COWAN HESITATED.
“Not to speak of. The natives are timid and friendly enough, but they can be mighty bad in a pinch. Villages are mostly back inland. It’s heavily jungled, with only a few plantations. There are, I think, a few white men.”
“How about that trouble of yours some years back? Weren’t they white men?” Garnett asked keenly.
Steve Cowan chuckled.
“You check up on a guy, don’t you? But that was no trouble. It was a pleasure. That was Besi John Mataga. He’s a renegade.”
“I know.” Major Garnett nodded. “Furthermore, we understand he is negotiating with the enemy. That’s why I’ve sent for you.”
He leaned forward.
“It’s like this, Cowan. Intelligence has learned that fifty Messerschmitt 110s were flown from Tripoli to Dakar across the Sahara. They were loaded on a freighter heading for Yokohama. War broke out, and temporarily the freighter was cut off from Japan.
“Just what happened then, we only know from one of the crew, who was supposedly drowned. He got to us and reported that several of the crew, led by the chief mate, murdered the captain and took over the ship.
“The chief mate had some idea of striking a bargain with the Japanese. He’d claim the ship was injured and that he could tell them where it was—for a price.”
“And the mate is John Mataga, is that it?” Cowan asked.
“Exactly. Mataga had signed on under an assumed name, but was dealing with the Japanese as himself. Naturally, the freighter had to be hidden until a deal was struck. Our advices are that the deal is about to go through. In the right place at the right time, I needn’t tell you what those fifty Messerschmitts would mean to Japan.”
“No,” Cowan frowned. “Those Messerschmitts would be tough to handle.”
“That’s it,” Garnett agreed. “They must never reach Japanese hands. They must be found and destroyed—and we know exactly where they are?”
“Off Siberut?”
“Yes. Lying in Labuan Bajau Bay. You know it?”
“You bet.” Cowan sat up. “What do I do and when do I start?”
“You understand the situation,” Garnett said. “We can’t spare the pilots for an attack. Indeed, we haven’t planes enough. But one ship, flown by a man who knew the locality, might slip through.”
Cowan shrugged. “You want that freighter blown up?”
“Yes.” Garnett nodded vigorously. “You’ve had no bombing experience, so we can’t trust to that. You must land, and…”
But that had been two days ago.
The first night, Steve Cowan had flown the amphibian to a tiny inlet on the south coast of Java, where he remained all day, hidden from hostile scouting planes. Then when darkness fell, he took off again. Time and again he had narrowly missed running into the enemy. Once, south of Bali, he had come out of a cloud facing a lone Japanese plane.
He recognized it instantly. It was a Kawasaki 93, a bomber-reconnaissance plane. In the same instant, he banked steeply and sharply and fired a burst at its tail as it shot by him.
Cowan had the faster ship and could have escaped. But he was conscious of nothing but the realization that if the pilot broke free, it would be only a matter of minutes before speedy pursuit ships would be hunting him down.
His turn had brought him around on the enemy’s tail, and he gunned his ship. The Kawasaki tried an Immelmann and let go a burst of fire as it whipped back over in the tight turn. But Cowan was too close behind for the pilot’s fire to reach him.
He pulled his ship up so steeply he was afraid it would stall, but then he flattened out. For an instant the Kawasaki was dead in his sights.
Cowan’s burst of fire smashed the Japanese tail assembly into a stream of fragments. But their crew was game. They tried to hit Cowan with a burst from the observer’s gun.
Cowan saw the stream of tracer go by. Then he banked steeply and swung down in a long dive after the falling ship, pumping a stream of bullets into his target. Suddenly the Kawasaki burst into flame. An instant later, a red, roaring mass, it struck the sea.
The entire fight had lasted less than a minute. Cowan pulled back on his stick and shot upward, climbing until he saw the altimeter at sixteen thousand feet. Then he had leveled off and headed straight for Siberut.
COWAN DRANK the coffee slowly, then ate a bar of chocolate. It would be daylight in a matter of minutes, he knew. Beyond the clump of casuarinas on the shore would be the renegade freighter. Beyond the trees, and probably a mile away.
