The new government of the Argentine would do nothing. Chile would be uneasy, but would sit quiet. Paraguay was ready, Uruguay might fight, although surrounded by enemies.
With the fall of Brazil, Don Pedro would set up a dictatorship, refuse to allow the passage of bombers to Africa, and the southern supply route to Egypt would be forced into the North Atlantic, where German submarines hunted like packs of wolves. Axis sub and plane bases in Brazil would give them complete control of the Caribbean and passage around the Cape of Good Hope. Tunisia, Egypt, India, Iraq, Iran, and Russia would be denied help except what could reach them through the blockade of the Pacific.
The United States military would be too late. The move within the country, carefully supplemented by just a little outside help, would be successful and the situation of the Allies would suddenly become infinitely more hazardous—even desperate.
Ponga Jim glanced at the clock. Five minutes. Suddenly, he looked at Carisa. The intensity was gone from her expression. It was suddenly calm and resolute. For an instant, their eyes met, then they flickered away and stopped.
Slowly Mayo’s eyes followed. Don Pedro’s automatic lay forgotten on his smoking stand beside his desk, not six feet from Carisa’s hand. Their eyes met, and almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Abruptly he spoke.
“You can’t get away with this, Norden,” he protested. “Take a tip from me and get out from under while you can.”
Norden turned a little in his chair, as Jim had hoped he would do. The man was superbly confident.
“Get out from under? Don’t be absurd, Captain. I have a foolproof plan. You have seen enough here today to tell how perfectly it will function. I’ll admit, however, that your ship has caused me no end of inconvenience.
“Right now, though”—he glanced down at an order at hand—“we know where she is; the Semiramis is in a small harbor not far from Natal. We will have her attacked at daybreak by three dive-bombers. She cannot escape.
“News of her action never left this province. That was carefully arranged. By the time that information reaches Rio, I will be in command there.”
“You’ve overlooked something,” Jim said. Carisa had edged a trifle closer to the gun. “That I made a trip to Natal while in the amphibian.”
Don Pedro’s eyes flickered. “To Natal?” He studied Mayo thoughtfully. “What difference could that make?”
“This difference,” Jim told him flatly, “that our officer there immediately sent word to the United States. Ships and planes in force will arrive here in a matter of hours. They may even be coming in now.”
Even as he spoke, Ponga Jim knew the folly of what he said. Palmer and Wagnalls had done no such thing. Palmer had said his hands were tied, that there was nothing he could do but inform President Vargas of the plot.
CHAPTER VI
But Jim Mayo could see the possibility disturbed Norden. The plan was too perfect to risk making any changes. It all must work, or the parts each became insecure. Ponga Jim’s suggestion, simple as it was, left him uncertain. He did not believe the story, yet it could be.
“So?” He studied Jim, and Jim smiled slowly. “I just wanted, Don Pedro, to let you stick your neck way, way out. I wanted you in so deep you couldn’t pull back. When you give that order in just one minute, you’ll seal your own doom.”
“Don’t take me for a fool!” Norden snapped. “You’re bluffing!”
He started to get up, and in that instant, Carisa reached out and grasped the gun. Even as the butt slipped into her hand, Don Pedro, sensing something wrong, whirled about.
With a snarl of fury, he grabbed Carisa’s hand. Instantly, Jim hurled all his weight forward and his chair tipped over under Norden’s feet. The big man fell over him with a crash, the gun breaking loose from his hand and flying across the room.
Norden struggled to get up, and Carisa tripped him again. Ponga Jim, remembering an old trick he had used before, rolled atop the fallen man. Fontes and Peligro were struggling madly to escape, and Carisa scrambled to her feet and ran across the room after the gun. In that instant, the door opened, and Von Hardt stepped in.
His mouth opened in a cry for help when Armando Fontes suddenly heaved from his chair and lunged across the room. He hit Von Hardt with what resembled a flying tackle, knocking the man clear out into the spacious hall.
