The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four

by Louis L'Amour

  “I thought you were a Jap,” Chiv said.

  “Where’s Monte?” Madden demanded.

  “Here,” Jackson said, coming up the embankment. “I rolled down there with that guy. He nearly got me.”

  “You hurt?” Turk demanded.

  “A scratch,” Monte replied shortly. “Let’s go!”

  They moved off then. Surprise had done it, Turk knew, sheer darned fool luck and surprise.

  Madden set a fast pace and as he moved, his mind worked swiftly. The Japanese could have taken the plane. If so, he and the men with him were stranded in Japan.

  Turk halted suddenly. Ahead of them was the airfield, less than a dozen yards away.

  Turning abruptly, he went off the path and across the brush- and tree-clad hill. Like ghosts, the two men followed him. Sauten remained at Madden’s elbow, Monte, his breath coming hard, trailed a little behind.

  It was warm and still. Turk eased down over a rock, feeling for the earth. He found it, and lowered himself gently. Then he turned. A bead of sweat trickled down his spine. He moved forward, stepping cautiously and placing each foot solidly before moving the next.

  Suddenly, he stopped. A faint, sickening sweet smell. Perspiration dripped from his chin, and a slow drop slid past his ear. He knew that smell, could feel its aftertaste in his own mouth.

  Blood!

  Cautiously, he put out a foot. At the second step, his toes touched something. He leaned forward. He could see the body. It was a man, short, and very broad. Beside the man was something metallic. Turk reached for it. A flashlight.

  He straightened uneasily. This was one of the men who had guided the plane to the field. He recognized the broad, powerful build, typical of the Ainu. And the flashlight confirmed his suspicions.

  The Japanese had known. Calmly, quietly, they had stood by and let the plane be guided in. Then they had killed the men who flashed the signals.

  The feeling of unseen menace he’d had earlier possessed him again. The soldiers along the track had been no casual patrol. They had been searching for the flyers. They had known, as he had suspected.

  If they knew, it could mean but one thing. The American plan of attack had been betrayed.

  Sauten moved up beside him. The man’s lips moved, and the whisper was ghostly. Turk had never believed a man could speak with so little sound, so little exhalation of breath.

  “We’re in a spot,” the gangster said softly, “there’s Japs south of us, and there’s Japs across the field. I heard those nearest, saw the gleam on a rifle barrel.”

  What worried Madden was the plane. Had they taken the plane? He moved forward, touching Sauten.

  Keeping the brush behind them, and the blackness of the looming cliff, they worked across the top of the field toward the Mitchell.

  There was double danger now. If the plane were not taken, Gorman or Scofield might fire on them.

  Crouching low, he saw the silhouette of the plane against the vague sky. Uneasily, he glanced downfield. Something was happening down there. There was no real sound, but a subdued whisper of movement, deadly, mysterious.

  What had happened at Wakkanai? Had Ryan managed to wreck the radio? Or had he landed and walked into a trap—a trap that would soon engulf the whole American attack? For, Turk knew, if the enemy had known enough to prepare for this advance movement, they would be ready, multifold, for the attack to come.

  Turk moved ahead, halted, then started on again. Suddenly, a figure shot up from the ground ahead of him, and he glimpsed a flicker of movement. Instinctively, he ducked, and just in time to let a rifle butt miss. Lunging, he let go with a wicked left hook for the body.

  It landed, a glancing blow, partially blocked.

  “Why you dirty—!” The voice was low and hoarse with anger. “I’ll—!”

  “Nick!” Madden gasped. “It’s me! Madden!”

  “We thought they’d got you,” Nick whispered. “Let’s get to the plane!” Lunging to his feet, he made a quick dash for the few remaining yards. Madden followed, then Sauten.

  “Where’s Monte?” Scofield demanded.

  “Here.”

  Monte’s voice was low with effort. He fell against Scofield, and the pilot felt blood on his hand. Jackson’s whole side was soaked with it.

  Hurriedly, yet gently, they got him into the ship. Scofield stared down the field. It was pitch dark.

  “I don’t like it,” he said grimly, “but here goes!”