Carefully Cowan stowed his gear, then checked his guns. He was carrying two of them, a .45 Colt automatic for a belt-gun and a .380. The smaller gun was strapped to his leg inside his trousers. There was a chance he might need an ace in the hole.
The explosive he’d brought along for the job was ready. It had been carefully prepared two days before by one of the best demolition experts in Australia.
Cowan made his way ashore through the mangroves that grew down close to his anchorage. Then he swung down from the trees and walked along the sand under the casuarinas.
Besi John Mataga would not leave the freighter unguarded. There would be some of the crew aboard. And if Steve Cowan knew Besi John, the crew members would be the scum of the African waterfronts where they had been recruited.
How he was to handle that part of it, Cowan didn’t know. You could rarely plan a thing like that; so much depended on chance. You knew your objective, and you went there ready to take advantage of any chance you got.
The Japanese would be hunting the ship. They wouldn’t pay off to Besi John without having a try for it. But on the other hand, they couldn’t afford to delay for long. The planes were needed too badly, with streams of new Curtiss, Bell, and Lockheed pursuit jobs pouring into Australia.
Cowan halted under the heavy branches of a casuarina. The outer harbor was open before him. There, less than a half mile away, was the Parawan, a battered freighter of Portuguese registry.
It was at least possible, even if improbable, that Besi John did not know of the inner harbor. In any case, no large ship could possibly negotiate the channel without great risk. The entrance, about two hundred yards wide, was shoal water for the most part and out of sight behind the point of casuarinas.
The Parawan lay in about sixteen fathoms, Cowan judged, remembering the soundings of the outer harbor. On the shore close by was a hut, where traders used to barter for rattan and other wood products.
Moving along the point toward the mainland, Steve Cowan studied the freighter from all angles. He would have to get aboard by night; there was no other way. In any event, it wasn’t going to be easy.
Keeping under cover of the jungle, Cowan worked his way along the shore. Several times he paused to study the sandy beach. Once he walked back under the roots of a giant ficus tree, searching about in the darkness.
A ripple in the still water nearby sent a shiver along his spine. He watched the ominous snout and drew back further from the water’s edge.
“Crocs,” he said. “Crocs in the streams and sharks in the bay.”
Coming to the bank of a small stream, he hesitated, then walked upstream. Finally he found what he sought. In a clump of thick brush under the giant roots of a mangrove, he found a dugout.
Cowan had known it would be there. The natives would want a boat on this bay, and all the boats would not be upstream at the villages. He was going to need that dugout. The bay, like all the waters around Sumatra, was teeming with sharks.
Walking along the shore under cover of the trees, Cowan stopped abruptly. He had been about to step out into a clearing. There in the open space was the hut where the traders used to meet. Two men stood in front of it.
BESI JOHN MATAGA had his back to him, but Steve Cowan recognized the man at once. No one else had that thick neck and those heavy shoulders. The other man was younger, with a lean, hard face and a Heidelberg scar. Cowan’s eyes narrowed.
“They won’t find this place!” Mataga said harshly. �
��It ain’t so easy spotted. If they do, they’ll never get away. We got our own spies around here.”
“You’d better have.” The stranger’s voice was crisp. “And don’t underestimate the Aussies and the Yanks. They might locate this place. It must be known to other people.”
“Sure.” Besi John shrugged. “Sure it is, Donner. But it ain’t the sort of place they’d figure on. White men, they never come here. One did once, but he won’t again.”
“Who was that?” Donner demanded.
“A guy named Cowan. I had a run-in with him once out there on the beach. I whipped the tar out of him.”
“You lie!” Steve Cowan muttered to himself.
He studied Donner. Instinct warned him that here was an even more dangerous opponent than Besi John. Mataga was a thug—this man had brains.
“I’m giving the Japanese just forty-eight hours!” Donner snapped. “They either talk turkey or I’ll deal with somebody else. I might start out for myself.”
“They’ll talk,” Mataga chuckled. “Birdie Wenzel knows how to swing a deal. They’ll pay off like he wants them to, and plenty. Then we’ll tell them where the ship is, and pull out—but fast.”
