Understrike

by John Gardner

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “No radio contact with Playboy yet, I suppose?”

  “We’re still trying, Admiral. Nothing yet, sir.”

  “PI486 reports something on the surface near firing area. Investigating at his own discretion.”

  “Something like what?”

  Pause.

  “He says, something like a man in the water, sir.”

  “OK. Tell him to go in.”

  *

  “Go in ... go in ... go in . . closer.” Voices.

  Hands were lifting him upwards. More pain as his right shoulder bumped against something hard. More voices.

  “OK ... Steady with him ... He’s stopped a bullet ... Gently now ... lie him on the catwalk.”

  Boysie felt himself being stretched out on warm metal. Then a voice he seemed to know.

  “Turn away ... Out of here as fast as you can ... Full ahead. Come ... Fast.”

  The throbbing of engines and then a bumping sway. Boysie opened his eyes. Two men in sailor suits were trying to lift him. He saw a portion of catwalk and the scudding sea. Foam bubbling white from sharp bows. Then a hatchway. He was being lowered into a sitting position—into a chair. Consciousness came back with a quick flood. He shook his head—his body being buffeted against the chair. He was in the small, light forward cabin of a fast motor vessel skipping over the sea at speed. And, greatest joy, he was alive. He grinned, prepared to thank his rescuers.

  “What happened to the gallant Commander?” asked Gorilka dressed in the uniform of a Lieutenant of the United States Navy. Boysie, for the first time in his life, really wanted to die. This was double-jeopardy with a vengeance.

  “Are you all right, Solev?” asked Gorilka, sitting in the bucket seat next to Boysie. In front of him the sailor at the wheel turned and gave Boysie a nod. He was a big brute with a scar under the right eye. Boysie looked past Gorilka to another sailor. Or was it Death standing there in his summer rig? The young sailor had a skull-like face.

  “A proper little memento mori,” murmured Boysie as though in a kind of delirium. Then he closed his eyes and feigned unconsciousness. He really could not cope with any more.

  They bandaged Boysie’s arm (“A nasty flesh wound,” said Gorilka). Now Boysie lay back in the bucket seat—a couple of feet from the sliding hatch leading to the starboard side of the PT-boat’s narrow catwalk. By continual lapses into fraudulent swooning, he had, so far, kept Gorilka from questioning him.

  “They’re still trying to call us up on the radio, boss,” said a tubby fake sailor sitting with his back to Gorilka, operating the transmitter. “Other PT-Boat’s reported we picked someone up.”

  “That is all right. Keep them happy. Tell them we have taken a survivor on board and that we are bringing him back to base. Say that he has told us Playboy is at the bottom of the ocean, badly damaged.”

  “You’re the boss, boss.”

  “Solev,” said Gorilka gently. “Come along, Solev. Did the Commander set the Omega switch.”

  “Uh?” said Boysie making a tired-eyes look. Then faintly. “Omega minus thirty minutes.”

  “Good boy. We shall have reached safety by then. Good. You have done well, Solev; done very well, Vladimir. You got the Trepholite away. We will read all about that in the newspapers tonight. There will be mourning in London. There were no hitches in launching were there?”

  Boysie lolled his head. “Homer working. OK. Worked OK.”

  “Good. Pity about the Commander. How did he go?”

  “Later,” said Boysie, weakly. “Tell you later.”

  “All right, Vladimir. Nearly over now.” Boysie cringed as he felt the podgy hand patting his knee. Then Gorilka started talking softly in Russian. Oh gawd, thought Boysie. Must rest and keep him from finding out that I am not Solev. “Later,” he repeated weaker than ever.

  Gorilka was back speaking English. “You just stay nice and quiet, Vladimir. We’ll soon have you safe. We head towards the harbour and then turn north at the last minute. We have cars waiting the other side of La Jolla. Within an hour we will be on our way to Los Angeles. Ah, the City of the Angels. Think of that, Vladimir, The City of the Angels.”

  *

  “Has that goddamned PT-Boat not reported yet?” The Admiral was getting hot and tetchy.

  “We seem to have lost contact, sir. I can’t get anything from PI486.”

  “Well, call PI045 and ask if he’s observed anything.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Mostyn was feeling the strain of inaction, sitting close to the Admiral who also looked as though he would prefer to be out and about. Birdlip just looked sad and was secretly hoping that everyone had forgotten him.

