the ammo he could carry, being careful to include tracer and incendaries. He took four of the machine guns with him. He cast a look at the water jug, then forgot it. By noon it would probably be pouring again. Water was the least of his worries.

  After carefully checking the jerricans again — they were an integral part of the half-baked plan he was nurturing — he staggered back to the rock fort.

  He was just in time. He had barely time to load the machine guns, carefully inserting a tracer every ten and an incendiary every fifteen, when he peered over the rocks and saw the first guerrilla coming out of the cliff opening.

  Chapter 13

  Killmaster leveled the machine gun over the rock and let go a sighting burst. Rock shards exploded high and to the right. So startled, so surprised, were the guerrillas that he got the lead man before he could duck back into cover. Silence descended again on the little valley.

  Nick studied the corpse. The man had fallen near the cliff entrance and lay unmoving. Even at the distance Nick could make out the rubber shoes, the dirty white trous
ers and ragged field jacket. The man wore heavy leather bandoleers crossed over his chest. A rifle lay near at hand. Nick breathed a little easier. They were guerrillas, all right. Bandits to the police and military. But it could have been the Korean police coming through that gap — he had taken a chance in firing before looking. A necessary chance. He couldn't let them get a foothold inside the valley.

  He sent a long spray of lead at the cliff entrance, sighting with the tracer now and hosing a murderous fire down the passage. He kept it up, in short bursts so the gun wouldn't heat, until he had exhausted the drum. He slipped in a fresh drum and waited. That was one confused bunch of bandits about now. Cut off from home base.

  "I used to dream of the big tool and I would hurt them with it and they would all scream and run and hurt themselves on it and like it and it was a big tool and the best tool in the world and mother I'm sorry I killed you but you were too fat and you should never have laughed at me..."

  Nick shot a glance at the man lying bound in the shelter of the big rock. Bennett's eyes were closed. A ropy thread of saliva leaked from the loose mouth.

  There was movement again at the cliff entrance. A dirty white handkerchief suspended from the end of a bamboo pole came into view. Nick smiled tightly. They wanted a truce. While they took time to figure the score. They must know he wasn't the police. He glanced back over his shoulder, up the slope behind him. He was vulnerable in that direction — it was the only way they could get at him — but it would take them a long time to circle around and scale the valley wall.

  A voice hailed him from the cliff. "Tongsun— tongsun!" Roughly it meant hey you! There followed a long spate of Korean.

  Nick cupped his hands and yelled back. "Korean talkee have no! English. Speak English!"

  More Korean followed. Nick could make out the word jeepo repeated over and over. House. They wanted to get to their house. Yeah. He would bet they did. They were probably almost out of ammo after the raid on the train.

  Again he yelled back. "English! Hava no Korean speak. Have English only!" On sudden thought he added, "Eigo— eigo..." Japanese for English. Most Koreans over twenty spoke Jap.

  That did it. After another long silence a man appeared cautiously at the cliff opening. He wagged the handkerchief back and forth. Nick yelled, "Okay — I won't shoot. What do you want?"

  "Want our house — many things in house, jeepo, we need. Who you come here take house? What want? We not care, no hurt you now. Let us come house get things. No? Yis?"

  Nick glanced at the sky. The sun was still shining through wispy cloud but it was darkening in the south. Rain soon. Then he heard it again, the insect buzzing of a plane far off. He saw it. A gnat in the sky far to the west. Must be somewhere near the railroad. He watched the plane. If it came closer, just a bit closer, he would take a chance. Shoot the works. Go for broke.

  The guerrilla spokesman grew impatient. Nick knew that his pals were circling to get into the next valley and take him from behind. A lot of them would get killed that way and they knew it. If this crazy big nose could be talked into surrendering it would save a lot of bother and blood...

  The plane was closer. Flying low, dipping and rising, following the rugged contour map of Korea. Looking for something? Someone? Nick strained his eyes — it was a light plane of some sort. A scouting plane.

  "What say, crazy fool English?" The bandit was whipping himself into a lather now. "You let us go jeepo by God! You sonbitch sullender or we cut neck good! What say, English?"

  "Truce over," yelled Nick. He sent a burst at the cliff just over the speaker. Rock dust flew. The man dived back into the hole in the cliff. A moment later he stuck his head out again to scream, "Cruddy sonbitch!" That guy, Nick thought, has been associating with GIs.

  He yelled back. "Harabachie you!" His Korean was scanty and bad, but he thought it meant something like up your honorable grandfather's. In a land of ancestor worship it was a deadly insult.

  The plane was closer now and its present line of flight would bring it over the valley. Nick sent another spray of lead at the cliff, just to hold them down, then turned to sight on the two jerricans he had so carefully placed beside the hut. The thatch was sodden from the rains, but the underside might be dry enough to catch. There should be enough smoke and flame for the pilot to sec. If he missed the signal and flew on past — well, Nick preferred not to think about that.

