The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (41 page)

This passage must come out in one of the stone buildings, he thought, and must be close to the well. And that well was something he must see. Somehow the
Carlsberg
and her cargo of submarines must be stopped. Somehow this plant must be wrecked. The problem, he knew, was to find how they got torpedoes to the ships on Todahe Bay.

They emerged from the passage in a square stone building near the tower. Outside the door the square seemed empty, yet they knew there were men in the tower above and probably others around close. Eyes narrowed, Jim studied the square thoughtfully. The tracks of some sort of a cart or truck led from the tower toward a cluster of rocks under the overhang of the cliff. The tracks had cut through the layer of soil to the solid rock of the plateau. Whatever they had carried had been heavy.

“What next, Jim?” asked Arnold softly.

“Look!” Jim indicated the marks of the wheels. “They’ve wheeled their torpedoes in that direction. Well, that’s the way we’re going! From now on it’s going to be a running fight until we reach the shelter of those rocks. Beyond that, I don’t know what we’ll find. But I’ve got fifty that says it’s the Well of the Unholy Light!”

“Let’s go!” Frazer said.

G
UN IN HAND
, Jim sprang through the door. A Japanese sentry was standing across the plaza. And before he could get his gun up, Jim shot him in the stomach. Then they started on a dead run for the rocks, just a hundred yards away. Abruptly then, a myriad of tiny spurts of dust jumped all around them. Jim heard a curse and knew someone was hit. He wheeled, fired, and then ran on. He was almost to the rocks when suddenly Essen sprang from behind them, holding a submachine gun. His eyes glinting with triumph, he jerked the gun to his shoulder.

Ponga Jim stopped dead still and lifted his own gun. The automatic bucked in his hand, then again. Essen backed up, astonished. Then slowly he pitched over on his face and lay still. But already Ponga Jim was beyond him, with Major Arnold at his side. It was only then that they saw Frazer. Bent was down on his knees, facing the opposite direction, his whole side stained with blood. He was firing slowly, methodically. Even as they saw him, Frazer’s Luger spoke, and a Japanese on the tower toppled forward, dead. Then a burst of machine-gun bullets from the tower hit Bent Frazer, fairly lifting him from the ground.

Ponga Jim Mayo turned, his face hard, staring around him. They stood on a narrow ledge of rock around the well. The water did glow with a peculiar light, visible in the shadows of the pool under the overhanging cliff. But there was nothing, only the well, a pool probably fifty feet across.

“Well,” Arnold said. “Here we are. Now what?”

“Keep your shirt on, William,” said Ponga Jim grimly. “Maybe I’ve guessed wrong, but I don’t think so.”

“This is a fine time to be in doubt!” Arnold snapped. “I think—”

Suddenly the waters of the pool began to stir as with the heavings of some subterranean monster. Then a conning tower broke the surface, and after it—the deck of a submarine!

“William,” said Jim, “watch outside. I’m taking this ship!” He turned quickly. “Don’t let them see your face until they are out of there,” he whispered hoarsely, “and for the love of Mike, don’t shoot!”

Breathless, they heard the conning tower hatch open and the sound of feet on the rounded surface of the sub. Then they heard a second pair of feet. A guttural voice spoke harshly in German, and Ponga Jim turned.

The two men, one a Nazi, the other the Italian, Calzo, were standing on the sub, just about to step ashore. Arnold pulled the trigger of his gun, but it clicked on an empty chamber. Coolly, Ponga Jim shot the Nazi over the belt buckle twice. As the man fell forward, Jim pivoted and snapped a quick shot at Calzo, who was hurriedly aiming his gun. The bullet struck the Italian’s gun, knocking it from his hand.

But Calzo was game. With a snarl of fury, he leaped ashore. Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw Arnold feverishly reloading his automatic and heard a wild yell from the plaza. Then Calzo sprang at him, swinging a powerful right. Jim ducked under the blow and hooked low and hard for Calzo’s ribs. The punch smashed home with driving force. Then Jim stepped in with a sweeping right uppercut that knocked the Italian off the edge and into the well. He sank like a stone. Now Arnold was firing desperately.

“Quick, Jim!” he yelled. “Here they come! At least fifty of them!”

