Rising Sun

by Robert Conroy

  “Agent Harris, I think the sheriff’s wrong about it being Japs and I think you know it. It just isn’t logical. If the guards were shot in the back, that means they had turned away from their attacker or attackers and they wouldn’t do that if they were dealing with Japs, even ones born in the U.S. National paranoia’s just too deep for border cops to let that happen. I also think there was only one person, and likely a man, since the guards didn’t seem concerned enough to split up and keep an eye on somebody else. I also think it was a white guy and someone who probably appeared to be an American. Anything other than a white man, even a Mexican, would have set off alarm bells.”

  Harris grinned, “Damned good. I’m almost impressed. Now, do you think it was a smuggler?”

  Dane gave it some further thought before replying in the negative. “I had an uncle who was a cop in Texas and he liked to tell a lot of stories. Once he told me that smugglers tend to be locals who know all the back trails and how to avoid problems with border crossings like this. He told me that driving right up the road to a customs post is something you do only if you absolutely have to. Given the openness of the border, real smugglers wouldn’t have been caught. I think the killer isn’t from here and very likely not smuggling in anything more than himself.”

  “And the contents of the truck,” Harris added. “And they all had to be worth killing for. I’ve got a local doctor pulling out the bullets and he’s said they might have come from a Luger. However, he’s more certain that they came from the same weapon. We’ll know for certain when run a ballistics check.”

  Harris walked to his car and popped the trunk. A cooler was inside. He opened it and handed Dane an ice-cold bottle of Coke, taking another for himself.

  “Not bad thinking for a navy guy,” Harris said. “I’m glad they sent you. I was afraid they’d ship me the least qualified person they have just to say they were trying to help out.”

  Dane took a swallow and belched lightly. Coke always did that to him. He thought he might still be the least qualified person in the office for this kind of work, but kept quiet.

  “How come nobody heard gunshots?” Dane asked.

  Harris shrugged. “They probably did and thought it was either hunters or something else, like a backfire. Either way, people don’t get involved in somebody else’s business down here. I’ve asked around and a couple of the local yokels think they maybe heard a truck driving off about the right time we think this happened. Nobody saw it, of course. It wouldn’t surprise me if a lot of people around here did some periodic smuggling, so they’d all believe in live and let live.”

  Dane took another long swallow and controlled the belch. “Now where do we go?”

  Harris shrugged. “I guess you go back to your normal duty while I try to figure out what this guy is planning. My guess is sabotage. And unless he does something truly stupid that makes him stick out like a sore thumb, we’re going to have a devil of a time finding him before he strikes.”

  * * *

  “Firebells in the night” was a term Farris remembered from a history class he took in college before he left to join the army. He thought it was Thomas Jefferson who said it but couldn’t remember when or why. Maybe it had something to do with a possible slave rebellion in the American south before the Civil War?

  Since there wasn’t a quiz coming up, he really didn’t care. His real concern was the burning oil tanker that was clearly visible a couple of miles offshore and closer to Captain Lytle’s headquarters than to Farris’s position. The explosions had awakened everyone and the entire platoon was armed and ready. This was the first time any of the many ships passing in front of their post had ever been attacked and the first time carrying a rifle was serious business. People were being killed out there on the ocean and it was a sobering experience.

  A second explosion sent another cloud of flames billowing into the night. Oil was burning on the water and Farris thought he could hear screams as people burned to death. He prayed it was his imagination.

  “That ship’s gonna take a long time to die,” Stecher said. “Maybe it’ll give the crew time to get away.”

  “God, I hope so,” Farris said.

  They had binoculars and were looking for lifeboats as well as the submarine that had torpedoed the tanker. Trying to find the sub was futile; the roaring, billowing flames had destroyed their night vision. They’d only see a sub if they picked up its silhouette, although just maybe they’d be able to spot lifeboats in the light caused by the fires. Farris commented that the spilled oil was going to leave a mess on the shore and kill a lot of wildlife. Stecher replied that war was hell and that he was more concerned about the crew than the seals. Farris agreed.

