Robert Jones - Blood Tide

The sun did not seem to have moved an inch in the sky of molten brass.

“He speared him to death?” Commodore Millikan’s voice, scratchy as it was over the ancient AN/PRC radiophone, came breathless with disbelief. “One of our guys speared him to death?”

“That’s affirmative,” Billy said. “Over.”

Though the Commodore insisted upon correct voice-radio procedure within his command, and had indeed docked men a week’s pay when they failed to comply, his own style on the airwaves was as sloppy as a civilian’s. That’s the way flag officers worked in this man’s navy.

“Did you get anything out of him?”

“Just a kick in the nuts and a faceful of spit,” Billy said. “Over.”

“Say again. Anything?”

“Negative. Nothing. Nada . Zilch,” Billy said. “Over.”

“Goddamn-it-to-hell, why not? Why’d the guy spear him? What—” His voice was momentarily lost in static.

“The guard speared him because he was angry. Kasim made him very angry. Kasim would not break. Kasim would not talk. Kasim died right then. Over.”

“Well, I’m very disappointed in you, Anvil Base. Very, very disappointed. Over.”

“Armadillo, this is Anvil Base. You had to be there. Interrogative orders for me? Over.”

Long crackling pause while the commo thought about it. Then the transmitter keyed again with a click and a roar like a full gale.

“This is Armadillo. Just stand by at base until Anvils One and Two return. Any word from them? Over.”

“That’s negatory. Over.”

“Anvil Base, this is Armadillo. I assume that was you with the ‘negatory.’ The word is ‘negative.’ And use proper call signs from now on. Have you raised Anvils One and Two this channel? Over.”

“I say again, that’s negatory.”

“Goddamn-it-to-hell . . . well, raise them. Find out what the fuck’s taking them so fucking long. Then get Anvil One over here ASAP. You come with him. Out.”

Billy flicked off the AN/PRC battery switch and returned to the lanai. He had three Thunders out searching for the priest and Rosalinda, a whole squad of Tausuqs scouring Lázaro City. He was damned if he’d tell the commo what he suspected. The asshole would only countermand his orders, chew him out for fucking up, go into an even worse tizzy than he was in already. Billy wouldn’t try to raise Curt on the radio, either. That would be stupid. Curt’s Thunder and the other boat were probably lying in pieces on the floor of the Gulf of Siam right now, blown to bits by more Phantoms. Good fucking riddance. Ever since that pissant boat bum showed up, there’d been nothing but trouble. Should have killed the fuck back there in Zambo, in the jai-alai court. But the commo didn’t want that. The commo. That was the wrong name for him. It ought to be commode.

He laughed and poured himself a rum on the rocks. He deserved a drink. His balls still ached from Kasim’s kick. Tough little fucker, Kasim. Maybe he was a Moro after all.

Out in the harbor and all along the Lázaran shore the evening paseo was shaping up. Pump boats and kumpits were returning to Lázaro City after a hard day at sea, fishing, shell diving, dynamiting the reefs, killing whatever helpless strangers happened to wander into view. The sun was over the yardarm now. The scene would continue all night. Billy had long since given up worrying about unchecked traffic. No way to control it anyway. As the commode said, Millikan Shipping was the entire Lázaran economy, every Lázaran’s friend, the source from which all blessings flowed. The commode. Yeah. Billy laughed and poured himself another drink.

TWENTY-SEVEN

“How do you like her, old man?” Sôbô beamed proudly, eyes flashing, as he pointed to the old hulk tied up alongside the mole. Culdee looked again. What he saw in the red wash of sunrise was a scruffy island trading vessel, a cut-down schooner that was probably quite lovely before her owners sawed off her masts and bowsprit. They hadn’t even squared them tidily. Ragged splinters spiked the stumps, gray and filthy, and a short, stubby foremast carried a sloppily furled gray canvas sail. The sail was poorly patched with mismatching dark swatches of fabric—hunks of old dungarees?—from which loose sail twine flapped in the dawn breeze. A crooked Charley Noble, soot black where it wasn’t rusty, jutted up from her engine compartment, its guy wires frayed and sprung. Bald truck tires served as fenders where she wallowed against the mole. A true tramp, all right, Culdee thought, a seagoing textbook of nautical sloth, all Irish pennants, green-crusted brightwork, oil-stained deck planking, and rust stains like dead blood striping her sides. She carried a big piece of deck cargo atop her aft hatch, covered with a scruffy black tarp.

“What a piece of shit,” Culdee said. Miranda had come up beside him with Kasim. The name on the vessel’s stern read BLOEDIG-FEEKS, BALIKPAPAN, BORNEO.

“You’d never recognize her for the trig little schooner that sailed in here just the other day,” Sôbô said, “would you?”

“What schooner’s that?” Miranda asked. Then, as the truth struck her, she spun to face Sôbô. “Where’s Venganza? You said you were going to hide her in a safe place so her masts wouldn’t give us away to snoopers.”

“No snooper would ever give her a second look now,” Sôbô said, beaming even more happily. “That’s Venganza , right there. And a damn fine job we did with her, if I say so myself.”

“You bastard,” Culdee said. He balled his fists, and tears came to his eyes. Miranda felt herself reeling with the enormity of it. “Why the fuck . . .” Culdee was spluttering with rage.

“Now, now, easy, both of you,” Sôbô said quickly. “She is not as she seems. That’s a disguise, and a damn clever one when you consider how limited our time was. My Nipponese crew has been working around the clock on this project. She’s a Q-boat now, your Venganza . A killer in tramp’s clothing.”

“What’s a Q-boat?” Miranda asked.

“During the war the Germans and Japs rigged beat-up old merchant ships with modern cannons, depth charges, machine guns, and new, strong engines,” Culdee said. “They’d lure our subs to the surface for an easy capture, then sink the poor fuckers unawares.” He recognized her now: the hulk the Japs had been working on down in the pens last night was Venganza , mutilated.

“There’s no real harm done,” Sôbô said. “We pulled your masts with our crane and stowed them in the pens, then stuck these rotten stumps in. We also pulled your rather puny old Graymarine and replaced it with a brand-new four-hundred-horsepower 6V-53TI built by Detroit Diesel back in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Beautiful piece of machinery—a gift from some Japanese friends of ours in Honolulu. She’ll push along at ten knots or better now, thanks to some refinements we made below her waterline. That’ll put her at least in the same league as Millikan’s gunboat.” There were Japanese workmen still swarming over the hulk. Sôbô called to an older man in coveralls who was leaning on the after taffrail, wiping his hands on a wad of oily waste. The old man barked “ Hai! ” and swung down below, into the engine compartment.

“Takahashi,” Sôbô said. “Damn fine man. My chief machinist on Yunagi , back in the good old bad old days.” He hummed a bit of “Chicago,” smiling wistfully. They heard the engine start up, a smooth, powerful, humming roar quite unlike the old auxiliary’s ragged rattle. Then a puff of sickly black exhaust belched from the Charley Noble.