  He sent a short burst at the jerricans. Gas spurted from holes in the metal but no fire yet. An incendiary or a tracer, damn it! He sent another burst into the cans, a long one this time. Red tracer streaked into the cans and they exploded with a whoosh of flame and smoke up the side of the hut. The relatively dry underside of the thatching caught and a pillar of black smoke began to mount.

  Nick Carter swiveled to send another long burst of fire at the cliff. The machine gun heated and jammed. He flung it away and picked up another one.

  Behind him Raymond Lee Bennett was still babbling: "I want my little tiger they gave it to me and said to keep it but they never came but the men came and shot it and it broke all those pieces and they were fighting and she wouldn't let me keep my little tiger so he will never come now because I lost the tiger and she is a nice lady but she oughta let me keep my tiger...."

  The little plane had spotted the plume of smoke and was banking around to investigate. The engine was running rough, missing now and then. It had a bad cough. Nick Carter followed the incoming glide of the plane with something akin to awe — it couldn't possibly be! Yet it somehow was. That was an Aeronca 65 TL! Twenty-six years old. Held together with paper clips. The Hying Turtles had found him!

  The man from AXE so far forgot himself as to stand up and wave. Fire from the cliff face whanged and screeched around him, and he dove for cover again. He sent a lance of lead at the cliff and the firing stopped as they ducked back.

  The plane skimmed the ridge just behind Nick. He could make out two men in the tiny cabin. That would be Jimmy Kim and his partner, Pok. Small arms fire rattled from behind the ridge and Nick saw bits of the wing fly off. The guerrillas had gotten around behind that ridge faster than he had thought possible — if it were not for the plane they would have him in enfilade now. As it was the situation was much brighter — the guerrillas would expect the plane to radio for help.

  Killmaster whipped around just in time to see them making a sortie from the cliff. They weren't giving up so easily. He nestled the Tommy gun on the rocks and shot down the screaming men like metal ducks in a gallery. He got four and the others turned and ran. Nick did not think they would try again.

  The Aeronca had banked around and was coming back down the ridge. The engine sputtered and coughed gouts of black smoke. It was very low, hedge hopping, barely skimming the tops of the trees on the ridge. Nick watched with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. The Flying Turtles were a couple of kooks!

  Pok must be flying the jalopy, because Jimmy Kim was leaning far out on his side and blazing away at the trees with a Tommy gun. They were so close that Nick could see the expression of fiendish glee on Jimmy's face. The boy was having a ball. Pok was firing a pistol from his side, shooting with one hand and flying the crate with the other.

  As they glided overhead Jimmy Kim looked at Nick and waved the Tommy gun in salutation. He shouted something that was lost in the wind and gunfire and blast of the engine as Pok gunned it for altitude. But Kim was grinning and Nick got the idea — the situation was well in hand.

  For about one more minute. He watched the plane bank around and come in for another strafing run — the engine coughed, spurted black smoke, coughed again and quit cold.

  The sudden silence had a strange deafening effect. Nick's ears rang with it. There was no gunfire. The cliff was silent and no sound came from the ridge behind him. The only sound in the hush was the keening, the sibilant whistle of air around the little plane as it came gliding in.

  They had a chance. A bare chance. Nick leaped out of his cover behind the rocks, a Tommy
gun in each hand, and prepared to cover both the cliff and the ridge. It was all he could do. Cover them and wait for the crash.

  Pok brought the little craft in over the far end of the valley, beyond the now blazing hut. He was fishtailing in, cutting his air speed, trying to pancake her in. Pok was flying her by the seat of his pants.

  She cleared the burning hut and came down in a long flat slide. The undercarriage folded and exploded, matchwood now. The plane lost half a wing to a boulder, turned sideways and kept sliding, turned over once and came upright again and lost the other wing. She plowed a long furrow in the valley floor. She came to rest fifty feet short of the cliff face.

  Nick was running toward the plane before it stopped moving. Pok and Jimmy Kim would be sitting ducks for the guerrillas in the cliff opening — if they were still alive. Nick ran zigzag, a Tommy gun in each hand, firing alternate bursts at the cliff. There was no accuracy that way — you had to hold a machine gun down to hit anything with it — but it made for effective spray fire.

  There was no return fire. Nick ceased his own fire and with great caution, keeping an eye on the cliff face, took what cover he could find behind a jagged piece of tail section. He was about twenty feet from what was left of the main cabin.

  He yelled: "Hey! Kim — Pok! You people all right?" It was, as he admitted later, rather an inane question. But he had a lot on his mind just at the moment.

  Slowly, as though rising in an elevator, Jimmy Kim's head appeared in the smashed window of the cabin. His smile was broad. He appeared to be bleeding slightly from a cut on the head.

  Jimmy Kim said: "Hi, dad! Nice to see you again. And why shouldn't we be all right? Why should a little plane crash bother us?" He began to climb out the window. "You can put those guns down now," he told Nick. "Your friends have taken off. Running. High tailing it for the high mountains."