  A distant pair of lifeboats came into view. The bulk of the dying ship had hidden them from sight, but now they were backlit by the flames. They were rowing toward shore and Farris thought they would come close to his position, but more to the south and closer to Lytle’s spot. He told his men to be ready with blankets and water and to stack their weapons. The Japs weren’t going to invade this night. He radioed his company commander for more blankets and water and for medical help as well, and the call was acknowledged. Farris wondered if that meant Lytle would actually send more help or was just noting the request. On a positive note, people from the little town of Bridger were arriving with all kinds of first-aid equipment. Sullivan, the store owner, was organizing the efforts. Apparently shipwrecks had occurred before. Farris wondered if the locals also scavenged for valuables that washed up on the shore.

  “Jesus,” yelled Stecher. Tracers from shore-based machine guns south of them snaked out toward the burning ship, which was well out of their range. What the hell were Lytle’s men shooting at?

  “Did you see a sub?” Farris asked Stecher with a feeling of dread.

  “No, sir, just those lifeboats and the bullets are coming damn close to them. Aw shit, sir, you don’t suppose that our beloved captain ordered his men to shoot at the survivors in the boats, do you?”

  Farris didn’t know what to think. Finally, the firing stopped. The two lifeboats had veered north and were now definitely heading right toward him. As they crashed through the surf, soldiers ran out and grabbed them, pulling them onto the beach. Other soldiers and civilians helped crewmen out and onto the sand. Many were unhurt, but others had broken bones and suffered horrible-looking burns. A few were covered with oil and were shivering uncontrollably. One crewman didn’t have an arm from the elbow down, and a buddy was trying to keep him from bleeding to death with a tourniquet. From the way the wounded man’s head was lolling, it was a losing battle.

  Farris’s men laid the injured on the ground and tried to administer first aid. Vehicles were arriving, including still more civilians from Bridger. One man, clearly the tanker’s captain, strode up to Farris. He was livid with anger.

  “You weren’t the asshole who opened fire on us, were you?”

  “No, Captain, I wasn’t. The firing came from farther south. Was there a sub near your boats when it happened? I mean, could you actually see the one that hit you?”

  “Hell, no,” he said and wiped some greasy blood from his face. “We never saw a thing, never knew there was a Jap out there until we got hit. One torpedo and we become a torch and the little Jap bastard is well away from here. Whoever shot at us from shore must be either blind or drunk or totally stupid. Or all three, dammit. Whoever he was is just damned lucky he only hit the boats and not us in them.”

  He held out a large dirty hand. Farris took it and felt his fingers being crushed. “My name’s Ed Neal and I’ve been skippering that ship for ten years now. I guess I should be thankful I still have my life. And I am grateful for the help all you people here are providing. However, I guess I’m now unemployed. If you ever find out who the prick was who shot at us, let me know. I’d like to have a little talk with him.”

  Farris assured him he’d look into it. The angry skipper strode away to check on his men.

  Steve shook
his and wondered if he should have told the tanker’s captain of his suspicions. He walked over to an arriving jeep. Lytle was in the passenger seat and got out unsteadily. He reeked of alcohol.

  “Did we hit the sub? Goddammit, we had him in our sights and I wanted to sink the fucker.”

  Farris seethed. The man was totally drunk and had just tried to kill a bunch of American merchant seamen. “Sir, the tanker captain and crew said the sub was long gone before you opened fire, and that you were shooting at his lifeboats.”

  “Bullshit, Farris. I’m not blind. I saw the conning tower of a sub. Some of the men, like your buddy Sawyer, tried to argue with me, but I gave them a direct order to shoot. I know there was a sub and I know we hit it.”

