Islands of Deception

by Constance Hood

  Hans continued. “I think that some landowners may be loyal to the old Vichy governor. This man is only interested in the source of his next deal. As far as finding out that he was transmitting the information, well sir, that was just an accident.”

  Mitchell pulled a handkerchief across his neck, smashed a mosquito, and inspected the remains.

  “Got him.” A smile crossed his face. “Look, I’m not surprised. Laigret’s been bitching about our foreign occupation of his damn island. We suspected that the French had all the loyalties of a weather vane. Looks like you were trying to ride this weather vane in a typhoon.”

  Figurative language with its crazy connections always confused Hank. It made his head spin.

  “The weather was fine, but, sir, this man I visited has the ledgers from the Pink House, you know, that place on Avenue La Fontaine. He was transmitting pages in code to his brother in Tonkin.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Captain Mitchell, sir, I copied those ledgers onto postcards. I know the books.”

  Mitchell lit a cigarette. His ashtray hadn’t been dumped in days. There were sweat rings on his uniform shirt, and ink stains on his hands. Was it even for certain that his body had left his chair since their last meeting? Mitchell commented, “Tonkin isn’t Free French. Those Vichy sons of bitches have close ties to the Japanese. It’s a wonder we didn’t find you in pieces in the jungle.” Hank stared, appalled.

  “Glad you found Ringold’s units out there. So tell me about your visit to the Frenchman. I hope he at least offered you dinner.” Looking at Mitchell’s haggard appearance, Hank decided to not go into details about the lobsters and drawn butter.

  “You can’t really see the plantation from the inland road. It’s on a plateau overlooking the mouth of the river, not a big harbor like Noumea. Near the nickel mines. A lot of conveyor belts and tracks everywhere. Some of the hardware is really rusty, and other equipment looks like it could be used again.” He paused. Mitchell’s eyes were glassing over. “Do you want me to sketch that? I may not be sure of all the details, but I understand how it works.”

  “Please do put sketches in with your report,” Mitchell commented. “So, tell me about the radio equipment.”

  Hank’s long hands outlined the dimensions of the radio set. “His radio was the size of a large typewriter – much larger than what we are using in the field. But I didn’t understand the signals. They were extremely rapid and, if he was talking to his brother, they were relaying in French. I’m sorry but I couldn’t hear code and French at the same time.”

  “A radio system that size certainly indicates that he is communicating over a long distance, either Tonkin or the South Pole. Where was the antenna? It would have to be really large.”

  Hank froze. All those cable towers – can you run radio signals through hills? It should be closer in. A weather vane on the roof? By the time he knew about the radios, he was focused on how he would get away from the plantation. Looking back at the plantation in his mind’s eye he thought of the house, the gardens and the pavilion. Oh, for heaven’s sake – the conduit pipe in the pavilion! It ran up the side of the tree and he never thought to look and see how far it went. Hank began to draw. “There is a pavilion sir, over here….”

  “We’re going hunting and you’re gonna be our scout. Let me think.”

  Mitchell tipped back his chair and stared at the ceiling. “You’re going with them. You know who the target is, and we need to make sure we get him. Alive if possible, we want to know what he knows.” He paused and looked at Hank’s feet. “Oh God, I’d better call the Navy office for some back-up. We’ll need a PT boat in the area tonight. They’re gonna be pissed; takes them a week to do anything.”

  “Sir, why wouldn’t they be willing to help out? Halsey said that we already lost three troop ships.”

  Mitchell’s thoughts were elsewhere. To him this was more about red tape than expediency. “Dismissed. Get some sleep.”

  Hank’s mind was whirring with information that might or might not be useful. A nap was out of the question. How did guys sleep in the middle of the day? Instead of sleeping, he drew detailed sketches and maps of Chemin’s plantation.

