by Joe Buff
“Thanks, Constable,” Jeffrey said. “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.” Henga was tall and wiry, mid-thirties, and wore a revolver on his policeman’s equipment belt. He seemed relaxed and patient in a manner almost alien to Jeffrey.
Henga laughed, a friendly, welcoming laugh. “I’m not inconvenienced in the least. Your team coming is the most interesting thing to happen here in some time.” The Land Rover bounced along.
“That isolated, are you?”
Henga glanced at Jeffrey and made keen eye contact. “It’s a big event when the supply ship puts in from New Zealand once a month. Tourism stopped right dead with the war.”
“I imagine it would have.” Just like New York. Jeffrey knew it would take a little while to get where they were going, so he made small talk. “You used to get many tourists?”
“Ecotourism. Lots of it. We’re so far away from anywhere, we have dozens of species of birds and plants found no place else in the world. Birdwatchers came especially. Our famous endangered black robins.”
That sounded interesting. “Can you point them out to us?”
“Not here, sorry. Only on some of the outlying islets. They need virgin forest, you see, and all the forest on Chatham Island itself was cleared for pasture land. That’s why they’re endangered.”
Jeffrey paused, then gave in to curiosity. Henga looked like a West Indies black. “If you don’t mind my asking, Constable, are you Maori, or Moriori?”
“Some of both, plus English blood. There’s been intermarriage for many decades. We’re a tight-knit community.”
“Being a constable keep you busy?”
“No. That’s why there’s just one of me. In the old days I’d mostly keep an eye out for nature conservation problems, and make sure the kids at least were discreet if they smoked marijuana. Never any real crime here. A magistrate makes a day trip from the mainland every six months. In the interim, I dish out justice with a tongue lashing or my fist.” Henga chuckled. “We don’t even have a high school. For that the older children board over in New Zealand. They fly home for holidays, if they ever come back at all.”
“They see this as a place to escape from?”
“Unless you want to fish or raise sheep or farm for the rest of your life…”
Henga made a left turn onto a rough dirt road. It was bright enough now that he could turn off his headlights. Jeffrey looked around. The land was rolling, covered by lime-green grasses or purplish moss. There was also low scrub brush, and patches of red and yellow wildflowers, and weathered volcanic rock. Jeffrey saw barbed-wire fences and low stone walls dividing grazing fields. The Land Rover went by scattered houses and outbuildings. All were one story, some ramshackle; some of them had tin roofs, like sheep-shearing sheds. Sometimes the truck passed local people on porches or in their farmyards, up with the dawn. The people waved at the constable and eyed his passengers with interest. Jeffrey saw young children playing.
“Another two or three kilometers,” Henga said. The land began to rise. Chatham Island was shaped like a giant letter I, twenty-five miles from top to bottom. Just to the east of the shaft of the I, which ran north-south, a line of sandbars enclosed a big tidal lagoon. The hamlet of Owenga, where they’d started out, was nestled in the southeast corner of the I. Ilse’s setup was near the middle of the southern edge of the island.
Jeffrey held on as the road got rougher and bumpy. In low spots, sheltered hollows, with the windows of the Land Rover open, Jeffrey smelled the manure-and-urine odor buildup of cattle. He saw many sheep and cows, and sometimes a horse or two. Trees stood in lonely isolation, all bending the same way, leaning permanently eastward toward the morning sun.
“That’s from the wind?”
“The trade winds almost never stop. Hang onto your hat, Captain, or you’ll have to send to Peru to find it.” Henga laughed again. “That’s, oh, five thousand miles from here.”
The wind and rising sun had cleared the mist. The sky was a beautiful turquoise, flecked with high fluffy clouds. The road went past a stream, then took a culvert over a larger stream.
“Rained recently,” Harrison said idly as he glanced back down the road—which by now was more like a rutted, rough-hewn trail. “We aren’t kicking up dust.”
“That’s quite correct,” Henga said. “One thing about Chatham Island, the weather is unpredictable and never stays the same for very long. This afternoon could be perfectly sunny, or cloudy and cold. By tomorrow a tropical storm could hit. There’s a severe one passing New Zealand right now, you know. Drenched half of Australia on the way.”
