The White Ghost (30 page)

“He had means, motive, and opportunity in all three cases,” Kaz said. “If he didn't do it, who did?”

“It's good enough for me,” I said. “Our job is to bring him in. We'll let an Australian court-martial decide the rest.”

“Now what we need is a way to accomplish that,” Kaz said. “Are you sure you don't want to ask Hugh Sexton to recall him?”

“No, that would spook him for sure. We need a reason for a rendezvous, something that won't raise his suspicions.”

“Radio? Food?” Kaz suggested as a throng of sailors surged past us, heading for the beach where the PT boats were moored.

“No, they have all they need,” I said. “They were bringing in weapons for the natives when they were loading their boat. Maybe more weapons, to prepare for an uprising.”

“That sounds plausible,” Kaz said. “With New Georgia almost under control, it would make sense for there to be more landings. Choiseul could be next, or it would make a decent diversion. It makes sense militarily.”

“Okay,” I said, noticing a hubbub down by the beach. “What's going on down there anyway?”

“Everyone is gathered around that PT boat,” Kaz said. “Is that Kennedy's new gunboat?”

“That's Jack alright,” I said, spotting the bushy hair and the aviator sunglasses. “A guy who owes me a favor, and happens to command a whole lot of firepower.”

“He may have orders beyond providing us transportation,” Kaz said.

“He's not the only one with friends in high places,” I said. “Come on, let's get back on the radio.”

At the communications center, we worked on a message to Sexton. It began with the word
imperative
and asked for orders to be sent to Porter and Kari to receive an additional shipment of arms the following night, and to advise the best time and place.

A second message was sent to Ritchie, meaning that the resourceful Yeoman Howe would take care of it. It also began with
imperative
and asked for orders to be sent to Garfield directing that PT-59 take Kaz and myself to Choiseul tomorrow night. I ended it with
kennedy concurs
. I figured that would be all Ritchie needed to hear to give Howe the okay. Jack owed me, so one little white lie didn't bother me a bit.

We made our way back to the beach, where most of the crowd had broken up. There were still a few sailors gawking at the forty-millimeter guns, clearly impressed. We clambered up the ladder, Jack greeting us with a wide grin as we saluted the ensign and asked to come aboard.

“I didn't expect to see you fellows so soon,” he said. “But they want us on standby for something the marines are cooking up. We're still on shakedown, but things are coming along. Right, Chappy?”

“If you say so, Skipper,” Chappy said, from where he sat next to the forward gun, his hands grimy with grease. “I'm having trouble with the swivel getting stuck and the armored plate on the bridge isn't secured properly, and with all due respect, she's a real pig in the water. But other than that, we're in great shape.”

“You're doing a fine job, Chappy,” Jack said, leaning down to clap him on the shoulder and winking in our direction. “And you're right about the boat. Heavy and slow with all the armor and added guns, not to mention extra crew. She guzzles fuel like crazy, but believe me, the Japs aren't going to know what hit them.”

Jack led us down into his wardroom, which was about as big as a broom closet. A crewman brought in coffee, even though below deck it was as hot as Hades. Which wasn't much different from being in the sun above deck, so we drank it.

“We need your help, Jack,” I said. I outlined what we'd figured about Peter Fraser, aka Silas Porter.

“He killed three people over a copra plantation?” Jack asked. “That's nuts.”

“And he probably didn't mind it that you were a suspect,” I said, making it as personal an affront as I could.

“What can I do?” Jack asked.

“Take us to Choiseul,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”

“You're crazy,” Jack said.

“Don't worry about orders,” I said. “We're working on that.”

“It's not orders I care about,” he said. “You two are going to get yourselves killed. Don't you know there's about five thousand Japs on Choiseul?”

“No,” Kaz said, giving me the eye. “We did not know there were quite so many.”

“They're half-starved remnants from units withdrawn from other islands. But a half-starved Jap can kill you just the same.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked. It struck me odd that Jack would have such precise knowledge about any single occupied island, having been sidelined in the hospital recently.

“That's why I've been ordered up here,” he said. “Tonight, a battalion of marines is landing on Choiseul. The brass wants some firepower on hand in case they get in trouble.”

“Why only a battalion?” Kaz asked. “That's only five or six hundred men.”

“It's a diversion,” Jack said, grabbing a chart from the rack behind him. “I don't know where the real attack is going to be, but these guys are supposed to keep the Japs focused on Choiseul instead. They're being landed by destroyer transports and establishing a base at Voza, here.” It was a coastal village up on the northern part of the island, facing the Slot. “There's a Jap base on the northern tip of the island, here at Choiseul Bay, and south of Voza at Sangigai. South of there, the island is free of Japs.”

“It's safe to assume John Kari and Fraser are involved in this,” I said.

