by Nick Carter
Annotation
Nick Carter watched the ship — a U.S. Navy cruiser. It was aflame; over a thousand men were dying on it.
One of America's most trusted allies had caused the carnage. A terrible accident, the U.S. said and everyone forgot about it. But then came the next «accident» and the next, and the pile of corpses grew higher.
It was Nick Carter's job to find out why. But between Nick and the answer lay a scientifically perfect espionage plot, fueled by crazy revenge, clouded by friend killing friend.
There was only one way to get at the truth. Nick had to set himself up for another "accident," a purely personal one…
* * *
Nick CarterI
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
* * *
Nick Carter
The Executioners
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Service of the United States of America
I
The U.S.N. Paycock was the latest of the guided missile heavy cruisers in the South Pacific Joint Defense Fleet. It held fourteen hundred men, weighed twelve thousand tons, had six 8-inch guns and two twin missile launchers equipped with the «Terrier» S/A supersonic missile. The twin launchers were capable of firing two missiles per launcher every thirty seconds. They could fire four missiles in eight-tenths of a second. The U.S.N. Paycock was a magnificent piece of fighting equipment and cost 225 million dollars to build.
On the night of June 4, 1969, she was knifing through the blackness of an almost moonless night in the South Pacific. The men on the shrouded bridge could occasionally glimpse the dark bulk of the other vessels taking part in the joint Australian-American naval maneuvers. Captain Wilbur Foreman was on the bridge, watching as his helmsman began a slow turn to port, as called for, at precisely zero hours and fifteen minutes. All ships were sailing without lights, under battle conditions, as the radarman, peering into his green screen, frowned.
"Vessel bearing in on us on the port side, sir," he called out Captain Foreman looked out the port window and saw the huge bulk of the Australian aircraft carrier Downing, one of the Australian «Majestic» class carriers, twenty thousand tons loaded. She might be swinging a little wide, he concluded.
"Hold your course," he said to the helmsman, who did so. Then, with the sudden totality of disasters that happen at sea, the huge bulk of the aircraft carrier struck the U.S.N. Paycock amidships, moving through her the way a knife moves through butter. Men screamed, engines exploded, sailors dived into the sea in an effort to douse the flames that engulfed their bodies. The blow had destroyed the ship's electrical system, and it was impossible to close all the bulkheads by hand. The U.S.N. Paycock went down quickly. There were survivors, but not many.
Aboard the Australian carrier the thick bow had taken the brunt of the crash, and her bulkheads were quickly closed. On the bridge, the radarman leaned his head against the screen of his instrument, trying to shut out the sounds of those dying outside. His name was Burton Comford and at the naval inquiry he testified that his radar screen showed plenty of distance between the ships. It was concluded that radar could be misread, that electronic eyes could malfunction, and outright negligence could not be sustained. But Burton Comford had been the man assigned to operate and interpret the signals of the electronic eyes that were to guide the giant carrier.
It was a month later, almost to the day, that the joint military maneuvers of the combined Pacific Defense Alliance took place along the lovely white beaches of Papua. The White forces, the "attackers," had established a beachhead. The Blue defending forces, commanded by Australian Major Ronald Singleton, were over the ridge, waiting for an air strike by their defense planes. On the right of the beaches were the New Zealand and Philippine troops; to the left, the Americans with British support. The Australian Air Force planes were equipped with live bombs which they would drop offshore at pre-set targets. If the targets were struck, each hit would be equated with a predetermined number of «attacking» troops knocked out and credited to the defenders.
It was a fairly typical war-games exercise. Major Ronald Singleton, commanding the Australian defense forces, scanned the sky for his planes and suddenly saw them come swooping in. The squadron leader, coming in high, gave the command to drop bombs, and the squadron followed suit. Major Singleton looked up and saw the tiny objects, growing larger by the split-second, hurtle down upon the beach. Their thunder was pierced by the screams of the totally unprepared and unprotected men on the beaches.
"Not here, you bloody fools!" the Major screamed into his radio. "Stop them, dammit!" he yelled at the radio command post. "Stop them! They've released bombs too soon!"
But no giant hand could hold back the deadly bombs hurtling through the air, no magic command could call them back. The ambulances carried away the bodies for hours and hours-shattered bodies, dead bodies. There were New Zealand bodies, English bodies, Philippine bodies and American bodies.
The name of the Australian squadron leader was Lieutenant Dodd Dempster, and in the investigation that followed he showed that his computer had erred in time, distance and ground speed computations and that the malfunctioning of the instrument was to blame for his premature «release-bombs» order. Lieutenant Dempster said his visual observation of the beach had been unclear. No further formal charges were brought, pending continued investigation. But angry accusations flew through the air, mostly of casual attitudes and inefficient operations on the part of Australian Command. There was a lot more highly charged talk behind the scenes than found its way into the record. A number of our people were growing disenchanted with the Aussies.