Jeffrey nodded, then thought ahead. They were nearing Ilse and the SEALs.
“You’ve worked out rules of engagement?” Jeffrey didn’t want to take friendly fire.
“Oh yes, first thing. Your Lieutenant Clayton and I agreed, and I’ve informed my home-guard militia. Point one, no one shoots first. Point two, if you see strangers working in and around the water, leave them alone.”
“Good, good…How big is your militia?”
“One hundred twenty men and women. I put them through regular drills with vigor. Mandatory firearms practice every Saturday. We even have an old armored car.”
Harrison perked up. “What kind?”
“A Saracen. Ex–British Army. It usually stays by the airport. Fuel is short, you understand, and the thing’s transmission is rather worn, as is the barrel of its gun.”
“How large is your airport?” Harrison asked.
Henga smiled. “To call it an airport insults other airports. It’s an asphalt strip, uneven and not very long, barely adequate to take small propeller airplanes. We have one aircraft, in fact, privately owned, for short hops to the other inhabited island in the Chatham group, Pitt Island…. Before the war there were more-or-less daily flights from Wellington and Christchurch.”
Jeffrey knew those were cities on the New Zealand mainland, five hundred miles to the west. “Why do you say more-or-less?”
“The airplanes are what you Americans would call puddle jumpers. If they don’t have good weather, they can’t fly, as simple as that. As I mentioned, the weather here is very unpredictable.”
The road took a turn to the left and topped a rise. In front of Jeffrey loomed a big satellite dish. Near it was an equipment bunker dug into jutting bedrock. The door of the bunker stood open, and cables ran in and out. By the downwind side of the rock outcropping, Jeffrey saw a pair of khaki tents.
Chief Montgomery stepped from behind a stunted tree, one that was barely wide enough to hide his bulk. He’d obviously been waiting for them. He didn’t smile.
Jeffrey followed Ilse’s lead and glanced carefully over the edge of the jagged cliff on the rugged headland. A hundred feet below, strong white surf creamed endlessly against the base of the tan-yellow stone. The wind howled, the air was filled with seabirds and their cries, and further out seals and dolphins fed and played.
Jeffrey saw the cable Ilse was pointing to, draped over the edge of the cliff, leading down into the water. The main part of the lengthy cable, the acoustic link to Challenger, had been strung along the sea floor using the minisub.
“You know as well as I do,” Ilse said, “the microphone line has sensors that let me adjust for hydrographic conditions. I’m not doing this by the seat of my pants.”
“You’ve made communications checks with Sydney?”
“Repeatedly. And also with…Serenity. You heard me loud and clear, didn’t you? You didn’t miss a single one of my reports. Or do you want to run through the entire list again?”
“But the whole thing’s so theoretical.”
Ilse bristled. “I’ve seen you use weird tactical tricks in combat based on theories far crazier than this downlink. And I didn’t invent it, I just use it.”
“But—”
“I do know how to use it. It worked fine in the Aleutians, which is a harsher environment than here. It’s working just fine now.”
“So what’s wrong?”
/> “Maybe nothing’s wrong. Maybe he isn’t coming. Maybe he was sunk after all, or damaged and went back to Durban, and this whole thing is one giant fucking wild-goose chase.”
“Ilse, you shouldn’t use foul language.”
“Honest to God, Jeffrey, sometimes you’re too much.”
“It’s Captain to you, Lieutenant. Watch out, you’re on the verge of insubordination.”
“And you’re way past the verge of pompousness. I’m an officer in a foreign navy, and we’re on foreign soil. Off the ship you can’t push me around like you tried to on the last mission.”
“It doesn’t work like that. I’m still your commanding officer. I deserve, I insist on, your respect.”
“Well excuse me, Captain Fuller.”
“Why are you so irritable?”
“Because you’re irritating. You’re second-guessing me, just like you used to. It’s insulting. I’m an expert at this work and you know it.”
“So like I said, what’s wrong?”
“Like I said, maybe nothing’s wrong.”
