Collection 1986 - Night Over The Solomons (v5.0) Read online

  “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 the Yank 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 the Yank 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, the Yank 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. In build, the Yank was not unlike the man he tied up. 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—he told me his name was Long—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 Yank shrugged.

  “Why not? The name is Steve Cowan. I’m a flyer. Commercial, not Army. To make it less formal, I’m a tramp flyer. I carry cargo, passengers, anything and anywhere.”

  “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, and that’s where it’ll go!”

  “No,” Steve Cowan replied quietly, “it goes no further. There are planes aboard that ship for Japan.”

  Forbes’ 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! Why, that’s all nonsense! I lived in Japan, and—”

  Cowan lighted 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?”

  “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 t
heir 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 big. It’s bigger than any of our lives, 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.”

  “I’ll find a way,” Cowan declared. He had not mentioned the explosive he’d brought along. “As soon as it’s dark, I’ll slip aboard. You and Ruanne had better go out on the point under those casuarinas. I’ll meet you there. We’ll have to get away fast when we go. The explosion and the flames will be sure to bring the enemy around here thicker than bees around a honeycomb.”

  * * *

  HE SAT DOWN outside the hut, as Sinker Powell had been sitting when Cowan first sighted the man. There he stayed, alternately watching and dozing while Forbes watched. It was a long day. At any moment Besi John Mataga might decide to come ashore. That was what Cowan feared most; for going aboard the ship was an anticipated danger.

  There, he knew, it was one chance in a thousand. If they got him, he would be out of luck. He knew Besi John Mataga well enough to know the man had no mercy. As for Donner, if ever Steve Cowan had looked upon a face showing utter ruthlessness, it was his.

  Night closed in suddenly as it does in the tropics. Cowan walked back along the shore with Captain Forbes and Ruanne. When he came to the dugout he stopped.

  “Go out on the point about halfway,” he said, “but stay back in the jungle out of sight. This shouldn’t take me long. If I don’t get back—” Cowan hesitated, gazing down at Ruanne—“you’d better go back inland to one of the villages.

  “The natives are friendly if you treat them right. Then stay there until this war is over or you find a way out. But I’ll be back,” he declared softly.

  They walked on. Cowan loaded the gear he had concealed near the dugout and shoved off.

  It was deathly still. No breeze touched the face of the water, no ripple disturbed its surface. Clouds covered the sky. The heat was heavy in the humid, unmoving air. Cautiously Cowan dipped his paddle, and the dugout moved easily through the water.

  It seemed a long time before he saw the dark hull of the ship. For an instant he hesitated, fearing a challenge. Then he moved on, with scarcely discernible movements of his paddle. He worked the dugout toward the stern, away from the lighted ports. Except for those two ports, the freighter was blacked out. Even as he watched, their lights flicked out too.

  There was silence, heavy and thick. The dugout bumped gently against the hull. Cowan worked his way alongside with his hands, hoping for a rope line, something by which he could get aboard. There was nothing.

  He picked up the coil of line he had brought, adjusted the wrapping on the hook again. Sighting at the dimness where the rail was, he threw the rope. It caught and he hauled it in, testing the line with his weight.

  It was now or never. If he fell, there would be no need to shoot him. Sharks would take care of that. As if in answer to his thought, Cowan saw the streak of phosphorescence left by a big fish swimming by. He slipped the band of his carrying sling over his shoulder and went up the line, hand over hand.

  He crawled through the rail and crouched there in the stillness. There was no sound, no movement. Treading on cat’s feet, as though part of the night itself, he slipped forward.

  Amidships—that was the place. It was most dangerous, as there would be more chance of discovery there and less opportunity of escape. But the casing-head gas was stored there. Its burning would insure practically complete destruction. And this had to be a clean job. Not one Messerschmitt was to remain. A clean job—

  A sound amidships made Cowan crouch at the base of a winch. He saw a man walk out on deck, barely discernible in the darkness. The fellow stood there, looking toward the shore. Another man walked out.

  “Funny Sinker ain’t got a fire,” one of them said. “He was always one to like light.”

  “Act your age, Joe,” the other replied. “The Old Man wouldn’t let him have one. Too dangerous.”

