by Peter Watt
Keela nodded in agreement. She did not question the Japanese man. She knew he was different. He was a man who knew so much and had proven his prowess as a warrior. He would be a fitting husband and father to the many children she would bear for him. ‘I think you should return now and say that you have not seen me,’ he added.
Keela understood and clung to him one last time before turning to walk back down the beach. Fuji watched her walk away and fought back the tears. It was not right that a man of the bushido way expressed personal emotion. This was the second time since he had returned to Papua; the first was when he had lost his father and now he knew he had probably lost the only woman he had ever loved. The lie that he would meet with her again haunted him more than he thought it would. He could console himself with the knowledge that when the Emperor ordered the attack on the Europeans in the Pacific he would return to Papua as a conqueror. Maybe then he would be able to be reunited with Keela and hold his son in his arms.
Having arrived on schedule, the I–47 glided just beneath the surface at periscope depth. Lieutenant Kenshu Chuma slowly rotated the scope to scan the seas and the darkened headland. It was a moonless night and the horizon merged with the inky blackness of the sea. ‘Half speed,’ he called and the submarine’s rate of knots was reduced. Kenshu continued peering through the scope at the headland and grunted with satisfaction when he saw the tiny but distinct flash of light in the preordained sequence of dots and dashes. Komine was at the appointed place as per the instructions that had been radioed to Krait. ‘Prepare to surface,’ Kenshu commanded, checking the seas once again to ensure that there was no one to witness their ascent to the surface. They were within the territorial waters of Papua without authority from the Australians and this constituted a serious breach of international law. The I–47 had been designated to carry out covert operations for its masters in naval intelligence and such a breach by a naval ship was almost akin to an act of war.
Fuji strained to seek out any disturbance of the ocean’s surface following his last periodic signal from the hand torch. Then, from the corner of his eye, he thought he noticed a phosphorescent glow in the distance about 500 yards from the shore. His keen eyesight, well adjusted to night vision, was proved correct when something big and black began to emerge against the horizon. With a deep sigh of relief Fuji rose from his place of concealment in the jungle to pad down the beach to the edge of the surf. Here, he would await an answering flash of light from the coning tower of the submarine. It came when he signalled again from the water’s edge. Even now, Fuji thought, standing patiently, the captain would be ordering the launching of a dinghy to fetch him to safety.
Cruising on her powerful diesel engine, Jack Kelly was at the helm of the Independence as she slipped through the calm night in the Gulf of Papua. He was not alone on the deck. Momis, one of three deck-hands Jack had employed from the Solomon Islands, was high up the forward mast. Like the majority of his people from the Melanesian islands, Momis’skin was jet black, an almost dark blue hue to it. Naked, apart from a pair of cotton shorts, he was a man in the prime of his life. The Solomon Islander had the task of being lookout for the schooner, which was sailing almost blind on this dark night.
Jack had been forced to leave at sunset so that he would be down the coast at a Catholic missionary outpost by the early morning to deliver desperately needed medical supplies. Victoria had not been fazed by the rushed departure. She was a self-taught master navigator and had plotted their course. As there was little wind to fill the schooner’s sails the navigation had been easier when Jack switched over to the auxiliary power of the diesel engine. Although their course would be true and straight, they were still hugging the coast to conserve fuel. No skipper liked being so close to the shore. Too many things could go wrong, like a fishing boat collision or sudden shift of wind to drive them ashore on the rocky reefs, but Jack was relying on his skill – and a lot of luck – to reach the missionary station in the shortest possible time.
Jack had informed his wife of his failure to glean from Sen and other contacts around Port Moresby any information on the elusive young Japanese man. Victoria had been disappointed but suggested they could try again when they returned, as she was certain the Japanese agent was operating in the Port Moresby district. Jack guessed that her certainty was fed by reports from her uncle who was still in Townsville.
‘Masta Jack!’ Momis suddenly called down from his perch up the mast. ‘Big fella thing ahead.’
‘What is it?’ Jack called back to his lookout.
‘Don’t know,’ Momis replied thoughtfully. ‘Me think maybe whale.’
Jack spun on the helm to veer from the course, avoiding what Momis had seen on the surface. He trusted the Solomon Islander’s eyesight; the man had the vision of a cat. But the concept of a submarine was not something a Solomon Islander could entertain.
‘Not whale,’ Momis called with a rising note of fear in his voice. ‘Too big for whale. Maybe monster.’
Jack frowned and shifted the accelerator lever to reduce speed. What the hell did the man mean by ‘monster’? For now all he could see was the inky blackness ahead.
‘Boat approaching from the east, Captain,’ the I–47 lookout on the coning tower called quietly to Kenshu.
The submarine commander turned from gazing out to the shore for sight of the dinghy returning with the agent he had been assigned to recover. ‘Where?’ he asked, and the lookout pointed into the night off their portside.
‘I think over there,’ the lookout replied.