“No, we know for sure he’s coming.”
“How? How do you know? He’s the most unpredictable bastard you or I ever met.”
“The Australians intercepted a neutral merchant ship. They got tipped off by some kind of shooting, during a rescue when the ship broke down. The ship was hollow inside, Ilse, like the one we took through the canal. The boarding party found a handful of Axis nuclear torpedoes in the secret hold.”
“You mean he got fresh ammo?”
“Yes. But something happened. Maybe the Aussies surprised him, blundering into the hold, and they had to be killed. The merchant master tried to tell some cockamamie story about pirates. It didn’t hold up. So ter Horst is definitely coming, and we definitely should have heard by now.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Let’s go back to the tent. You can get the SOSUS center for me live on voice?”
“Yes. I told you, didn’t I? I’ve talked to them myself.”
“Let’s go. And in front of the others, Ilse, act with decorum. What happened between us is private.”
“I had no idea we’d be assigned together again, on the ship. If I thought that would possibly happen, I’d never have let what went on between us get started to begin with.”
“So you blew it, because it did get started, and here we are. At least be discreet. I cannot let you argue with me in front of Clayton and Montgomery.”
Ilse balled her fists. “Stop lecturing me. This is exactly why I knew you and I would never work out. You’ve got some kind of complex. You don’t treat women with respect.”
“That’s it, Lieutenant! You’re the one with the complex. You don’t know how to take orders and play on a team.”
Jeffrey and Ilse trudged back the three hundred yards or so from the edge of the cliff to where the tents were set up. Out of the corner of his eye, Jeffrey spotted movement in the dense bushes, on the edge of a nature reserve that bordered the satellite ground-station site. A wild pig, probably.
When Jeffrey and Ilse got back to the others, Clayton and Montgomery and some of their men were standing or sitting and eating rations, and chatting with Harrison and Constable Henga. The SEALs were posing as rear-area security troops, sent along by the U.S. Navy with Ilse and Jeffrey and Harrison, who were supposed to be SOSUS maintenance workers. That was the cover story Henga fed to curious islanders who’d asked, and it would lull enemy recon sensors too.
Ilse entered her tent, to establish the voice link with Sydney using her portable console. Jeffrey left her alone so she could cool off.
Jeffrey stood there catching his breath, winded from climbing and walking in rough terrain. I’ve been so busy with all the duties as Challenger’s captain plus Wilson’s operations officer, I neglected my need for exercise. I’m really out of shape. Jeffrey idly took a closer look at the rock outcropping that held the equipment bunker for the local satellite ground station. The rock was volcanic, old, weathered, but strong and hard. The parts Jeffrey could see from where he stood were rough matte black, with veins of dark gray. The outcropping formed a big hump jutting out of the soil. The portion that held the bunker showed fresh marks from blasting and jackhammers, presumably done by U.S. Navy Seabees or New Zealand military engineers.
Jeffrey heard a strange crack as a hot angry bee rushed past his ear. One of the enlisted SEALs caved in on himself and fell forward. There was another crack and someone plucked Jeffrey’s sleeve. He turned in confusion since nobody was next to him. Montgomery came running at Jeffrey as fast as he could.
“Wha—”
“Sniper!” Montgomery bellowed as he knocked Jeffrey off his feet.
TWENTY-EIGHT
JEFFREY LAY ON his back, bewildered, staring at the sky, in mental shock as his heart pounded. Around him he sensed a disordered swirl of frantic motion and raised voices. Montgomery was already some distance away. Everyone was scrambling for cover and grabbing their weapons. Jeffrey’s former SEAL training came back from his younger days. He rolled onto his stomach and belly-crawled to a better position. Where’s the sniper? And who the hell is shooting at us?
There was a bang in the distance, and a tearing sound.
“Incoming!” Clayton shouted. Everyone squashed flat.
Jeffrey caressed the damp soil with urgent intimacy, and tried to become one with the moss. The initial surprise of it all was wearing off, and now stark terror sank in. Jeffrey badly wished he had a helmet. A glowing ball was tearing toward him low over the ground, leaving a trail of dirty smoke. The rocket slammed into Ilse’s tent and exploded inside. The canvas billowed outward and ripped, riddled with white-hot shrapnel. The tent burst into flame at once. It collapsed, roaring and crackling.