“We’ve got a sub. Come on!” Jim snapped.

A
RNOLD SNAPPED ONE
quick shot out of the conning tower and then slammed the hatch shut. In a minute he had swung into the engineer’s compartment, and with Jim at the periscope they submerged slowly.

“You got any idea what this is all about?” Arnold snapped. “This isn’t just a toy, you know.”

“We’re submerging,” Jim said cheerfully. “We’re going down around five hundred feet. Then we’ll find a passage and get out of it into Todahe Bay. There we’ll find the
Carlsberg
loaded with submarines, and we’ll shoot her one in the pants—I hope.”

“
You
hope!” Arnold said sarcastically. “You mean,
I
hope! And if something happens and you’re wrong?”

“We wash out,” Jim said simply and shrugged.

“Yeah?” William said. “That’s okay for you, but I’ve got a date with a girl in Makassar.”

Slowly the sub sank deeper and deeper. Ponga Jim wiped the sweat from his brow. After all, maybe it wouldn’t work. Still, the sub had just come up. It had to come from somewhere.

“You mean Kitty, that dancer from Manila?” Jim asked, grinning.

Arnold was astonished. “How did you know?”

Jim chuckled. “She tells me about all the strange people she meets,” he said. “Interesting girl, Kitty.”

The sub was still sinking, and for a moment they were still.

“My friend,” Arnold said suddenly, “are you sure these things will take five hundred? That’s awful deep!”

Jim stared at the depth gauge as the needle flickered past 200. 250—300—350—

“Maybe we’ve missed the outlet,” Arnold said.

“You would think of that,” Jim growled.

The pressure was building up at a terrific rate. He tried to see something, but the water around was black and still.

Four hundred!

“If it’s anywhere, it’ll be pretty quick now, William,” Jim said. “If it isn’t, we’re dead pigeons.”

Four hundred and fifty!

“Do you suppose your crew got to that bunch upstairs?” Major Arnold asked.

“I’d bet my life on that. That bunch of fighting fools never misses.”

Five hundred!

Nothing but blackness and the close, heavy heat of the sub. Then he saw it suddenly—the outline of an opening illuminated by the powerful light of the sub. Slowly, carefully, he eased the sub into the blackness.

“Like floating down a sewer,” Jim said aloud.

“I wouldn’t know,” Arnold said. “I never floated down any sewers.”

Suddenly they were out, and then they were rising.

“Thar she blows!” Ponga Jim said suddenly. “About two points on the bow. Stand by while I run this crate in a little bit, I’m going to give her both barrels. I thought these babies only carried one torpedo, but they have two!”

And with that he released both torpedoes.

All was quiet, then—

T
HE SHUDDERING IMPACT
of the explosion made them gasp for breath. Then, a split second later, the second!

“Two strikes, William!” shouted Ponga Jim. “Come on, we’re heading for the Ibu River and the
Semiramis
at top speed. We hit the
Carlsberg
one forward and one aft. She won’t float ten minutes!”

Ponga Jim ran shaky fingers through his hair. Suddenly he realized that he was sitting in trousers soggy with blood.

“William,” he said, “those Nazis clipped me. I’m shot.”

“Where?” Arnold yelled.

Jim looked down. “Nuts! I was just sitting in a paint bucket!”

There was silence for a moment, and then Arnold spoke up:

“Honest, Jim. Have you been out with Kitty? What’s she like?”

“Wonderful!” Ponga Jim said, grinning. “Why, Kitty is—” Red fluid cascaded over him. “Hey!” he roared, blinking. “What did you throw at me?”

“The rest of the paint bucket,” Arnold said grimly.

West from Singapore

A
crisp voice at Ponga Jim’s elbow said: “Captain Mayo?” Ponga Jim turned. His white-topped cap with its captain’s insignia was pushed back on his dark, curly hair, and his broad, powerful shoulders stretched the faded khaki coat.

Colonel Roland Warren could see the bulge of the .45 automatic in its shoulder holster, and there was disapproval in his eyes. Front the woven leather sandals to the carelessly worn cap, Ponga Jim Mayo was anything but what he believed a ship’s captain should be.

“I’m Mayo,” Jim held out his hand, “and you’ll be Colonel Warren? Nice to have you aboard.”