Von Hardt shouted wildly. Fontes leaped up from the fallen man, then wheeled and darted back into the room, kicking shut the door. Carisa had struck Norden over the head and was fighting desperately to get Jim untied. Peligro was still bound.
In a few seconds both men were free. Norden was struggling to get up, and Ponga Jim walked across and slugged him, knocking the financier into a heap. Peligro rescued their guns and tossed Jim’s to him.
Shouts were ringing through the house now, and they could hear running feet. Mayo grabbed Carisa.
“Quick,” he shouted. “Which way to the radio room?”
Leading the way, Carisa opened a small door in the corner and ran down a hall. Behind them, fists were thundering on the library door.
They found the radio room empty, and Peligro dropped into place at the controls. The typewritten orders lay beside the radio, stacked neatly on the left-hand side of the mike.
Ponga Jim grabbed the microphone as Fontes and Carisa began moving a filing cabinet against the door. “Mayday…Mayday…Calling SS Semiramis… calling Semiramis… calling—”
The reply was distinct and clear. “Semiramis ready…what is it?…Semiramis answering Mayday…Semiramis—”
“Mayo speaking. Get out of that harbor now. Bombers to attack at daylight.”
A machine gun rattled and the door was riddled with bullets. Ponga Jim turned, watching the door, and talking coolly and calmly. As he continued to broadcast, sending a warning to Rio describing the day’s events and the plot, he grabbed up the pile of typewritten orders and shoved them into his pocket.
Fontes had drawn back to one side and had his gun ready. Carisa, her face deathly pale, was holding the small automatic she had taken from Don Pedro. Mayo signed off as the door began to splinter.
Fontes’s gun exploded, and there was a shrill scream of pain outside the door. Peligro began methodically smashing the radio.
Seeing a window, Ponga Jim darted across. Four feet below and two feet to one side was the parapet of a lower section of roof. While Fontes kept up occasional blasts at the door, Jim opened the window and lowered Carisa, then Peligro, to the parapet.
“All right,” Jim said, “you’re next.”
Fontes shrugged. “You, señor. I will stay.”
“Nuts,” Jim said. “Beat it.”
Fontes swung to the wall, and Peligro caught his feet and held them until he was balanced. Ponga Jim leaped to the sill and with his gun in hand, dropped one leg outside, then the other.
The door came in with a splintering crash, and Jim’s automatic bucked in his hand. The first man plunged over on his face, and then a bullet smashed the wall near Jim, stinging his face with tiny fragments of mortar and stone. He fired back, edging along the parapet. The gun locked open, out of ammunition.
Mayo turned, balancing on the edge of the parapet, then dropped to the roof.
Peligro was waiting for him.
“Quick. The others are below.”
Dropping to the ground, the two men darted through the thick shrubbery and headed for the amphibian.
But the search was closing in. Behind them there was shouting, and off to the left they heard the crashing of men in the brush. Everywhere, their enemies were searching. Leading the way now, Ponga Jim took them into a low place on the edge of the airfield.
“Stay here and keep out of sight. I’ll get that ship, bring her down here to take off; you come running.”
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed his way into the brush. He took his time, working his way carefully, to make no noise. Norden would kill now. He would kill without hesitation.
The amphibia
n was in plain sight, and the motors were turning slowly. Beside the ship a mechanic was loafing, and Jim could see the glow of his cigarette. There were three other planes on the ground nearby.
Walking swiftly, Ponga Jim started across the field. He was within a few feet of the mechanic when the man saw him—too late. Jim lunged and swung, knocking the man into a heap under the wing. He had no more than regained his balance when a cold voice cut across his consciousness. “You again, is it?”
Mayo turned, slowly. Hugo Busch was standing there looking at him.
“I knew you’d come here,” Busch said, “so I waited. They are hunting you back there in the trees…. We will have a little time together so I could finish what I started.”
Ponga Jim’s mouth felt dry. The lights from the hangars showed the ground smooth and clear of obstacles. He could see the German’s broad, powerful shoulders, and he remembered the driving power of his punches.
They were the same height, but Busch was at least twenty pounds heavier than Jim’s own two hundred.