The third incident occurred in September, during the Australian-British field maneuvers that had been planned six months back. The exercise concerned the defense of fixed installations — in this case an ammunition plant just north of Clermont in Queensland. The British had been assigned the defending role, and a line of Australian tanks advanced toward the defenders grouped in front of and behind a major supply of live ammunition inside a low-roofed building. They were using new, big, fast tanks, and at a pre-set point the tanks were to turn and withdraw, having either accomplished their simulated objectives or having failed to do so.
The line of clanking dragons started to wheel, all except the one on the right flank, the last of the line. Those watching waited for the driver to turn his metal monster. Instead, they saw the top hatch open and the man leap from the tank, falling in a rolling somersault and, gaining his feet, streak for safety. So did most of the onlookers as the big tank headed straight for the ammunition depot.
The bulk of the British forces, grouped on the other side of the building, didn't realize what was happening until the tank smashed into the stockpile of live ammunition. The earth erupted in a fireworks display straight from hell. And once again, the ambulances worked overtime to carry away the dead and injured. Once again, the voices of anger grew louder and more demanding.
The driver of the tank said his steering mechanism had jammed. There was no evidence left to check his story. He was dismissed from the service for having lost his head and panicked when he should have tried to halt his tank in time. His name was John Dawsey. But his dismissal didn't still the angry voices. Nor did it bring back the dead English soldiers.
Three tragedies — and I saw them again as they happened — just as I had during those days at AXE offices after Hawk called me. Every detail was imprinted on my mind. I'd seen the film clips that were available in some instances. I'd read the accounts of hundreds of eyewitnesses and participants. I'd digested thousands of pages of reports, accounts and testimony. Through the eyes and words of others, I felt as though I'd been at each one of
them.
The big BOAC airliner was nosing down to land at Brisbane now, and I saw the twinkling lights of the Australian capital. But as we dipped lower, my mind again flashed back to AXE headquarters at DuPont Circle, Washington, D.C. I'd finished all that Hawk had given me on the three tragedies, and we sat in his small, neat office, his steel-gray eyes snapping at me — his leathery, New England minister's face belying his role as Operations Chief of AXE.
"It would seem that the Aussies are out to wreck the whole damn South Pacific Defense Alliance," he said.
"That's asinine," I commented. "It's their chief defense against the Chinese Communists."
"Whether they're out to wreck it or they're suffering from a gargantuan attack of inefficiency, the same end is being reached," Hawk snapped. "You read the confidential reports attached to the stuff I gave you. The whole working alliance is about to fall apart. But still the Aussies haven't stopped this kind of thing and they haven't come up with any satisfactory answers to why the mistakes happened. All the effort, time, work and millions the United States spent on establishing this secure working defense is about to blow up in our faces. I want you to get over there fast and find out what's going on."
"Anything else?" I had questioned. Years of working with Hawk had made me know certain things. He didn't send me, or any AXE top agent, on vaguely defined missions. There was always something concrete, no matter how seemingly insignificant, that took it out of the «suppose» category. I sat back while he gazed up at the ceiling and unwrapped a fresh cigar, which he would chew rather than smoke.
"Two months ago, the body of a Chinese was washed ashore at a point near Hinchinbrook Island along the Great Barrier Reef. He was wearing scuba gear, and an autopsy showed he'd died of an embolism."
"Which indicates he was operating from a submarine and they hadn't properly decompressed him from his last time out," I commented, musing aloud.
"He had fifty thousand dollars in Australian pounds in a money belt under his scuba suit," he said. He just let it lie there and watched me pick it up and chew on it.
"Opens up a whole Pandora's box of possibilities, doesn't it?" I said finally. "Any follow-up to it?"
"Not a damned thing, unless you want to use your imagination and go anywhere with it," he had answered. Like the three sudden tragic accidents, he meant, without saying so. "Major Rothwell of Australian Intelligence has been told you're on your way. He's headquartered at Ayr on the coast. He's happy to have you come, so you'll have no problem there. I'm sure he'll fill you in on any details you want. The whole thing' so barbaric, the aumeiode-named our mutually mysterious enemy. The Executioners'."
I stood up. "What if it's nothing but damned inefficiency?" I asked.
Hawk had gazed up at me, his eyes expressionless, his face stone. "I'll be surprised," he said. "And I haven't been surprised in a long time."
I turned off the mental reruns as the big airliner touched down at Brisbane, but I was still thinking about the import of the three tragic events. Three accidents — each of them involving Australia's allies in death and bitter resentment. I couldn't completely rule out the inefficiency possibility, but it seemed, as Hawk had pointed out, a sudden attack of the disease. If it wasn't that, there was the long arm of coincidence to be considered.
Now there was a word I'd never thought much of. Experience had taught me that there were very few coincidences in life — real, honest ones — and in the espionage game there were just about none. But if it wasn't inefficiency and if it wasn't coincidence, then it also wasn't amateur night. Only the professionals, the good ones, the top layer of espionage people, can set up and handle an operation of real subtlety and complexity. Not that the pros don't make mistakes. It's just that even their mistakes have a certain touch to them.
But the stewardess was bidding everyone goodbye, and I stopped musing and got off the giant airliner to change to a smaller, twin-engined turbo-prop job for the last leg of the trip to Ayr. That part of the flight was short. At the Ayr airport I took my two bags — one more than I usually carry — and got a key to the public lockers. I took the larger bag, the one carrying the equipment Stewart at Special Effects had given me, and put it into the locker.