  “Sir, the captain of the tanker might disagree with you. He says gunfire from the shore wounded two of his men and shot up one of the boats.” Farris kept a straight face as he lied to his captain. Nobody’d been hit by Lytle’s machine guns. “He’s really angry and looking for somebody to kill and maybe send to jail when he’s done with him. He’s a big, mean-looking son of a bitch, so you might not want to talk to him right now.”

  That finally got through to Lytle, who paled at the idea of the threat. He staggered back to the jeep and ordered the grim-faced private to drive him back to his headquarters. As they pulled away, Farris saw the private looking at him and shaking his head as if to say “get me the hell out of here.”

  The tanker captain had calmed down seeing that none of his men had been killed or hurt by Lytle’s actions. Farris decided not to stir things up by saying he knew who’d done the shooting. Neal said he could almost understand how somebody could panic and shoot at shadows. He really wanted vengeance against the Japs and not necessarily against some trigger-happy son of a bitch, but he would knock the man’s head right out his ass if he was to find him anytime within the next ten years. Farris decided to keep that happy thought in a mental pocket for future reference.

  “This may be the first attack on an American ship so close to shore,” Neal said, “but it damn well won’t be the last.”

  Farris concurred. He wondered why it had taken this long.

  CHAPTER 8

  AMANDA AND THE OTHERS WERE TAKEN BY AMBULANCE TO A small private hospital a few miles south of San Francisco on the Oakland side of the bay. They were checked over, cleaned up, and given food and water, quickly followed by a very short haircut. They drank several glasses of orange juice like it was an elixir from heaven. They thought they could feel the effects of their scurvy receding with each swallow.

  It was better than marvelous to have a full belly and be in a bed, lying on clean sheets, and not have to be afraid of rogue waves, thirst, or starvation. They’d been surprised by the number of cuts and bruises all over their bodies, but these were beginning to heal and salves had been applied to their worst sunburns. With their physical recoveries beginning, their minds began to clear from the shock of their ordeal. They’d answered a few questions asked by local police, but otherwise were left alone.

  The hospital they’d been sent to overlooked San Francisco Bay and the view from their window was breathtaking. Even so, it was difficult to realize that they’d actually made it across the ocean, and that they were back in the bosom of civilization.

  They had their own small ward, including toilet and shower, and reveled in the privacy. Sandy was the first to notice that there was an armed sailor on guard at the door and wondered why. Surely they weren’t prisoners, were they? Amanda decided to try him. He looked harmless enough, just a skinny teenager, even though he did have a .45 strapped to his waist.

  “Mind if I go down the hall and visit some of the other nurses?” Amanda asked sweetly even though her chapped lips hurt when she smiled. She thought she must look like a half-bald, half-starved monster to him.

  The young sailor was clearly uncomfortable. “Sorry, ma’am, but I have my orders to make sure you stay here for the time being.”

  “And if I pushed my way past you?” He wasn’t that big and she thought the three of them could do it easily enough, and she wondered if he even knew how to use the pistol.

  The sailor gulped. “I would really appreciate if you didn’t. Look, I have no idea what’s going on and I would really thank you if you didn’t get me into trouble. Captain Harding will be back in a bit.”

  “Are we prisoners?” Sandy inquired bluntly.

  “No, ma’am. I’m here mainly to keep people out and leave you alone. And nobody told me why, so please don’t ask.”

  They looked at each other and sat back on beds that didn’t seem quite so comfortable anymore. They checked their meager personal possessions, each in their own hospital pillowcase. Along with salt-crusted watches that didn’t work anymore and rings that wouldn’t fit their swollen fingers, they had Mack’s money belt containing over five thousand dollars. The cash included what remained of the three thousand they’d given Mack along with other money Mack had brought along.

  “For an embezzler, he didn’t have all that much dough,” Grace said, “but we do have his will.”

  Other than the inadequate hospital gowns and bathrobes they had on over them, they had no clothing. What they’d been wearing on the catamaran had been properly identified as rags and disposed of. They had an urge to go shopping.

