Authors: Joe Poyer
Across the deck near the main shaft of the tower, were a series of low corrugated-iron sheds. As Keilty glanced towards them seeking another target, the door in the nearest one was flung open and four men poured out. They dove for positions around the shaft, setting up a machine gun. The entire movement was performed so quickly that it took the marines off guard. The machine gun opened up fast. Keilty ducked back around the oil drums just in time. A sharp clang, and a steel sliver was nicked from the drum where his head had been. The machine gun traversed the row of drums and was followed by rifle fire, while the gunners turned their attention to the two men who had reached the rig. They were all now effectively pinned down. Keilty ducked back deeper into the safety of the oil drums. Owterry yelled something that was lost in the rattle of the machine gun and the series of clangs from the drums.
The man next to Keilty struggled into a sitting position while he fumbled in his shirt.
Then, going to his knees, he straightened up and started to hurl a hand grenade. Two fifty-caliber slugs stitched across his chest and he fell back, dropping the live grenade into Keilty's lap. Keilty was so surprised that he stared stupidly for a moment, then straightened convulsively and kicked out with his foot, pitching the grenade over the side of the deck where it exploded. Owterry rolled his eyes to heaven – whether in thankfulness or supplication, Keilty could not tell. Then the machine gun was back.
Keilty could now see the two flankers clearly. And they were clearly pinned down. They had depended on the main party to furnish them with covering fire while they flanked and came up on the main body of the defenders holding the deck. Now that the main party was pinned down, they were exposed to a flanking movement themselves and this was precisely what was happening to them. From their left, three Vietnamese soldiers were crawling towards the party, using the cover furnished by equipment and machinery. The flankers were kept
pinned by the machine gun and could not effectively cover themselves.
Keilty pulled the remaining two grenades from the shirt of the dead marine. The pictures that Charlie had gotten from the sea had shown a small ledge running the circumference of the top of the main deck. It was only about five feet below the level of the deck, but it had looked wide enough to walk on.
Ignoring Owterry, he crawled back to the ladder, careful to keep the drums between himself and the machine gun. One of the snipers in the rig saw him and began firing. The bullets slammed and ricocheted viciously around him. With one sliding leap, Keilty grabbed the edge of the ladder and all but vaulted over. His foot caught the rung and he yanked his head down below the deck.
The ledge was there, but it was not really a ledge, more of a catwalk with ladderlike rungs. He crouched down and slung his rifle with one hand, being careful to keep one hand on the ladder. The wind had picked up now and was blowing close to thirty knots.
The rain pelted down in huge, swollen drops that all but blinded him. He worked the hand grenades into his pockets and began inching his way along, carefully placing one foot on the rung ahead, hanging on to the slippery edge of the decking. The wind tore at him, pulling at his sodden shirt and Levis. In spite of the waterproofing he had applied earlier in the day, his leather boots were soaked through with the heavy monsoon rains.
After what seemed an eternity, he stopped and raised his head carefully above the decking. He could see the dim outline of the barrels and to his right, still some fifty feet away and hidden by the machinery, the flashes of the machine gun.
The wind was now so loud in his ears that nothing else seemed real. The flashes of the guns were soundless in the immensity of roaring wind and water. He lowered his head and started forward again. Once he slipped and caught himself only by his fingers from falling into the water seventy feet below. He managed to hook a leg around a rung and rested for a moment. Then he was moving ahead again. He never knew how long it actually took him, but it seemed forever.
At the end of another hundred feet, he stopped and raised his head for a careful look.
Almost in front of him and some fifty feet away, crouched the gunner and the man feeding the belt. On the other side, two riflemen with automatic weapons were firing carefully and accurately over the top of the rigging machinery.
Keilty levered himself up into a half crouch, one leg hooked around a support rod. He fumbled with a grenade which resisted his efforts to pull it from his wet pocket. He cursed the tight Levis he was wearing. Keilty had made a turn coming around the edge of the decking, so that he was now taking the full force of the wind against his right side.