Warren nodded. “My men will be along directly. May I see their quarters now? Will their cabins be amidships?”

“Sorry, Colonel, but they’ll have to bunk in the ’tween decks. We don’t carry passengers as a rule and only have three cabins available. Two of them are occupied. I’d planned to put you and Captain Aldridge in the other.”

“The ’tween decks?” Warren was incredulous. “My men are officers, I’ll have you know, and—”

“Sorry,” Jim repeated. “Officers, men, or gods, they ride the ’tween decks or swim.”

“Very well,” Warren’s blue eyes were frosty. “However, you had no business taking passengers aboard for such a trip. The Admiralty won’t approve. I suppose you know that?”

“Colonel Warren,” Jim said quietly, “for all I care the Admiralty can go to blazes. My first duty is to these passengers.”

The flyers were coming aboard, a pink-checked, healthy lot, all except two in their late teens or early twenties. These two turned toward the bridge. Ponga Jim’s eyes sharpened.

The men were both as tall as Ponga Jim himself and one of them was as heavy. He was a powerfully built man with rusty-red hair, freckles, and a scar along his jawbone. His nose was broken and slightly askew. His manner was cocky, aggressive.

He stepped up to Mayo with his hand out. “Hi, Jim!” he said, grinning. “Long time no see.”

Mayo’s eyes brightened.

“Ring Wallace! I haven’t seen you since China!”

The second man watched them with interest. He was wiry, handsome in a dark, saturnine way, and there was something crisp and efficient in his manner.

“Captain Henry Aldridge,” Warren said, “my second in command.”

Aldridge bowed from the hips, smiling.

“How are you, Captain? I’ve been hearing some interesting things about you. That Qasavara affair, for instance.”

“I hope,” Warren said drily, “that you won’t find it necessary to indulge in any of your freebooting expeditions on this trip. I can’t say that we Britishers approve of pirates!”

“No?” Jim said quizzically. “Ever hear of Sir Francis Drake?”

Warren started as if struck, and his eyes blazed. Then his face flushed, and he spun on his heel and went below. Ring Wallace grinned and winked at Jim.

“He’s all right. Just needs a little seasoning. He’s a good man, Jim.”

Aldridge studied them both carefully. “Colonel Warren
is
a good man. But I think we Englishmen and Australians have little to say about freebooting, eh, Mayo?”

Jim looked at him curiously. “Which are you? You don’t have the lingo, somehow.”

“Australian,” Aldridge said. “From back in the bush, but educated on the Continent.”

Slug Brophy and Gunner Millan came up to the deck. Jim turned to them.

“All set, Skipper. Number five battened down, all standing by fore and aft,” reported Slug.

“Then send Selim up to the wheel and let’s get out of here.”

He watched his mates go, one forward, one aft. Selim, his dark, pockmarked, knife-scarred face cool and expressionless, came to the wheel.

“You’ve an odd crew,” Aldridge said. “Quite a mixture.”

Jim nodded. “Selim and Sakim are brothers. A strange contradiction themselves. Afridis from the Afghan hills who went to sea. Used to be smugglers on the Red Sea and down the coast of Africa. Big London is from the Congo. Lyssy is a Toradjas from the Celebes. Tupa and Longboy are Bugis. Boma is a Dyak. They are a mixture. And all fighting men.

“The Gunner there,” he nodded aft, “did ten years in His Majesty’s Navy. Brophy was in the American Marines, went to sea, and then was with me in the Chaco and in China.”

“What about your passengers, Captain?” Aldridge asked politely. “I haven’t seen them around.”

“You won’t,” Ponga Jim replied shortly. He stood by with a megaphone, directing the movements of the ship. When the tug was cast off, he took her out himself, watching the endless panorama of Singapore harbor, the hundreds of ships of all sizes and kinds, the white houses, red islands, and dark green foliage.

Sakim came up the ladder with a yellow envelope. “A message, Nakhoda,” he said, bowing.

Jim ripped it open. It was terse, to the point.