  There was a knock on their door and a Marine captain entered after a suitable pause. “Ladies, I am Captain Harding and I’m sorry I’m late, and I hope I can answer all your questions. I’m also happy you didn’t bully that poor young man at the door. He’s much better with a typewriter than a weapon.”

  “Are we prisoners, and if so, why?” Amanda said.

  Harding smiled slightly at the blunt question and sat down in a wooden chair. “You are not prisoners. We—the government, that is—just want to be sure of what is said by you when you leave here. We’re primarily concerned about your amazing story getting too much publicity at this time.”

  “Why?” Grace asked.

  “Because,” Harding said sadly, “we don’t want others in Hawaii getting the idea they can do it as well. To the best of our knowledge, maybe twenty small boats like yours have tried to sail from Hawaii to here, and you here are the only ones who’ve made it. The rest have just plain disappeared, swallowed up by the ocean. I don’t know if you have any idea just how fortunate you were.”

  They looked at each other. “There were times when we thought we’d disappear as well,” Amanda said softly. A tear ran down her cheek and she wiped it away. “We’d almost lost hope and were on our last legs when we landed here.”

  “And you had advantages that no longer exist to anyone else who might want to try now,” Harding continued. “When you started you had a goodly supply of food and water, which others won’t have, and you were in pretty good physical shape which is no longer the case in Hawaii where people are already going hungry and getting weaker by the day. In short, few people in the islands would be strong enough to take on the Pacific like you did. This may surprise you, but we still have radio communication with the islands, and we don’t want those poor people getting any ideas about leaving if they find out you made it.”

  The three women looked at each other in silent agreement. They’d had such a small margin of error and nearly died. Others would surely perish.

  “So what do we do?” Sandy asked. “We’ve all got families and we want them to know we’re all right.”

  “Just send them telegrams saying that you are safe in California and that you got out via a neutral freighter. Tell them you’ll elaborate later. And later will come when we either liberate the islands or the war is over. When that happens, you can write a book or proclaim your truly wonderful story from the mountaintops for all anybody cares. In the meantime, we just don’t want anybody else to die trying.”

  “That’s good,” said Amanda. “We’re all nurses, you know, and we’d like to go back to being that. Along with needing to earn a living, we’d like to be helpful. Now, how do we get back
to work, and we’d prefer San Diego.”

  Harding grinned. “Ever think of enlisting? We’d make you officers right off.”

  “No,” Amanda said, and the others nodded. “We enlist and we could get sent anywhere in the world. No, thank you, but I’ll stay in California.” She didn’t add that she wanted to find Tim Dane, although Harding’s expression told her he understood her motives.

  Harding stood. For the first time, Amanda noticed that his left hand was permanently set in a claw and that he had a Purple Heart on his chest.

  “Where?” she asked, looking at the medal.

  “The Philippines. I was in the Fourth Marine Regiment and got lucky. I was wounded very early on and evacuated before the place was cut off by the Japs. All I lost was the use of my left hand. I’m right-handed so it’s not that much of a loss.”

  Grace took his arm and examined the hand. There were burn scars on his wrist and forearm. “Can you use it at all?”

  “A little, and they say it’ll get better.” Harding gently pushed her hand away. “Based on the info you gave us, we’ve been contacting your schools and places you worked before going to Honolulu to establish your credentials so you can go to work in your field. When that is done, you’ll be free to travel to San Diego or wherever else your hearts desire. Do you agree to keep this whole thing quiet, at least for the time being?”

  As usual, Amanda spoke for them. “Of course. We wouldn’t want anybody to die as a result of our actions. However, I do have to wonder if staying in Hawaii is the better choice for starving people.”

  “So do I, and so do a lot of people,” he said. “We can all only hope and pray that we make the right decisions.”

  “Are we still restricted to here?” Stacy asked.

  “Nope. Now that we’ve talked and come to an agreement, you’re free to go and do whatever you want. Housing’s really short around here, so you might want to stay here for a while, gather your strength, and let the government pay for your room and board until things get squared away regarding your work status.”