  After supper three jeeps were lined up by the gate and a dozen armed soldiers jumped in. “Bugs” the radio operator had his portable sets and antenna in case they ran into a problem. Hot rainy days left muddy ruts dried over into hard tracks. The jeeps bounced down the dirt road to the plantation and unloaded men in darkness. There was no moon, and stars did not offer enough light for them to see where they were going. An outline of the house was barely visible, only because it blocked out the field of stars.

  Two soldiers strapped on their helmets and hurried silently toward the front door. The others began to sing and stagger through the jungle, spreading out around the property. The idea was to flush out Chemin, who seemed to live alone with a few servants. It was likely that they would be armed, but hopefully the ruse of drunken soldiers would keep the level of the confrontation down. The last thing they needed was yet another altercation with the French Governor.

  Knocks on the door went unanswered. Strange. Servants answer doors, so they were expecting the intrusion of the soldiers or they were hiding. Hank and “Bugs” stood to the side, strangely calm, waiting to see what would happen next, fighting or an escape attempt. The heavy teak door would not budge. A rifle butt smashed through to open the front windowpanes and the soldier entered a foyer. Hank followed, but the main rooms were dark. It was certain that Chemin was not sleeping. Hank led them through the house and toward the kitchen stairs.

  Downstairs in the radio room, Chemin finished tapping out an urgent message. He pushed a small button next to the radio. Then he grabbed a duffel bag, and slipped outside the house and down the path toward the cove. Merde! Who was that Dutchman that had accepted his hospitality and a bottle of excellent wine?

  He ran through the sand in the cove, avoiding roots and tangles of kelp. A sea cave lay at the end of a jetty, and Chemin slithered inside feeling his way to a sandstone staircase. Thank God the tide was out, and the steps were not too wet. A small dark green launch hung on a simple lift, hidden in the shadows of trees. He had roused his boatman from a deep sleep, and they began to turn the crank handle, lowering the launch to the water. He threw keys to the throttle toward the boatman. Normally he would take the helm, but tonight he would pull off the hatch and open up the engine and a small radio room. The Japanese submarine was more than three hours away. Hopefully they had received his message and a landing barge would come and meet him. The launch could take cover in the night until they were in open seas.

  Inside the house, the soldiers couldn’t find Chemin. “Bugs” sent a message to headquarters, then cut the radio and began to pick up ledgers. Hank was examining the room, when he noticed a second door in the hall that opened to another staircase, one that smelled like the outside air. “Put those things down. He’s gone somewhere.” They clambered down the stairs and then stopped on a bluff, watching a launch depart toward the reefs. Dammit.

  Racing back up the stairs, they grabbed the equipment and books, and ran to stow them. “Bugs” messaged again. Beep, blip, bip… “Subject has left Thio by water. Please advise.” Oh crap. It was going to be another long night.

  Captain Mitchell had stayed behind in Noumea. Someone needed to be on hand with knowledge of the operation in case there were any problems. He phoned the Naval Commander’s offices. “We need some help on the water. There should be a PT boat over by Thio and we must activate him. ”

  “What kind of mess you guys get into?”

  “One of our CIC guys found a Vichy spy and we were tracking him down.”

  “You knew he was on the water?”

  “We found out about 10 minutes ago. Look, I called your CO this afternoon about this. The guy has been responsible for the loss of at least three troop ships. Those
ships are yours, right? ”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “Goddamn it, we don’t have time for storytelling. He didn’t type out an itinerary for me. I don’t know if he is meeting a ship or a Jap submarine. But he is going somewhere in a hurry, and he’s not going to be crossing the Pacific in a 20 foot launch.”

  “I’ll need to get back to you.” The young naval lieutenant put down the phone, leaving Mitchell frustrated and anxious. He relayed Mitchell’s concern to his commander.

  A large contingent of PTs lay idle, patrolling waters circling the island and the small harbors near the mines. The little plywood boats were bristling with guns and torpedo tubes, able to wreak havoc throughout the thousands of islands. This particular mosquito was painted in green camouflage, nearly impossible to see against the waves.

  Jack, the PT boat captain, relayed the message from his radio operator.

  “We’re going fishing!”