PROCEED WITH CAUTION
.
BELIEVE RAIDER INFORMED OF EVERY ACTION
.
ARMED MERCHANTMAN OF TEN THOUSAND TONS OPERATING IN INDIAN OCEAN
.
YOU MAY HAVE ENEMY AGENT ABOARD
.
ORDERS HAVE GONE OUT YOU ARE NOT TO REACH THE RED SEA
.
LUCK
.

ARNOLD
.

Jim passed the message to Brophy and Millan. “William’s on the job,” he said. “Looks like our work’s cut out for us.”

Millan looked aft thoughtfully. “I don’t like that Warren,” he said. “Could it be him?”

“Might be anybody,” Jim replied. “Not necessarily a German. A lot of people who don’t see beyond the surface think dictatorships are best. They forget their supposed efficiency is because they censor news of mistakes, or shoot them. Warren is British, but he might be that kind of person. On the other hand, there’s Wallace.”

“You and him have always been on opposite sides,” Slug suggested, “maybe—”

“We’ve got to keep a weather eye on them all,” Jim said. “But the main job will be getting to the Red Sea. At least one raider has us marked for sinking, and we’ve got thirty planes aboard and twenty-three flyers, to say nothing of two passengers and some munitions.”

D
AY IN AND DAY OUT
the
Semiramis
steamed south by east, through Banko Strait, around Sumatra, and through the Straits of Sunda and into the wide waters of the Indian Ocean. On deck and on the bridge there was an endless watch.

On the after deck, the two 5.9s painted to resemble booms and further disguised with blocks hooked to their muzzles, were never without a crew. The gun crews slept on deck in the shadow of their guns, ready and waiting.

Still the
Semiramis
headed south and a little west. The shipping lanes for India and the Red Sea fell behind. The lanes for the Cape were further south. When they reached the tenth parallel, Ponga Jim changed the course to due west.

Twice, Ring Wallace came to the bridge. His face was grave and his eyes hard. He said nothing. Each time he looked pointedly at the sun, indicating to Mayo that he knew they were off the course for Aden, but Jim ignored him.

The tension mounted daily. Everyone watched the horizon now, when they weren’t watching the blank, unspeaking doors of the two cabins. But the passengers remained unseen. The steward went to them with one guard, and neither man would talk.

Ring Wallace, pointedly wearing a gun, had taken to idling about the deck amidships. The R.A.F. men were uneasy. Only the crew of the
Semiramis
seemed undisturbed.

One night Ponga Jim got up, slipped on his coat, and casually checked the load in his automatic. It was habitual action, born of struggle and the need for a gun that was ready. Then he picked up his cap and stepped toward the door.

“Hold it.”

Mayo froze. That would be Wallace. He turned slowly to face him. Ring was just inside the opposite door, his face grim. The gun in his hand was steady.

“Why the artillery?” Jim asked mildly.

“Mayo,” Ring said slowly, “I’ve known you for about ten years. We ain’t seen things eye to eye, but a good part of the time you have been nearer right than me. This time, I ain’t so sure.”

“You asking for a showdown, Ring?”

“Sure, I want to know what we’re doing hundreds of miles off our course. I want to know who your passengers are. I want to know what your intentions are.

“For the first time in my life I’m doing something without thinking of money. I decided to go to the Near East to fight because I don’t like dictatorships and I’d really like to make sure I arrive in one piece.”

Wallace broke off to give Mayo a hard, direct glance and then plunged on in a flat-toned voice.

“I know a lot of this stuff is the old blarney. It’s propaganda. England’s leadership has been coming apart at the seams for years. Her people are all right, but at the top they’re a lot of wealthy and titled highbinders. It’s the same way in the States. When you look for pro-Nazis look in the higher brackets of income, not the lower. Well, I’ve fought for money, and I’ve fought for the heck of it. This time it’s for an idea.

“So maybe I ain’t so smart. But this cargo gets through or you go over the side—feet first. I’m not kidding, either.”

“Put up the heater, Ring. This time it looks like we’re pitching for the same club. Look!” He took him to the chart. “Somewhere in this ocean we’re scheduled to be sunk. There’s the route for low-powered steamers. Here’s the route we could have taken. It’s dollars to guilders both routes are covered. So what do I do? I stop the radio and then drop out of sight. To all intents and purposes we’re lost!

