The White Ghost (27 page)

“It is profound,” Kaz gasped, staring up at the dome of stars.

“Look,” I said. Our wake was bright greenish-blue, almost neon, spreading out from either side, a giant V-shape that pointed right to us. It stretched out for more than a hundred yards, impossible to miss. “Now I know why Jack was idling his motor that night.”

“It does leave little doubt as to our position,” Kaz said, gripping his rifle even tighter, leaning against a funnel for balance, and scanning the night sky. “I never considered I might leave this world because of plankton churned up in the South Pacific Ocean.”

That had never crossed my mind either. I kept my eyes busy looking for Japs on the surface or in the air, trying to avoid thoughts of death due to miniscule sea creatures, or any other cause, for that matter. I'd seen a lot of death already, more than most guys my age. There were corpses enough in Boston, and since getting into this war, plenty more from Norway, North Africa, and Sicily. I'd fought, killed, been wounded, and lived. I'd been scared plenty of times. But it never seemed I had this much time to think about it, to wait for death to come swooping down or roar over the waves, out of the inky darkness.

I'll admit it: I'd never been so scared. There was something about being out here, trailed by a glowing arrow, alone and awaiting an attack from any direction, that unnerved me. I felt sweat drop down my backbone, as a pit of fear opened up in my belly. My hands went clammy and I wiped them one at a time on my trousers, gripping the BAR and wishing I'd never met up with any of the Kennedys.

I blinked.

I thought I'd seen something slide across the sky, a disturbance in the stars, a blackness, there and then gone. If it were a plane, where was it? I cocked my head, turning an ear toward where I'd seen it. I didn't hear a thing, didn't see anything out of place. I blinked again, once, twice, trying to clear my vision.

Suddenly I understood.

The plane had spotted us, banking and momentarily blotting out the twinkling stars.

I couldn't see it silhouetted against the backdrop of stars since it was heading straight for the boat, giving us its smallest profile. Narrow wings, tip of the nose, machine guns. I strained to find it, worried about being wrong, not wanting to sound the alarm and light up the night with our gunfire. If there wasn't an enemy plane, there would be soon enough.

Then I saw it.

I raised the BAR and sighted in on the blank space coming at us, no doubt in my mind, unable to speak, knowing there wasn't time for it anyway. I fired a burst, then another. By the time I squeezed the trigger again, the twenty-millimeter had joined in, followed by every other gun on board.

Cotter turned the boat hard to starboard and I emptied my clip at the dark form, which seemed to snarl back at us, its four engines starting up and the forward machine gun answering our fusillade. We clearly outgunned the Kawanishi, but Cotter knew the big threat wasn't from machine-gun rounds. It was the bombload we had to worry about.

Water erupted off to my right, about where we would have been if Cotter hadn't quickly altered course. The Kawanishi roared overhead, filling the sky, its wings enormous, blocking out the light of a thousand stars.

Everyone kept firing. Kaz had himself well braced, taking aimed shots at the plane, pulling the trigger calmly and quickly. Archer was spraying the air with his tommy gun as Gordie loaded a new clip in his rifle. The twenty-millimeter kept pumping out shells as the plane turned away and gained altitude. I shook Kaz by the shoulder, signaling he should stop firing. The Kawanishi was out of range for small-arms fire and becoming invisible again against the heavens.

Until the explosion. A soft
pummpf
echoed across the water, and a belch of flame erupted, probably from an engine. We'd hit her, caused some damage. A cheer went up, and we waited to see what she would do. Head for home, or try for one more attack?

Cotter throttled the engines down to idle. We began to drift, the telltale wake dissipating behind us. The sound of the Kawanishi's three remaining engines slowly faded into the night. Home was their choice; they'd die another day for their emperor. Our engines roared back into life, but not at full throttle. I saw Cotter glance back at our wake, slowing a little until he was satisfied, sacrificing speed for survival, reducing the glowing arrow that signaled to our potential destruction to less obvious dimensions. I wasn't about to ask him to step on it.