  They climbed into the ship. Turk hesitated, remembering the subdued sounds. Then he shrugged, and crawled in.

  The plane’s motors broke into a roar of sound. Surprisingly, no one fired on them. The Japanese, and they must be all around, made no effort to stop them. Turk scowled. Suddenly, on the inspiration of the instant, he picked up the rocket pistol from the lifesaving equipment.

  He stepped to the door, and even as the ship started to roll, he fired a shot into the air. There was a brief moment, then the flare burst.

  The Mitchell was thundering down the narrow field, her twin motors roaring, and dead ahead, across the field, was a heavy barrier of logs!

  Madden’s face went white. He started to speak, then saw Scofield. The pilot’s eyes were wide, his face grim. Turk saw him push the throttles wide, and at the same instant, he pulled back on the stick.

  Turk grabbed his tommy gun. If she crashed, and he lived through it, he was going out fighting.

  The Mitchell lifted, sagged, and headed straight at the barrier, her engines a thunder of impossible sound! Desperately, his face cold and stiff, Scofield held back on the wheel. Suddenly, her run seemingly not long enough, the B-25 lifted, a wheel touched the top log, and the ship shot over—they were free!

  BELOW, A MACHINE GUN broke into a wicked chatter, bullets slamming into the fuselage, and in the fading light of the flare, they saw Japanese soldiers pour out upon the landing strip, weapons blossoming fire.

  Steadily, the big ship climbed. Madden sank back, his face gray, and his mouth dry. He looked at Gorman and thought for a moment that the navigator was going to faint. Only Chiv Sauten showed no emotion, nothing but widened eyes.

  “The torpedoes back in Chi thought they were hard guys,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. “They thought they were tough! Boy!”

  But Turk Madden was already thinking ahead. Their mission was complete. All of it had taken but a few minutes of actual time, a very little while. The bombers would be in the air now, they would be well on their way to Japan. What of Sparrow? Had he succeeded? Or did it matter?

  Sauten looked at Turk.

  “Well, we’re out of that! And I ain’t sorry!”

  “No,” Turk said, “we’re not out of it…we’re going on to Wakkanai!”

  “What?” Scofield looked at Madden. “Are you nuts? If the Japs knew about us—” He scowled in concentration.

  “Nick,” he suggested, “if you knew what we know, and you were a Jap, what would you do?”

  Gorman shrugged. “Run in a bunch of Zeros and park them out of sight until just before the attack began. Then knock down every Yank in the air.”

  Madden nodded.

  “My guess, too. The ack-ack will be ready, of course, but unquestionably they’ll have pursuit ships somewhere out of sight.”

  He bent over the chart, and pointing, said to Nick Gorman, “It will probably be here, but it might be here or over here. Try the first one.”

  Sauten made no sound, but his lips thinned to a queer, strained smile. Thoughtfully, he began to check the tommy gun.

  Madden said no more. For an instant, he thought of San Francisco and the Top o’ the Mark. He’d always liked the view from there, and it reminded him, somehow, of the view from the Peak in Hong Kong.

  This was going to be tough. They might find the enemy field, and they might not. In either case, there was a good chance there’d be more trouble.

  The whole area they had to cover was not large. Actually a few minutes of flying time would be enough. They could
make it, and still have fuel to get safely back to base—if they were still able to fly.

  Then he saw the planes. It was a small field, but a dozen ships were lined up to take off. Behind them, more planes were being wheeled from under camouflage nets. The vague lights were enough to show him that, and the Japanese seemed to be working with no thought of discovery.

  Scofield had seen them, too. He glanced around.

  “How about it?” his lips framed the question, and Madden nodded.

  The Mitchell wheeled around and down in a long, slanting dive. The Japanese airmen heard it, and he saw them suddenly scatter. Anti-aircraft guns flashed, but the B-25 was already too low for the shrapnel.

  Scofield took the ship in fast, and the men in the Mitchell manned the guns. Madden opened up with the fifty in the nose. He saw a man run for a ship, let go with the gun, and watched the Jap stumble and fall on his face.