The wind was becoming fitful now, rising from its steady thirty knots until it was almost a full gale, then dropping suddenly with no warning. Every time it rose, Keilty had to stop and hang on to keep from being blown off the tower.
Finally, in desperation he straightened his legs, and half bending from the waist to keep his head below the level of the deck as much as possible, Keilty yanked the hand grenade free. He shoved the narrow end with the lever into his mouth. The weight of the steel ground down on his broken tooth, making him gasp in pain. He almost lost the grenade, but managed to hang on, fighting the waves of nausea that threatened to make him vomit.
He transferred it to the other hand and worked the other grenade loose in his pocket. For a second, he caught a brief glimpse of a raft in the flickering lightning, full of men, pulling to the ladder as the wind screamed around them.
The machine gun was now concentrating its fire on the barrels and the top of the gangway. The flashes from the muzzle were almost a steady stream of fire. Keilty straightened as much as he could, aware that he was silhouetted against the lightning-filled sky. With his teeth, he twisted loose the pin on the grenade in his left hand, then transferred it carefully to his right hand, careful to keep the lever down tightly. He tried to judge the wind, waiting for a lull, then threw with an overhand swing and missed. The grenade landed short and well to the left of the machine gun, bounced once, and exploded harmlessly.
Keilty straightened again, peering over the edge of the decking. Rifle slugs whined past his ears as he pulled the pin on the second grenade. The men ahead were frantically swinging the machine gun around as he threw the grenade with all his strength and ducked. The grenade hit and skidded across the deck, bouncing directly towards the spitting rifles, and exploded under the tripod of the machine gun. Pieces of steel whined away into the night.
Keilty edged his head up. Lightning showed the rip pipe
racks directly above the gunners to be a shambles. The twisted barrel of the machine gun lay against the dented side of the cabin. The grenade had exploded between the rig and the cabin, funneling the exploding shrapnel both ways, mowing down the four men like paper cutouts. They lay strewn at odd angles on the deck.
Owterry and his men rushed the cabin from the cover of the barrels, clearing the last of the defenders from the deck and rigging on the way.
Keilty climbed stiffly over the edge of the deck and stood up slowly. He could see the raft-load of marines begin to appear around the top of the ladder, slowly at first, then more quickly as they met with no resistance. They paid no attention to him standing in the shadows, his carbine still slung, but disappeared below after Owterry.
There were only a few white lights still burning in the rigging, and the red warning light over the cabin's wrecked door. Somehow it had escaped the bullets and exploding shrapnel.
Keilty followed below after the last squad. He caught up with them at the beginning of a corridor that led into the center of the station. The interior was laid out in a triangular fashion some two hundred feet across at the base and three levels deep. The corridor down which they were now moving cautiously, led to the sleeping quarters and mess hall. Bare, unfrosted bulbs were glowing dimly from the ceiling and the steel walls, painted a deep gray, reflected little of the meager light. The marines moved slowly down the corridor, five to each side. They stopped once to check what appeared to be an empty office, its door half opened. The corridor was the main passageway to the center of the station. At its end, it branched to the right and left. When the Royal Marines reached the junction, they cautiously poked a helmet around the corner. A flurry of shots rang out and the helmet spun down the left branch. A corporal armed with a tear-gas gun put the muzzle around the corner and fired two successive cylinders. Keilty, without a mask, beat a hasty retreat back to the deck.
The rain had steadied to an insistent needle drive that immediately drove him back into the shelter of the stairwell in the entrance to the cabin. The rain stabbed at his skin, ignoring the covering of his wet shirt and Levis. Through the rain, he caught sight of the dim silhouette of the Bradley, several cable lengths away. The destroyer was steaming slowly around the station to maintain steerageway in the heavy seas. As he watched, the destroyer focused two powerful searchlights on the tower, throwing details into sharp reliefs of black and white shadow that shifted constantly as the destroyer fought through the pounding waves.