“What about them?” Donner said. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You still think the old man is good for some cash?”
Mataga shrugged.
“I’m goin’ to work on him. He knows where the dough is. It’s hid aboard that ship, and he knows where. He’ll talk before I get through with him!”
The two men turned and walked out to a dinghy where several surly-looking seamen waited. They got in and shoved off.
Cowan studied the hut. Now whom had Donner meant by “them”?
While Cowan mulled it over, a husky seaman came around the corner of the hut, a rifle in the hollow of his arm. He said something through the door of the hut, and then laughed at the reply. He sat down against the wall, rifle across his lap.
Cowan stood half behind the bole of a huge tree and studied the situation anew. As long as that man remained where he was, there was no chance that a dugout could reach the freighter unobserved. The seaman was not only guarding whoever was in the hut but watching the ship as well. Even on the darkest night, it would be difficult to get away from shore without being seen.
Cowan circled around the hut. When he was behind it, he straightened up deliberately and walked toward it. Just as he stopped against the wall, he heard a light step. Wheeling, Cowan found himself facing a slender, hatchet-faced man with a rifle.
The fellow grinned, showing blackened stumps of teeth. Cowan did not hesitate. Dropping his left hand, he grabbed the rifle barrel and wrenched so hard that he jerked it free before the man’s finger could squeeze the trigger.
Pulled off balance, the man fell forward into a smashing right uppercut to the wind. As he went down, Cowan struck him with the butt of his own rifle. He fell like a log and lay still.
Cowan wheeled, his breath coming hard. He was just in time. The big fellow he had seen on guard in front came around the side of the hut. Steve Cowan gave no warning, but struck viciously.
HE WAS TOO ANXIOUS, and the punch missed. He caught a glancing blow from the other’s rifle and went to his knees. Blinded with pain, he nevertheless lunged forward and grabbed the man by the knees. The fellow struck again. Cowan rolled free, lashing out with a short blow that landed without much force. Both men got up at once.
The big fellow’s eyes flashed angrily. He rushed in, swinging wildly. Cowan lashed out himself, but caught one on the side of the head. The guard missed a vicious kick as Steve Cowan fell.
But Cowan was up quickly, and breathing hard. Steadying down, he met the rush with a hard right. The big fellow was fighting savagely, and apparently he had not considered a yell for help. Cowan knew he must get him, must knock the man out or kill him before he could shout.
It was more than a fight to win. It was more than a fight for mere life—although Cowan knew to lose meant death. It was a fight for all the lives that might be lost if those fifty crated pursuit ships out there got into Japanese hands.
The guard charged again, trying to close with him. Cowan struck with a short left to the face, then smashed a hard right to the wind. The guard lunged again. Cowan’s left speared his mouth. Then he drove in close, his big shoulders swaying with the rhythm of his punches.
The guard staggered, tried then to shout. But Cowan’s rocklike fist smashed his lips again. The man went down, falling into a left hook that knocked him to the sand.
Cowan fell on him instantly and tied his hands behind his back. Then he bound his feet. Panting with the exertion, Cowan started for his first opponent. One glance was enough. The man was dead.
Picking up the guard’s rifle, Cowan threw the other man’s weapon into the brush. Then he sauntered around the hut, keeping his head down. If observed with glasses from the freighter, he might pass to an unsuspecting watcher for the guard. That individual was heavier, but it was not too noticeable at a distance.
Once around the shack Steve Cowan stepped warily inside, fearing there might still be a third guard. But there were only two people—an elderly man and a girl, both bound to chairs. They stared at him anxiously.
Hastily Cowan knelt and freed them. He glanced then at the man.
“You, I take it, are the captain of that ship out there,” he said.
The man nodded, questioning gratitude in his eyes.
“Name of Forbes, Ben Forbes. This is my niece, Ruanne. Had a mutiny off the Cape. Left Dakar for Saigon, French Indochina, the sixth of last December, Mr. Mataga brought us in here after a week’s layover at Amsterdam. The island, you know.”
Cowan stepped back into the doorway.
