China Star

by Maurice Medland

  He’d decided that he had no choice but to wait for the sergeant to make his 2400 call before making his move. If he took him after the 2300 call, he’d have to wait for the woman until midnight, alerting the Chinese destroyer that something was amiss when the 2400 call didn’t come through. He was going to be late for the rendezvous, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He only hoped the woman and her contact on the island, a man named Charles Shen, would be in a position to wait for him.

  He looked up at the sky, a black dome over the earth. An occasional stab of lightning crackled through the heavens, illuminating dark clouds that obscured a sliver of moon. At least the weather was cooperating. With a sky like that, the black inflatable would be hard to spot. He dumped his coffee over the side and walked into the galley. Sergeant Li followed him.

  Matt rinsed his cup out in the sink and peered into the adjacent crew’s lounge, dark except for the red glow of night lights. The Chinese marines had flaked out, exhausted from their day’s work. Corporal Wu and Private First Class Ling had seized the leather couches. One of the young privates was sprawled on the deck, using his backpack for a pillow. They all appeared to be sound asleep.

  The remaining marine, the nervous young private, Fong, had drawn guard duty and was sitting on a chair in the corner with his Kalashnikov pointed at the overhead, finger on the trigger, head nodding. It was interesting that the Chinese had posted a guard over themselves. They seemed to understand that with so few men, it was they, not Matt’s men, who were vulnerable.

  “You go to bed now,” Sergeant Li said in English.

  Matt didn’t respond. Ignoring Li made the sergeant nuts. Matt’s goal from the beginning had been to wear him down, get him off balance. Sergeant Li had been in a black mood ever since Jason and Scootchy had returned from the freighter with a report - not surprisingly true - that the ship had a tear in the bow that would require some major repairs before it could be moved. Li had insisted on seeing the tear with his own eyes, and Matt, after a subtle yes nod from Jason, had accommodated him. The pull would now have to be delayed until tomorrow night, and the sergeant wasn’t happy. Tough. He was going to be a lot less happy in about eight minutes.

  Sam and three of his men were in their bunks fully clothed under blankets, waiting. Precisely at midnight they’d each take their assigned marine and package him neatly in duct tape. The sergeant was Matt’s responsibility, but first, he had to get him away from the others, let him make his call. If Matt went to the bridge, the sergeant, like Mary’s little lamb, would follow.

  “You go to bed,” Sergeant Li said again, this time more insistent.

  Matt stretched and yawned. “Soon as I update the log.”

  He hung his cup on a peg, glanced at his watch, and headed up the ladder to the bridge. To his relief, Sergeant Li followed him. He turned on the small pull-down reading lamp over the bridge chair, picked up the log, and sat down. He twisted in the faded leather chair and clicked his pen. Sergeant Li paced the bridge behind him, muttering something in Mandarin about filthy barbarians who never slept.

  Matt opened the book and started writing. This was it. He’d have to move quickly and decisively as soon as the sergeant made his midnight call. There was no margin for error. One of the two inflatable work boats was tied up to the Jacob’s ladder from the survey work they’d done earlier in the day, fueled and ready to go. If he and Sam shoved off a few minutes after midnight, there was a chance they could make the pickup and be back aboard before the 0100 report.

  The timing would be tight, but it was their only shot. Sergeant Li’s radio was already set to the proper frequency, and Matt had memorized the Mandarin words, but he still didn’t think he could fake it. Mandarin was a tonal dialect. Each word had a pronunciation that carried one of four basic tones - a high and even tone, a rising tone, a dipping tone, and a falling tone - plus a clear, unstressed tone, and they had to be perfect. Changing the tone changed the meaning of the word. He’d worked hard to get the tones right, but try as he might, he just didn’t sound Chinese. Whenever they got back aboard, they’d have no choice but to coerce one of the Chinese marines into making the call.