More marines, slickered against the driving rain, were clambering over the side of the deck from a motor launch below. Another hatch was opened and they quickly disappeared below, leaving the deck suddenly deserted, except for three woebegone prisoners standing half drowned in the rain while their guard leaned negligently under the protecting overhang of a shed, his rifle circling slowly in their general direction.
Keilty stood listening to the wind screaming its high-pitched wail through the spiderwork of the tower, wishing mightily for a cigarette. He had just decided to go back down below decks to see what was happening, when five gas-masked marines came through the hatchway behind him, pushing a batch of prisoners, their hands clasped over their heads and their eyes streaming, and hurried them across the deck.
Owterry followed the prisoners. He caught sight of Keilty standing in the shelter of the cabin and came over.
`War's over,' he announced cheerfully. `Thanks very much for your help, by the way,'
Owterry added.
`Hooray,' Keilty muttered. Ì need a cigarette.
Owterry hauled out a soaking packet of Players, glared at them in disgust, and threw them away. `They're bringing up portable fans to blow out the tear gas,' he said. `The place is full of it and somebody wrecked the air-conditioning system.'
He produced a spare gas mask and handed it to Keilty. `Put this on and let's go take a look at the bomb. We got to it in plenty of time. Those idiots hadn't even attempted to get rid of it.'
They ducked into the thinning fog of tear gas that was rolling up the stairwell. Keilty noticed that someone had gotten the generators going again and the bulbs cast a considerably stronger light. They passed an office where several Vietnamese prisoners milled about sullenly, guarded by two marines with leveled weapons.
The tear gas had thinned out quite a bit and Keilty and Owterry removed their masks. He took a good look at the prisoners as they passed the office. Their clothes and hair were streaming with water which formed puddles on the incongruous green carpeting in the steel-bulkheaded room. They had the hard-bitten look of professional soldiers and theywere alert and
tense, in contrast to the three Keilty had seen on the deck. These were professionals, and the others had probably been scientists and technicians. The two guards appeared ready for trouble, with their carbines on full automatic and safetys off.
Owterry led him along a narrow catwalk, then down a vertical steel ladder into a featureless oval room. Keilty glanced back up the tube through which they had just climbed down, -noting that it was a hydraulically operated telescoping tube.
In the center of the room, a steel case about the size of a pickup truck was placed. There were the usual meaningless dials that Keilty had expected, and when he walked up for a closer look, he noticed that they were labeled in Vietnamese. He looked around the room. Besides the case, which was on the raised platform where he stood, the room was completely bare. The room itself was lit by soft fluorescent lights. Keilty noted the incongruity of the General Electric trademark on the light fixtures and the Vietnamese letters on the bomb casing.
Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was standing in the same room with a five-megaton thermonuclear bomb. The bomb itself might be harmless without its trigger, but its radiations certainly were not. He moved quickly and grasped the arm of a marine leaning against the casing and yanked him away.
`Hey ...'
`For the sake of your future offspring, friend. Have you checked this room for radiation?'
he asked, turning to Owterry.
The New Zealander paled under his coppery skin. 'No ...'
`Then I suggest we all get the devil out of here until those sorcerer's apprentices you people brought along get through in here.
Ìt's not going anywhere,' he added.
There was a hasty retreat up the ladder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Keilty watched a Japanese freighter make its way slowly through the tangled knots of junks, freighters, pleasure craft, and warships anchored or moving in the roadstead below. Mariposa cluttered the slope for a short way below the hotel balcony on which he was standing and ended in a jumble of boulders and rocks leading to a sheer drop down to the narrow slice of land fronting the harbor below. He breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance of the tropical sea breeze that mingled with the odors of fuel oil, rotting fish, and just plain Singapore.
