Operation Norfolk

by Randy Wayne White

  Port Moresby was like every other tropical seaport town he’d been in. The buildings were dull, wind-blasted by the open ocean. The place smelled of diesel fuel and creosote and rust. The creaking cargo ships threw huge silhouettes against the South Pacific sky, and men walked in clusters through the narrow streets. Passing, Hawker caught snatches of strange languages: Arabic, Spanish, Japanese. One of those world crossroads, dingy and gaudy and filled with smells.

  Hawker found the hotel the agents had recommended, the New Ireland, a tall old building with red carpet and a clunking elevator on pullies. Like a kid, the first thing he did when he entered his room was go into the bathroom, flush the toilet, and watch the water spin clockwise. Sure enough, he was on the underside of the globe, the place where everything works backward.

  He thought about room service for dinner, then decided to go out. He showered, changed into a fresh Egyptian cotton shirt with epaulets, pulled on his felt planter’s hat, put a hundred dollars in his pocket and a thousand in fifties and hundreds in his money belt, then put the rest, plus three thousand in cash of his own money, in an envelope and left it in the hotel safe.

  He walked the streets for a while, almost stopping once at a Chinese restaurant and another time at a place that promised real Australian food—whatever that was—before spying a neon sign that read THE SAIGON: VIETNAMESE CUISINE.

  Now, that might be interesting, thought Hawker.

  The vigilante pulled open the door and saw a dimly lit room hazy with smoke. Pushing aside the beads, he stepped inside to the weird, discordant twangs and bongs of Asian music.

  As his eyes adjusted, he saw a row of men hunched over their drinks at the bar, saw two sloe-eyed Asian women in tight silk skirts standing at the end of the bar, saw that half the tables were filled, with not a single Caucasian face in the place. He also noticed that the low buzz of conversation had halted as soon as he walked in, all eyes on the big dark-haired American with broad shoulders and Humphrey Bogart hat. That is, if they knew who Bogart was. He waited, wondering if one of the Asian women was a hostess. When neither of them made a move to show him to a table, he walked to the back of the room and sat down at one away from the wall, one where he’d have plenty of legroom. Still, neither of the women made a move toward him. He had the unmistakable impression that he wasn’t exactly wanted at The Saigon and probably wouldn’t get waited on—a fact that didn’t bother him at all. As the Mormons said in those commercials, he’d turn the moment around.

  Hawker stood, turned to the alleged hostesses, and said in a pleasant voice, “Excuse me. I’d like to order dinner.” The two women looked at each other, then at the tiny, wiry bartender. The bartender nodded. The youngest woman slid a menu off the bar with long red fingernails and came haughtily to Hawker’s table, hips wagging, long black silken hair draped over one shoulder, and eyes burning. She dropped the menu in front of him and turned to go. “Wait a minute,” Hawker said.

  The woman stopped, looking over her shoulder at him.

  “This thing is in Vietnamese. I don’t read Vietnamese.”

  This elicited a big sigh from the waitress. “You come Vietnamese restaurant. What you expect?”

  Hawker smiled. “Some help, maybe.”

  Another big sigh. “You eggspect me read whole thing? Read whole menu? Many things on menu. Maybe you better go some other place. You don’t eggspect me read whole menu, do you?”

  Hawker’s smile broadened. “No. What I’d like you to do is choose something for me. You look like a woman who has good judgment when it comes to food. I’ll put it in your hands. But first, a beer. Can you do that? A beer, then dinner.”

  A third sigh, only this one wasn’t so big. She seemed to be softening some. “We have many beers,” she said. “Many kinds. You want me tell you whole list? How I know what kind of beer okay?”

  Hawker said, “Any kind of beer is okay. As long as it comes in a bottle and has bubbles, and as long as it isn’t a beer called Pearl.”

  “Pearl?”

  “Just bring me a beer in a bottle, no glass, then dinner. Okay? Like I said, I trust your judgment.” Hawker was beaming at her, watching the haughtiness fade as she put a long fingernail to her lip, thinking. She said, “I give you nice traditional dinner. Okay? Nice dinner, plenty beer. That okay?”

