The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (66 page)

The pilot of the strange ship sighted him, and, making a half roll, started for him. Madden banked the Grumman as though to escape, saw tracer streak by. Then, behind him, he heard an angry chatter. He made an Immelmann turn and swept back. The pursuit ship was falling in a sheet of flame, headed for the small bay at the mouth of the Nahtohu. The other ship swung alongside, and Turk saw Arseniev raise his clasped hands.

Shan Bao was smiling, cradling the Thompson in his arms like a baby.

“He thought he had us,” he yelled. “Didn’t know you had a behind gunner.”

“A rear gunner, Shan,” Turk said, grinning.

H
OURS LATER
, the Grumman landed easily in the mouth of the Nahtohu.

“See?” Turk said, pointing. “A breakwater, and back there a stone pier, a perfect place for landing heavy armaments. It was ideal, a prepared bridgehead for invasion.”

Arseniev nodded.

“Lutvin, he was a good man, but I wonder how he guessed?”

“As I did, I think,” Turk told him. He sensed a difference in the coastline, a change. The chart showed no reef there, yet the breakwater was made to look like a reef. As it was, it would give the Japanese a secure anchorage, and a place to land tanks, trucks, and heavy artillery, land them securely.”

“That Chevski,” Arseniev said. “I knew there was something wrong, but I did not suspect him until he ran for a plane when you took off. But Granatman found the photographs in his belongings, and a code book. He was too sure of himself, that one. His mother, we found, was a Japanese.”

Turk nodded.

“Lutvin suspected him, I think.”

Arseniev shrugged.

“No doubt. But how could Chevski communicate with the flier who flew the guarding pursuit ship? How could he communicate with Japan?”

Shan Bao cleared his throat.

“That, I think I can say,” he said softly. “There was a man, named Batoul. A man who wore
unty,
the native moccasins, and one with thong wrappings about the foot. He came and went frequently from the airport.”

“Was?” Arseniev looked sharply at the Manchu. “He got away?”

“But no, comrade,” Shan Bao protested gently. “He had a queer gun, this man. An old-fashioned gun, a Berdianka with a
soshki.
I, who am a collector of guns, wished this one above all. So you will forgive me, comrades? The man came prowling about this ship in the night. He”—Shan Bao coughed apologetically—“he suffered an accident, comrades. But I shall care well for his gun, an old Berdianka, with a
soshki.
Nowhere else but in Siberia, comrades, would you find such a gun!”

Flight to Enbetu

C
olonel Sharpe bent over the map as Turk Madden spoke. “Sure,” he said, “I know the spot, I was there once. It’s inland from Enbetu, the railroad from Hakodate to Wakkanai forks off here. Years back I was all over Hokkaido.”

“Excellent. We bomb Wakkanai at dawn tomorrow. And naturally, before the attack, we want all communication with Hakodate and Japan proper destroyed. You will cut that railroad, also the telephone and telegraph lines that follow it.”

“And Ryan takes care of the radio?”

“Right. The radio and power stations will be destroyed. Forty minutes later, which should allow time for any reasonable hitch in his plans, we attack. Everything must go on schedule.”

He understood the situation perfectly. Wakkanai was a tough nut to crack but its defenders could also call on scores of Nipponese planes from Hakodate. Should this happen the attack would meet with disaster.

The Kurile Isles had been attacked many times, and Wakkanai was the next step. But there was nothing in the Kuriles even remotely approaching Wakkanai.

The job of the saboteurs was essential. They had a fair chance of getting their mission done, but a very small chance of getting out with a whole skin, or even part of one.

Colonel Sharpe straightened.

“Well, that’s the setup, Madden. You move out at two thousand hours, and you should be over your goal by midnight. Within a mile of your destination the Japs have an emergency landing strip. That field is unguarded at present.

“At ten minutes past midnight two lights will be shown to indicate the width of the field. These lights can be shown momentarily only. You will not see the men handling the lights. They are Ainu, natives of the island. They will show their signals and leave. With your mission complete, you will take off and return here.”

Madden studied the map thoughtfully. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know the country, or what he was going into. He did know all of that. But their success depended upon surprise, upon secrecy, and he knew something was wrong.

Two hours before he had opened his strongbox and found that a small, carefully drawn map of the northern tip of Hokkaido had been stolen. It could hardly be coincidence, on the eve of the attack.

The door opened suddenly, and two men came in. Sparrow Ryan was a former stuntman and speed flyer. Like Madden he had been an itinerant soldier in many countries. He had the alert but battered look of a professional.

The other man was tall, good-looking Lieutenant Ken Martin. Martin had been a top-notch collegiate running back not long before. He was dark, sallow, and his eyes had a faint suggestion of the almond. This was one of the reasons he had been chosen.

With the exception of Madden, who knew the country and had made previous secret flights to Japan, all of them would pass for Japanese in dim light, it wasn’t much but it was one of the few advantages they had.