To the east, barely visible around the jutting headland, was the electrified fence of the big naval base that climbed halfway up the slope before turning inland. Where the outcropping rock dipped inward, he had a clear view of the almost empty piers. While he watched, a flight of F-14's blasted across the harbor, hauled up, and disappeared around the headland. Moments later, a lone Canberra with British markings trundled across the harbor and slowly disappeared out to sea. Further out, past the harbor entrance, a giant Australian aircraft carrier was working around to the north to patrol along the New Guinea coast. Its escort of three destroyers and a guided-missile frigate flanked her on either side like ladies-in-waiting. A destroyer frisked ahead and he could just make out the foaming bow wave, curling back along the flanks of the leading frigate.
With a great deal of satisfaction he watched the busy scene in the harbor. Almost a week had passed since they had returned to Singapore and every day, signs of military activity had been decreasing. Rawingson had told him the day before that the U.S. Seventh Fleet was in the process of withdrawing from the straits area and standing down from the Red Alert imposed as soon as the scientists had confirmed the presence of a nuclear bomb in the research station.
Curiously enough, nothing had come of the entire affair, it seemed. The various governments involved had clamped a lid of tight secrecy on and so far it seemed to be holding except for some slight speculation in the world press. Nothing had been heard from the Vietnamese government, officially or unofficially, in response to the strong notes of protest passed secretly to them through the Kremlin. The Soviets had seemed to ignore
the rebuke and had remained silent as well. Rawingson had reported with some glee that the Soviet probes into Sinkiang and along the Manchurian border which had been increasing in past weeks had stopped abruptly the day after the station was secured. He had taken this to mean that the Russians considered themselves checked.
Keilty straightened his broad, lanky frame and walked slowly back into the suite. He pulled off his shorts and went into the bathroom, plugged in his shaver and ran it over his long, muscular face, grinning at himself the entire time.
He was well pleased. A cablegram had come earlier from his Miami bank, notifying him that the one hundred and fifty thousand dollar fee had been promptly paid by the Department of Defense. He had picked up the phone happily and called the cable office and sent off a cable instructing the bank to pay off the long, long overdue bills. His last talk with the Secretary of Defense before he had left for Honolulu, a quiet, top-secret meeting, had resulted in a promise of new research contracts and the directorship of a newly established Dolphin Research Institute in the Florida Keys with a salary of $30, 000 a year. He and Admiral Rawingson both had insisted it be put in writing immediately and he had his 'stated' copy in his bags. Rawingson was learning quickly too, he grinned.
Keilty took a quick shower and padded into the bedroom, toweling his sunburned body.
He winced as the rough towel scraped across the plastic valve set into the skin between his spine and the right shoulder blade. As he dressed in a dark blue pair of slacks and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, he worried his damaged tooth with his tongue. It seemed to have reset itself properly, as the Bradley's medical officer had told him it would. He knotted a thin blue tie, pulled on a madras jacket, and then stepped into a pair of loafers.
Keilty returned to the terrace and stood watching the magnificent scene superimposed on the placid waters of the harbor below, then left the room and hotel quickly.
Twenty minutes later, he was aboard the Australian cruiser Vigilant, sitting at a highly polished dark walnut table. An orderly placed a tall glass of scotch and water on the table and handed him an ornate menu.
Seated at the table with Keilty were Rawingson in neatly pressed whites, the gold braid gleaming inconspicuously; the captain of the Vigilant, Commander Whittlson; and a Michael J. Hallan, to whom Keilty had just been introduced. Hallan was a member of the CIA stationed in Indonesia. Next to Hallan was his opposite number in Australian Naval Intelligence in Djakarta, Ralston Hutchins. They were an oddly contrasting pair, Keilty thought; Hallan, short but spare, looking more like a small-town druggist than either a CIA operative or the sales representative for a farm equipment manufacturer, which was his cover. Hutchins, on the other hand, was very James Bondish — of medium height and rather a dark complexion, but with green eyes instead of blue, and Scandinavian features —with the exception of dark hair. His hair was brushed informally straight across and was dry looking. On meeting him, Keilty had immediately suspected that he was a good swimmer. As it turned out, Hutchins had taken two bronze medals and a gold one in the 196o Olympics — the 100-meter freestyle, 100-meter dash and backstroke.