  “That’s just fine,” Hawker said. “I appreciate it.” He watched the woman walk back to the bar, say something to the older woman, shrug at the bartender, say something else to the bartender, then put a tall liter bottle on a tray. She brought him the beer, hips wagging even more, small pointed breasts pressed flat by the tight dress. She set the beer on the table and watched Hawker look at the label he could not read. “You like?” she said. “Is okay?”

  Hawker looked at the single big bubble that had formed at the neck of the bottle and at the label, which told him only that the beer had been bottled someplace in Cambodia. He looked at the waitress. “Good choice. It’s one of my favorites.”

  The woman seemed pleased. “So I bring you dinner now?”

  “You bring me dinner now. Right.”

  When she had gone, Hawker tasted the beer tentatively. Then again. It was excellent, one of the best beers he’d ever had. It reminded him of Hatuey, the Cuban beer the Baccardi family had bottled before Castro ran them out. He drank the beer, still aware that his every move was being watched, aware that the whole room was uncomfortable with him there but still not minding it at all, wanting to see how the men in the room reacted to him. He was sure that many of them were linked in some way to General Con Ye Cwong. Had to be, this close to Kira-Kira. In all the faraway places of the world, people of the same race stuck together.

  Then the dinner came. It was not as good as the beer. Some kind of curry with meat and gravy over rice, plus side dishes of nearly raw vegetables, tomatoes and bean sprouts and something else Hawker couldn’t identify. A lot of gray rice. He ate it all because he was hungry. He was surprised when the waitress, whose name was Sha Hainan, actually stopped to make conversation. She asked him where he was from, what he was doing in New Guinea. He told her he was an American investor interested in pineapple and coconut plantations. She accepted it without question. When he caught her glancing at his left hand, looking for a wedding ring, he knew that he had ceased to be just a big ugly American, had in fact become a monied person whom she was interested in. Hawker decided to try something, just to see how she reacted. “There’s an island in this area I heard about,” he said. “A place called … Kira-Kira? Something like that. Heard there used to be a big plantation there. You know if it might be for sale?” He watched as her expression changed; he saw that guarded look.

  “Kira-Kira? Yes, I know. No, no for sale. Sure of that.”

  Hawker pressed on, aware that people nearby were listening more closely now. “They still grow pineapples there? I heard some Aussies used to have it, had a hell of a big grove there. It sounds like just the kind of place I’m looking for.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Don’t know who own it.”

  “Then how do you know it’s not for sale?” Hawker asked.

  “Just know, that’s all. Just know. Hey, you want more beer? Dessert maybe?” Hurrying him along now, already placing the check on the table, she turned away, ending the conversation.

  Hawker stood, put his hat on, saw that the bill was padded, way too much, but left a ten on the table as a tip anyway. Sha Hainan knew something about Kira-Kira, that was clear. If his stay on New Guinea was lengthy enough, maybe he could work it out of her later.

  Headed for the cash register, he tripped unexpectedly. Catching his balance before he fell, Hawker looked back to see that a man had stuck his foot out. Now the four other men, all Vietnamese, were laughing into their hands, looking up at him.

  Hawker walked to the table and stood over the man who had tripped him. A chunky, squat Vietnamese man, with long black hair, greased and combed back. Hawker said, “Friend, you didn’t do that on purpose, did you?”
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br />   The laughter slowed, then stopped. The man looked up at Hawker with no fear at all in his eyes and said, “Got to watch where you’re walking, man. You go plodding along, no watch. Got to watch out, you maybe take a bad fall, huh?”

  Hawker moved a little closer, making the Asian crane to look at him. He said, “See, the problem is, if someone tried something childish like that on me, tried to trip me for no reason, I’d have a real urge to beat the hell out of him. You understand?”

  The man was still looking up, leaning back. “Hey, man, don’t give me no hard time, huh? You clumsy, you trip, coulda hurt somebody. Coulda spilled all our drinks. Maybe make us want to beat the hell out of you, huh? Maybe you shouldn’t come to places you not wanted. Real easy for a guy like you to trip in a place like this.”