"I don't have any idea what problems you might meet," he'd told me when he gave me the stuff. "But Australia is an island and you might find yourself at sea, literally. What I have here requires a helper to operate, but you might find it coming in handy. It's a new development, of course."
After he briefed me on the stuff, I'd put it in a special bag and gone off with it, and now, here in Ayr, I'd decided not to carry it along with mo. I hadn't any idea what I might run into, and the stuff would be safer here.
A famous New York jeweler once shipped one of the world's most priceless diamonds to himself in an ordinary package through the U.S. mails. Instead of a lot of elaborate precautions which in themselves would have attracted attention, it was a master example of using the very ordinary to cloak the very unordinary. It stuck with me. I closed the public locker and slipped the key into my pocket. Later, I'd transfer it into the small hollow inside the heel of my shoe.
I went outside, hailed a cab and gave him the address of Australian Intelligence. I spent the ride watching the Australian girls on the streets as we went by them. They had a quality of their own, I quickly decided, a forthright directness. They walked with their heads up and they smiled quickly. They were dressed in mini skirts and had strong, well-formed legs, beautiful bustlines and good, clear skins. But mostly it was that heads-up quality that made them stand out.
The cab slowed and then stopped outside a small, gray building and I went inside. Security guards halted me at once and I presented my credentials. The picture changed immediately. Major Alan Rothwell, K.C.B., shook hands vigorously. A thin man in civilian clothes, he had quick, bright eyes and a small moustache. I had some difficulty keeping my eyes on the Major. There were two desks in his office, and behind the second one was as eye-filling a dish as I'd ever seen anywhere, any time. I was grateful for the Major's quick introduction.
"This is Mona Star," he said. "Mona is my right hand. She knows as much, perhaps more about this office than I do. She's one of our civilian security employees. In fact, you'll be working more with Mona, actually, than with me."
I tried not to smile too happily at that prospect But Mona Star had been quick to read the pleasure in my eyes, and her own glance was unabashedly interested. She was tall, red haired and green eyed, and as she stood up to shake hands, I saw the gorgeous line of her legs, long and firm and curving gently to wide, rounded hips. Her breasts must have put a terrible strain on the Australian brassiere industry.
"I've been terribly excited since I heard you were coming over." She smiled at me.
"I confess we all have been, Carter," Major Rothwell added. "Hawk and I've been friends for a good long while, you know, and when we talked about the problems here, and I asked if he could help us, he generously agreed. Sending an agent of your reputation was more than I expected of him. Fine chap, Hawk."
I smiled. The Aussies were an open, direct lot. I didn't tell him that Hawk's interest was motivated by something more than purity of heart and good fellowship.
"Of course, I don't really think the problem is anything more than our own internal inefficiency," the Major went on. "But if it is, we're just not up to coping with it. The English have been in the intrigue game for generations, and of course the Europeans live with the stuff all the time. And you fellows seem to have developed a knack for it. But we just haven't got the know-how yet. Not against anything like The Executioner."
I nodded, accepting his honest admission, and caught Mona Star's speculative appraisal of me. Her eyes held open interest and something else, almost anticipation. I smiled inwardly. I never let play interfere with work, but a little play in between work was good for the soul. I returned my attention to Major Rothwell.
"Three key men were involved in the tragedies," I said. "I presume you have
their military files and have studied them thoroughly."
"I sent three of my investigators directly to their base commanders to examine the men's records," he said. "I have the reports my men turned in right here."
I grimaced. That wouldn't do for me. Reading the reports of three separate investigators left too many open spaces. Each man would make his own interpretation of what was significant in the record of the man he was investigating. I wanted direct comparisons of the actual files on each man.
"Sorry." I smiled at the Major. "No good. Please have each man's complete file here in the morning. I want to study them together, at one time, in one place. I'm not going to look for the big things. It's the little things that count in this business, Major, because suddenly you find out they're not really little things."
Major Rothwell turned to Mona, and I saw she had already picked up the phone and was dialing. He smiled at me.
"See what I mean, Carter?" he commented. "She's thoroughly efficient." He glanced at his watch. "Normally, we re not here anywhere near this late, but we had everybody put on overtime to wait for you. We've rented a small cottage for you at the edge of town. It's roomier and a bit nicer than the hotels. And closer to our offices, too. A car is outside for your use."
"Much obliged," I said. Mona's cool, crisp voice cut into the conversation.
"All the files you want will be delivered here in the morning, Mr. Carter," she said. Major Rothwell stood up.
"I suggest we call it a night and get a fresh start in the morning," he said. "Mona will show you to the car and to the cottage. I'm expected at my club. See you tomorrow, Carter."
Much of the British style was still part of the Australian military, I realized. I waited as Mona gathered her things and then she was beside me, smiling up at me.
"No one told me you were so bloody big and good looking," she said as we went outside to where a cream-colored Anglia stood at the back of the building in a small parking lot. Mona handed me the keys to it and went around to the other side.