  “PI045 reports PI486 has picked up a man from the sea, sir. Says they have just passed him, heading for base at speed. They waved at him.”

  “Well, ain’t that dandy? Did he wave back?”

  “Didn’t say, sir.”

  “Radar?”

  “Yes, sir, we have them on the scanner. Moving at speed about thirty-five miles out.”

  “Well, keep trying to raise I486.”

  “Message from Seacat, sir. Playboy in position and steady. No visible signs of damage.”

  “Just raised P1486, sir. Say they’ve picked up a survivor from Playboy and are bringing him in. Survivor reports Playboy badly damaged and gone to the bottom after premature firing of Trepholite.”

  “Does he now?” The Admiral was going through some hand-clenching and unclenching exercises. Then, firmly, “Take over, Stenway, I’m goin’ out to see that survivor myself. My helicopter ready?”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “You coming?” The Admiral turned to Mostyn as he got out of his chair.

  “If I may, sir.”

  “Good.”

  As they were leaving the dais, a small, experimental voice piped over the speaker system. “Admiral, sir? Budge speaking —in charge of Surface Light Craft. Sir, we have not got a PI486 out there.”

  “So now he tells mel” The Admiral glared at Mostyn as though it were all his fault. “Come on.” And to Stenway who was taking over at the dais. “Guide my helicopter to that damn PT-Boat. And get that flight of Voodoos within striking distance. Out of the sun!”

  “Aye-aye, sir.” Stenway, all efficient, was full of himself and his sudden, exalted command.

  “And don’t balls it up, George. Please,” said the Admiral.

  *

  Mostyn and the Admiral did not talk as the big HOK-I helicopter chopped its way over the sea. To Mostyn’s discomfort, and anxiety, the Admiral insisted on having the large sliding doors open, so there was no protection between the occupants and the open air falling away to dazzling sea. 500 feet below.

  “How long?” yelled the Admiral to the naval rating sitting up front with the radio transmitter.

  “’Bout five minutes, sir. Green Flight report, in position, sir. In the sun.”

  Mostyn looked out at the placid water and wondered about Boysie.

  *

  Boysie was getting the crawling fears again. What would they do when they found he was not Solev—as they surely must? Would he be shipped back to Russia with them? Or (more likely) would the wretched Gorilka devise some ghastly torture leading, remorselessly, to Death.

  A sailor-suited thug appeared in the hatchway.

  “There’s a chopper headin’ for us from the shore, boss.” Boysie felt Gorilka move nervously. “All right. We have been successful so far. All will be well.”

  *

  They came down to about twenty feet above the sea, sweeping alongside the fast-moving PT-Boat. The Admiral exchanged his binoculars for a hand loudhailer. Mostyn took the binoculars as the helicopter drew in close again. He adjusted the glasses and put them to his eyes. The central section of the PT-Boat came into focus. There, lying back, just inside the cabin hatch, face turned upwards looking like a trapped rabbit, was Boysie Oakes.

  “It’s my lad, Admiral. They’ve got my laddie d
own there. Can we go get him?” He saw, behind the Admiral, another naval rating was loading a heavy sub-machine gun.

  They went down again, running with the boat, the Admiral leaning forward half out of the doorway, the loudhailer to his mouth.

  “PI486, heave to,” he shouted. “We will take off the survivor. Heave to. We have a hammock coming down. D’ye hear me?”

  *

  Gorilka swore—in English.

  “Whaddamytado, boss?” The man at the wheel was still letting the craft snarl through the water at full speed.

  “Slow down ... No ... Do as he says ... Heave to ... When they come in close I will give you the word ... Not until I say ... Then blast them ... Blast them and run for it ... straight for La Jolla.”

  Boysie groaned. He wondered if he really was delirious. There might be a chance though. It was only a couple of feet to the hatch and the catwalk. Boysie moved his legs under him and hoped.

  The PT-Boat’s engines ran down to an idling grumble and she was still, swaying on the water. The helicopter had come round again making its approach from the stern; nearly over them now, down very low, the rope rescue hammock slung out of the wide hole in the side of its vulnerable belly.

  “She’s too low,” muttered the scar-faced man at the wheel. “Blow up on top of us if we blast her from here.”

