Madame Atomos Strikes Back

by André Caroff

  When the boarding was complete, the sun was already well below the horizon and a light fog started obscuring the slopes of the nearby hills. It was exactly 6:15.

  May Maxwell and Veronica Mac Connell were obviously unaware of the defeat and arrest of Madame Atomos. They were struggling to save themselves from the dreadful radiation. After taking shelter behind the embankment, they went hunting for a boat that would be fast enough to escape the yacht’s machine gun, since the only safe route out seemed to be the sea. Veronica found the rare bird between two big sailboats. It was an OMC 17 with a three-keeled hull, steeped like a hydroplane, equipped with a 150 hp Johnson motor and a 24-gallon gas tank.

  “Here’s what we need,” the teacher said as she jumped on board.

  May Maxwell followed her, examined the dashboard equipped with a rev counter and asked, “Do you know how to drive this thing, Veronica?”

  “No worries,” she answered. “This raft is made by the Outboard Marine Company where my father was an engineer. Sit down and hang on tightly in the turns…” She had to have gone that far to notice that the key was not in the ignition. In any other situation that was something that she would have thought about before making her choice, but at the moment she was plunged in a kind of drunken excitement.

  “Start it up,” May Maxwell remarked calmly. “My watch shows 6:12. Unless it’s fast, I’m wondering why we are still alive.”

  The teacher pulled the cover off the motor and felt around a few seconds before finding the connecting wire. She worked with a pair of pliers that she found in the toolbox and all of sudden the engine started. Veronica jumped behind the steering wheel and the engine stopped strangely. She shouted out in desperation and ran to the back of the boat.

  May Maxwell stopped her, a serious look on her face. “Listen,” she whispered. “Do you hear anything?”

  Veronica pricked up her ears and caught the distinctive thump of a diesel engine winding out. “Sounds like a fishing boat.” She listened again and added, “It’s pretty far, but it’s heading this way.”

  “It isn’t the yacht?”

  “No. I’m sure it’s a little boat.”

  May bit her lips. “It can only be the guys from the yacht. Try to get this speedboat going. I’m going to see what’s going on.”

  She got back on solid ground and sped up the stone stairs leading to the marina. It only took one glance to understand what it was all about. She counted seven men in the big dinghy, saw the steel weapons glitter in the purple rays of the setting sun and went back down.

  Veronica got the motor started again. It turned over silently while she waited impatiently for May to get into her seat. “We are going to be dealing with a strong enemy,” she said. “Right now we’re cornered in the port. The beach is cut off for us. The gun is no more than 100 yards away and at that distance we’ll be mowed down with the first round of fire. Is this boat really fast, Veronica?”

  “The only ones better are outboard racing boats, but the hull of this one will never rise up over 10 degrees and I think we can take our chances.”

  May closed her eyes. “In that case, let’s go!” She looked at Veronica and continued, “We’ll hide behind that sailboat at the end of the port. When the dinghy passes the pier this boat will have to take off like lightning so the embankment is between the guns and us. And Veronica, it’s up to you to decide the right moment. From this second on I hand over to you the running of this operation.”

  The young woman accepted with a nod of her chin, accelerated gently and the OMC 17 moved forward, its three stems slicing the water. The engine was almost soundless and Veronica knew very well that at full speed it was only a low whistle. She maneuvered accurately, helped by the really smooth Johnson V-6, and slipped the boat between the moored sailboat and the tiny dry dock.

  While she was performing this stealthy move, the dull thump of the diesel got closer and the light of the fleeting day streaked the wisps of fog. No doubt in less than ten minutes…

  Captain Osuma’s brow was furrowed deep with worry. Many things were coming together to bring him down. The warships, the two women, the population of Pescadero Point, the children crying in the hold… Then there was Madame Atomos who gave him no news, no orders! Her last message that morning had warned him of the children’s arrival and it ended abruptly: Stayed anchored in the same place, no matter what happens, unless I myself give you the signal to depart.

