by Paul Gallico
The Defense Secretary invited Haven’s answer with a tilt of the head. Haven, smoothing his palms slowly down the front of his suit, replied evenly, “Admiral, there may be ships close enough to witness it. There are certainly divers who would afterwards testify. That is out of the question.”
The Secretary now spoke. “I think you’re right, Arthur. We can’t sew it up that way. But it has to be sewn up. There’s the whole NATO pact at stake here, even the possibility of war. That must be the overriding consideration for us all.”
“That’s right,” Haven was agreeing. “I’m sure we’re all aware of that. I’ve spoken to Stasiris in Athens and he assures me that he is making arrangements for a special salvage expert to handle the whole thing. We’ve got to hope he can deliver the goods.”
The Secretary was about to speak again when Haven hushed him with a raised hand. “And before you say it, yes, I know that the White House will deny it all until they’re blue in the face. But if you think for a moment that you can unload this . . .”
He paused, looked at the ceiling, and slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. He looked down again. “Gentlemen, I must ask you all to stay in the building and we’ll hope for a break soon. Okay?”
The emphatic masculinity of the wardroom’s dark mahogany and brass was relieved by the adaptations that appeared whenever Coby was on board her father’s boat. The table acquired a checked cloth and a small bunch of dried grasses in a jar. The coffee, which accompanied Jason’s gin, was served in matching cups and saucers instead of the heavy mugs that Klaas was content to use when he was alone at sea.
“You should be in bed, my girl,” he said. Coby grimaced behind his back. He looked at his watch. “Good heavens, it’s past two o’clock. We have a vacant cabin forward for you, young man.”
Jason nodded his thanks, and ran the drink around his mouth before swallowing. He sighed, and father and daughter together scrutinized him. They liked what they saw, but saw quite different things.
Klaas recognized a man who knew his way around boats. He only had to watch him cross the deck to know that. He looked a lethargic figure now, sprawled out lazily in dirty denims, but Klaas had noted the way he had swung himself over the rail and leapt onto the deck of the Magt. He was a man of action. He also liked the sense of privacy about him. He asked little, told less, and rolled the conversation along with light, deft touches. He was an easy man.
What Coby saw, and it brought a shine to her eyes, was a figure of glamour. The slim, six-foot frame which angled out to wide shoulders, and the long wicked grin that sliced his face open like a knife. She sensed too a magnetism in the man. His enigmatic reticence, wittily masked in light talk, drew them forward with their questions. When they had told him they were heading for Athens, he had smiled and said simply that would be fine.
“You were going to Athens in a dinghy?” Coby could not resist the question.
“The Argonauts did okay and they didn’t even have a flare pistol,” he replied.
Klaas laughed. “But one mistral or vent d’est and there would have been no Jason as well as no Golden Fleece.”
A rueful look twisted his face. “Yeah. The Golden Fleece. She was a beauty. She had the lot. Still classed A-1 at Lloyds, you know. And I needed her for my business.”
This time Klaas was not going to miss the opportunity to probe a little. “And what is your business, if I might ask?”
“Oh, sort of parcel delivery,” he replied, teasing them gently. Then he seemed to realize their hospitality demanded a little more explanation than that. “I was on my way to Athens to meet a boat and pick up a delivery. That’s all.”
It was not much, but it was obviously all they were going to get. Coby thrilled to the mystery of the man, and tried again.
“What is an American doing so far from home?”
His grin switched off, and he leaned forward across the table. She saw the piercing blue of his eyes. “The States? Well, these days it’s a bit like being in a sick ward. You know the way people in a hospital talk about their illnesses all the time? In the States all they talk about is the sickness of the country. It’s a nation that’s composed entirely of people examining their own consciences, everywhere, and all the time.”
Klaas was interested. He puffed hard on his stubby pipe to revive the fading embers and then asked, “And is that so bad for a country?”
“I dunno.” They saw his eyes cool to a slate gray and his face turn to wood. “All I know is it’s bad for a guy who doesn’t think his conscience will stand up to scrutiny.”