  “Wait for it,” said Gorilka quietly. “Wait for it. Patience.” Boysie had not worked out how many were aboard the PT-Boat, not what weapons they intended to use. His eyes were fixed on the hatch. The shadow of the HOK-I lay right over them now—the hammock brushing against the catwalk and the whirlpool of wind from the rotors flecking the sea and blowing into the cabin. Now it was level with the hatch—three feet, at the most, from Boysie. Biting his lip and holding his right arm to protect the wound. Boysie pushed with his feet, twisted and leaped straight through the hatch, sprawling across the hammock. There was a shout from behind him, then a jerk as the helicopter swung away and upwards. Boysie’s stomach descended about thirty feet. He was flying, spread-eagled over the hammock, swinging in an arc, almost bumping the top of the cabin. They were rising fast in a terrifying whirl of noise and shouting. Boysie closed his eyes. Something whined past him thudding against the underside of the helicopter.

  “They’re shooting, for Chrissake…” a voice from above.

  “Get the hell out of it!” yelled the Admiral.

  The chatter of a machine gun from above and the sudden thud of something heavier from the PT-Boat.

  The helicopter accelerated, climbing, turning on its axis and moving away to the stern, its rotor blades whipping through the air, the Pratt and Whitney going wild. The firing was spasmodic, unconcentrated, lacking in confidence. Boysie’s leap had taken them by surprise and the helicopter had been badly angled for any real attempt from the PT-Boat. The hammock-winch whirred, and Boysie arrived in the HOK’s doorway like a load of freshly-netted herrings. They were out of range now, high and turning south in a steady curve.

  “Call in those jets. The real thing. My responsibility.” The Admiral was hopping mad. “I’ll teach ‘em to shoot at Charles P. Fullenhaft.”

  “And at James G. Mostyn,” murmured Mostyn.

  The radio man was talking quickly into his microphone.

  The PT-Boat was still trying to put up a show, firing in earnest from the heavy anti-aircraft cannon for’ard. But the shells were dropping short, spent long before they could reach the HOK-I.

  They disentangled Boysie from the hammock. He was the colour of a nicely-ripe Camerbert, and the wound was bleeding again.

  “What cheer, Boysie old, Boysie?” said Mostyn. “You are Boysie, aren’t you?”

  Boysie could not help himself. He tried hard, but nature took over and he was violently sick, right over Mostyn’s brown aniline calf shoes.

  “Yes,” said Mostyn, gingerly shaking one foot after the other. “Yes. It’s our Boysie. The Boysie we know and love. The uncrushable flip-top spy.”

  “Look at ‘em go,” called the Admiral. Out of the sun two of the Voodoo jets were screaming in towards the PT-Boat. The Admiral turned to Mostyn, “That’s what they mean when they talk about calling down the wrath of the Almighty,” he said.

  *

  The Flight Leader brought his Voodoo down to fifty feet. His wingman was to his left—slightly behind him in case they needed a second strike.

  “This baby’s all mine,” said the Flight Leader to himself as the rocket sights came on to the PT-Boat—a toy on a blue lake. He could see men diving over the side, panicking with fear exploding among them like a sticky bomb. There was a small fat man in naval uniform standing in the cabin hatchway waving a stick. He looked as though he was shouting.

  The Flight Leader pressed the rocket release, eased back on the control column and took his jet up in a tight climbing turn. He levelled out and banked steeply, looking down the wing to see if the strike had gone home.

  Both rockets hit—converging just aft of the cabin. Across the quiet water a hand-shaped crest of flame splayed out, then died. The PT-Boat keeled over, fire and smoke spurting from her broken innards. The pilot could see another PT-Boat coming up fast on the Admiral’s orders; and away to the east, the Old Man’s helicopter, like a grotesque insect, chattering back towards San Diego Harbour, peaceful in the afternoon sunshine.

  Epilogue: DOUBLE DATE

  San Diego, July.

  “Boysie darling, you’ve been wonderful.” Priscilla Braddock-Fairchild gave a little moue of pleasure, leaned across the table at the exotic Bali Hai, and grasped Boysie’s free hand. Even after three weeks—with the wound almost healed—Boysie granted himself the luxury of wearing a glamorous sling.