Ilse glanced from around the rock outcropping; she’d had the sense to abandon the tent at the first sign of trouble. The tent burned merrily, fanned by the wind—and that ended their only link with Challenger. There was no way to sound a warning, no way to call quickly for help.
Jeffrey fought hard to regain mental balance. They had to respond to this sudden emergency with speed and focused violence, or they’d be overwhelmed and defeated both individually and as a group—defeated emotionally and then physically. Jeffrey’s mind registered scattered rifle shots from the enlisted SEALs. He could tell they were uncoordinated, shooting wild, to try to suppress the enemy fire. But who was the enemy?
Jeffrey heard Shajo Clayton’s voice, tough and commanding amid the din. The SEAL lieutenant was calling orders to his team, to stop wasting ammo and organize a meaningful hasty defense. Jeffrey drew comfort from Clayton’s leadership as Clayton rallied and prodded his men. Jeffrey’s own combat instincts clicked in more and more, and some of his fear began to give way to excitement and rising purposefulness. The key was not to stay passive, but do something useful immediately. Yet tactically, in this situation, Clayton was in charge.
Clayton crawled up next to Jeffrey. His closeness made Jeffrey feel better. Jeffrey felt less lost and alone, no longer quite so isolated as everyone else near him sought concealment or dug themselves in.
Both men gained scant cover using a small dip in the ground. Clayton showed Jeffrey a grin. The two had been here several times before, this special, taxing, mystical place where courageous people braved death together with righteousness on their side.
Another bullet crazed the soil, too near Jeffrey’s head. Clayton and Jeffrey were forced to move apart. Their separation made Jeffrey feel more anxious. He forced himself to get a grip.
“They’re after you, Captain. They know you’re senior.”
“Yeah, but who’s they?”
Gunther Van Gelder lay in the bushes beside Commander Bauer. Bauer studied their objective with his binoculars.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Bauer whispered. “They haven’t broken and run.”
“Maybe they’re too scared to move.”
Bauer made hand signals for his snipe
r to fire again.
“I got targets,” Chief Montgomery shouted. “Two groups, three or four men each, heading right and left! They’re trying to outflank us!”
“Hold your fire,” Clayton ordered. “They might be friendly troops!”
“Constable,” Jeffrey yelled. “Are they yours? Some kind of mix-up?”
“No!” Henga yelled back. “Nobody dresses like that.”
“Like what?” Jeffrey couldn’t get a clear view. He was pinned down as the enemy sniper learned the feel of the wind—his shots were closer and closer.
“Black body stockings,” Henga yelled.
“Kampfschwimmer,” Jeffrey said. There was a moment of shocked silence. Then the SEALs visibly braced themselves. Clayton licked his lips, as if he welcomed this one-on-one contest of champion teams. Jeffrey thought fast. “They’re after the bunker.”
“Return fire!” Clayton ordered. “Weapons free!”
The SEALs resumed firing the time-worn M-16s they’d brought with them, part of their disguise as rear-area troops. The outflanking Kampfschwimmer went to ground. M-16s crackled and spent brass flew as each SEAL took carefully aimed shots. They needed to make every round count: they hadn’t brought heavy weapons, or much of an ammo supply.
The flanking Kampfschwimmer fired back. Their rifles made a deeper booming noise than the M-16s. Jeffrey knew those telltale reports from the old days: AK-47s, also aged, but lethal. Their bullets were much heavier than the ones from an M-16. Both Kampfschwimmer flanking teams advanced, using fire and movement skillfully. Jeffrey felt the pressure mount as the enemy pincers advanced.
Clayton raised his head, just long enough to squeeze off a round. Burnt powder went up Jeffrey’s nose and stirred his adrenaline more, but he was unarmed and they were in serious danger of being surrounded. Jeffrey began to choke on thin but acrid smoke—the fire in Ilse’s tent had spread and the second tent was burning.