  The angry teeth of the bullets gnawed the earth, then ripped at the sleeping plane. An explosion burst in the concealed hangars with a terrific concussion, and as the Mitchell lifted away from the field, Turk could see three of the parked ships were in flames.

  “Again?” Scofield asked, but Madden shook his head.

  He pointed north.

  “Wakkanai,” he said. He was worried about Ryan. It wasn’t only the man, although the flyer was his friend. It was the job. The mission always came first and Ryan had been betrayed—Turk Madden knew he had.

  Someone had stolen his map of Hokkaido before they began the flight. Someone had warned the enemy.

  Sauten moved a little, and his black, slitted eyes turned toward Madden. He was cold. Turk thought, the man was like ice.

  Then he remembered Martin. Lieutenant Ken Martin had been the hero of another flight over Japan. Martin had doubted Sauten. Turk looked again at the man.

  True, he had been a gangster. The man had been a criminal. Why should he believe in a man who had done nothing to warrant belief?

  WAKKANAI WAS STILL in the quiet night. As the Mitchell came in toward the great Japanese naval base, Turk’s brow furrowed. If Sparrow had gone down there, he had done nothing. There were no fires, had been no explosions. Something was wrong, radically, bitterly wrong!

  He got up, pulling on his ’chute. Gorman stared. Turk motioned down, then going nearer, gave it to him.

  “I’m bailing out! You go on back!” Gorman’s protest was lost as he turned. The port opened, and he spilled out into the night.

  Over and over he tumbled through the blackness. Then he pulled the string, and after a moment, the ’chute jerked him up, hard.

  Studying the dark ground below, he spilled air from the ’chute, trying to guide himself toward a black spot where there were no lights.

  It was wildly reckless but Ryan had failed to succeed with his mission. The whole attack depended on their success and the planes would be over the town within the hour. Perhaps the surprise was gone, yet they could take no chances. The attack was going forward regardless.

  He landed in soft earth among some bushes. Quickly, he bundled up the ’chute and checked his gun. He cleared the branches just as something dark slipped by him, and then a white cloud descended, enveloping him into its folds!

  Desperate, he fought free, lunging to his feet. Another man staggered erect, and he saw the dark glimmer of light on a gun barrel.

  “Skipper?” the voice was low, questioning.

  Chiv Sauten!

  “What the heck?” Madden demanded softly. “I left you in the ship!”

  “Yeah,” Sauten nodded agreement as he got himself free of the parachute, “but things looked kind of slow up there. I had this typewriter, so I thought I’d come down and see what was cookin’.”

  “Let’s go!” Turk felt relieved. There was no denying the security he felt with Chiv at his elbow. Then, a cold chill went over him.

  Why had Sauten joined him? Had the man come to help or to prevent Turk’s effort from succeeding?

  He could only drive ahead and take a chance on that.

  He knew where the radio station was. The plan had been well studied. They had landed close together in a small park. Chiv, who had followed Madden by seconds only, had observed a tall building to their rear, a dwelling dead ahead of them. He spoke of this now.

  Turk nodded.

  “We’ll skirt the smaller place, then head for the radio. It isn’t over a thousand yards away.”

  Suddenly, the night was broken wide open by the whine of an air raid siren!

  Turk broke into a run. Men were dashing about everywhere, and his running did not attract attention. Nearby, covering him, was Sauten.

  Dodging past the dwelling, they rushed across a street and down an alleyway. Lights were going out, and in a matter of seconds the town would be in total darkness.

  Suddenly, from ahead of them, muffled by the screaming siren, there was a burst of small arms fire!

  A soldier darted from a building and started up the street toward the sound. Then, under the scream of the siren he must have heard the running feet and spun around—too late!

  Turk was running full tilt, and he jerked up his tommy gun and smashed the butt into the man’s face with all the drive of his powerful shoulders. Behind him, as the man fell, he heard another thud, a heavier one. Chiv Sauten was always thorough.

  The shooting had broken into a roar now, and it came from a building dead ahead where there still were lights.

  There was no time to hesitate. Turk slid to a stop at the door, then turned the corner quickly and flattened against the wall inside the doorway.