Dawn broke as we eased around the western side of Rendova, hugging the coast, ready to dart for the cover of overhanging palms at the first echo of aircraft. We soon entered a protected bay, shielded from the currents by a string of small offshore islands. Within the bay was a larger island. Lumbari, our destination.

It wasn't impressive. It was marked on military maps as a PT boat base, but all I saw was a line of PTs tied up along a crescent-shaped stretch of sandy beach. Tents and Quonset huts were scattered beneath the palms, camouflage netting strung up between them in an attempt to disguise crates of supplies and fuel drums stacked everywhere. Burned trees and the blackened hulks of scattered oil drums marked the hits from yesterday's raid.

The netting may have worked on land, but there was nothing to cover the PT boats on the shore. Bomb craters dotted the landscape near the beach, where one of the PTs sat low in the water, still smoldering from a hit on her stern.

“Welcome to Lumbari,” Cotter said from the bridge, slapping a mosquito on his neck as he guided the boat to a spot on the beach. The sun was barely up, but the temperature was already climbing and the bugs were feasting. Sweat soaked my khakis, making them feel thick and heavy against my skin.

“This place is worse than Guadalcanal,” Archer said, “which is not something you'll hear too often.”

“Why is the PT base located here then?” Kaz asked.

“It's a fair anchorage, protected from the heavy currents,” Archer said. “But I think the real reason Commander Garfield selected this spot is the bunker.”

“It's a spectacular one,” Gordie put in, seeing the questioning looks on our faces. “The Japanese are quite good at constructing bunkers made from coconut tree logs. This one is two stories deep, covered in vegetation, expertly disguised. Has a decent view of the channel and New Georgia in the distance.”

“Safe as houses,” Archer said, sending a stream of spit into the water. “The way Garfield likes it.”

“Word is he never leaves,” Gordie said.

“Sure he does,” Cotter shot back as he eased up on the throttle, letting the bow bump into the sandy beach. “It doesn't have a latrine.” His crewmen laughed, enjoying their skipper taking a shot at a superior officer. Cotter had taken enough shots after PT-109 went down, so I figured he liked dishing it out in another direction.

“What about missions?” I asked.

“Commander Garfield does not go out on missions,” Cotter said, his voice lower now. “He directs missions from his bunker. He doesn't ride on PT boats. He's an Annapolis man, in all the worst ways. He probably wishes he were on a battleship instead of running a forward base for PT boats.”

“He wouldn't authorize a search for Kennedy and his crew,” Gordie said. “Or so I heard.”

“That's right,” Cotter said. “If Jack wants someone to blame for being left out there, he doesn't have to look any farther than Garfield. He wouldn't let us search, and he sent us on operations in other sectors the two nights following.”

I was going to ask why, but the look on Cotter's face told me to drop it. He was caught up in a triangle of guilt, blame, and bad feelings. He'd had enough of Jack and the drama of PT-109, I could tell. It was a familiar feeling.

We took a rickety gangplank ashore, as work crews clambered aboard to rearm, refuel, and repair the 169. She had a fair number of bullet holes, and I didn't envy Cotter and his men the job of getting her shipshape. After the long night's journey, I planned on some shut-eye before moving on to find Josh Coburn and his coffee plantation.

We found the tents allocated for PT-169. Two for the crew and a third, smaller one for Cotter and his XO. The officer's tent was in the high-rent district, given that it was on slightly higher ground than the other two, avoiding the overflow from a languid trickle of foul-smelling water that ran alongside the path. We looked inside one tent, frightening off a snake that had curled up under one of the cots.

“Don't worry about him,” Gordie said. “It's a brown tree snake. They hunt at night. He was only looking for a place to rest in the shade, as we are. No wariwari, as our native friends say.”

“I would wari if I weren't so tired,” Kaz said. He tossed his musette bag on the floor and sat to take off his boots.