“Hi, Turk!” Ryan grinned tightly. “Here we go again!”

“Yeah,” Turk agreed, “don’t let ’em get you! This has got to be good.”

“Listen, honey-chile,” Ryan said. “I’ve studied those charts until I know that country better than the natives. We’ll hit them and get away before they know it.”

Lieutenant Martin interrupted. “How about this fellow Sauten? I don’t like the idea of taking him with us. He’s a known criminal and not to be trusted.”

Turk looked up from the map.

“Chiv Sauten is a tough baby. I want tough guys. This is no job for milquetoasts.”

“But the man’s a gangster!” Martin insisted. “We’ve got to draw the line somewhere. He would sell out to anyone!”

“I don’t think so,” Turk said shortly. “And I’m not going to marry the guy, I’m going to fight alongside him.”

“If they’d known he was a criminal, he’d never have gotten into this unit,” Martin persisted. His young, good-looking face was hard. “For one, I don’t like going into a tough spot with a man like that.”

“He might not have gotten in,” Turk agreed, “but he’s in now. He volunteered for this job, and for my money, he goes.”

Colonel Sharpe frowned a little.

“I didn’t know about this man,” he said, glancing accusingly at Madden. “Did you cover for him when he joined up?”

“Yes.” Madden’s voice was positive. “Frankly, sir, I’m a bit fed up on this lily-white stuff. We’re fighting a war, not picking men acceptable to somebody’s maiden aunt. That guy can handle a tommy gun.

“He’s been kicked around and knocked down plenty. He got up. He’s been shot at, and hit, and he kept shooting. I don’t give a hoot in Hades if the man strangled his grandmother. If he’s willing to go on this job, who are we to stop him?”

Sauten came in then. He had a thin, hard face and looked as tough as his reputation.

“Ship’s ready. Scofield and Gorman are standing by.”

His eyes flickered over the room, resting momentarily on Martin, then moving on.

“Okay. We’ll be right out,” Madden said briefly. He picked up his ’chute. “See you later, Colonel.”

Ryan and Martin had the toughest part of the job. Turk was thinking of that as he climbed into the B-25 and got settled. They would be working in a populated area where discovery was almost a certainty. But the two Cantonese they had with them both looked more Japanese than Chinese, and Sparrow Ryan was small and wiry. Tucker, the navigator, was built along similar lines.

Chiv got in behind Turk.

“It’s a good night for it,” he said. He checked the magazine on the tommy gun. “Lieutenant Martin was in on that Morley job, wasn’t he?”

“Right. The other two were killed. If it hadn’t been for him, the whole mission would have been a washout. As it was, he got back with the necessary information, or most of it. He was a lucky stiff to make it out at all.”

Turk Madden liked the feel of the ship in the air, despite the fact that it seemed odd not to be at the controls. But Scofield handled the medium bomber like a pursuit plane. Nick Gorman was navigator, and a good man. It would take a good man, for hitting the landing strip in the dark would be worse than finding one of those coral atolls far to the southeast.

The Morley job had been a mess. Vic Morley had gone out with Martin and Welldon. Their plane had been shot down, and Morley and Welldon had been captured. Martin had escaped, then, and only after great trials, got back to their base.

This time was going to be different. It had to be different.

They had been in the air three hours when Gorman touched his arm.

“This is it,” he said, “two minutes!”

“Take her down,” Madden told Scofield, “and put her on the ground in a hurry.”

It was nine minutes past midnight.

Scofield glanced over his shoulder, indicating the altimeter with a finger. It was at a thousand feet. They dare not stay long at that low level. Yet no lights had appeared.

A minute passed, then another. Chiv Sauten shifted his tommy gun, waiting. Gorman glanced at Madden questioningly.

Had their man been captured? Should he play it safe and turn back? Madden set his jaw. To heck with it, he thought. They had come to do a job, and they were going to do it, come what might.

Directly below them was the landing field. Turk’s memory for terrain was almost photographic.

He slid forward in the cockpit.

“Give her to me,” he said. “I know this field. I might stand a shade better chance at bringing her in blind than you.”

Madden leveled off and then nosed down for the field. Ahead, he knew, was a mountain. To the right and to the left were trees. He could see nothing but the loom of one great peak. He could only pray that he was bringing the big Mitchell in right. He let the ship down fast, pulling the nose up a trifle.

Sweat broke out on his brow as he felt the ship sideslip as it dropped away beneath him. It could crash any moment now, any…

Two lights flashed suddenly, ahead and to the right. He banked the ship, then flattened her out. A split second later the wheels touched, and the plane rolled forward on the level ground. The lights vanished.

Turk let the B-25 run as far as he dared, then braked her cautiously, his eyes straining against the dark, the big ship swung around, facing downfield.

Madden stepped down, and Chiv Sauten and Monte Jackson closed in beside him.