  Earlier in the day, Sam had spotted the same young private, the one named Fong, that Matt had noticed. He had a shrill, reedy voice like Sergeant Li, and he seemed nervous. If they isolated Private Fong from the others, and Sam put the fear in him, they might persuade him to make the call. In any case, Matt would have to be back on time. They couldn’t just hand the radio over to the Chinese private if Matt wasn’t there to monitor what he was saying. He was the only man in the crew who spoke Chinese.

  Sam had proposed taking Fong and the radio with them when they did the pickup, but Matt had argued against it. In the first place, there was no guarantee that the young private would actually make the call, and in the second place, a belligerent could cause too much trouble, maybe shout out or make a break for it as they approached the island. No, there was no other way. They had to make the pickup and get back aboard before 0100. With luck, they could do it. If they made it, and if they could get Private Fong to say the words, and if he was convincing, that would buy them a few hours to get away, depending on the range of the radio. If not, they’d have to fire up all four engines, shed all the weight they could, and run like hell.

  Matt finished the log, stood up, and stretched. He looked out the bridge windows into the semi-darkness. The chain of islands was black except for the island farthest to the west. Dim yellow lights twinkled in the distance, probably floodlights surrounding the prison compound.

  He shifted his attention to the direction he’d seen the Chinese destroyer take. He had no idea where Zhuhai was now, but the war games were probably somewhere in the vicinity of the islands. At a flank speed of thirty-two knots, it wouldn’t take long for her to return. He shoved his hands into his hip pockets and fingered the pistol Gray Wolf had given him. This time he had it cocked and ready to fire. He glanced over his shoulder. The chronometer on the bulkhead read 2359, the second hand ticking slowly. One minute had never seemed so long. At exactly 2400, Sergeant Li switched the radio on in his backpack.

  “Aerie, this is Eagle,” he said in Mandarin. He sounded tired and irritated. He waited for a confirmation, then said, “The barbarian ship and crew are secure at 2400 hours.” He snapped the radio off.

  Matt moved into position.

  A burst of gunfire echoed from the deck below, bullets ricocheting on steel. The sergeant jumped and reached over his shoulder. Before he could turn the radio on, Matt swung. He connected with the side of Li’s head, knocking him back against the bulkhead, then pulled the pistol from his pocket and jammed the muzzle against Li’s forehead.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  Sergeant Li froze against the bulkhead.

  Matt relieved him of his assault rifle and stepped back two paces. “Place your hands on top of your head and turn around.”

  Li complied.

  Matt returned the pistol to his pocket and leveled the Kalashnikov. The burst of gunfire had him worried. Holding the rifle on the sergeant, he backed up to the bridge telephone console. There was no way he was taking Sergeant Li belowdecks until he knew who was in control of the ship. He pressed the button for the crew’s lounge. After the fifth ring, he heard a click.

  “Sam.”

  Matt exhaled. “Everything secure?”

  “All set, Skipper.”

  Matt prodded the sergeant down the ladder and into the lounge. Corporal Wu, Private First Class Ling, and Private Yu were lying face down, hands secured behind their backs with duct tape. Doc Miller stood over them with one of their assault rifles. Sam was putting the finishing touches on Private Fong while Gene Harvey held a rifle on him. The young private was bent over with his hands crossed behind his back.

  “What was the shooting about? Everybody okay?”

  “Just a slip of the finger,” Sam said, spooling a roll of duct tape around Private Fong’s wrists. “I guess I start
led him.”

  Matt glanced at Sam’s face. Zigzag streaks of green and black camouflage paint made him look like something out of a nightmare.

  “Can’t imagine why.”

  Sergeant Li started screeching in Mandarin. “You dog bones have fouled everything up. Listen to me, you miserable whores. Resist these barbarians by all means possible. You are to do nothing they say. Nothing.”

  Matt resisted the urge to tell Li to shut up. He might have to reveal that he spoke the language at some point, but there was no reason to give up that advantage yet.

  “Relieve him of that radio, Doc. Then lock him up somewhere, away from the others.”

  “Where?”