“Best to keep your boots on,” Archer said. “You might find a surprise inside if you have to put them on in a hurry.”

Archer and Gordie laughed, the kind of good-natured laughter you'd get from experienced hands showing a new guy the ropes. All in good fun. But they kept their boots on.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sleep didn't come
easy, or stay long.

Heat, humidity, visions of snakes snoozing beneath me, and the sounds of a forward base at work all conspired to get Kaz and me moving before noon, first in search of java and food, and then Commander Garfield. We made it to the mess tent seconds before wind whipped the palm trees into a frenzy and rain came down in hard, hot sheets, heavy drops beating against the canvas and blowing in sideways. It ended in less than a minute, leaving thick, humid air and steam rising from the muddy ground.

We went through the chow line and got a plateful of powdered eggs and biscuits. At least I think the yellow stuff had been eggs at some point in the distant past.

“What's our first move?” Kaz asked, grimacing as he sipped coffee from a chipped enamel mug.

“We report to Garfield, arrange transport to the main island
and find out where Coburn's plantation is. That's assuming Kari and
Porter are already on Choiseul. If
they've been delayed for any reason, we interrogate John Kari.”

“You are still thinking he is the killer?” Kaz asked, in a way that said he certainly wasn't.

“He fits the bill better than anyone,” I said. “He had the opportunity and a motive. Plus he's no stranger to killing.”

“But you have to agree,” Kaz said, “all that is a weak motive to support three savage murders.”

“A weak motive is better than none,” I said, trying to muster a belief in my own theory. “Besides, we know John Kari hid his past from us. Even if he isn't our man, who knows what else he's hiding?”

“Secrets,” Kaz said, attacking his eggs with grim determination. “What would we do without secrets to discover?”

I grunted my agreement and did my best with the food at hand. The coffee cleared my head a bit, and as I drained the last dregs from my cup, I thought about the natives vanishing into the jungle last night. Why did that image stay with me? Was it a key to some secret? What did it remind me of? I had no idea, no way even to form a question and ask Kaz about it.

We got directions to Garfield's bunker, stomping through muck and ooze on our way. The thing was impressive, shaded with layers of camouflage netting, two stories of crisscrossed coconut logs covered in dirt. Plants and small trees had sprouted, making it look like a small hillock, except for the antennae bristling along the length of the dugout.

A sentry let us in. As soon as the door shut behind us, I understood one of the attractions of the place. It was cool. Steps led down to the first level, which opened out into a spacious room with a concrete floor, lights strung along the walls, and wooden tables where sailors filed papers, typed orders, and fiddled with radio knobs. We found Garfield at the far end of the room, huddled over a map table with a couple of junior officers.

“Lieutenants Boyle and Kazimierz reporting, sir,” I said, as soon as he deigned to look up. He had a sparse head of hair, a thin face, and an expanding waist.

“Are you those army officers investigating some murder on Tulagi? I was told to expect you and provide what assistance I can. Which isn't much.”

“Yes, sir.” I answered.

“Murders,” Kaz said, perhaps surprised at my politeness to a chairbound superior officer. “There have been three.”

“I hope you don't suspect any of my men,” Garfield said, tossing down a pencil as if it were a knife. “I can't afford to lose any crewmen.”

“Or officers, I assume,” Kaz said. I enjoyed watching this.

“Well, certainly, if an officer of mine is guilty of any infraction, he should be dealt with,” Garfield said. “I'm a busy man, Boyle, so please excuse me.”

“We need some transport, Commander,” I said, before Kaz could make a remark about murder being a bit more than an infraction. “To the main island, and then a jeep.”

“Very well,” he said, calling out to a clerk to arrange a launch to take us to Rendova, and to have a jeep waiting at the harbor. I think he was glad to see us off his little island.

“One more thing,” I said. “Can you tell us if two Coastwatchers have been brought over to Choiseul yet? Porter and Kari.”