“Good luck, men,” Scofield said softly, and the three of them moved away into the darkness. The last thing Turk saw was Nick Gorman standing by with his tommy gun at the ready.

With every sense alert, Madden led the way. Every moment now was fraught with danger. This was the heart of Japan’s own territory. This was the first time American soldiers had set foot on Japan proper since the war began, except as prisoners. If successful, the Kurile Islands would be exposed to attack, along with the whole northern shore of Hokkaido.

He hesitated once, staring about him. There was something wrong about this setup, something very wrong. A subtle sense of danger was flowing through him. He felt as though his back were naked to a bullet-ridden draught.

It was no feeling of the danger ahead. That danger he had faced many times. This was something else…the missing map, he’d have to watch his own back on this one. He thought, then, of what Martin had said of Sauten—that the ex-gangster would sell out to anyone.

Yet Sauten was a silent, capable man. Common sense told him Chiv was not to be trusted. His instincts made him less certain. The fellow felt right, whatever his past record had been.

He wasn’t kidding himself about his chances on this mission, and he knew the others weren’t. They weren’t expected to come back alive. He knew that was what they thought at Headquarters. But Turk Madden had his own ideas.

You don’t come through a lot of dangers without acquiring confidence. Turk knew just exactly what he faced, just exactly what chances he had. The odds were a thousand to one against them but experience with danger in many odd corners of the world had taught him that positive, determined action by men of quick wits and valor can do some strange things to the ordinary ratio of chances.

He moved forward, beside him, Sauten was like a ghost. Jackson was behind them both.

Madden’s feet warned him when he reached the path. He could see nothing, but his soles found its hard smoothness, and his leg muscles felt the downward slope toward the roadbed.

The rail line showed abruptly, two glistening lines of steel. Accustomed to working alone as he always had, Sauten’s nearness was disturbing. He kept his companions with him until their eyes were more accustomed to darkness, then at his signal, they vanished. He dropped to his knees and started digging under a tie.

W
HEN THEY HAD PLACED
their mines, five under each rail, they armed them with detonators and drew back a short distance. Turk wiped his face with his sleeve and felt Jackson near him.

“The culvert’s just below us,” the man whispered, “the one on the map.”

They moved on to the culvert. Sauten was already there, his explosives on the ground. Silently as possible, the three men went to work. This was to be the main, the vital part of the job. If the road were blasted here, it would take weeks to repair. Not only were they preparing the culvert for demolition, but the cliff above as well.

They worked swiftly, silently, with grim determination. There was a vague intimation of light now. Several times Turk looked up. Each time he saw Chiv Sauten peering around.

Finally, Turk Madden straightened up.

“Okay,” he said, “now we go back.”

“No! Somebody’s coming,” Sauten said. “And coming very quietly!”

Madden gave a hand signal, and the three of them dropped back into the rocks, on lower ground. From their new position, they could watch the skyline.

Suddenly they saw them—six Japanese soldiers moving slowly, carefully down the track. In the instant before the attack, Madden was grimly aware of one thing—these soldiers were looking for something. They knew!

His hand slid to his knife. It was a commando-style fighting knife, thin and deadly, an eight-inch, double-edged knife with a point so sharp an expert could almost sink it through a man. The last of the Japanese was passing when he moved. Some almost imperceptible sound must have warned the man. He turned his head suddenly.

Turk was close, but not close enough for a blow. He took a chance and let the knife go, throwing it underhand and hard.

He heard it thud as it hit, and he followed it in, slugging the man as he fell. Then he wrenched the knife from below the soldier’s heart and went for the next one, hitting him low and hard.

He heard Sauten and Jackson close in. A blow caught him in the mouth, and he tasted blood. He stabbed quickly with the knife, felt it hang on some equipment, then slide off and into the man. He stifled the fellow’s cry with a hand.

A soldier swung a rifle butt, and Turk dropped back onto his hands, kicking out viciously with both feet. The Japanese staggered, and Madden threw his body against the man’s knees. He went down.

The knife slipped from Turk’s hand, but he went in fast, reaching for the man’s throat. It was a brutal, ugly bit of fighting. Someone kicked him in the head, and, desperately, he broke away from the man on the ground and rolled free. He came up fast, and a fist slugged him in the mouth, then a boot toe caught him in the stomach.

A sickening wave of pain and nausea went over him, and he was back on the ground. A soldier closed in, kicking at his face. Turk grabbed the man’s ankle and hung on.

They both went down. Then he was up, and the Japanese lurched toward him. Turk had grabbed a rifle from the ground as he came to his feet, and before the imperial soldier could start another assault, Turk brought the rifle down, striking with an overhand butt stroke that crumpled the soldier’s skull like an eggshell.

He turned then, swaying, gasping for breath. A shadow moved toward him, and he saw a gun leveled at his stomach, and for a moment he thought he was cold meat. It was Chiv Sauten.

“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.”