The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (48 page)

The big German’s breath was knocked out of him, but he swung a wicked punch while trying to yell. And somehow he got out a knife. Mayo ducked the punch, and smashed both hands into the man’s wind, but then the knife came down in a vicious stabbing cut. Ponga Jim started to duck, but the knife struck him, and he felt the blade bury itself in his side. He smashed his fist into the German’s throat, smashed and smashed again.

Fiercely, in darkness and silence, their breath coming in great gasps, the two fought. A terrific punch rocked Ponga Jim’s head, and that smoky taste when rocked by a bad one came into his mouth. Then he smashed another punch to the Nazi’s windpipe and hit him hard across the Adam’s apple with the edge of his hand. The German went down, and Ponga Jim bent over him, slugging him again.

There was no choice. Even now if the man were found, they would search and Ponga Jim would die. And not only he would die, but fifty thousand soldiers would die, men would die in Alexandria, Cairo, and Port Said; for the news of the attacked convey was to be the signal for the beginning of the slaughter. Innocent people would die and brave men. Worse, a tyrant as evil as Hitler would come to power here in the Near East, a killer as ruthless as a shark of the sea, as remorseless as a slinking tiger.

The Nazi sank at Ponga Jim’s feet. Behind the piled drums as they were, they had remained unseen. He picked the big German up and felt a white-hot streak of agony along his side.

Remembering a huge crack in the cavern floor back about fifty feet, he carried the man over to it and dropped him in. He did not hear the body strike bottom.

“Sorry, pal,” he muttered, “but this is war. It was you or them.”

Creeping back, he studied the ship. There was no activity in front of him. That meant a chance. He walked out of the shadow and calmly went up the gangway into the ship. A man glanced up, but at the distance Ponga Jim must have looked like any other officer, for the man went on with his work.

Ponga Jim found himself in an electrically lighted tunnel. He could see the amazingly thick steel of the ship’s hull as he went forward, walking fast. He passed several doors until he got well forward. Then he went into a storeroom.

He found a place secure from observation, slipped off his coat, and taking a deep breath, twisted to look at the wound. It had gone into the muscle back of his ribs from front to back. He plugged the wound and then tried to relax.

CHAPTER VIII

It was the throb of engines that awakened Ponga Jim. Dimly he was conscious they had been going for some time. By the feel of the ship he knew they were in open water.

Timing was important. The convoy’s attempted destruction would begin it. Ponga Jim rolled back the sacks and stepped out into the storeroom. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was early yet.

He went to a port and glanced out. The sea was calm, only white around the coral. The sun was hot and the air clear except for the dancing heat waves over the rocky shore.

He looked again, and his hands gripped the rim of the port. He felt his heart give a great leap. They were nearing Gordon Reef in the Strait of Tir
n! He saw the small, iron ship plainly visible on the rocks of the reef; the wreck had been there so long it was hardly noticed anymore.

But today it meant more. Today, if all went well, a pocket submarine of a hundred tons would be lying there, waiting—the submarine he had captured in the Well of the Unholy Light, on Halmahera.

He was watching, yet even then he could just barely see the ripple of foam when the sub’s periscope lifted. In his ears he could hear words as though he were there himself. He could hear Jeff speaking to his one-man crew: “Fire one!” Then, after a few seconds, “Fire two!”

Ponga Jim saw the white streak of a torpedo and heard someone sing out above; then he saw the second streak. The big warship was jarred with a terrific explosion and then a second or two later, with a second. A shell crashed in the water only dozens of feet from the tiny sub. But the periscope was gone now.

Ponga Jim gripped his hands until the fingernails bit into his palms. How much damage had been done? Would Jeff and Hifty get away? Thank God the warship had no destroyer screen to pursue and drop depth bombs.

There was shouting forward, and he could feel the ship slowing down. He set his jaw. Now it was up to him. Now he would do what he came for and end this scourge of the sea once and for all.

He found a uniform in the pile of junk in the storeroom and crawled into it. Then he stepped out into the passage again.

No one seemed to notice him. Men were running and shouting in the steel tunnel. He joined those hurrying men. He gathered that the first torpedo had hit right where he had wanted it to. From the stolen blueprint, he had known that the extreme bow and stern of the warship were but thinly armored. Elsewhere, twenty inches of steel protected the waterline. The second fish had wasted itself against that steel bulwark.

As he dashed forward, a man passed him, and Ponga Jim saw a startled look come into the man’s face. The fellow stopped, and Ponga Jim ducked into the passage leading down. A moment later he heard a man yelling, and swore viciously. To be discovered now!

At a breakneck pace he went down the steel ladder. Water was pouring in through the side into one of the blisters below. Into two of them. He heard a petty officer assuring another that the damage was localized, that the
Khamsin
would be slowed a little, but was in no danger of sinking.

Above them, Ponga Jim heard a shouted order. He ducked toward a steel door in the bulkhead. The petty officer shouted at him in German, but he plunged through. Then he stopped and placed the bottle of nitrogylcerine against the steel bulkhead.

T
HE DOOR SWUNG OPEN
again, and Ponga Jim flattened against the bulkhead. Men dashed through. On impulse, Ponga Jim stooped, caught up the bottle and sprang back through the door and then ran for the ladder. A man shouted and grabbed at him, but he swung viciously and knocked the man sprawling into a corner. Another man leaped at him with a spanner, and Ponga Jim scrambled up the ladder and then wheeled and hurled the bottle down the hatch near the damaged side of the ship!

There was a terrific blast of white flame, shot through with crimson. Ponga Jim felt himself seized as though by a giant hand and hurled against the wall. He went down with a jangle of bells in his head, and above him he could hear the roar of guns, the sound of shells bursting, and a fearful roaring in his head….

