The Grey Pilgrim (21 page)

The Grandfather of All Sharks

They weren’t hard to follow. Their trail, left fresh after the rain, was as clear as a big neon arrow. They wouldn’t have been hard to find anyway. They’d just headed straight for the gulf. Anyone in pursuit, even without expert trackers, would have only had to search a little coastline.

A blade of moon sliced its way down a royal purple sky toward sunset’s last ruddy bruise. The makeshift posse rode over a ridge of rock and sand and suddenly there were two moons, one sinking toward where its twin rose from the Sea of Cortez. They had arrived.

Their quarry had lit three fires. The big one was on the right, the two small ones just south of it. They were visible for miles inland. From the sea they’d be visible a lot farther.

“They seem to be expecting company,” Jesus said.

“Not as much as they’re going to get,” J.D. replied.

Sasaki’s band was in a little cove on a beach that would have done any picture postcard proud. Only the lack of a lush background of coconut palms spoiled the effect. Instead, there were rocks and sand and scrub brush, and a dry arroyo that would carry rare runoff down to the welcoming sea.

“How do we go in?” Jesus asked.

“Carefully,” J.D. said. Then, “Shit, I don’t know. Ask Jujul. But we need to hit them soon, before that damn sub gets here, and we’ve got to catch him away from his prisoners, where we can pick him off or pin him down while we snatch them.”

Jesus asked.

“We will leave the horses and this one,” Jujul said, indicating Larry, “here. I will send Raven ahead to scout, to see how they have arranged themselves, how he holds the hostages, and whether we can take them by surprise. The rest of us should move closer, down the arroyo, and wait for Raven.”

Jesus translated while a Papago melted into the darkness. J.D. wanted to warn the man to be careful, but he was already gone without J.D. noticing. It reassured him a little when Jesus pointed that out.

“I couldn’t get close to them if they’ve posted sentries,” Jesus explained. “Neither could you. Jujul thinks Raven can. This is his desert and most of them down there are his people. I figure they’re the ones who should call the shots from here on.”

“Yeah,” J.D. agreed, “just so they realize keeping Mary safe is our first priority.”

Jesus nodded toward Jujul. “You think he doesn’t know that? He gave you his word. What’s happened violates his sense of honor. He’ll give his life to get her back safely if he has to.”

“Yeah, sorry. I understand. Just edgy, nervous, you know.” His palms were damp and his guts were sending messages to his brain suggesting they go do something else.

They got Larry off his horse and under some blankets. He was feverish, hallucinating again. He closed his eyes and murmured to himself for a few moments before his breathing got deep and regular.

They made a picket line for the horses, gathered guns and ammunition, and quietly threaded their way into the arroyo. Jujul led the way with J.D. right behind him, a band of shadows, sliding through a tortured landscape. J.D. could see them moving, but could hear only Jesus and himself, and then, faintly, the soft pulse of a gentle surf.

There was a place where the wash tumbled suddenly from the rocks to fall a few yards across smooth stone into a hollow bowl before continuing its rush to the sea. It was wide there, with soft sand to rest on. It was where Jujul chose to wait.

J.D. checked his clip twice and rubbed the polished wood of the rifle’s stock nervously. Jujul and his men sat cross-legged on the sand. For all their apparent emotion, they might have been waiting for supper, not the outbreak of hostilities between the two great powers of the Pacific.

J.D. must have jumped half a foot when Raven reappeared. He started to swing his barrel up hard toward the Papago but Jujul caught it on the way.

“It is only Raven,” Jujul said in Spanish. J.D. relaxed and looked sheepish. No one had to translate that.

“They’ve posted guards,” Raven told them, with Jesus whispering the gist of what he said in J.D.’s direction. “There are three in the rocks just above where they’ve camped on the beach. They do not seem particularly alert, but their positions are well chosen. They will be hard to approach.

“There may be a fourth, one who is moving, changing locations with extreme stealth, but his actions do not fit with the others. It may only have been a coyote. Twice I thought I saw movement, another form, but I may have been wrong. I couldn’t chance getting close enough to be sure.

“Most of them are by the southernmost fire. Some are dozing, some talking, some watching the sea. The stranger has two of them looking after the fires, collecting driftwood and scrub and seeing that they continue to burn. He has staked out his horses at the mouth of this arroyo, where a little fresh water from the storm is standing in a pool. One of the guards is stationed just above there. He has placed the hostages between the fires and the sea, well away from the others. It appears that their hands and feet are tied, and they are staked out in such a way as to allow them only a little movement. The stranger mostly stands near them, peering at the ocean, but from time to time he checks on his guards or speaks to the others.”

“Is there a sure way to take them?” Jujul asked.

“If these were not our sons and nephews,” Raven replied, “this would be easier. The stranger has placed them well and they outnumber us.”

“Still, there are always options,” Jujul stated.