  Matt had been thinking about a place to secure Sergeant Li. The ship had originally been built for the Dutch Navy. It had a two-man brig Matt used for storage. He’d have to press it into service.

  “Lock him in the brig.”

  “You know it’s full of stuff.”

  “Clean it out.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “I don’t know. On a ring, hanging on the keyboard on the bridge. Find it.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Lock these three in the bosn’s stores locker.” Matt nodded toward Private Fong. “Isolate him while we’re gone to soften him up. Have him standing by on the quarterdeck, with the radio, when we get back.”

  “Hold still, Skipper.” Sam squeezed a wad of black camouflage makeup out of the tube and smeared Matt’s face with it. He stood back and gave him a critical look, then grinned. “Black is beautiful.”

  Matt checked the magazine on Sergeant Li’s Kalashnikov. It was full. He pulled an extra magazine out of the sergeant’s flak jacket and shoved it in his belt. He looked at his watch.

  “Let’s go, Sam. We’ve got fifty-five minutes to get there and back.”

  “Just you and me? You sure?”

  “Any more men would just get in the way,” Matt said. He turned to Jason Tyler. “Weigh the anchor and get the engines started. Retrieve the ground leg lines. Get us free of the freighter, ready to run. We should be back before 0100.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper. Good luck.”

  Matt headed for the quarterdeck with Sam at his heels. The rain had gotten heavier. They clambered down the Jacob’s ladder and jumped into the Zodiac. Sam cast off the line, Matt fired up the twin outboard motors and leaned into the tiller, heading west toward Turtle Island. He wasn’t sure where the exact pickup point was, but it was on the north beach, somewhere between the two left legs of the turtle. He checked his watch. Seven minutes past midnight. With luck, they could be there at 0025. Five minutes for the pickup, twenty minutes back to the ship. If everything went according to plan, they’d be back in good time to convince Private Fong to say the right words for the 0100 call-in.

  The wind picked up. Raindrops the size of dimes began to splatter against the rubber boat. The tiny craft labored over swells and dipped down into black troughs, the pitch of the muffled engines rising and falling. Matt looked up at the sky. His forecast of rain based on the northeasterly direction of the wind and the high cirrus clouds had been right. The rain had brought a dense layer of black clouds that obscured the quarter moon. Darkness was good, but the wind was blowing up surf that was slowing him down. Eight minutes had already elapsed, and the lights of the island seemed only a little closer.

  The dark clouds shifted, intermittently exposing the faint glow of the moon. Sam’s massive figure was crouched in the bow, assault rifle cradled in his arms. With slashes of camouflage paint down his face, he’d be a terrifying figure coming out of the night. Matt thought he’d better be the first one ashore - he didn’t want to scare the woman to death - then remembered his own blackened face.

  A gust of wind blew the top off a wave, drenching him. Raindrops hissed into the sea like bullets. He prayed the woman and her contact would be where they were supposed to be, waiting for him. The quicker he made the pickup, the better. The weather was getting worse, and the added weight in the boat on the return trip would only slow him down more.

  Matt blinked the water from his eyes. The yellow lights of the island were clearly in view now, farther inland, ringing the prison compound. He thought he could hear a generator humming faintly in the distance. He turned the rudder toward shore. The clouds covering the moon drifted away again, and he could see the two dark peninsulas that formed the left legs of the turtle, separated by the relative lightness of the beach.

  “See anything, Sam?”

  “Negative, Skipper.”

  Matt felt a flash of irritation at the woman and her contact for not being where they were supposed to be, then reminded himself that he was the one who was late. He strained his eyes. Where the hell were they? Had they given up on him and gone back? Not likely - he wasn’t that late. Were they hiding nearby and he just didn’t see them? Possible. Or had they been discovered? Very possible, what with his being late. If they’d been captured, the Chinese would have a warm welcome for their rescuers the minute they set foot on the beach.

  The boat was now about fifty feet off shore. Decision time. Did he stay or did he go? To hell with it. Without the woman, he had nothing to go back to. If the Chinese were waiting for them, they’d just have to fight their way out.