  “Now? What are we supposed to be catching?”

  “A bad guy. One hiding at night in a dark green fishing boat.”

  The engine turned over and headed into the Thio landing to pick up Hank and a sharpshooter. Then the PT roared to life, and they took off between the reefs.

  A Patrol Torpedo boat is basically a flying arsenal. There is no safe place to sit, walk or stand. The deck is covered by a hard shell with a canopy and no guard rails. The sturdy wood boat could take off at short notice and high speed, its three powerful engines churning through the waters and able to turn on a dime. They could dive in and out of islands and between battleships. The only problem was that the compasses did not work well, so navigating at night was a game of chance.

  A decision was made to operate no running lights. The three-engine PT boat makes a deafening sound and Chemin would hear them once they approached his small fishing launch.

  Jack spotted the wake of the fishing launch, and heard it even though he couldn’t quite see it.

  “Cut the throttle!”

  “Aye aye, sir. But I thought we needed to apprehend him.”

  “We also need to see where he is going.”

  “What if he is headed toward Jap ships? Or subs?”

  “That’s one way to learn where they are. He’s not the only guy watching the coast.”

  They heard the roar of the fishing boat, sometimes to the starboard, sometimes port. It would disappear into a distance, then they would be slapped by wake that churned up nearby. The men could listen, and they could peer into the darkness, but they couldn’t sight anything in the green black sea. The irregular movements of the fishing launch began to slow.

  A gunner fired a warning shot into the air, enough to let the launch know that the fishing trip would soon be over. A second shot carried a flare, lighting up the sky so they could see the target, a dragon on the water, a Diahatsu landing barge with its distinctive pontoons. Its wings and tail were raised, a dragon ready to capture its prey. Now they would need to gamble on Chemin’s survival instinct. Apparently the Japanese had purchased his very soul, a soul that might or might not fight through to death.

  Chemin’s fishing launch cut its motors and, evidently was planning to cast a line onto the Daihatsu barge. The bulky wooden craft was slow in the water, built for carrying large loads of supplies to the submarine fleet.

  Jack gave the command. It didn’t look like they could catch Chemin without a battle. “Wait until he gets on! We’re gonna blow the barge.”

  Strangely, though, the crew of the Japanese craft was not throwing lines out to the fishing launch. Instead, they were tipping barrels and pouring something over the side. The distinct odor of petrol filtered through the night. A small flame lit and, like a firefly, it flew through the air, landing on the petrol glazed waves. The Japanese landing craft moved away without Chemin. Interesting. Someone had ordered them to pick up Chemin, and they were changing the plans. Probably a second set of orders that they were not to be captured. As the fuel surrounded Chemin’s launch, the Japanese captain saluted him.

  As soon as the barge began to move, the mortar crew fired. The oiled wood of the barge glowed for a second before it was engulfed in flames from the spilled petrol.

  Chemin’s launch also caught fire. In a split second, he dove over the side. Jack ordered the men to wait before making an effort to capture Chemin.

  The water came alive with the flapping of fins. Blood had been spilled. Chemin was a strong swimmer, but he was no match for sharks. The animals poked and nuzzled him, waiting to surround him. From his movements it was apparent that they were bumping him, playing with their prey. Jack signaled for full power. The PT boat cut through the water, disturbing the school of sharks and pulling up alongside the exhausted swimmer. Hank threw a rope to him.

  Two sailors pulled Chemin out of the water.

  Henri Chemin was silent when he saw Hank’s face. He wasn’t quite able to place it, but he knew that he needed to negotiate for his life. He spoke to Jack in French.

  “Messieurs, Bonsoir! Have we met?”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tonkin, French Indochina

  February 1943

  Roosevelt and Stalin discuss the future of French rule in Indochina, a Vichy French stronghold. ~ 1943 Tehran Conference

  Jules Chemin wanted his visitors to leave. Merchants of war had gathered in his Tonkin courtyard for the evening, drinking Japanese Soju and German Schnapps – hard liquor that tasted like cough medicine to him. They laughed about the Americans and Anzacs, fools, lazy on the job and drunk on their nights off. Yes, Allies had taken Guadalcanal, but there were another 3,000 islands out there. What he would have given to pour an excellent cognac. His head hurt and he had indigestion.