  “Chiv,” Joe said suddenly, low-voiced, “you think Mataga will give us a square cut on this money? After all, look at the chance we’re takin’.”

  “Better forget it,” Chiv whispered uneasily. “We got to string with him. I want mine, but I ain’t no man to cross Besi John Mataga. You see what he done with the second mate? Cut him to pieces with his own knife. The man’s a fiend!”

  “Donner’s worse,” Joe said sullenly. “Me, I’m out for the dough. I’m gettin’ mine, see? No wise guy ever crossed Joe Gotto yet. I ain’t so wise to the angles in this part of the world. I’d feel better if I was in Chicago, or Memphis, or the Big Town.”

  * * *

  STEVE COWAN SLIPPED along the starboard side of the hatch, crouching low. Amidships, he found, as he had feared, that the hatch was still covered. Working swiftly, he took out the wedges, then slid the steel batten from its place. Lifting the corner of the tarpaulin, he got hold of the end hatch cover and slid it slowly out of place, then eased it to the deck.

  Swiftly he eased himself into the hole. Pulling the tarpaulin back over him, he went down the steel ladder in the utter blackness of the hold. It seemed a long time before he reached the bottom. Then he was standing on a tier of cargo.

  Momentarily Cowan flashed a light. He was standing on a tier of casing-head drums, piled six high. He put the explosive down and coolly spun the tops from a dozen of the drums. Then, as he stooped to adjust the time on the explosive, his flashlight slipped and fell. The glass broke with a faint tinkle on the dunnage below.

  For an instant, Cowan crouched in the darkness, his heart pounding. He dared not strike a match, for by now the air around him was filling with fumes of gasoline. For the life of him he could not recall the time for which the bomb was set!

  It might be set to go off in three minutes, or five, or an hour. Possibly even a dozen hours. Steve Cowan had planned to adjust it before leaving. Now he had no idea. All that remained was to throw the switch that put the thing to work.

  It might blow him up instantly. It might go off before he was out of the hatch. Or off the ship—

  It was a chance he had to take. Cowan turned the button and then straightened to his feet. He moved swiftly and his hands found the rungs of the ladder. He went up, quickly and silently.

  Pushing back the tarpaulin, he crawled out on deck. A cold voice froze him in his tracks, with one foot under the canvas.

  “So? Snooping, is it?”r />
  The voice was Donner’s, and a second later a light flashed in Steve Cowan’s eyes.

  He heard a startled gasp, saw the muzzle of a gun.

  “Who are you?” The voice was cold, deadly. “Tell me, or I’ll fire!”

  “I’m a refugee,” Cowan declared, heart pounding. “I was trying to stow away to get out of here before the Japanese come.”

  Someone came out of the passage.

  “What’s goin’ on, Donner?” It was Mataga’s voice. Then Mataga saw Steve Cowan’s face. “Well, for—”

  “You know this man?” Donner’s voice was deadly. “Get inside off the deck,” he snapped.

  When they were in the saloon, Besi John sat on the corner of the table. His gross, hard-bitten face was unshaven, and his small eyes were cruel.

  “So, Mr. Steve Cowan. After all these years we get together again!”

  Mataga’s face flamed suddenly and animal fury gleamed redly in his eyes.

  “Again! D’you hear? And I’m top dog this time! I’ll teach you a thing or two, you dirty—”

  “Take it easy.” Donner’s voice was even. “Who is this man?”

  “Him?” Mataga’s voice was ugly. “This is Steve Cowan. He’s a tramp flyer. The one I told you about who knew this place.”

  “Flyer, eh?” Donner looked at the Yank. “Where’s your ship?”

  “Lost it at Palembang,” Cowan lied glibly. “Enemy got in too fast and bombed the field before I could get her off. Blew off my tail assembly. I got away into the jungle and came over to the west coast, headed for Padang or Emma Haven.

  “The Japanese beat me to it, so I picked up a boat and sailed her here to Siberut. I saw this freighter and decided to stow away and get out.”

  * * *

  DONNER STUDIED HIM.

  “It’s a good story,” he said slowly. “Almost too good. But where is the girl?”