Джон Болл - The First Team

Scott had rationalized, as many other men had done before him, that he was fighting for the woman who was to be his wife and for the right to live with her in a finer and better world. On his own he had done his utmost, looking for her whenever and wherever he could, but he had been many thousands of miles removed from the Hong Kong dance hall which had been the scene of her next assignment.

The colonel was furious because Scott, whose unexpected position right in the White House had already been highly useful, had been shot dead literally on his own doorstep. One of his secret operating bases would now have to be abandoned; but that was nothing compared to the intolerable fact that his enemy had scored a decisive, if small, victory over him. Not since he had lost the most ruthless and efficient agent he had ever had in an alley in Port Said had he known a similar frustration. Scott had represented a heavy investment, and a successful one. Furthermore, he had been bearing some kind of important information or he would never have risked coming to the place he had at that hour of the night.

Also extremely aggravating to the colonel was the lack of any clue to the identity of the person or persons who had scored on him. His people had located the place from which the shot had come, but a thorough shakedown of the premises a few minutes after Scott had died had turned up nothing.

His instructions, which had been relayed to Scott, had been merely to probe the translator Hewlitt for a possible lead into the underground. The fact that he had come down to report in person clearly indicated that Scott had discovered something of real importance. In that deduction the colonel was correct; his agent had discovered that Raleigh Hewlitt, who worked in Zalinsky’s own immediate proximity, was himself a member of the underground organization and had tried to feed him a preposterous story during the tete-a-tete in the bar. That piece of information had died with the man who had detected it — as it had been intended to do. The cock and bull story about the Baltimore Bay Tunnel would never have brought him to the house at any such hour, but the knowledge that Zalinsky was being directly observed by an underground agent would. Scott had been, for the most part, highly intelligent as well as sensitive, and it had been his undoing.

Certain facts revealed by Scott’s death caused the colonel to do some hard thinking. First, the shot had been fired by an expert marksman, not by an amateur, and with sophisticated equipment. Casual assassins do not have sniperscopes available. Secondly, it had taken some competent work to uncover the carefully concealed intelligence center and it had been done so well that the colonel had had no inkling that his private location had been blown until the news had been delivered by the cadaver on his doorstep. Thirdly, and most significant of all, he had been challenged. Challenged by a totally invisible adversary who obviously knew what he was doing.

The colonel smashed one mauled fist against the top of his desk: he would answer that challenge and he would answer it in language that would bring his opposition to its knees in short order! He had plenty of people and more were coming; he would stop the general surveillance and similar activities in order to direct all of his resources squarely against whatever underground there was that had flung this defiance into his face. Every person on his staff had been hand-picked and then toughened to be a totally relentless, utterly effective weapon. They had done little so far in the United States except for those who had been operating in the theater for some time; now they would do a great deal. A very great deal.

The colonel slammed his other fist down. It was total war and in that heartless game he was the deadliest player there was. At that moment he dedicated himself to total success and nothing else. He knew that he was to be the next premier of his country, but his ambition did not stop at that. The biggest obstacle was all but out of the way now — one more victory over what had to be a puny opponent and then…

He blocked the rest of it out of his mind. He did not want to dwell on it — he had other things to do first.

At her berth in the San Pedro harbor the fishing vessel Dolly was being prepared for sea. She had a new crew and a new skipper this time, which was not unusual. She was, if anything, too large for her job, and as a result the cost of operating her had discouraged several previous owners. In addition, her speed was a knot or two less than it would have been if her lines had been a little more skillfully laid out. She was sturdy, there was no denying that, and she could withstand the roughest weather she was likely ever to see, but her efficiency as a working vessel was a few notches lower than most of the other craft engaged in the same line of activity.

It did not take the experienced Japanese-American fishermen who were berthed next to her very long to size up the man who proposed to take her to sea this time. He was experienced around the waterfront, that was clear; he had a fair knowledge of commercial fishing operations, and he was obviously determined to do his best. If he did very well, and if luck was with him and his crew, it was quite possible that he might have a profitable first voyage. But it was quite clear that he had never been at sea before in command of a vessel such as the Dolly; it was a new venture for him — possibly his effort to establish himself independently so that he could be his own boss henceforth. He was a nice guy and the crew of the neighboring vessel wished him good luck.

In all probability the Dolly would be out for some time. It was possible that she could hit a run of fish and be back in port again in a matter of days, but it was also unlikely. Wisely her new captain was provisioning her well; in that he showed evidence of some sound experience, since well-fed men work much better at sea and it is extremely costly to have to put into port for resupply if the luck runs bad or the weather turns foul for extended periods of time.

Whoever the new owners of the Dolly were, they had proper consideration for their vessel and her crew; for once a chief engineer had an ample supply of spare parts to stock and enough money to spend to make all necessary and advisable repairs. The men who were to go to sea on her obviously appreciated the fact that the port work was being well done. It was also clear to the old hands nearby that they were being well paid, because many of them were young and seemed capable; crewmen like that could have their pick of the available jobs, and the Dolly, while sound and well built, was no particular prize on which to be sailing. That was their business, however, and no one interfered. It could be a cooperative venture with a good bonus available if all went well.

When the time came, the Dolly cast off and moved through the harbor at the prescribed five knots with more dignity than she had displayed for some time. She went past the breakwater as a Japanese freighter was coming in and an hour later was no longer visible. The last pleasure boat to sight her saw her headed off in a northwesterly direction.

When she was completely by herself at sea, her captain summoned his first mate to the bridge. “Have you been over her thoroughly?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, every inch. We’ve checked and double-checked. Also our final security report was go. One item: Lieutenant Hanson speaks fluent Japanese.”

“I know that.”

“Of course, sir. What I was going to say was, he tuned in on the crew next to us while we were being discussed; they did notice the nature of our personnel, but attributed it to the fact that we are paying well. From the way they spoke Lieutenant Hanson doubts very much that they will talk about the matter with anyone.”