“All right,” Jim said quietly, “if that’s the way you want it.”
The German walked in, smiling, superbly confident. Then his left shot out, but Jim went under the punch with a smashing right to the heart. In a split second the two men were standing toe-to-toe slugging it out. Blood flew, furiously, desperately, each suddenly conscious that the end might mean death, each aware of so much at stake, and each filled with a killing fury.
The German hit Jim with a wicked right hook that knocked his head back on his shoulders, and then slammed a left into his body. That punch turned Jim sick at the stomach. He clinched, and hurled the German to the ground. Busch came back up like a cat. Hugo rushed, and Jim took two driving blows to the body, then his head rocked with a wicked right that had him hanging on while Busch ripped into him with short, driving blows.
The German seemed to have limitless strength. He kept coming, boxing skillfully at times, then dropping his skill to fight like a demon.
Yet Ponga Jim was learning. He was surer of himself now. He began to push the fight more and more. He caught the hardest blows on his shoulders and pushed his way ahead. Years of rugged living, of fresh sea air, hard work, and clean living had left him hard as nails. He drove on in now, slugging in a kind of bloody haze, confident of only one thing, that he was going to win. Busch set himself and feinting, threw a hard right.
This was the chance Jim had been waiting for. He put everything he had in his own right. It landed with a thud like an ax striking a log, and Hugo hit the ground. Drunkenly, Mayo almost collided with the plane.
PONGA JIM STARTED the plane forward in a groggy haze. Guiding it by instinct, he paused at the end of the field. Juan Peligro, Armando Fontes, and Carisa came running. Jim took off, circled, then headed back over the flying field. His mind was clearing, and though his body was hurt, felt better than he had expected. He had taken all the big German had been able to give, and he had won.
The amphibian, he noticed, had been loaded with bombs. It was carrying six. He let one go as he swung in toward the field, another over the sheds, then he swung around, and in a rattle of machine-gun fire, let go two more over Castillo Norden. As the plane circled away, they could look back and see flames leaping high.
Peligro was at the plane’s radio, and now his eyes brightened.
“They are coming!” he said excitedly. “Your navy is coming!”
They landed once more on the small lake near Fortaleza and started back toward the city.
PONGA JIM MAYO’S FACE was cut and swollen. Peligro looked tired, and Carisa Montoya walked almost in a dream. Only Armando Fontes looked the same; his round, fat face was sullen, his eyes somber when they passed the light of a window.
The streets were empty. Two bodies lay in the gutter where they had fallen earlier, and the sidewalks were littered with broken glass. A heavy smell of smoke from the explosion and fire tainted the air, and the waters of the bay were littered with wreckage. It was almost day, but the moon was still bright.
In the vague light the streets looked like those of a long-deserted city. Yet as they rounded a corner, a file of soldiers in Brazilian uniforms turned into the street from the opposite direction. They marched past, stepping briskly along, a cool, efficient, soldierly body of men. “That means that Vargas acted,” Ponga Jim said. “Everything will be over soon enough.”
They reached the steps of the hotel and started in when two men came out. One was Major Wagnalls from Natal. The other was Slug Brophy, Jim’s chief mate.
The major smiled and held out a hand. “So you made it! One of our boys just radioed word that Castillo Norden was in flames, the hangars destroyed, and three planes burning on the field.
“A transport landed there a few minutes ago from Rio. Von Hardt has been arrested by Major Palmer, and they found Hugo Busch beaten unconscious. A mechanic said you did it.” Wagnalls looked at Jim. “I didn’t think anybody could do that.”
“Neither did I,” Mayo said simply. “I guess I was lucky.”
“What about Don Pedro?” Peligro interrupted. “He is the one we want.”
Wagnalls’s brow creased. “That’s the missing item. He escaped. It doesn’t matter, for the government will confiscate his holdings here, so his power is broken. But I dislike to see him free.
“Especially,” he added, “since Señorita Montoya will soon be known as a government agent…President Vargas was suspicious, and Miss Montoya knowing Don Pedro, volunteered to investigate.”