Kenshu could see the navigation lanterns of what he calculated to be either a big yacht or even a schooner bearing down on them. Suddenly it seemed to alter course to take it past the sub’s stern. That could mean only one thing: that the captain of the other craft had spotted them and was taking evasive action to avoid a collision. Kenshu calculated that the other craft was around 300 yards away and approaching fast. The Japanese captain swore, cursing the unknown boat that had appeared out of the night to compromise his mission. He swung back to see the dinghy come alongside the hull of the submarine with an extra body aboard. At least they had got Komine off the shore. Now what to do about the boat that had obviously spotted them? His question was answered when the radio operator sent a message up to the tower to say that the unknown boat was a Papuan registered schooner, now attempting to make contact with the harbour master in Port Moresby to report the sighting of a submarine. He was even attempting to send coordinates to fix their position.
Kenshu was a man selected by the Japanese navy for his intelligent and decisive manner of command. ‘Has he established radio contact yet?’ he called down to the radio operator.
‘Not yet, sir,’ the executive officer relayed back to his captain from the signal man. This decided Kenshu on his course of action. He was pleased to see that his landing party had scrambled up onto the deck with their passenger and were already stowing the sub’s dinghy.
‘Prepare to dive and go to action stations,’ he called down the tower.
On his command the crew of the Japanese submarine came to life. This time it was not an exercise.
Victoria was at the helm while Jack desperately attempted to establish radio contact with Port Moresby. He had called her up to take over when he finally saw the vague shape of the submarine ahead. Jack had read of sightings of subs around the Australian coast and knew it was important to relay what he had seen to the authorities.
Victoria could also see the submarine now. Its outline became clear against a star-studded night sky. It was an eerie sight and caused the American to feel a rising fear.
‘It’s an I class Japanese sub,’ she called down to Jack at the radio. ‘I have seen them in Japan.’
Jack did not question his wife. If that is what she identified the submarine as, then that was what it was. ‘Moresby, Moresby, this is the Independence out of Moresby. Over.’
Nothing but the crackle of static came back to Jack over his radio.
‘She’s diving, Jack!’ Victoria called excitedly from the cockpit of the schooner. ‘I think we are going to lose her.’
‘Damn!’ Jack swore. He would have liked the sub to hang around long enough for someone other than the crew of the schooner to corroborate their sighting.
‘She’s gone,’ Victoria called down in a disappointed voice, the excitement of the sighting now fading with the swirling phosphorus that marked where the submarine had been. ‘Have you got coms with Moresby yet?’
‘Bloody idiots must be on the grog or have their fingers up their bums,’ Jack growled angrily. By all his calculations they should still be within radio range of Port Moresby.
‘No matter,’ Victoria interrupted. ‘We can make the report from the mission station radio tomorrow morning.’
‘Bit late,’ Jack commented with disappointment in his voice. ‘She will be well and truly gone. I wonder what she was doing on the surface so close to the coast.’
‘Momis has told me that he thought he saw a dinghy pull in beside the sub just before she submerged. They must have gone ashore for some reason,’ Victoria speculated. ‘A bit disappointing now that the excitement is over for the night. You may as well join me on deck. I will get Momis to fetch us a brew.’
Jack placed the transmitter mike on the chart table and took off the receiver headset, still muttering about the incompetence of the land-based sailors in Port Moresby. He placed his hands on the wooden rails either side of the hatch to the deck and could see Victoria smiling down at him as he started up the steps to join her. It was a funny thought to come to at such a time, he realised, but how much he loved this woman who seemed to shine when things got dangerous.
Victoria was still smiling when the submerged submarine rammed the starboard side of the schooner with her raised bow cable cutter almost lifting the big sailing boat clear out of the water. Timbers splintered, the Solomon Islander crew screamed in panic and Victoria’s smiling face disappeared from Jack’s view as he was hurled back into the cabin.
‘Vicky!’ he screamed. ‘Vicky!’
Jack was hardly aware of the blood running down his face from a cut across his head. All he could think about was the safety of his wife as he scrambled to his feet and forced his way back up onto the deck. The navigation lantern had spilled kerosene across the aft deck which had been ignited by the burning wick, and the fire was spreading rapidly. As the Independence settled back in the sea, water from a hole rammed in her side poured into one of the cargo holds.
‘Vicky,’ Jack called desperately, but did not receive a reply.
Momis loomed out of the dark, silhouetted by the rising flames. ‘Missus Jack overboard,’ he gasped in pain and Jack could see that the deck hand’s arm was hanging at an unnatural angle.
Jack ran to the side, oblivious of the desperate situation his schooner was in. He ran up and down calling out his wife’s name – but still nothing. If she was in the sea he prayed that she might at least be afloat, treading water. But the fact she had not answered his calls caused Jack to feel a terrible, paralysing dread.
Kenshu peered through the periscope at the burning schooner clearly lit up against the night sky. ‘She is sinking,’ he said to his second in command. ‘It will look like an accident.’