“I can swim,” J.D. told the old man. “Maybe Jesus could cover me while I sneak in and free Mary and Parker. Then we could take Sasaki at our leisure. It puts the risk where it should be, on Jesus and me. This is our job. If we do it right and get a little lucky, we should be able to avoid getting any of your people, on either side, hurt.”

Jujul rubbed a hand through his beard as he thought about their options. He didn’t get much of a chance to consider them. One of their companions had been keeping watch from the rocks above, and he suddenly dropped back into the arroyo.

“There is a great shark,” he said. “The grandfather of all sharks has come to this place.”

They clambered up among the rocks and peered out across the gulf. A long, low, ugly shadow swam slowly toward the shore, its massive dorsal fin reflecting the glow of the three fires. The submarine was there.

There’s a time for logic. A time for reason. A time when good sense should prevail over rash acts. This wasn’t it.

“Aw shit!” J.D. said.

The Papago muttered equivalents and Jesus said something in Spanish about somebody’s mother.

“Come cover me,” J.D. told Jesus, letting himself make the decisions because it didn’t matter anymore whether they were right or wrong, just so long as they started doing something. “You and me down to the beach, north side of the horses. Tell Jujul everybody up here holds their fire till somebody else shoots. Won’t matter whether it’s us or not. Then tell them to throw as much lead down there as they can. And to shout. Try to talk their kin into staying out of it. Shoot and shout, but wait till somebody else starts it.”

Jesus relayed J.D.’s instructions, then followed the marshal down hill. The two scrambled through the rocks while Jujul’s men fanned out on the high ground. The lawmen made a lot of noise, but the guard above the horses was going to have his attention riveted on the strange shape out in the bay. It was something the like of which he had never seen. He wasn’t going to be paying proper attention to what went on behind him. At least that was what J.D. hoped.

Luck, good or bad, was master of the situation. Bad was the first one to pay them any attention. J.D. had led Jesus far enough north for them to have a good chance of making the beach without catching a sentry’s attention. They were scrambling down the slope, trying to stay low and in the shadow of the rocks because the submarine was still in clear view. Dark figures swarmed its hull, launching a pair of inflatable rafts and loading them with crates and boxes. If anyone aboard was watching the shore, the fires should help blind them, but J.D. still chose a path that kept them as invisible as possible. They avoided the smooth talus slopes and stayed in the rocks.

Between what remained of the moon and a sky full of stars, there was a surprising amount of light, but it wasn’t as much as they needed. J.D. was descending the almost sheer face of a small cliff, feeling for places to put his feet, testing them with some weight, then moving a hand to a lower hold. It was maddeningly slow, but not because he wasn’t pushing himself for all he was worth. Showers of gravel rained on him as Jesus followed. And then he heard a gasp, and the shower became an avalanche. Something big and dark and heavy glanced off his shoulder and nearly tore him from the rock. It plummeted into the shadows below. There was a soft thud, a sickening snap, and a low moan. He knew it was Jesus and that he must be hurt. J.D. half fell, half climbed down to where the deputy lay, another shadow among many. He could see the clenched white of Jesus’ teeth and the jagged white of broken bone protruding through flesh and cloth just below his knee. J.D. knew it was all Jesus could do to keep from crying out, especially while he helped him move a little to get the weight off the injured leg. He stretched out Jesus as comfortably as the rocks would allow and made sure blood wasn’t pumping from a severed artery. Jesus’ face was pale, his skin clammy, and his breath coming in ragged gasps. J.D. thought he would probably lose consciousness soon.

“Go on,” Jesus hissed.

“I will,” J.D. told him. “Don’t try to move. Don’t try to do anything. Just hang on. I’ll come back for you. You’ll be all right.”

He would be, too, if they could get him to a doctor soon enough. If infection didn’t set in and turn to gangrene before he got help. If anybody survived this crazy night to find him.

Jesus nodded vaguely, waving him toward the beach. He didn’t say anything more. He was keeping his jaws clamped tight to try and keep a lid on the voice that wanted to surrender to the pain. J.D. wondered what it must have cost him to keep from crying out as he fell, when he hit. He wondered if he could have done it. It didn’t feel right leaving such a man, but there weren’t any available choices.

By the time J.D. reached the shore the two rafts had landed. Sailors and Papagos had pulled them from the sluggish surf onto the sand and were unloading the contents. It was too late for him to take a swim. He worked his way as close as he dared, found a good shooting station—one that gave plenty of cover and screened the fires from his view. He could see Mary and Parker clearly among a cluster of dim figures and the stack of boxes. He could see more people on the submarine’s deck and tower. Plenty of targets.

He didn’t let himself think about how slim their chances of stopping the Japanese had become, nor how unlikely it was that Mary would survive.

Slit Their Throats

The sub’s captain was unimpressed. It was clear from the way he looked at Sasaki’s little band, though he didn’t say anything. Sasaki couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t that impressed himself.