The reply was so unexpected and so artlessly frank that it stopped the conversation. Klaas broke it quickly with a deft change of subject. “And what do we call you apart from Captain Jason?”
The long grin was back. “You could try Susie, but I don’t promise you anything,” he said, and joined in their laughter.
It did not matter to Klaas. He was just a pleasant young man who was taking a lift to Athens with them: it was not the sort of situation that required character references.
Head tilted, Jason was listening. The engines were thudding unevenly. “Sounds like you’ve got some trouble there, Captain?”
Klaas nodded. “I’m afraid so. This craft was built in 1912. In 1930 my father put in new engines. Now we hold them together with string.”
Almost diffidently, Jason asked, “Could I go down and take a look at them sometime?”
Klaas glanced up. “You an engineer?”
Jason answered shortly, “I’ve done some. You’ve got a sharp ship here and I might just be able to squeeze a bit more life out of those old rubber bands you’ve got down there.”
The Dutchman puffed with pride. “I am a widower, Jason,” he explained. “I have two loves in my life. The dear old Magt, and my daughter here. I do my best to look after them.”
Jason warned Klaas with a wink and then turned to Coby and said, “Well, you’ve got a pretty ship all right, but little Coby wins hands down every time.” Together the two men laughed at the crimson which flooded her face. “And now, I’d like to take advantage of that spare cabin if I may.”
They were all rising when the cabin door flew open. The blast of air cleared the smoke circling Klaas’s head. “Yes, Hans?” the captain asked. The wireless operator handed him a sheaf of papers and left.
“What is it, papa?” Coby tried to lean over his arm to read them.
Her father began to shake his head slowly from side to side. “Tragic, oh so tragic. I knew there would be many boats lost in that wave but . . .” He lifted his face. “A luxury liner, the S.S. Poseidon, was struck and upturned by it.”
Three long, fast strides took Jason round the table and he snatched the papers from his hand. “The Poseidon! My God!” His eyes raced along the lines and he did not seem to notice the couple’s shock at his brusque reaction. Then he spoke excitedly. “Look, it says it’s still afloat. Upside down, but still afloat. Can we get there, Klaas?” He rattled out the words like bullets.
Puzzled, Klaas replied, “Well, I don’t know . . . What is your interest in the vessel? Why is it so urgent? I really don’t know.” He gave Jason a searching, worried look, and the younger man handed back the papers with a muttered apology and spoke more patiently now.
“That’s the ship I was going to meet in Athens. There’s a very important . . . okay, parcel if you like, on it. I must pick it up. Perhaps there’s still a chance if we can get there.”
The irritation was evident in Klaas’s unfinished response. “Perhaps so, and perhaps your business is very important, but I am due in Athens . . .”
Jason was studying the Magi’s captain closely. Suddenly he changed tack. “Of course. But look, there are thousands of people on board that ship. We may be the nearest vessel.”
“Yes,” the Dutchman said, rereading the messages. “But the owners have also asked all other ships to keep clear.”
“A salvage swindle,” Jason said promptly. “It’s obvious. Are you going
to let that stand in the way of saving perhaps hundreds of lives? Come on now, Klaas, you can’t leave them all stuck out there in the middle of the goddamn sea. We can be there by eight in the morning.”
Klaas checked his watch and nodded. He was thinking. Coby grabbed his hand between both of hers. She pleaded, “Please, papa, think of all those poor . . .”
“Very well.” He had made up his mind. “I shall tell Piet to make for the liner at once.” He paused and thought again. “I shall have to claim salvage rights if we are the first vessel there, of course. But the main thing is to see if we can help. I suggest we all get a little sleep.”
As he opened the door, he looked back and caught the relief on Jason’s face. “In the morning, Captain Jason, I shall hope for a fuller explanation. Your amusing mysteries are beginning to trouble me now.”
“IT’S A DISAPPOINTING WORLD”
3
At first the French officer had been quite unable to take in the combination of Rogo’s bizarre request and the gun in his fist. He gaped.