  Osuma grumbled and looked up. The dinghy was rounding the pier and slowly dragging the crew along the embankment. The captain saw some sailboats, a short landing dock with a dozen small boats attached and a half-moon shaped shore. Farther along there was a prefabricated shack with a big sign reading “Regatta Society of Pescadero Point”. Another more solid building—maybe it was for the “Inscription Marine”—had a pale front with two windows and a door. It looked like a sickly face opening its eyes and mouth to see and breathe better. After this was the bare beach with its bad road and then the median strip. To get to town it was necessary to take the road.

  “Stop the engine and land,” Osuma ordered. He was sure that the women were hiding in the port. They had no other choice.

  The big dinghy glided in and landed not far from the sailboats. All the men were turned toward the dock. 50 yards away Veronica quickly gave it gas. The boat skated off instantly, nosed up under the force of acceleration, then rapidly got back to position and sped away on two hulls, the front and the flat rear end.

  Osuma was drawn away from the spray of fog and glimpsed a red boat with a white bottom racing away soundlessly at lightning speed. He gripped his weapon and shouted, “Fire!”

  The sailors swung around and watched without understanding. Beyond the pier there was nothing left but a big wake spreading little angry waves that battered the dock and shore. On board the yacht the radio operator was in front of his equipment and the mechanic was going down to the hold. He had waited behind the machine gun until the dinghy entered the marina, following the captain’s orders to the letter.

  The speedboat passed the breakwater at full tilt without a shot being fired.

  Chapter XI

  Its silent engine, its speed, the shadowy twilight and the fog were all elements that allowed the boat to escape, as unlikely as it seemed to Captain Osuma’s lack of imagination. The Japanese did not think for an instant about firing off a round to alert the mechanic and the radio operator. Nor did he think that the escapees could have been so reckless as to attack the yacht. He was only sure that he would never catch them and so he ordered his pilot to turn around.

  It was a sorry sight to see the big dinghy making its wide, slow u-turn. By the time it had barely reached the end of the embankment, the speedboat was already at the yacht. In perfect secrecy it had approached the bottom of the bow ladder on the sea side. Veronica moored the boat after shutting off the engine and joined May Maxwell on the bridge of the yacht.

  May gripped her submachine gun tightly. She was exploiting her advantage to the utmost, feeling that providence was handing her on a silver platter the possibility to save the children. And her determination was equaled only by the Veronica Mac Connell’s.

  “How many are left on this boat?”

  “Seven in the dinghy, the two that you killed… A ship like this can easily have a crew of 20 men. Minus nine is still a lot.”

  May pointed to the abandoned machine gun whose glistening barrel was still aimed at the shore. “With this weapon we can do better than just defend ourselves. Besides, I don’t think there are so many men on board—it’s too calm.”

  All of a sudden, as if to deny what she had just said, a footstep resonated on the metal staircase visible at the top of the hatchway near Veronica. May gave a warning sign and the two women hid behind the sliding hood. The radio operator stepped on the bridge completely unaware. The half-light was now darker and the steady puff-puff of the big dinghy’s diesel engine punctured the fog with its sound of broken eggs. He threw away his cigarette, turned ar
ound and found himself face to face with the two women.

  “Put your hands up,” May ordered, “and don’t say a word.”

  The radio operator did nothing of the kind. He dove, rolled over, pulled an automatic out of his belt and shot at random. May killed him with a bullet to the head. She heard the shouts coming from the dinghy and knew that she had to act very fast. She handed her weapon to the teacher, jumped onto the machine gun and let off a long round of gunfire in the direction of the noise. There was howling, silence and the diesel’s puff-puff moving away.

  May waited a minute, afraid that it might be a trick, but the big dinghy had apparently decided against a confrontation with the machine gun. In fact, two sailors had been killed and Captain Osuma was hit in the arm. A bunch of bullets had pierced the dinghy below the waterline and the heavy craft was filling with water. The sailors, not understanding what was happening, threatened mutiny, so Yamaguchi, the second-in-command, took over and ordered them to make for the shore. His was the voice of reason.