“Look here,” Jim handed a message to Wallace. “Sparks picked this up last night.”

S.S.
RHYOLITE
SUNK WITH ALL HANDS TWO DAYS OUT OF SINGAPORE
.

S.S.
SEMIRAMIS
REPORTED MISSING
.
NO WORD SINCE LEAVING SUNDA
.

“See? The Admiralty’s worried. Intelligence is worried. But we’re safe, and a third of the distance gone. Tonight, however, we change course. After that, anything can happen.”

“So I’m a sucker,” Ring said, grinning. “Be seeing you.”

H
OURS PASSED SLOWLY
on the bridge. The night was dark and still. The air was heavy with heat. Along the horizon a bank of black clouds was building up, shot through from time to time with lightning. The barometer was falling, and Ponga Jim mopped his brow.

A sudden flash of lightning lit up a cloud like an incandescent globe. Mayo dropped his hands to the railing and stared.

By the brief glimpse he had seen something else. There, not even a mile away was the black outline of a ship! Instantly, Jim stepped into the wheelhouse.

“Put her over easy,” he said quietly. “Put her over three points and then hold it.”

Instinctively, he knew the long, black ship was the raider. But with any luck he was going to slip away. Obviously, the raider’s lookout hadn’t seen him.

The
Semiramis
swung until her stern was almost toward the raider. Ponga Jim glanced aft as they started to pull away. Then almost before his eyes, and on his main deck, a light flashed. From over the way came the jangle of a bell.

Swiftly, he stepped to the speaking tube. “Red,” he snapped. “This is it. Give her all you’ve got.”

He sounded the signal for battle stations, and still in complete darkness, felt his ship coming to life. Millan emerged from his cabin and dashed aft. Other men appeared from out of nowhere.

Catching a gleam from aft, Jim knew the two 5.9s were swinging to cover the raider.

A gun from the German belched fire. The shell hit the sea off to port. Then a huge searchlight flashed on, and they were caught and pinned to the spot of light.

A signal flashed from the raider, and Sparks yelled, “He says stop or he’ll sink us!”

“Let ’em have it!” Jim roared. Grabbing the megaphone, he stepped into the wing of the bridge. “Gunner! Knock that light out of there!”

He took a quick glance around to locate the cloud. It was nearer now, a great, rolling, ominous mass shot through with vivid streaks. A shell crashed off to starboard, and then the 5.9s boomed, one-two.

A geyser of water leaped fifty feet to port of the advancing ship, and then the second shell exploded close off the starboard quarter.

“That rocked her!” Jim yelled. “Keep her weaving,” he told the quartermaster.

“Taiyib,”
Sakim said quietly.

Despite the fact that the freighter was giving all she had, the raider was coming up fast. The guns were crashing steadily, but so far neither had scored a hit.

The black cloud was nearer now. Jim wheeled to the door of the pilothouse when there was a terrible concussion and he was knocked sprawling into the bulkhead.

Almost at once, he was on his feet, staggering, with blood running into his eyes from where his head had smashed into the doorjamb. The port wing of the bridge had been shot away.

Millan’s guns crashed suddenly, shaking the deck, and both shots hit the raider.

The first pierced the bow just abaft the hawsepipe and exploded in the forepeak. The second smashed the gun on the foredeck into a heap of twisted metal.

“Hard aport!” Jim yelled. “Swing her!”

Then the storm burst around them with a roar, a sudden black squall that sent a blinding dash of rain over the ship.

A sea struck them and cascaded down over the deck, but the
Semiramis
straightened. Behind them a gun boomed. But struggling with a howling squall they had left all visibility behind them.

Slug Brophy came up the ladder. He was sweating and streaming with rain at the same time.

“Take her over,” Jim directed briefly. “And drive her. Stay with this squall if you can.”

Lyssy appeared on the deck below, his powerful brown body streaming with water.

“Go below and tell Colonel Warren I want all his men in the saloon—
now
!” Jim bawled.

For a few minutes he stayed on the bridge, watching the storm. Then he went down to the saloon. The flyers, their faces heavy with sleep, were gathered around the table. Only Warren and Aldridge appeared wide-awake. Aldridge was running a deck of cards through his long fingers, his dark, curious eyes on Mayo.