Then he said, “But, monsieur, this is impossible.”
“No, it isn’t,” Rogo replied. “I’m going back on board that tub and you’re taking me. Now tell the guys up there.” The barrel of the gun indicated the steps leading to the pilot in the bubble.
The Frenchman still could not accept that Rogo was serious. There was a placatory note in his voice as he said, “Monsieur Rogo, there is no reason on earth why you should return. It is dangerous. It could sink. And our orders are . . .”
Impatience flared in Rogo’s face. He fished his left hand into his trousers and produced his gilt badge. “You take your orders from this now, buddy, so tell those fellas to turn around.”
Again the officer spoke reasonably. “Yes, I see the badge, but monsieur the lieutenant must understand that this badge has no jurisdiction here. When we reach base, of course, you may put your request to the commandant and perhaps he will agree.”
Rogo stepped forward and jammed the slim pistol into the officer’s stomach. “Okay, forget the badge. This is my authority from here on out.”
For a moment there was complete silence aboard the craft. Every clack of the engine turning the huge rotors sounded louder than ever. The officer looked down at the gun, gave a small shrug and called up the stairs, “Marcel, Eddy, I have a gun pushed into my stomach by a madman who wishes to go back to the ship.”
After a pause, a voice came back, “What did he forget—his hat?”
The tremble in the officer’s words underlined his sincerity. “There is no joking, I promise you. Please do as he says and return.”
A face appeared at the top of the short staircase and looked down. “Mon Dieu! He really means it.”
Rogo confirmed, “You gotta believe it, pal. Now get moving and don’t touch that transmitter.”
The pilot had seen enough in that one moment to understand the seriousness of the situation. “If you are determined, monsieur, there is little we can do about it.”
There was a slight change in the note of the engine and the floor of the helicopter tilted. Rogo caught the look on the warrant officer’s face and said, “Don’t try it, bud. Bigger guys than you have been on the end of this.”
Rogo chanced a quick glimpse out of the window. The helicopter, he saw, was making a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. They were doing as he had instructed. With his free arm he wiped the sweat from off his brow.
He motioned his victim to sit down. He backed onto the edge of his own seat, the gun never wavering. The machine had been clattering along for some ten minutes in an oppressive silence when the face of one of the pilots appeared again. “Ça va?” he inquired.
Rogo said, “Everything’s fine down here. Get me back there and it’ll stay that way.”
He vanished. The warrant officer eyed Rogo warily and said, “You have made your point with the gun, lieutenant. Do you have to point it at me like that?”
“You’ll get an apology from the Police Commissioner about this. I’ll see to that. But right now I have no choice. Right?”
Silence again. Then Manny Rosen, who had watched it all with bewilderment, spoke, and Rogo did not try to interrupt him. “Mr. Rogo, I don’t understand. You lost your wife, I lost my wife. I know how you feel. I should be back there too. But do you have to threaten people with . . . that thing?”
Rogo looked quickly at the old man and said, “Mrs. Rosen was worth any two of us, Manny. My Linda, goddamn it, you know I’d do anything to get her back. But that’s not why I’m going down again. This is no sentimental journey.”
There was some sudden chatter in French from the two pilots and immediately Rogo jumped to his feet and put the gun to the officer’s head. “What gives?” he growled.
The officer said, “The Poseidon is in sight.” The helicopter dipped slightly and they could see the ship below. They could also see the small coaster getting closer, the cream yacht appeared to be anchored a mile or so away, and what had been a smudge of smoke on the horizon was now, about five miles distant, a sturdy vessel sprouting whole bouquets of cranes fore and aft.
Steadying himself on the back of the seat, Rogo said, “Tell them to set down nice and soft as near as they can to that hole we came out of. No tricks.”
The instructions were relayed in French.
Manny and Martin listened to the exchanges in silence, each confused by swirling eddies of mixed emotions. The fight for survival and the sweet relief of salvation had given way to more complex feelings, and the policeman’s superficially crazy wish to return pulled each man’s hazy thoughts into sharp focus.