“What I want to know,” Mayo demanded, “is how they captured my ship?”
Brophy grinned sheepishly. “Duro, the port captain, Du Silva, and an army officer came out. They had three girls along, so we didn’t expect trouble.
“They came aboard, and Duro said he had to search my cabin for dope. We started for the cabin. No sooner had we left the deck than men came up the ladder and deployed about the deck.”
“There’s still some fighting going on but all the principal plotters are taken care of but Don Pedro,” Wagnalls said. “But we’ll have him soon.”
“I don’t think so.”
Ponga Jim Mayo felt himself turn cold. His back was to the speaker, but he needed no more than those few words to tell him who it was. The voice had been low, but heavy with menace. He turned.
Thirty feet away, Don Pedro Norden stood in the street near the mouth of a narrow alleyway. In his hands he held a submachine gun. His brilliantly conceived plot had fallen to pieces, the men he hated had won. Yet he had a gun, and the little group before the hotel were covered, helpless.
Norden’s clothing was torn and bloody, his face looked thinner, harder, more brutal. If ever a man was seething with hate, it was this one. Never in his life, Jim knew, had he been so close to death. The man was fairly trembling with triumph and killing fury. The architects of his defeat—Juan Peligro, Major Wagnalls, Brophy, Carisa, and Ponga Jim—were all in range. He could in one burst of fire wipe the slate clean of his enemies.
Norden’s teeth bared in a grimace of hate, and when he spoke his voice was choked with emotion. “Perhaps I will be captured, but not yet….”
The submachine gun lifted, and Jim thought that even at that distance he could see the man’s finger tighten.
A gun roared, and the submachine gun began to chatter, but the muzzle had fallen, and the bullets merely bit against the stones of the street and ripped the dust into little fountains of fury.
Don Pedro Norden, a great black hole between his eyes, the back of his head blown away, fell slowly on his face.
Turning, they saw Armando Fontes, the big pistol clutched in his right hand, leaning nonchalantly against a corner. With a match in his cupped left hand, he was lighting a cigarette.
For a long moment, they stared, relief soaking through them. Ponga Jim looked at the disreputable little man.
“All right, Armando,” he asked. “Tell us. Who are you agent for? What’s your part in this?”
Fontes
shrugged, his eyes lidded. He drew on his cigarette and took the occasion to slip the big gun back into his waistband.
“I, señor? I am but a little man. A little man who likes his government.”
He turned, and with a deprecating wave of his hand, walked down the street, and away.
Pirates of the Sky
Turk Madden came in toward the coast of Erromanga at an elevation of about three thousand feet. The Grumman amphibian handled nicely, and flying in the warm sunshine over the Coral Sea was enough to put anyone in a good mood. Especially when Tony Yorke and Angela waited at the end of the trip in the bungalow by Polenia Bay. A night of good company, especially Angela’s, would take his worries away. The war in Asia was expanding. Someday soon America would be involved, and all this—the express freight and passenger business he had worked so hard to build—would be no more.
Curiously, Turk’s eyes swung to the interior. The island was only about twenty-five miles long, and perhaps ten wide, yet it was almost unknown except for a few isolated spots along either coast. Several times, he had considered taking time out to fly over the island and down its backbone.
Madden shrugged. Flying freight, even when you were working for yourself, didn’t leave much time or gas for exploring. When he saw Traitor’s Head looming up before him, he banked slightly, and put the ship into a steep glide that carried it into Polenia Bay. Deftly, he banked again, swinging into the cove, and trimmed the Grumman for a landing. It was then he saw the body.
The ship skimmed the water, slapped slightly, and ran in toward the wharf, but Turk Madden’s eyes were narrowed and thoughtful. Violence in the New Hebrides was bad medicine and there, floating on the waters of the cove, almost in the bay now, was the body of a native with his head half blown away.
None of Yorke’s boys came running to meet him. Instead, a white man in soiled white trousers and a blue shirt came walking down to the wharf. He was a big man, and he wore a heavy automatic in a shoulder holster.
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 56