  He spotted a rock formation behind the first peninsula that created a natural cove. It would be tricky to maneuver around the rocks, but they needed some shelter in case anyone opened fire. It made more sense than just running up on an open beach. He steered to port and headed for the cove.

  “Good idea, Skipper,” Sam said. “That beach is a little too open.”

  Matt maneuvered around the rocks and got in as close as he could. He idled the muffled outboard motors down to a low purr and listened. Waves crashed through the rocky entry and exploded in a haze of white spray. Raindrops drummed against the inflatable boat. Except for the water and the distant generator hum, there were no other sounds. He cut the motors and lifted the props out of the water. Sam slipped over the side and took up point on the beach, crouching low with his assault rifle. Matt slid into the water behind him and tugged the boat ashore. He wedged a branch of driftwood between two rocks and tied the boat to it.

  The cove appeared to be about thirty feet wide with its own private beach. Matt crouched behind a boulder the size of a desk and peered down the beach area that was supposed to be the pickup point, a sweeping panorama about 300 yards long. At the other end, the beach narrowed down to a few boulders, then petered out. The beach was empty.

  “Where the hell are they?” he said.

  From behind him, Sam gently put his hand over Matt’s mouth. Matt turned. Sam made the shushing motion, his index finger across his lips, then pointed to his left. He’d heard something.

  Matt followed Sam’s gaze. Across the narrow beach was a stand of twisted brush. He wiped the water from his eyes and studied it. He thought he saw a branch move but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just the wind and rain. He couldn’t just sit there and wonder what it was - time was running out. He snapped the safety off on the Kalashnikov and motioned for Sam to go left. He would go right.

  Crawling across the beach on his stomach, Matt reached the west end of the tangled stand of brush. He came to his feet and saw Sam’s dark form rising up on the east end. He leveled the rifle into the brush and cautiously started moving branches aside with the barrel. He saw something move, a glimpse of clothing, and aimed the rifle.

  “Come out,” he said in English, then quickly repeated the order in Cantonese.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  The brush parted, and a frail-looking young woman came to her feet, hands raised. Wet, stringy hair fell over her forehead, covering her eyes. Damp leaves and twigs clung to her hair and clothing. She looked like a little girl who’d been caught playing in a pile of leaves in the rain. She pulled the hair away from her eyes and gaped at Matt’s blackened face. A breath went out of her that seemed to make her physically smaller.

&n
bsp; “Thank God.”

  Matt stared back. There was little resemblance to the picture he’d seen of Elizabeth Grayson. He’d never seen anyone so fragile-looking in his life. Tall and emaciated, scraggly hair covering a tear-stained face, red eyes. Why was she crying, now that she was leaving? Women were crazy.

  “Elizabeth Grayson, I presume?”

  “Call me Beth.”

  “I’m Matt Connor. Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be on the beach.”

  “So were you. An hour ago.”

  Matt looked at his watch. “Forty minutes ago.” He looked around. “Are you alone?”

  “Charlie hid me here. Charlie Chan. At least, that’s what he said his name was.”

  “Charles Shen,” Matt said. “Works under contract for the CIA. Where did he go?”

  “There was a routine patrol at twelve-thirty that got too close. Two guards on foot. If you’d been on time, we’d have missed them.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No. Charlie hid me here and went off to see if he could distract them away from the beach. He thought you might show up any minute.”

  “Is he armed?”

  “No,” Beth said. “Well, he has a knife.”

  “Where did he get a knife?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “About ten minutes.” She was finger-combing her wet hair.

  Matt glanced at his watch. “He’d better get his ass back here. We’re leaving in about two minutes.”

  “You can’t leave without him. He saved my life.” She narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t leave a fellow CIA agent.”

  “I’m not CIA,” Matt said.

  She stopped brushing leaves from her dress and looked at his blackened face. “Then what are you? A marine?” Matt shook his head. “Army, Navy, what?”