“Yes, they went in last night. Landed safely.”

“I assume you're in contact with them,” I said. “Do you know where they are on the island?”

“You assume incorrectly, Lieutenant,” Garfield said. “Coastwatchers are in radio contact with their headquarters on Guadalcanal. We get orders from there if our assistance is needed. Now you must excuse me.”

“If you get any orders to send a boat in with supplies or anything like that, please let me know, sir.”

“Is one of them a suspect?” Garfield said, showing the first genuine interest in anything I'd said. Everyone loves a mystery.

“We have to ask some questions,” I said. “I'd like to get to them before the Japs do.”

“Good luck with that. Now get out, I've got operations to plan.”

I looked at the chart on the table. Red lines stretched out from Lumbari north into the narrow strait off New Georgia. Blue lines arced in from above Bougainville, the likely route for destroyers of the Tokyo Express. A neat little war game with colored pencils in a safe, cool underground bunker. Garfield noticed I was staring at his handiwork, and it was as if he'd read my mind.

“That launch won't wait all morning, Boyle,” he said, waving his hand as if to swat me away.

“Jack Kennedy sends his regards,” I said, turning to leave.

“It sounds like he's calmed down then,” Garfield said.

“I doubt it. I was kidding, by the way.”

The heat slammed us as we left the bunker, but it was better than the chill inside.

“Infraction,” Kaz said, spitting out the word.

The launch deposited
us at a dock across the bay, on the main island. There were a few older civilian boats, rust-streaked and rotting, tied up next to us. Tin-roofed huts were arranged along the beach, where sailors, stripped to the waist, labored over engines and machine parts. The unglamorous but necessary work of combat-zone repair.

A jeep was provided as promised by Garfield. Our main problem was that no one knew where Coburn's plantation was, so we headed out on the only road available, trusting our luck.

“It's an island,” I said to Kaz. “How hard can it be?”

We drove past a field hospital, the giant tents marked with red crosses standing alone in a clearing, a good distance from other military installations. Then along Rendova's east shore, passing a barbed-wire enclosure patrolled by GIs with bayonets fixed to their M1s.

“Japanese POWs,” Kaz said. Groups of sullen prisoners squatted in small groups inside the wire. Maybe a hundred or so.

“I didn't think that many would have given up,” I said. “They must be from the fighting on New Georgia. That doesn't look like a permanent camp.” There were a few huts and Quonset huts outside the wire. Inside, tents with their side flaps rolled up provided shade for the POWs. Most were shoeless, dressed in tattered, rotting uniforms. They were all painfully thin.

“They look much more frightening when they are trying to kill you,” Kaz said as we left the barbed wire behind.

“You take weapons and gear away from soldiers who've been fighting for weeks straight, and all you're left with is dirt and ragged, stinking clothes. It's as if belts, helmets, straps, and packs were the only things holding them together.”

“In North Africa, German and Italian POWs ranged from sullen to deliriously happy,” Kaz said. “Those men looked neither. They appeared lost.”

We reached a fork in the road. “Speaking of lost,” I said, “which way?”

“Inland,” Kaz said. “A coffee plantation would be at a higher elevation, not sea level.”

As always, Kaz was right. I'd given up asking him how he knew so much. He'd shrug, as if to say, how is it you
don't
know these things?

The dirt track took us higher, looping around hills until the sea was far below us and the gently sloping ground was cleared of thick jungle and planted with rows and rows of shoulder-high bushes. Workers moved through the rows, wielding hoes and attacking the weeds that threatened to overwhelm the coffee plants. We drove to the top of the hill, where a house with the usual wide verandah stood, flanked by a large shed with a corrugated roof and another long, narrow building on stilts, roofed native-style with palm fronds.

“This is much better than Lumbari,” Kaz said, stretching as we got out of the jeep. A mild breeze swept up from the sea, slightly scented with salt, cool and crisp after the stale, thick air of the base.