Also sitting at the table was a representative of the newly reformed SEATO alliance —representing the U.S.,, United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore, and the Philippines — Lieutenant General James Phillips, USAF.
Among so many uniforms, Keilty, Hutchins, and Hallan looked out of place, and as they took their seats at the table, they drew up chairs next to each other, as if for mutual'sup-port.
Vice-Admiral William Collins bustled into the cabin, nodding and muttering apologies for his lateness as he took his seat at the head of the table.
'Very sorry, gentlemen, unexpected delay. Hope you've been keeping our guests entertained, Commander,' he said jovially, turning to face the others, who nodded.
'Well in that case, shall we order lunch before we get down to cases.' He picked up his menu, then promptly put it down again, waving to the orderly hovering about the table with an order pad. 'My usual, Leslie.'
He swung round to Keilty, 'We meet again, Dr. Keilty. How do you find your stay in Singapore, sir? Rather delightful place, I have always thought, especially for a bachelor.'
He laughed at the expression on Keilty's face.
Keilty let the smile come through. Peter Owterry, an old Singapore hand, had shown him the town before he shipped out two days before, and unknown to Keilty, had arranged with several establishments to keep Keilty well supplied with company. He had managed to get the latest one sent off less than two hours ago.
'Ha, I do see you find Singapore very congenial.' The admiral roared with laughter at his own cleverness.
The conversation degenerated into desultory small talk from there. The luncheon was served and Keilty found the Royal Australian Navy cooking – at least for admirals – to be excellent. The sole was baked to perfection and the seafood sauce had just the right amount of tang, suggesting a chef who knew the value of certain spices with seafood.
Later, brandy and cigars were produced and the seven men lit up, the admiral explaining that this was an eccentricity of his, preferring a hearty midday dinner and a light supper at night.
'Well, gentlemen,' the admiral said, 'we all – with the exception of Dr. Keilty – know why we are here.' He beamed around the table.
`Leslie,' he shouted to the orderly. 'Take yourself ashore for the afternoon, never mind cleaning up. We'll get to that later.
'Oh, and see that a guard is detailed for the hatch, if you please,' he called to the retreating figure.
`Well, now – let's get down to business. How much do you
\know about this meeting, Dr. Keilty?' The admiral's jovial back-country manner was suddenly gone and in its place was that of the sailor who had come through the North Atlantic Convoys.
`Not much,' Keilty answered carefully, studying the admiral's face. 'Only what Admiral Rawingson told me yesterday afternoon. As I understand it, this business is not entirely over yet.'
`Very perceptive, Doctor, and I'm afraid you are right. You have met both Mr. Hutchins and Mr. Hallan? Good.' He leaned forward in his chair to rest his arms on the table, broad blunt-fingered hands, palms down. 'In a word, Doctor, although the Vietnamese no longer have that particular bomb, they are thought to have as many as four more.'
'I see,' Keilty said. 'That's nice. But that would seem to be your problem, wouldn't it?'
Keilty leaned forward, placing his hands also on the table, staring straight at the admiral.
The cabin was silent for a moment. Keilty could hear the noon cannon being fired, even through the sealed porthole. Someone shifted his chair and the noise broke the spell.
Without changing his position, the admiral abruptly switched the subject. 'Have you seen your porpoise today, Doctor?'
`Dolphin, Admiral. No, I haven't,' he answered wearily.
`You see, Doctor,' the admiral again changed the subject, 'it is possible that at least one more of these bombs is in the area of the straits, perhaps in a submarine.'
Keilty regarded the admiral steadily.