Ponga Jim fought back to consciousness to find himself lying on some burst sacks. Struggling to get to his knees, he realized the deck was canted forward.

There was blood all over him. He turned, and sickened at the sight that met his eyes. The deck was covered with blood, and a half dozen men lay around him, their bodies torn and bloody. He crawled to the wall, pulled himself up, and glanced down into the yawning chasm where he had thrown the nitro.

The compartment was full of water, and it was still rising, slowly but surely. He started aft, feeling his way along the steel tunnel in the dark.

His head throbbed, and something was wrong with one of his legs. He had an awful feeling that part of it was gone, but he struggled along, conscious of the steady burning in his side.

The world was full of thunder, and he could hear the heavy crash of the mighty eighteen-inch guns above him. He was thankful he had stuffed his ears with cotton before starting this. He had known there would be a battle. But were they shelling the convoy? He fought his way to a port and wiping the blood from his eyes, stared out.

In a kind of madness he saw, across the world of smoke and flame, the ugly stern of the old
Semiramis.
Her rusty sides were scarred with red lead, but the 5.9s were firing steadily.

With a stretch of coral reef between the
Semiramis
and the warship, and the freighter itself almost out of sight in the deep, high-walled inlet where it had been concealed, she presented a small target and one that called for careful firing. It was too close for the big guns and in an awkward position for the smaller guns. Gunner Millan, he saw, was doing just what he had been told to do. All of the 5.9s were aimed at one spot on the bow of the
Khamsin
and were pounding away remorselessly.

But the
Khamsin
was not staying to fight. The convoy was still to be attacked, and crippled though the mystery battlewagon was, she had only to get out into the sea to bring those big eighteen-inch guns to bear on that convoy. She was injured, but proceeding as scheduled.

Clinging to the port, Ponga Jim heard an ominous roaring. Then he saw a V-shaped formation of bombing planes. The first one dipped and then another, and then the warship was roaring with exploding bombs. He turned from the port and started aft again.

Dazed, he staggered from side to side of the tunnel. He had done what he could. What remained was for the navy to do. He staggered forward, saw a steel door in the hull, and fell to his knees, clawing at the dogs. He got one loose and then another.

Suddenly there was a wild shout. A man was rushing toward him, his face twisted with fury. Nathan Demarest! He sprang at Ponga Jim Mayo, clawing for a knife. Mayo caught the dogs, pulled himself erect, and then stuck out his foot. Demarest was thrown off balance and went to his knees, but then he was up. Ponga Jim jerked another of the dogs loose and spun around, bracing himself for Demarest’s charge.

The man flung himself forward, and Mayo started a punch. It landed, but Demarest struck him in the chest with a shoulder. The door gave suddenly behind them, and both crashed through and fell, turning over and over, into the water!

Vaguely, Ponga Jim was grateful for the warmth of the water and then for its coolness. He felt someone clawing at him, pushed him away, and then caught hold and kept pushing. Darkness swam nearer through the water, and he lost consciousness once more.

W
HEN HIS EYES OPENED
he stared up at a sort of net of steel, and when he tried to turn his head his neck was stiff as though he had taken a lot of punches. He tried to move, and someone said:

“Take it easy, mister.”

He managed to get his head turned and saw a man in a British naval uniform standing by.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Everything’s okay,” the seaman said. “You’re on the
Markland,
of Sydney. This is one of the convoy.”

The seaman stuck his head out the door. “Tell the old man this guy is coming out of it,” he yelled.

Almost at once a big, broad-shouldered man came through the door with a hand outstretched.

“Mayo!” he exclaimed. “Sink me for a lubber if I didn’t get a start when they brought you over the side. You and that black man of yours!”

“What happened?” Ponga Jim asked. “How’s the
Semiramis
?”

“Huh, you couldn’t sink that old barge!” the captain roared. “Sure as my name’s Brennan, you can’t! But she’s lost the starboard wing of her bridge, two guns are out of commission, there’s a hole through the after deckhouse, and about ten feet of taffrail are blown away, but no men killed. Some shrapnel wounds. The sub got back safe.”

The door pushed open, and Major Arnold came in.

“Hi, Jim!” He gripped Mayo’s hand, grinning. “You did it again, darn you!”

“The
Khamsin
?”

“Still afloat, but the navy’s after her. They are fighting a running battle toward Bab el Mandeb. But she’s down by the head and badly hurt. She’ll never get away. Everything else is under control. We got Theron. Your boys wiped out Mullens and his gang when they tried to get Kernan and me.”

Arnold turned toward the door.

“General Kernan is here,” he informed, “with Skelton. They want to see you. Skelton says he owes you an apology.”

“Yeah?” Ponga Jim lifted himself on an elbow. “Listen, you—”

The door opened and General Kernan and Skelton came in. Skelton smiled.

“Fine work, Captain! We’ll see you get a decoration for this.”

Ponga Jim stared at him, his eyes cold. For an instant there was silence, and then Skelton’s smile vanished, his eyes widened a little, and his muscles tensed.

“William,” Ponga Jim said carefully, “arrest this man. He is a traitor. He was working hand in glove with Theron, and I have documentary evidence to prove it!”

“What?” Kernan roared. “Why, man, you’re insane!”

Skelton’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Ponga Jim. Then he sprang back suddenly, and there was a gun in his hand.

“No,” he said tightly, “Theron told me someone stole some papers. Of course it’s true! I’ve made fools of you all! And if it hadn’t been for this thick-skulled sailor with his fool’s luck, we’d have won, too! He’s a great man, Theron is, a great man! Do you hear?” His voice rose to a scream and then cut off sharply. “But you three will die, anyway. You three—”

Big London’s powerful black arm slipped through the door and around Skelton’s throat. Then London jerked, and there was an ominous crack. He dropped Skelton’s body.