  Something felt very wrong. Jules had spent the evening brokering sales of supplies to the Japanese Navy, but he didn’t have current information on the Allied movements. He waited

  near his radio, day after day. It had been two weeks since his brother, Henri, had last radioed him. It wasn’t that operations in the Pacific were closing down. In a recent report, Henri had commented on all the military equipment still being delivered to Noumea. Docks were full of crates and a steady stream of trucks ran back and forth to the harbor. Estimates were that tonnage had risen from 1,500 tons a day to nearly 10,000 tons daily in just a few weeks.

  War signals good times for profiteers. Everyone wanted to make a deal and greed ruled the South Pacific. According to Henri, the Kanak natives were earning very good money as longshoremen in the Noumea harbor. Crews were still being added on. In fact, it was difficult to retain cheap labor on the New Caledonia plantations. Bars were full at night with salesmen, hucksters and supply sergeants all getting in on the action. Coveted candy and cigarettes, native souvenirs, and Chinese valuables passed through hands of traders.

  Tonkin was bustling as well. The French colony was a solid Vichy stronghold and

  the Japanese had firmly established themselves with the Vichy French. The Germans were shipping in Panzer tanks. Jules was permitted to stay in his three-story mansion so long as he remained a gracious host. Guestrooms were often full and Jules’ third floor radio room served as an Axis lifeline across the Pacific islands.

  Henri Chemin of course was secured in a U.S. Army brig. His existence as a plantation owner with Vichy sympathies didn’t surprise those who knew him. The big question was, how had his relays to Tonkin been identified as a matter of importance? Who had intercepted the powerful radio signals?

  Jules and Henri had discussed plans in case one of them was ever captured. Self-preservation was their highest priority. Since Henri’s disappearance, warships were crossing back and forth with fewer and fewer submarine attacks to stop them. The Vichy and the Free French walked across a tightrope stretched taut between the bays and harbors of southern Asia. Insignificant islands took on new importance as blood was shed by two warring sides; neither of whi
ch called the islands “home.”

  Germany and Japan may have held the keys to an idealized state and the future of mankind, but the brothers were mercenaries. The muscle-bound Allies might have infinite amounts of equipment and innumerable men, but they had no talent for intelligence. Their fresh-faced boys were just too simple, taking everything at face value. There had been no evidence of operatives or traders who could be clever enough to intercept high-level information. The Americans couldn’t possibly understand the radio messages. They could barely order a beer in French, let alone Tonkinese or Japanese. The leaks had to be coming from Free French offices.

  The question was how best to expose vulnerabilities in an ocean of personnel that grew by the hundreds each week. Naomi was a mixed race beauty who had helped them with several business transactions. Governor Laigret was very pleased with his multi-lingual secretary. She had come highly recommended. Now Jules needed access to files full of European correspondence, or at least the correspondence that filtered all the way out to the Free French. She had no loyalties other than earning enough money to afford a few luxuries, and her confident smile would attract all sorts of characters into the web.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Venus Rising

  February 1943

  “How can you govern a country that has 246 varieties of cheese?” ~ Charles de Gaulle

  At midday Hank locked his office door and headed for the showers. Why had he accepted Naomi’s invitation to the beach? His pink and white complexion had never seen a day of sun. Whenever he had been out in the sun, he had burned up like a steamed lobster. She wanted to swim. He had no swimsuit. The guys just wore skivvies to go in swimming, no undershirts even. The entire project got more and more frustrating. But, eventually, he was clad in a plaid shirt and borrowed tennis shorts with his white legs nearly matching the bleached linen. A dark suit and a candlelit café would have been much more to his taste. The price for all the discomfort was that he was dating the most beautiful woman in Noumea.