'It seems that at least two submarines were sold to the South Vienamese government during the war, one by the United States and the other by Australia. One was completely destroyed by loyal ARVN officers just before Saigon capitulated but they were not as successful with the second. It was sunk at its mooring but we know it was successfully raised and repaired. So, it seems there is a bit more to what is going on than we thought.
'We now know that they actually had formulated a many-stepped plan. Step one was initiated six days ago with the attack on Thailand. Following their usual pattern – an attack and then a quiet withdrawal, almost a probing action – they again have pulled back their troops within their borders. However, intelligence tells us they are continuing their massive build-up along the Thai-Laotian border. Step two was to be the bombing of the straits fleet – a second Pearl Harbor, in other words. But, thanks to you and your finny friend, that failed. But make no mistake, they have us out-maneuvered and they know it.'
'The same old story, then. They raise a flap and we run around like chickens,' Keilty interjected sarcastically.
'Oh, but not this time,' General Phillips put in. 'We have been keeping track of certain shipments of guided missiles out of eastern Europe. Six shipments have gone in the past seven months, four to India and two to Hanoi. The two shipments to Hanoi contained tactical short range missiles capable of eleven hundred miles with a payload of 60o pounds. Just sufficient for a nuclear device. They were originally intended to carry non-nuclear warheads in which case the range is normally around five hundred miles.'
`That's a tactical weapon,' Keilty snorted.
Phillips ignored the comment. 'As it now stands, we are pretty certain that at least four of these missiles are now aboard that rebuilt submarine. A group of Soviet technicians left Odessa four months ago and haven't been seen since. They were specialists in underwater-launched missiles. We believe that submarine has been modified to fire from depth. Somewhere in the South China Sea that sub is hiding and it probably is not too far away from the straits. And if it is, and if it is armed with those missiles ...' he let the sentence trail off.
`Why near the straits? If they have a thousand mile range they could be anywhere between the Chinese coast and Australia.
Phillips shook his head. 'No, we think they must be near the station. The Vietnamese do not have the sophisticated communications equipment to keep the sub informed of what is going on. She probably has to surface periodically and to keep the radio traffic from being picked up and giving her away, she would have to be close by and using low power, high frequency radio.'
'It seems,' Keilty said slowly, and with great resignation, `that the last time I was informed what these crazy people were up to, I almost got my head shot off ...
`Wait, don't tell me,' he held up his hand to forestall the admiral. 'I know, now, what this meeting is all about. You want me to persuade Charlie to help you find this submarine, right?'
When both Phillips and Collins nodded, he smiled sweetly and went on, 'This is an extremely important mission. The Reds must not be allowed to gain control of Southeast Asia, because do I-know how valuable this part of the world is to the Free World? Why, when the Japanese took Singapore in the last war, do I realize, et cetera? Yes, I do. Of course I do, so let's skip the propaganda and build-up, right? That sub is somewhere off the coast of Sumatra and you want me to find .. . Charlie to find it, right?'
'I told you, gentlemen,' Rawingson laughed. 'Didn't I?' Keilty glared at the rear admiral.
'SEATO has asked that you co-operate with us in this matter, Doctor. There is something going on out there that is obviously bigger than we had thought,' said General Phillips.
Òbviously,' Keilty muttered. He slumped back into the chair and regarded the gray overhead, festooned with pipes and cables worked with cryptic messages. The far bulkhead, fronting on the interior of the bridge, contained nothing but a hatchway and several prints – in very good taste – of rather well-known paintings. Keilty stared at Gauguin's painting of a Tahitian mountain rising from yellowed fields in reddish eminence, dwarfing the single figure trudging along a dusty road.
`Well, General, I am a civilian. And there would be a fee involved -- payable in advance.'
'What?' Phillips exclaimed. He pushed back his chair and dropped his hands to his knees.
'You know the background of
this .. . this plot, yet you make it contingent upon a fee? How the hell ... ?'
`Pay the fee, General,' Rawingson said dryly.