  In the yacht’s hold the frightened children stayed quiet and the mechanic decided to go up to the bridge to see what they were shooting at. His name was Koji Masuda and he had been signed up by Osuma without really knowing what it was all about. Later on, knowing that desertion would be punished with death, Masuda had no choice but to acquiesce. But in Madame Atomos’ organization he was considered lazy and lame, just good enough to take care of the engines.

  May Maxwell had no trouble winning him over. While the children were being brought on deck by the teacher, choked with emotion, Masuda weighed anchor, started the engine and headed out for open water.

  It was bad luck that he was the only one absent when the radio operator had told Osuma that the navy would sink any boat making for sea without authorization.

  Max Ritter and his G-men did very good work in the hours that followed and became certain that Madame Atomos was not lying. The Baxter & Strong bus had never arrived in Watsonville, which was its official destination, and no one had seen the children or their teacher.

  Ritter went back to his office a little before 9:30 p.m. On Mission Street he was curious about a group of people huddled around a transistor radio. He heard vaguely that a ship had been sunk, but he did not pay any attention. The evacuation was responsible for many deaths and Ritter was expecting that there would be others in this state of siege.

  He climbed up the stairs and made himself known. Smith Beffort opened the door for him and shut it right away. “Do you have any information?”

  Ritter sat down, lit a cigarette and said, “Everything she says is true. 50 kids, taken from the school and absent at roll call.”

  Smith Beffort held back a scowl. The Boss had been informed and made them wait a long time before giving an answer. In the end it was decided to free the Japanese woman. For his part, Yosho Akamatsu, who had gone back to the Lindamar Hotel, was unable to find any trace of May Maxwell.

  Everything was going wrong and Madame Atomos was winning. Beffort faced her. “When do you want to leave?” he asked simply.

  Madame Atomos did not hesitate. “Right now.”

  Beffort put a piece of paper in front of her and spoke in a hoarse voice. “Here’s your walking papers. You won’t be bothered with them. If anything happens and you get arrested, have them call the number on the bottom of this page immediately. Max Ritter will be here to answer…”

  Madame Atomos stood up. A sardonic smile twisted her thin lips. “The pass is obviously good for a few hours, right Mr. Beffort?”

  “Until midnight,” Smith Beffort barked. “After that I won’t answer to anything. Come on, the car is waiting for you.”

  It was a black Buick, perfectly anonymous, but which was, in fact, a veritable mobile transmitter. Thanks to the constant “blip-blips” it let off, the Buick would not be able to escape from the car that Beffort, Soblen and Akamatsu would drive.

  Madame Atomos examined it for an instant and said, “Mr. Beffort, don’t forget that I have to arrive at my destination alone. If you try to follow me, as I believe you will, the children will suffer the consequences.”

  Beffort stood like marble. The transmitter hidden in the Buick was strong enough to let them follow her at a distance. “You have my word,” he said frankly, “that no vehicle will be on your tail.”

  Madame Atomos once again had that unpleasant smile and Beffort did everything he could not to slap her. This ageing woman who was able to smile while so many innocent people were dead because of her, made him want to murder her.

  Madame Atomos slid behind the steering wheel, turned the ignition and before closing the door said, “Goodbye, Mr. Beffort. I hope to see you again soon under different circumstances.”

  Beffort did not answer and the Buick took off. It turned down the first road and its taillights disappeared. Ten seconds later Akamatsu stopped his Chevrolet in front of his colleagues. Soblen and Beffort dove in and immediately heard the crisp blip-blip coming out of the special receiver installed in the dashboard.

  “Everything’s okay,” Akamatsu said. “She’s maybe 300 yards away.”

  Beffort took off his hat, wiped his forehead and said nervously, “Let’s go, Yosho.”

  The Japanese had a nasty laugh. “She can’t slip away, Smith. We can let her get a mile in front of us without running any risk.”

  “I admire your calm, Yosho, but I don’t share it. This woman has more than one ace up her sleeve. She suspects that we’re going to follow her. I’m scared that she’ll…”

  The voice of Max Ritter suddenly blurted out through the radio in the car, interrupting him. “Beffort, can you hear me? I’ve got some bad news to tell you. Madame Atomos should not have been freed! Beffort! Beffort!”