‘Do you think that we should finish it off?’ the 2IC asked.
‘No need,’ Kenshu replied. ‘Our mission is to remain undetected and we have Komine aboard. It is better that we proceed on course for New Britain with as much haste as possible and clear these waters.’
The second in command nodded and the I–47 slipped silently away on her electric engines. She would surface later that night to monitor any radio traffic in the area that might indicate that their position in Papuan waters had been compromised.
Jack knew the only hope of finding his wife lay in first containing the near impossible situation aboard his seemingly doomed schooner. He had to forget Victoria for the moment. Already the Independence was keeling over to the starboard where the water rushed in. He rapidly gathered the crew of three together and issued orders for two of them to go below and cram anything they could in the hole where the sub had rammed them. He had been stunned to see that the damage wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, as the tough timbers had absorbed much of the impact, and that the hole could be plugged with mattresses, boxes of cargo and pieces of lumber. Above deck Momis doused the fire, which had only succeeded in singeing the planking of the deck.
It was as if the boat had the constitution of its owner, Jack mused. After half an hour he was satisfied that the Independence would not sink – although she was low in the water and tilting at an angle to the starboard. When he was satisfied that the situation was under control he turned to the medical condition of his crew. Momis had broken his arm but the other two men had little more than minor cuts and bruises. Jack’s own gash was in need of a doctor but he simply gritted his teeth and got one of his men to sew the skin together with a needle and thread. Jack had attempted to use the radio once more to transmit a mayday call but it was out of action. The schooner’s dinghy was gone too, having been dislodged on impact. Jack prayed that Victoria had found it in the dark and had been able to scramble into it. He called Victoria’s name throughout the night until his throat was sore and hoarse. He knew that he would have to wait until first light before any effective search could be made but when the sun rose over the still calm seas Jack noticed that they had drifted towards a little beach not far from the head-land. There was no sign of his wife anywhere and in the back of his mind he tried to tell himself Victoria was okay; that she had found the dinghy and both had drifted away in the night, and since they were so close to the coast, that she would be able to row ashore – or even see the schooner and row to them.
‘Look, Masta Jack,’ Momis shouted, his arm in a makeshift sling that Jack had improvised for the broken arm. ‘A native boat.’
Jack turned his eyes to the headland where he could see a Motu-style outrigger paddling towards them. It was crewed by four strong native men, and when they came alongside Jack asked them to return to shore and contact Port Moresby. Jack further explained that there would be a big reward for their help, and the men rowed away enthusiastically to fetch help. Within minutes of the outrigger leaving, Jack and his crew saw a small flotilla of other native outriggers rowing towards them.
Word had spread to the nearest village that a big boat was in trouble just offshore. With any luck there would be salvage for the villagers if the crew had left the stricken ship. They were disappointed when they arrived but cheerful nonetheless at some of the small items Jack parcelled out from the cargo. Their company was welcome and at least now the crew had a means of getting off the schooner should it decide to give up the ghost and sink.
Later that afternoon a ketch sailed into sight. Aboard was a police inspector from Port Moresby. He had received the news and had come to help tow the badly damaged schooner back to harbour. Jack asked if Victoria had been picked up but the inspector shook his head.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ he said sympathetically. ‘We will have a couple of crates up as quickly as possible to carry out a search. Aircraft can cover a lot more area than ships alone.’
Jack knew the policeman was right but was frustrated by the lack of immediate action to go in search of his wife.
‘Masta Jack.’ Momis nudged nervously at Jack’s elbow as he stood on the deck of his schooner with the police inspector. ‘I think the native boys have found your missus.’
‘Where?’ Jack asked, grabbing Momis by his broken arm in his excitement, and causing him to wince in pain.
‘Over there, Masta Jack,’ Momis grimaced until Jack let go.
Both Jack and the inspector turned to see a small outrigger being paddled towards them from the sea. It was manned by two rowers and between them Jack could see a body lying face up in the bottom. Jack instantly recognised his wife’s face, now pale and wax-like. He knew immediately that she was dead.
ELEVEN
So much had happened since the terrible day she had left the shores of Papua in an Arab slave dhow. She had been forced to live as Pierre’s virtual slave in French-controlled North Africa. She at least had met a tall, handsome Legionnaire from Germany in the Corsican’s bar. He had brought some happiness to her hard life. Wolfgang had been a gentle, intelligent young man who had shown kindness to Fatima when she had still been known as Iris, and in time love had bloomed and led to the birth of Marie. But then Wolfgang had been killed in a back alley brawl. Two men she had come to love in her life had died by violent means. But it was God’s Will.
When Pierre had found out that Marie was not his daughter, Iris had thought he would kill them both. But he had grudgingly accepted Marie as his own child – albeit with occasional outbursts of rejection. Fatima had never told her daughter who her true father was as it was easier to live with Pierre that way. It was also the only way she could protect her daughter from the violent, brutal temper of the man.
