Path of the Storm

by Douglas Reeman

  Inglish said resignedly: ‘Okay, Chief. We’ll run her into that cove.’

  Anders grunted and yelled at the seaman by the scarred wheel: ‘Head for the beach, Pirelli! Nice an’ steady now!’

  Pirelli, who had been half asleep in the unwavering glare, showed his teeth so that the livid white scar shone on his face like a streak of paint. ‘Good as done, Chief.’

  The cliff loomed overhead, and with a gentle groan of protest the boat surged up the shallow beach and came to rest with one final shudder.

  Inglis said: ‘Get the men ashore and leave Heiser to do his stuff. Better run out a bowline too in case she slips off.’

  Anders looked at the crudely repaired hull with its obvious patches of dry rot and smiled. ‘What a way to run a navy!’

  The seamen jumped over the bows and wandered aimlessly up the beach. There was only a tiny patch of shade in one corner, and three of them threw themselves down with hardly a murmur.

  Pirelli kicked off his shoes and paddled in the small wavelets, his dark face bored and restless. How much longer was this stupid business going on? he wondered. The sense of dragging time was more evident than ever, and with an officer like Inglis it was getting worse. Baiting an officer was part of everyday life to underprivileged sailors, but with Inglis it was different. The men whined and grumbled and Inglis gave in too easily, so that for Pirelli at least all the fun had gone out of it. Even the few trips ashore in search of other distractions had only added to the general misery of the place. Two barnlike buildings had been put at their disposal, with drink, of a sort, to be had in plenty. Instead of easing tension it had sparked several open fights, and small grudges had broken out into fierce conflict. The trouble was, Pirelli decided, you could not get away from the very people you were cooped up with in the ship. Everything beyond this apology for a town was off limits, and the few roads were constantly patrolled by grim-faced soldiers armed to the teeth. Occasionally they saw groups of haggard women with hand-carts loading sacks and crates from the town’s central store. They were all dressed in rough smocks and were said to be women prisoners or the wives of some of the island’s detainees. It was also rumoured that in the centre of the island there was a giant prison camp which consisted of squalid huts and miles of barbed wire. Pirelli was not sure if this knowledge bothered him or not, but it did nothing to help either.

  Now this poxy engine had folded. It was somehow typical of the whole thing. Before, in the Hibiscus, events had moved from day to day with the pleasant if dull routine of a normal ship. Until the new plans had been put into practice and the fresh captain had taken charge. Then there was Bella.…

  Pirelli kicked moodily at a pebble and marvelled at the change which had come over the young, dark-eyed yeoman. Bella had tasted popularity as if for the very first time in his life. He used Pirelli’s protection in the crew space to enlarge his own position, but worse, he seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut about the captain. The crew were dissatisfied enough without Bella adding to their gloom. He appeared to enjoy nothing more than when he had an audience and he could enlarge on something the captain had said or done, or something overheard amongst the other officers. Pirelli openly scorned authority of any kind. He had been promoted and busted himself with faithful regularity and cared nothing for advancement. Yet he cared very much for his own private backwater, and this new form of ‘treachery’ on Bella’s part made him uneasy.

  He stared upwards towards the top of the cliff. It was jagged and patterned with countless bird droppings. Above it the sky was bright blue and the cliff’s shelter held the sun’s heat like the wails of an oven.

  From the fishing boat’s hull came the intermittent clang of metal, and Pirelli guessed that Heiser, now he was alone, was more than likely reading one of his lurid paperbacks while he occasionally slammed the old engine with a spanner to make it sound as if he was working. Then, when it was too late to do any more buggering about with his stupid chart, Inglis would be told it was okay to get under way and so return to the ship.

  Pirelli climbed over two sharp rocks, and after relieving himself amongst the green weeds by the water’s edge he began to saunter round the narrow strip of sand. The hammering from the boat faded behind him, and once when he looked back he saw Inglis staring at the listing hull as if he expected a miracle to happen. Pirelli grinned in spite of his discomfort and pulled on his shoes. Perhaps a climb up this stupid cliff would pass the time. Not too far in case Inglis decided to shove off without him. After about ten minutes he found a possible path up the cliff, more like a goat track, but it was better than nothing. It was like being a castaway with nothing and nobody for hundreds of miles. Nothing moved, and even the sea was muted as he climbed steadily up the rock face, the sweat pouring down his strong, hairy arms.