  Two Japanese policemen were dead on the steps. At the top of the steps was Lin, one of the Cantonese who had flown with Ryan. He was dead. Fairly riddled with bullets.

  Turk started forward, working his way up the steps. Inside the shooting had slowed to an occasional shot. He stepped up, then stopped suddenly, his gaze riveted on the body of the Chinese!

  Lin had been shot in the back!

  Eyes narrow, Turk cleared the top step. Four Japanese soldiers were crouched by the switchboards, their eyes on something across the room.

  “All right,” Turk said loudly, “this is it!”

  As one man, they wheeled, and, turning, they faced a blasting, hell of fire! Through a haze from his tommy gun, Turk saw one Japanese then another toppling to the floor. Beside him Sauten’s weapon was hammering.

  Across the room, Sparrow Ryan suddenly lunged to his feet and poured a battering chain of .45-caliber slugs into the switchboard.

  Sauten jerked a handful of wires, then, punching a hole in the wall near him, he pulled the pin on an incendiary grenade and dropped it in.

  A bullet clipped the door over Turk’s head, and he wheeled, firing at a soldier in the side door. There was a dull thud and part of the wall blew out as the grenade sent a rush of hot flame toward the ceiling. The three men ran and, as they reached the door, Madden jerked the pin on another grenade, tossing it over the switchboard into the maze of wires. That would take care of the telephone exchange.

  They made the street. Madden wheeled to run, and then something smashed across his forehead, and he felt himself falling. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, struggled to get up, and then another blow landed on his skull from behind, and he slid facedown on the sidewalk, his head roaring with a gigantic blackness shot through with the lightning of pain.

  IT COULD ONLY have been minutes later when he opened his eyes. His face, which had been lying on the floor, was stiff with blood from his cut scalp. He tried to move, and the attempt made his head throb horribly. He lay still, gathering strength.

  “Who is it?”

  The voice was scarcely a whisper.

  “Are you a Yank?”

  Turk’s head jerked. “A Yank?” he gasped. “Yes. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Morley, I—”

  “Vic!” Madden heaved himself to a sitting position. “It’s Madden! We thought you were dead!”

  “They kept me al
ive for interrogation,” Morley replied bitterly. “But if I ever get out of this—” He hesitated, his voice queer and strained. “Turk, we were sold out. It was…”

  The door opened, and a brilliant light flashed on. Two Japanese officers stepped in. The stockier of the two looked at Madden. His eyes were malignant.

  “You are a fool!” he snapped, his words clipped, but in excellent English. “You think you will surprise us? We have been ready for you for days!”

  He stared at Madden, then stepped close.

  “You tell me—how many planes come in the attacking force?”

  Turk smiled. “Go to the devil,” he said quietly.

  The officer kicked him in the head. Once, twice, three times. Turk let his head roll with the kicks, and held himself inside against the burst of pain.

  “You will tell.” The man’s voice was distinct. He kicked Turk again, breaking ribs.

  “Sure,” Turk gasped, “I’ll tell.”

  The Jap’s eyes gleamed.

  “How many come?”

  “Ten thousand,” Turk said. “It won’t end until Dai Nippon is a heap of smoldering ruins.”

  “Yes? I have seen your country. They are soft! They will tire of the war, then Japan will be left with all she needs!”

  He looked down at Turk contemptuously.

  “Bah! I know how many ships come! Their size, their bomb loads, their route!”

  He turned on his heel and left the room. The guard loitered, his eyes ugly. He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then walked back to Madden. For a moment, he stood looking down, then slowly, he raised the rifle and pointed the bayonet at Turk’s chest.

  Madden’s eyes were cold.

  “Go ahead, yellow belly! Some Marine will feed you one of those soon enough!”

  The soldier snarled, and the bayonet came down, and suddenly, with all his remaining strength, Turk Madden rolled over, thrusting himself hard into the soldier’s legs!

  The Japanese had started to shift his weight, and Turk caught him off balance. The guard toppled, and fell, his head striking the corner of the table as he dropped. He rolled over and, groggy, started to get up. Morley, lying almost beside him, fastened his teeth on the man’s ear.