Looking down on the lifeless hulk below, Manny was consumed entirely by what seemed his own betrayal. He had left Belle. No matter that she was dead and this had been his one chance of escape: he had left her. She was down there, marooned among the hideous carnage of the wreck, while he was enjoying the warm security of the helicopter, and the return to normality. It was, quite plainly, an act of betrayal. A lifetime together could not be ended like that. It was too inconclusive. No mourning, no flowers, no elaborate ceremony to signal the passing of a life: no neat severing of the ties of all those shared years. He should have brought her body out with him to give her the dignity of a funeral. His silent sobbing earlier had not been the sign of grief that it appeared. He had been crying for shame, for the wounds of his loss were stinging with the salt of self-disgust.
With Rogo’s determination to return, the realization slowly dawned upon Manny that this was his chance to salvage his own sense of honor. He too would return, and bring his beloved Belle out of that hellish wreck.
The little haberdasher also noted with some surprise his own unpredicted reactions. His excited jabbering to the French officer had subsided into a glum silence. It was all over. For a few hours on board the Poseidon, James Martin had been a man. A lifetime of being derided, teased, patronized, pitied, and ignored had been suspended for that time. He had faced up to the dangers alongside the more obvious leaders like Scott and Rogo. Despite Rogo’s sneering, he had acquitted himself as well as any of them. The many slights that marked his life had been erased. They ran through his mind again now. When the other boys were out in their gangs fishing and climbing trees, James had to stay home and play with the girls. So it had always been for the near invisible man behind a counter in Anaheim: Yes ma’am, and thank you sir, and gee, we’re right out of winter scarves. They heard his words and handed him the money, but barely saw the pink-faced salesman. Now the struggles of the past hours had shown him that he had every man’s desire to face danger and succeed.
Rogo was going back, Martin did not understand why. But if the adventure was not over, then Martin felt he must play his part in it, as he had done before. For the first time in his life, the man from Anaheim was one of the gang. If Rogo returned, he would too. He rocked forward on his seat and gazed down on the ship. He felt the quickening inside himself. He was excited. The girls and the little boy were sleeping soundly at
the back of the helicopter, and he made himself one promise: this time they were not going to leave him with the girls.
Rogo glowered at the three ships within sight of the Poseidon, as though he could torpedo them with a look. Still, he thought, they were only like the passersby who tried to muscle in on police action in the streets. He’d move them on when he got down there, and anyway the American authorities were sure to send him help soon.
The warrant officer interrupted his thoughts. “What is it you want us to do exactly?”
“I already told you,” Rogo answered steadily. “Land near the hole. I’ll jump off. Then get outta here as fast as you can and take these people to safety.”
He paused and then added: “Hey, look, I know you guys think I’m crazy but would you do me a favor? Have our embassy guys pass the word back to New York what’s happening here? They know what it’s all about. Tell them to get the navy here, and fast. Okay?”
The Frenchman saw the open concern on Rogo’s face. He gave a curt nod. “They will know soon enough, you may rest assured.”
Minutes later, the big machine settled with only the slightest of jerks on the keel. Rogo opened the door and swung out. As his feet touched the wreck, Manny Rosen stood up and said, “I’m going too.” He was out of the door before the astonished policeman could speak.
Rogo grabbed him by the shoulder. He tried one-handed to push Manny back up into the helicopter, but Manny half-wrestled with him and sobbed, “No, Mr. Rogo, please no. My Belle. I can’t leave her there. I didn’t even say a kaddish.”
It was impossible. Rogo could not force him back without hurting him, and he could not bring himself to hit the old man. His face was red with frustration and fury. He let go of him suddenly and scrambled down into the hole in the propeller shaft. As he vanished he shouted to the French crew, “Do what the hell you want with him. He ain’t with me.”
Manny, puffed from the exertion, looked up in time to see Martin, eyes shining, leap through the door and land beside him. “Hold on, fellas,” he cried. “I’m coming too.”