  * * *

  Inglis threw the bowline over the stem of the boat and stepped back on to the beach. He should have roused the three drowsing seamen to do this job but he could no longer be bothered with their grumbling. Heiser, his face streaked with grease, peered down at him. ‘Put her astern, Heiser.’

  The mechanic was about to point out that it was hardly a task for an engineer when he noticed the edge to the lieutenant’s voice and decided to obey without query. It had taken three hours to fix the engine, although he had to admit he could have done it in about fifteen minutes. ‘Then what, sir?’

  Inglis frowned. ‘Back off and run it ahead and astern a couple of times to make sure it’s running okay. Then beach her again.’

  Chief Anders looked up from his sitting position on a slab of rock. Who cares? he thought. It’ll probably break down again tomorrow. Why the hell doesn’t Inglis yell at these lazy bastards? Anders toyed with the idea of doing so himself but decided he had already carried the young officer quite enough. He saw the bowline fall untidily into the water just as the engine wheezed into life and began to move the boat clear of the beach. With a growl Anders struggled to his feet and sloshed into the water to gather up the rope before that fool Heiser allowed it to foul the screw when he pushed back up the beach. A loop of rope caught his ankle and with a profane curse he was dragged into deep water before he could free himself. Spluttering with fury he swam after his cap and heard someone laughing from the beach.

  Only Inglis saw what happened next. There was a soft thud in the sand by his feet. Immediately he looked up, blinking at the sunlight above the cliff’s ragged crest. He imagined he saw a brief movement, like a head being quickly withdrawn. Frowning, he looked at the thing which had narrowly missed him, and then fell back with horror.

  Chief Anders had just reached his sodden cap when the hand grenade exploded. At first, in those fractional seconds his reeling mind imagined that the engine had burst, and he instinctively ducked below the surface to shield himself. The action of being pulled into deep water by the bowline saved his life, the last movement saved him from the actual sight of the explosion.

  When he eventually waded ashore the beach was quiet as before. Only a black hole and the thin haze of smoke betrayed the passage of death, and with sick horror Anders staggered up the beach, his eyes mesmerised by the great scarlet patches around the three sailors who still lay in their attitudes of rest, propped up as they had been to watch the chief swimming after his cap. Their bodies were glistening with a dozen gaping wounds, and without going to them he knew they were already dead. Inglis lay on his back, and without thought for any further danger Anders tore off his shirt and began to twist it into a tourniquet. Anders heard himself sobbing with angry desperation as he attempted to hang on to the life in the poor torn thing at his feet. Inglis’s face was a mass of blood, and he could see his teeth gleaming through a great gash in one cheek. But he had lost an arm below the elbow and one of his legs lay at a nightmare angle like part of a rag doll.

  Anders wheeled round as he heard the scuffle of feet behind him, the vomit thick in his throat as he waited for another explosion. With a gasp of relief he saw Pirelli’s stricken face, watched
the dazed incredulity in the man’s staring eyes.

  ‘Quick! Call Heiser!’ Anders’ voice was harsh. ‘Don’t stand there gawping!’

  The boat beached once more, and stumbling with their bloody load Anders and Pirelli levered Inglis’s body over the bulwark. Heiser refused to show himself, but between the engine’s heavy beats they could hear him whimpering like a frightened child. But the boat glided astern, and after what seemed like an age edged its way clear of the shoals so that Pirelli was able to put the wheel over and head for the open water.

  Anders stayed with Inglis, unable to help or even to speak as the young officer tried to move beneath his grip. Once as a spasm of pain lanced through him Inglis twisted free, and the chart he had so meticulously guarded fell blood-spattered and torn on to the deck. Anders threw it overboard and peered astern at the silent island. Like stiff spectators he could still see the three dead seamen, and wanted to call their names, to find the right words.