Scratch any group and you’ll uncover its malcontents and sociopaths. That’s what Sasaki had come away with. Jujul’s village contained more than fifty adult males. Sasaki had thirteen of them, none very mature, as well as a few camp followers. It wasn’t what he’d envisioned. He’d thought the whole village would be interested in what he had to offer and he’d certainly never expected the man who’d led them out, actually employed force of arms against the United States, to be so ready to give up. Fortunately, neither had his people. All things considered, Sasaki knew he was lucky to have what he did. He’d make the best of them. More than that, he’d make them better, a legend. Their numbers would grow. They had to.

“You are reasonably prompt,” the captain complimented him. “I’m pleased.”

Sasaki expected he was. This was a narrow body of water, an easy place to be trapped. Mexico wasn’t likely to become a belligerent, nor did they have a navy capable of threatening a Japanese submarine, but this place was very close to the American border. If any hint of a Japanese presence leaked out, America’s naval forces might exhibit an uncomfortable curiosity.

When Kira originally outlined the plan and its schedule to Sasaki in Tokyo, the arrival of the submarine seemed decidedly premature. Now he was glad to see it. It reinforced his authority over this small band of Papagos, an assistance which might be almost as valuable as the arms it brought. Five nights, Kira had told him. Five successive nights, beginning Monday, January 6. “If you haven’t managed to contact the rebels by then, go south of the border and make the rendezvous alone. Cache the weapons and go back for them when it’s convenient. You’ll find the border surprisingly open and easy to cross.” Kira had been right about that.

“What do you have for me?” he asked the captain. The sailors unloaded boxes and stacked them while the Papagos got in their way and jabbered at each other in excited tones.

The captain gestured toward the growing pile. “The long box is a bazooka. The one next to it, a machine gun, an old Vickers, I believe. There are two cases of rifles, two cases of submachine guns, and one of pistols. Assorted manufacturers and nationalities, none Japanese, none traceable. There are also crates of ammunition. I have another half-dozen waiting to come ashore with more ammunition and a variety of explosives.”

“Very good,” Sasaki told him. “And I have something for you.” He indicated his captives, huddled on the sand nearby.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the captain replied, gesturing at his boat. “We have no facilities for prisoners.”

“I don’t care what you do with them,” Sasaki said, impatiently. “Let your crew use the woman if you want. Or just put them over-board somewhere at sea. They know who I am and that makes them dangerous, but their removal must be handled delicately. My Indians might resent it. I’ve told them I’m sending the prisoners into safe detention with you.”

The captain glared at Sasaki with unconcealed disgust. Sasaki had seen the look before. The smug contempt of the officer who does his killing from a distance while keeping his hands clean. The captain’s eyes seemed to mock him, to question how such an incompetent could have been put in charge of this operation. What sort of fool would have let his nationality become known, then confirm it with a view of this boat? Sasaki wondered if the man knew he was a half-breed, if he blamed that for the mistakes.

“I won’t kill them for you,” the captain said, disdainfully. “Nor will my men. If you want them dead, do it yourself.”

Sasaki considered striking him. This officious little man would be easy enough to maim or kill. He resisted the temptation. The man controlled the submarine and its crew, and they still had most of his ammunition and explosives. Maybe later. Maybe after the war.

“All right,” he said. It wasn’t that he objected to doing it himself. Not at all. He just hadn’t wanted to let the Papagos out of his sight. But they’d be OK for a few minutes. The unopened crates and the promise of more would keep them until he got back.

“In that case you’ll transport me and my prisoners out to your ship. You’ll find me something to weight their bodies with. While your men load the rest of my cargo, I’ll take them behind the conning tower and slit their throats.” His tone indicated that these were instructions which were not to be questioned. He stared into the captain’s eyes until the man looked away.

“Get them then,” the captain said. “Launch the rafts,” he shouted to his men. He didn’t like being a part of this and it made him angry.

Sasaki told the Papagos he must personally take the prisoners to the submarine. He would be back in a few moments with more crates. They must remain vigilant and wait for him to return. The Indians happily agreed. They looked at the stack of boxes and touched them reverently but didn’t try to open any. They were excited. They were pleased. If they suspected what was about to happen, they didn’t seem to care.

Sasaki released the man and woman from where he had staked them. “You see,” he reassured them. “The submarine is here, just as I said. Now I’ll escort you to it. You’ll be prisoners for a while but the worst of your ordeal is over.”

The girl wanted to believe him. Parker was too tired, too hurt, to care much, until Sasaki stuffed five $100 bills into his pocket. It would buy a brief return of hope and make his final collapse into despair so much more satisfying. If Sasaki had to kill them himself, he planned to enjoy it.

“Your money, Counselor,” he said with a gentle smile. I promised you’d have it when we parted company.

They stumbled down to the boats and found their places. The captain, aloof, outwardly untouched by Sasaki’s intentions, put himself in one boat with four sailors to row. Sasaki and his prisoners took the other, more crowded with its own four oarsmen.

They dragged the boats into the lazy surf and began to pull for the long dark shadow of the submarine. They were only a few yards from shore when Sasaki heard someone shout from back above the beach. The sound froze him. The voice shouted in English.