  They had only kept him in hospital for a week. There had been a personal letter of thanks from the Prime Minister and an invitation to dine at Number 10—date unspecified. Since then it had been fun almost all the way. The fears were gone. The terrors had flown (except, perhaps, for the nagging worry about flying back to London with Mostyn tomorrow).

  Four of the PT-Boat’s crew had been picked up alive—including a twenty-year-old boy with a face like a skull. Of Gorilka there had been no trace. Playboy had been brought to the surface by the early evening of that dramatic day when Operation Understrike failed. Surprisingly, Gorilka had really only given Braddock-Fairchild pellets containing a mild nerve gas. The six observers, the Radar Officer and the rest of the crew were found unconscious but alive, oblivious to what had occurred. There had been a funeral, with full naval honours, for those killed on the Control Deck of Playboy. Commander Braddock-Fairchild RN was quietly cremated. Apart from his daughter, there had been only two mourners—Boysie Oakes and James George Mostyn.

  The remainder of Boysie’s time in San Diego was spent keeping a lot of distance between Chicory and Priscilla (who had not taken her treacherous father’s death much to heart). Boysie had run riot with ruses and cunning wiles. Tales of conferences with the Admiral, or dinner with his boss, Mostyn, managed to keep both the girls, and Boysie happy. But he had to admit that after a fortnight he was getting hard pressed, and running out of excuses.

  At this moment he was dining with Priscilla. As far as Chicory was concerned, he was having a farewell drink with the officers at North Island Naval Base. Priscilla was making the most of the evening, for she knew he had promised to have drinks with the officers at the North Island Naval Base when he left her at midnight (when Chicory was expecting him in her suite at the El Cortez). Life was becoming very complicated.

  The dinner had been right for the evening—which was sultry with the moon riding high over the Bay, and an off-shore breeze tickling the palm tops, and all that travel bureau goo. Jar Won Ton (Chinese raviolo) was followed by a speciality of the house—Chicken of the Gods: breast of chicken sauted in Chinese wine and rolled in Waterchestnut flour, deep-fried and served with white sauce and Sesame pods. They had finished with fresh Hawaiian Pineapple, and Boysie was just wondering if they would have time before he had to m
eet Chicory. But Priscilla had stopped holding his hand and leaning over the table. She was not even looking at him any more, but at a point to the left of his shoulder. He sensed someone near him.

  “So this is North Island Base and these are the nice officers you’re having drinks with, hu?” Chicory was standing by the table, her cheeks flushed in the traditional manner of a woman on whom infidelity had been practised.

  Priscilla quickly recovered her poise.

  “Who is this person, Boysie?” she asked.

  “Ahrrghurr…” began Boysie, when a smooth voice mercifully intruded from the other side of the table.

  “Hallo Boysie,” said Mostyn, a gleaming blonde on his arm. “Cable arrived for you. Thought it might be urgent, so Tibby and I brought it down. From England?”

  “Ah ... I ... expect ... so,” said Boysie precisely. He knew darned well the cable was from England. He had cabled Elizabeth yesterday morning during a brief moment of nostalgia.

  This would be her reply. Mostyn might not be such a blessing after all.

  “Why don’t you open it then, old Boysie?”

  “Yea, open it,” said Chicory, leaning over the table. Priscilla got up, came over and stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder.

  “Open it, Boysie darling.”

  He felt Chicory’s hand on his other shoulder.

  “Should if I were you, old boy,” said Mostyn. “They’ll probably tear you apart if you don’t.”

  Probably tear me apart if I do, thought Boysie. Resigned he ripped open the envelope with his teeth (Not having a spare hand) and spread out the paper for all to see.

  SO HAPPY TO GET YOUR CABLE STOP WILL MEET YOU WITH CAR AT LONDON AIRPORT STOP FORTNIGHT IN PARIS WITH YOU A WONDERFUL IDEA STOP MISSING YOU TERRIBLY STOP ALL AND DEEPEST LOVE STOP ELIZABETH

  “And who’s Elizabeth?” chorused Chicory and Priscilla in unison, their grips tightening.

  “Ah . . Yes ... Now I’m glad you asked me that,” said Boysie.

  If you enjoyed reading Understrike you might be interested in The Liquidator by John Gardner,also published by Endeavour Press.