  Hawker looked around and saw that every man in the place was sitting closer to the edge of his seat, ready to stand and take part if it went any further. Hawker nodded, then smiled. “Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should be more careful.” He saw that look in the eyes of the men at the table, that glittering dog-fight look of the victor when the weaker animal begins to retreat.

  The chunky Vietnamese said, “See, you catch on quick for a Yankee. Most you too dumb to catch on. Have to beat the hell out of you, you no catch on.”

  The room was buzzing now, the men laughing as Hawker walked to the bar to pay the padded bill. Just loud enough for everyone to hear, the chunky man said, “They cowards, man, see? Big Americans all cowards.”

  Hawker jammed the change in his pocket. He looked at Sha, and she quickly turned away, ashamed for him, not wanting to be associated with this humiliated American. After crossing the room in three long steps, he stopped by the table again, towering over the chunky Vietnamese. The Asian men stopped laughing, wondering why the American was grinning at them. They watched as the American picked up a full glass from the table, and, holding it to the light, said, “What’s this crap you’re drinking?”

  “Hey, man, put that down, huh,” said the fat Vietnamese man. “You no wanted here, Mr. Amer—” The man started to get to his feet, but the vigilante clamped a big hand on his shoulder, forcing him back into his chair.

  “I’d like to buy you a fresh drink for all the trouble I caused. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Wincing under Hawker’s grip, the man said, “No, buy me drink. Fine. Then get the hell out, huh?”

  “Good. But I better empty this glass first.” Hawker poured the black liquor and ice over the man’s head. “There. Now you’re ready for a fresh drink.”

  All hell broke loose then as the chunky Vietnamese swung at Hawker, hitting him right above the belt, just missing the groin. The vigilante didn’t give him a chance to try again. He hit the man flush in the neck with a solid right cross, then split his nose open with another right that knocked the man out of his chair, unconscious and bleeding on the floor.

  At this point someone tried to jump on Hawker’s back from behind, and he ducked down, hitting his head painfully on the table. He swung back with his elbow, felt it connect solidly, and heard a grunt of pain. Next he turned and dropped another man with a glancing left fist to the throat, as the bartender came over the bar swinging a baseball bat. Hawker caught the bat on the backswing, kicked the little bartender’s feet out from under him, then used the knob of the bat to shatter the teeth of a man who charged him from across the room.

  Women were screaming, men cursing as they tried to circle him. The vigilante knew that if he let them get too close, if he let them get him on the floor, he was a dead man. Someone lifted a beer bottle, and Hawker hit it with the bat instinctively, shattering glass and beer all over the place.

  Hawker kept his back to the bar. He glanced over his shoulder to see what kind of gauntlet he had to run to get to the door. Three wiry men stood blocking his path, brandishing broken bottles. Getting out was not going to be easy, and it was not going to be pretty. He began to edge his way along the bar, fending off attackers with the bat. Someone hit him from the side, pinning his arms, trying to wrestle him to the floor. Hawker got the man’s foot under his own, locking him in place, and finally kicked him hard between the legs with his knee. As the man slumped away yowling, the vigilante turned back just in time to crack open the face of another man with his big left fist.

  The screaming and swearing had become more subdued now, if that was possible, leaving a brutal whoofing and grunting sound that sounded like some kind of primitive prayer. A half-dozen men lay groaning or unconscious on the floor, and the rest were working their way around him, trying to surround him.

  Hawker paused; he looked around, trying to figure out a better way to exit. Suddenly he caught the cat eyes of Sha, the Asian waitress, and saw her nod ever so slightly to a doorway behind the bar. The vigilante did his best imitation of a karate yell and lunged at the men coming slowly at him. As they jumped back in momentary terror, he vaulted over the bar, got to the doorway, and saw that it led outside to an open alley. He stopped in the doorway, just for a second, smiled and gave a brief salute. “Enjoyed it!” he called. “Let’s do it again real soon.”

  Hawker sprinted down the alley and out into the main street, losing himself in the midnight pedestrian traffic, walking easily now, hardly out of breath at all after his ass-kicking stay with the Coronado SEALs.

  Hawker studied his bruises and swelling knuckles under the glare of a streetlight. Nothing seemed to be broken. He touched the tender spot on his forehead where he had hit the table—and realized something else.