“Are you gents lost?” The voice held the trace of a Scottish accent, softened by years in the Solomons.

“Not if you're Josh Coburn,” I said to the tall figure who'd stepped out of the shed. He had a full white beard, wore a wide-brimmed hat, and walked with one stiff leg. He came closer, eyeing us suspiciously.

“Who might be asking, then?”

I did the introductions. “We don't mean to bother you, but we're investigating a murder. Three of them, actually. We need to ask you a few questions.”

“Why? I haven't killed anyone. Which is a claim few can make these days.”

“You are Josh Coburn, I take it?” Kaz asked.

“I am guilty of that,” Coburn said. “Now, how'd you like to taste some real coffee? If you're going to talk at me, I might as well take a break.”

“We'd be fools to turn down a cup of java from a coffee plantation, Mr. Coburn,” I said. A few minutes later, we were seated on the verandah, sipping the best coffee I'd ever tasted, marveling at the view. The wind caressed the green jungle beneath the ordered rows of coffee plants, the sparkling sea beyond deceptively peaceful.

“This is extraordinarily delicious,” Kaz said. I nodded an eager agreement.

“It's the peaberry that does it,” Coburn said. Noting our quizzical looks, he launched into an explanation. “I'm sure you've noticed the shape of coffee beans. The cherry—the fruit of the coffee plant—holds two seeds, which is the bean itself. They grow together, which flattens the sides that face each other. But a very few plants will produce a cherry with single seeds. Then you get a nice oval bean, perfect for roasting. You'll never get it as fresh as this.”

“Remarkable,” Kaz said.

“Fine stuff, isn't it?” Coburn said. “Commands a good price, too. I roast some beans for myself; the rest get bagged up and sold. Or will be, when the commercial traffic starts back up.”

“Your place seems to have weathered the occupation,” I said.

“I'm lucky the Japs prefer tea,” he said with a laugh. “They had a lookout post up here for a while, but didn't cause too much damage. Shot a half dozen natives for no reason I can figure, then lit out when your army landed. It's mainly a case of beating back the bush after a couple years of neglect. Now that you've had your lesson, go ahead and ask your questions.”

“Did you know Daniel Tamana?” I said, feeling the jolt of caffeine kick in.

“Sure I know him,” Coburn started, then caught himself. “You put that in the past tense. Has Daniel been killed? Is he one of the three?”

“The first of the three,” Kaz said. “Next was Sam Chang.”

“Christ,” Coburn said. “Sam was a fine man. Forward-thinking. Don't tell me those damn fool sisters of his are mixed up in this?”

“No,” I said, glancing at Kaz. “They are mystified as well. The third victim was a woman, Deanna Pendleton.”

“Not the lass from the Methodist mission? Dear God, what's going on? When and where did all this happen?” Coburn stood, pacing on the verandah, trying to take in the terrible news.

“On Tulagi, very recently,” I said. “We were wondering what you could tell us about Daniel. What kind of man he was, and if he had trouble with anyone.”

“Hardly a man back then,” Coburn said. “He came here to work when he was a young lad. Smart, spoke good English. I wasn't surprised when he moved on. If I'd had a better job to give him, I would have.”

“Did he have trouble with anyone?”

“No, not that I recall. Kept to himself a lot. Always reading, trying to improve himself. Which meant that he didn't make friends well. The other native boys likely thought him stuck-up. Neither fish nor fowl, as they say.”

“But no arguments or serious disagreements?”

“No,” Coburn said, shaking his head. “A bit of resentment maybe, but nothing more.”

“Would you say he was honest?” I asked, wondering if there might be some criminal connection between Daniel and John Kari.

“Yes, I'd peg him as an honest chap. No reason not to,” Coburn said as he refilled our cups from an enamel pot. “Brave, too, although you probably know of his service.”

“Did you ever run across another native, John Kari?” Kaz asked. “He is a bit like Daniel. Well-educated, suited to European ways.”