  Akamatsu took off like a shot while the G-man picked up the microphone. “I hear you, Ritter. What’s going on?”

  “First, answer this question,” Ritter demanded as his voice trembled. “Is Madame Atomos still with you?”

  “No,” Beffort replied. “Now, are you going to talk to me?”

  Ritter started shouting orders. Clearly he was talking to his G-men, far from the mike, so that the speaker in the Chevrolet only gave off a garbled noise. Over all this the blip-blip of the Buick remained as clear as before, thus showing that Akamatsu was right on track following the car.

  Finally the hubbub died down and Ritter said, “Sorry, Beffort. I had to get my man after that woman…”

  “You’re crazy!” The G-man yelled.

  “Just a minute,” Ritter was getting angry. “Listen up. The 50 children were found on a yacht with their teacher, May Maxwell and a Japanese guy named Koji Masuda.”

  “Good God! You found them?”

  Ritter lowered his voice, “Not me, Beffort. In short, here’s the facts as far as we know from what the navy told me: at 6:10 in the evening and in a thick fog, a warship detected a boat taking off for San Francisco. In spite of the order authorizing it to open fire without warning, the warship decided to try to communicate with it. When it didn’t answer the radio calls the warship fired a warning shot. Instead of slowing down, the unidentified boat change direction and headed out to sea. It clearly looked like it wanted to cross into international waters. The warship fired and hit the target several times—the instrument panel showed that the boat was broken down and not moving. They launched a rowboat in the fog and the lieutenant in command witnessed an awful sight: the boat was a yacht and on fire; it listed dangerously. The surface of the sea was strewn with the mutilated corpses of children…”

  Ritter’s voice went hoarse and then quiet. A tragic silence fell over the Chevrolet, disturbed only by the blip-blip of Madame Atomos’ Buick. Beffort and Soblen looked like they had been turned to stone. Akamatsu, who had already reduced his speed considerably, stopped the car along the sidewalk.

  Ritter resumed shakily, “The tragedy finally ended with the following count: 30 kids dead or missing, 6 seriously wounded; May Maxwell is dead, as well as Koji Masuda, who
was working for Madame Atomos; Veronica Mac Connell is in the hospital with the other children—she’s in shock and they don’t know if she’ll recover her sanity…”

  There was another moment of silence and then Max Ritter lashed out with hatred, “I’ve given orders to shoot the Buick on sight. The police and the army both have its description. If everyone does their job, Madame Atomos won’t even be able to leave San Francisco! I hope you haven’t lost her!”

  Beffort shook his head. “We still have the signal. Don’t kick yourself, Ritter, we have her! Keep listening—I’ll call when I have some news.”

  “Got it, Beffort. Try to take her alive!”

  Akamatsu started the car without saying a word and Beffort hung up the mike. The Chevrolet cruised for a little while and the blip-blip became louder and clearer, filling the whole car with its squealing echo.

  “Watch out,” Dr. Soblen said, “We’re getting close.”

  On the lookout Akamatsu slowly took the 19th Avenue/Alemany Boulevard turnoff and crawled 100 yards while the blip-blip shook the speaker. All of a sudden the Buick appeared, parked between two cars in front of a cottage and, naturally, it was empty.

  Beffort jumped out, opened the car door and found a folded note on the steering wheel. He turned on the interior light and read: Mr. Beffort, you were wrong to lend me a car equipped with a radio. I just heard on the news that my hostages have no more negotiating value. I thank the navy for helping with the demolition job, but I’m sorry for the loss of my boat. Tomorrow, and only to prove to you that my power is intact, I will sink the warship that just destroyed my yacht. Don’t try to catch me, Mr. Beffort. You will waste the little time you have left to live! Hiroshima, Nagasaki! Compliments of Madame Atomos!

  Smith Beffort got out of the Buick, jumped into the Chevrolet and shouted, “Move it, Yosho! Move it!”

  The Chevrolet leapt forward and went 50 feet before a tremendous explosion resounded. The wreckage of the Buick killed three pedestrians, pulverized all the windows within a 100-yard radius and the parked cars lit up like torches.