  James Hawker swore softly beneath his breath.

  He’d gone off and left his hat at The Saigon.

  Maybe he’d go back and get it … some other time.

  nine

  Back at the hotel, Hawker discovered he had left not only his hat at the restaurant; he had lost his room key too. What’s next? he wondered as he approached the front desk clerk for a duplicate.

  Once inside his room, he ordered a bucket of ice, beer, and aspirin from room service. He tried to pronounce the name of the Cambodian beer but couldn’t. He took a shower while he waited for his order, soaking his body. Then he flushed the toilet a couple of more times, just to watch the water spin. He dressed himself in a T-shirt, soft running shorts, and Nikes. When room service arrived, Hawker tipped the boy, a kid who looked like a pure-blooded aborigine, then took the aspirin, made an ice pack to wrap around his knuckles, and drank the beer while he spread out the charts from the envelope the CIA men had given him.

  The island of Kira-Kira lay about three hundred miles to the northeast, a green link in the long chain of islands that formed the Solomons. Immediately to the east of Kira-Kira, closer to Hawaii, were two smaller islands, Tongo and Mokii, which the agents had said were Cwong’s two main drop stations.

  Hawker found the detailed charts that showed each island separately in minute detail. The charts showed the sharp volcanic ranges and indicated beaches, reefs, man-made structures, and dense jungle. He paid special attention to aerial photos of Kira-Kira. Hawker could see clearly a huge house at the center of a compound fenced by stone; he could pick out guard towers and outbuildings; he could clearly see the hole Cwong had blasted through the reef and the deep narrow channel that led to the huge industrial-size wharf, complete with crane. The big landing strip and the stretch of jungle that the agents had said was actually a camouflaged area where Cwong stored his armaments were clearly visible on the map.

  The place looked damn near invincible—except maybe for one thing: Cwong’s fortress was backed against a jagged volcanic outcropping, like a small mountain. That, of course, would be the most likely place from which to approach, because Cwong would know there was no way a large body of men could be marched down it.

  Which was the main advantage of working alone. Alone, he could make it. Maybe.

  The vigilante pored over the charts, memorizing the details one by one. He gave close attention to a tiny unnamed island seven nautical miles from Kira-Kira, which the C
IA agents said would be an ideal departure point for him. It had been agreed they would cache any requested weaponry there, complete with an Avon inflatable and a seventy-horse-power outboard—a real screamer.

  Hawker finished reviewing the charts as he finished his second beer. Then he urinated, stripped, switched on the lamp beside the bed, and lay down to watch a Vietnamese-speaking television station before sleeping. He knew he wouldn’t understand a word of it, but also knew that the noise and moving images would soon make him drowsy.

  It was 1:35 A.M.

  He watched a young Vietnamese woman in a flowing silk robe dance exotically and sing incomprehensibly for about half an hour before hearing a sound outside his door. The whispered creak of footsteps. Then the sound of metal touching the lock on his door.

  The vigilante was on his feet in an instant, the chrome-plated Smith & Wesson .45 heavy in his hand. He moved silently across the floor, stopping beside the door with his back to the wall. The handgun felt cool alongside his face as he waited.

  Hawker watched the doorknob turn, saw the door crack open. The vigilante grabbed the wrist that held the knob and jammed the barrel of the automatic against the temple of … of Sha Hainan, the waitress from the restaurant.

  She gasped, trembling beneath his grip. Her small, delicate voice cried out, “No hurt, please. No hurt me. I brought you something.”

  Hawker swung the woman into the room way too hard, the adrenaline pumping through him. Kicking the door closed with his foot, he said, “You could have knocked, for Christ’s sake! You trying to get yourself killed?”

  The woman, who had pulled away from him, stood cowering against the wall, crying. She was still wearing the tight red dress, looking tiny and frightened.

  Hawker took a deep breath and lowered the .45. “Hey,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was so rough on you. But I had no idea it was you. I knew I’d lost my key, probably during the fight, and I thought maybe some of those guys had come to even the score—” Then he saw what the woman held in her left hand. “You found my hat,” he said, smiling.