“You’ll have to stay in here until dark. I think they are watching. They’ll believe I’m your guard.”
“What happened to him?” Ruanne asked suddenly. It was the first attempt she had made to speak.
“He had a little trouble out back,” Cowan said dryly. “He’s tied up. There was another man, too.”
“That was Ford. The big fellow is Sinker Powell. They were in the black gang,” Captain Forbes explained.
“Ford’s not going to be in any black gang again,” Cowan said quietly. “The Sinker is still around, though.”
Forbes couldn’t yet contemplate his release.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Turning us loose, maybe I shouldn’t ask, but—”
“The name is Steve Cowan. I’m a flyer. Commercial, not Army.”
“You’ll help me take back my ship?” Forbes pleaded.
“Take it back?” Cowan gave him a sidelong glance. “Cap, there must be twenty men aboard there.”
“Are you afraid?” Ruanne looked at him quietly, her eyes inscrutable. “You don’t look like a man who would be afraid. But I could be wrong.”
Cowan grinned, feeling his face tenderly.
“I only wear this blood on my head when I meet ladies. Anyway”—he looked at Forbes—“I couldn’t help you, Captain. I’m a guy who doesn’t beat around the bush. I came here for one reason, to blow your ship sky-high, and blown up it will be before I leave this island.
“You can help me, though. If you don’t want to, all I ask is that you stay out of my way. I’ve got a plane, and when this is over I’ll fly you out.”
Forbes glared at him.
“Blow up my ship? Are you crazy, man! There’s cargo aboard that ship for Saigon.”
“No,” Steve Cowan replied quietly. “There are planes aboard that ship for Japan.”
Forbes’s eyes narrowed.
“A crank, eh? Young man, if you have an idea you can start injuring Japan by sinking my ship, you’re all wrong. You sound like one of these ‘Yellow Peril’ loudmouths. You talk like a blatherskite! I lived in Japan, and—”
Cowan lit a cigarette. When he dropped the match, he leaned his shoulder back against the wall.
“Cap,” he said slowly, “when did you say you left Dakar?”
&
nbsp; “On December sixth. Why? What has that to do with—”
“Wait a minute, Uncle Ben.” Ruanne’s eyes were on Cowan. “He wants to say something.”
“You left Dakar on December sixth,” Cowan repeated slowly. “On the morning of December seventh, the Japanese raided the Pearl Harbor naval base. Then they invaded the Philippines, attacked Malaya, took Singapore, Balik Papan, Palembang, Menado, Rabaul, and the whole Dutch East Indies. The islands in this part of the world are filled with their ships and planes.
“The United States Fleet struck back at the Marshall Islands. Our planes have begun action from Australia. You are right on the edge of the biggest war in history!”
Captain Ben Forbes stared at him, unbelieving.
“I—I don’t believe it!” he gasped finally. “Unless Mataga bribed my radio operator to keep me in the dark. I never trusted him much.”
“There’s your answer,” Steve said slowly. “Cap, your freighter out there has fifty Messerschmitt pursuit ships for the Japanese. Those planes can mean many lives lost, much equipment destroyed. They can, for a time and in a few places, give the Japanese equality or superiority in the air. It might be at the crucial spot.
“I know what a man’s ship means to him, Cap,” Cowan added. “But this is bigger than any of our jobs. I was sent here to see that that freighter is blown up. I’m going to do it.”
“He’s right, Uncle Ben,” Ruanne said softly. “He’s very right.”
All through the day they waited, discussing the ship, the crew and the chances there would be. Sinker Powell lay bound and gagged, but he glared furiously and struggled.
Captain Forbes paced the hut.
“I don’t like it!” he said finally. “You’re going aboard that ship alone. If they jump you—”
“If they do,” Cowan said grimly, “it will be up to you, Cap. That cargo must be destroyed.”
Forbes hesitated suddenly.
“There’s a lot of casing-head gas aboard,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s stowed amidships in steel drums. There’s a tank aft we carried gasoline in, but it’s empty now. I was going to have it cleaned when we got to Saigon. But you might dump some of those drums of casing-head. It would make a devil of a fire.”
The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four Page 79