  Pirelli said nothing, and he was aware for practically the first time in his life that he could not see because of the mist across his eyes. One of the dead seamen was Grout, his friend. Lying back there like a freshly slaughtered pig. In those brief seconds he changed from a man to a nothing. No recognition, no shape. Just a thing. Torn, gouged and broken. Pirelli dashed his forearm across his eyes and cursed between his teeth. He did not know or understand what had happened or why it had been done, any more than he realised what had made him take that lonely walk along the beach away from the others.

  Hours later as the little boat thudded round the headland beyond the anchorage Pirelli was still repeating like a prayer: ‘The bastards! The goddamn bloody bastards!’

  The boat ground alongside the anchored Hibiscus, and Anders stood back to allow the scrambling familiar figures to crowd aboard. He saw the doctor, Connell, bending over the body, heard him passing quick, urgent instructions to the pharmacist’s mate. Later the doctor said, ‘I think he might live.’

  Anders watched the bandaged figure being handed up over the ship’s rail, his eyes hot and angry. ‘D’you call that living?’ Then oblivious to the men who lined the ship’s side he walked to the bulwark and retched. Then he wiped his mouth and watched the gig as it roared from its parent ship and headed for the shore.

  That’s right, he thought. Start the wheels turning now that it’s too damn late! What do they care anyway! Just another goddamn incident!

  But Pirelli thought differently. Already he had found Regan who had been left in charge of the ship. ‘I want to go with the landing party, sir!’

  Regan, his face tight and grim, eyed him warily. ‘Are you fit for it?’

  Pirelli swayed. ‘I’m fit for them bastards! Just you try me!’

  Regan turned away to watch the fast-moving gig. We’ll see what the new captain makes of this, he thought.

  * * *

  Major Jago sat stiffly behind his desk and watched Gunnar stride back and forth across the underground bunker. Maddox was in the same steel chair he had occupied on the first visit, and like Jago followed the captain’s shadow, his face heavy with concern.

  Jago said again, ‘I understand your problem, but action of the sort you suggest is not going to help.’ He jerked his head towards the wall map. ‘I sent two L.C.I.s and a couple of pattrols to the islet in question and we should get a report at any moment.’

  Gunnar paused in his pacing his chest working painfully. ‘What the hell do you expect me to think? Three men dead and an officer cut to ribbons!’

  Gunnar hardly recognised his own voice. It seemed incredible that so much had happened and so quickly. He had been with Maddox on the headland where the exec’s shore party had been marking out the possible site for a radar reflector, when a white-faced and breathless Lieutenant Kroner had stammered out the news about Inglis and the others. Almost without pause Gunnar had ordered Kroner to return to the ship, to tell Regan to prepare for sea at once, to assemble an armed landing party. Jago’s summons should have warned him, but even now he could hardly believe that the marine was so indifferent.

  In his mind he could still see the picture of Inglis’s mutilated face above the splinted and bandaged limbs as they had ferried him ashore to the citadel’s sick quarters. Connell was staying with him until he could be flown out.

  Jago continued flatly: ‘Men get killed every day. There are always incidents, even here. You’ve got to be on your guard.’

  ‘Your guard seems to be less than useless!’ Gunnar was standing over the other man his eyes blazing. ‘What d’you expect me to do? Apologise?’

  Jago frowned. ‘I expect you to behave like a responsible officer, Captain! I’m sorry for your young lieutenant, I’m damn sorry for anyone who gets killed out here.’ He shrugged. ‘But you should know well enough that these Reds aren’t playing games. But if you go pooping off your ship’s armament every time some wandering sailors run into trouble, you’ll get no thanks from me, and none at all from headquarters either!’

  He watched Gunnar’s pale face intently. ‘We have to move cautiously. The British wouldn’t be keen on us starting something on their doorstep in Malaysia, neither would Washington welcome a spread of action which might antagonise Taiwan. We’ve got to make the local garrison work, to do its stuff, otherwise we might as well pack up and go home. Hell, Captain, the commandant here has only got a skeleton battalion, plus a few locally recruited characters. The latter are a bit rough, not combat material as yet.’ He seemed to make up his mind. ‘Anyway, I’ve radioed for instructions and the admiral backs me one hundred per cent. So just tighten up your security and stand fast, Captain. You can help me by making a sweep of the islands to the north and west, starting tomorrow. Just routine, but keep your eyes peeled. Any boat you see that you don’t have in your supplement is suspect. Stop and search it, detain it if necessary, but no goddamn punitive expeditions, got it?’

  Sergeant Rickover said sharply from the corner, ‘Here it comes, Major!’

  The radio stuttered and a voice said in broken English, ‘Hello, Dodger, this is Hunter calling!’

  Jago was on his feet and had the handset in his fist before the others could move. ‘Come in, Hunter, this is Dodger!’

  The set crackled. ‘Hello, Dodger. We are in position Four X-Ray. We have recovered bodies of three dead sailors and have taken two Reds. Over.’

  Jago looked flushed. ‘Have you got an interrogation going yet? Over!’

  A short pause. ‘Negative. Both Reds dead after patrol landed.’ Another pause, and Maddox saw the bitterness on Jago’s face, his guard momentarily dropped. ‘The three sailors’ bodies had been bayoneted after death. Request instruction, Over.’

  ‘Return to base, Hunter. Over and out.’ Jago dropped the handset. ‘A couple of Reds, eh. Probably some of the guerrillas we’ve had dropped on the island over the past few weeks. There have been a few shootings and so forth. Things are hotting up.’ He banged his fists together. ‘What wouldn’t I give for a hundred marines!’

  Gunnar said coldly, ‘When can we get Lieutenant Inglis flown out?’

  Jago sounded distant. ‘Tomorrow morning. I’ve radioed for a chopper. He’ll be okay.’

  Gunnar saw again the fresh, eager young lieutenant on the bridge as he had been when Hibiscus left Hong Kong, holding down the con as if his life depended on it. Now disfigured, with one arm gone and maybe a leg when the surgeons got going on him, he was being written off. He felt the muscles tightening around his waist like steel bands so that his breathing began to hurt him. The bastards! Not content with open murder, they had to mutilate the three dead seamen with their bayonets. He said aloud: ‘I’ll want another fishing boat, Major, or one of your L.C.I.s. I’m not trusting the lives of my men to any more clapped-out junks.’ He paused, and Maddox almost felt the contempt in his voice. ‘Especially as their lives don’t seem to count for much around here!’

  Major Jago leaned back his hands flat on the desk. ‘See the Limey, Burgess. His boat is the only other one
with a good diesel. I’ll okay it with the commandant.’

  Rickover interrupted quietly: ‘You’ll find it on the west side of the anchorage, Captain. He has a house of sorts there.’

  ‘I’ll find it.’ Gunnar picked up his cap. ‘I’m just saying this, and I’m saying it once only. If my men get fired on again, and I’m on the spot, I’ll see that something is done about it, and damn quick!’

  Surprisingly the marine major grinned. ‘That’s the stuff, Captain!’

  Gunnar walked to the door. ‘Go to hell,’ he answered calmly.

  * * *

  The three dead seamen lay in another bunker shrouded in flags, side by side as they had been on the unknown beach. Barely feet away, two crumpled figures in camouflaged green uniforms, each with a crude red star sewn above the pocket, lay wide-eyed and grinning with unseeing eyes.

  Captain Pak, leader of the patrol which had searched the islet, prodded one of the corpses with his boot. ‘Pity we not catch them before they die,’ he said sadly. He pointed at two Czechoslovakian burp guns and a pack of grenades. ‘This is all they have.’

  Gunnar took a last look at the other three draped bodies and saluted without really noticing his own action. They too would be flown out in the morning.

  He heard Maddox speaking quietly behind him, and turned to see the exec whispering to Connell. The doctor glanced at the still forms and said flatly: ‘Inglis has died, Captain. Never recovered consciousness.’

  Gunnar could only stare at him. Not even Inglis had been spared. This place was like the realisation of a curse from the past. He was bringing death and misery again, just as he had before. Thickly he said, ‘I thought you said he would be all right.’

  Connell shrugged. ‘It was bad, sir. A sudden haemorrhage and that was it.’

  You callous bastard, Gunnar thought savagely. Like all bloody doctors! Connell walked past him and peered at the remains of the dead guerrillas. Then without a word he walked after Gunnar and the exec out into the fresh mild night with its high stars and the reassuring murmur of the sea.