“Sure. I don't have the details, but they're likely to be organizing native scouts and porters to help the marines.”

“They were bringing crates of weapons to arm the natives,” Kaz said.

“I doubt that will happen, at least not right now,” Jack said. “The whole point of the operation is to draw more Nips to Choiseul. If there's a native uprising and we leave, they'd be slaughtered.”

“I would venture to say that Kari and Fraser will not be told it is a diversion,” Kaz said.

“There'd be no need for them to know,” Jack said.

“Good,” I said. “If all goes as planned, Hugh Sexton will order them to meet us tomorrow night for a shipment of arms. We grab Fraser and come back. Simple.”

“Leaving the marines with only one Coastwatcher,” Jack said.

“That, or take a chance on Fraser getting away,” I said. “Besides, John Kari knows what he's doing. Who better than a native to work with the natives?”

“Are you both sure you want to do this?” Jack said, looking first to Kaz and then to me. “You don't have to, you know.”

“He killed Deanna, Jack,” I said.

“I know. That's why I'll take you tomorrow, orders or no, although orders would be nice. I'd like to avoid a court-martial if possible. But if you end up dead, it's on your shoulders. I've gotten two guys killed already and I don't want any more on my conscience.”

“Agreed,” I said, extending my hand. Kaz did the same. “It's on our shoulders.”

Chapter Thirty

By morning we'd
received responses to our radio messages. Without asking why this time, Hugh Sexton had set up a weapons drop on a deserted stretch of beach south of the village of Nukiki, the area where Kari and Porter were operating in support of the marines. He confirmed that they'd be waiting at 0100 hours, staying for no more than thirty minutes. They'd shine a flashlight out to sea to let us know it was safe to come ashore. Ritchie also gave his okay for Jack and PT-59 to ferry us out and wait for us to bring Porter back from the beach. The only downside was that Ritchie ordered Jack to wait only twenty minutes for our return.

That meant we had to get there right on time, given that the Coastwatchers would not stay exposed on an open beach for long. The same for PT-59; hanging around off the beach was an invitation to get trapped by a Jap destroyer and pushed too damn close to shore batteries and concentrated small-arms fire. We'd be on a tight schedule, but if all went according to plan, it would work.

Kaz and I drew weapons from the base armory; an M1 Carbine for him, an M1 rifle for me.

“Odds are we won't need these,” I said, “for either Porter or
the Japs. But if we do, don't count on one bullet to take a man out. The
carbine is lightweight, but so are the rounds.”

“I much prefer this weapon,” Kaz said, hefting the short carbine. “I am lightweight myself, but still quite dangerous.”

“That's the spirit,” I said as we went off to check in with Jack. PT-59 was covered in camouflage netting, as much for the dappled shade it provided as for cover from the air. Crewmen were carrying crates of fifty-caliber ammo aboard, and Chappy was busy greasing the swivel on the forward forty-millimeter gun. He gave us a smile and a lazy salute, seeming to be satisfied with his handiwork.

“I got my orders from Ritchie,” Jack said, climbing onto the bridge. “Seems like he thinks it was my idea in the first place.”

“I figured he'd take to the idea easier that way,” I said, trying to read Jack's face, which was tough with his aviator's sunglasses and brimmed cap pulled down over his bushy hair. “Ritchie's got connections with your father through ONI, and I didn't want him to hesitate about putting you in harm's way. And I don't want to be your fall guy again.”

“After the baron reminded me of how I treated you back in Boston, I probably deserved that,” he said, and laughed, his eyes lighting up as he removed the sunglasses. “But harm's way is exactly where I plan to go. Let's head below and I'll show you the route in.”

We followed, as I lifted my eyebrows at Kaz, astonished at what amounted to an apology from Jack. I had to admit, he wasn't quite the same guy I knew back in Boston. Harder, and a touch more humble. Just a touch though, since he had to qualify his statement with “probably.”

“Here we go,” Jack continued, rolling out a chart in the tiny wardroom. “The marines landed here, at Voza, along the north central coast.” He tapped his finger about three-quarters of the way up the coast of Choiseul. “There's lots of Japs south of there, down to Sangigai, here. We're going in at Nukiki, which is north of Voza but not close enough to Choiseul Bay to worry about the Japs up there.”

“Why not simply go in at Voza, where the marines are?” I asked.

“They've already gone inland, established a base in the mountains, to raid north and south,” Jack explained. “The whole idea behind this diversion is to have the Japs think a full division has landed. The brass is even announcing the invasion on the radio. According to them, twenty thousand marines are now on Choiseul.”

“But the reality is six hundred or so,” Kaz said. “Not very good odds for them if the enemy rushes reinforcements to the island.”

“That's what we want,” Jack said. “Then we hit their transports by sea and air, and get the marines out of there.”

“Sounds good on paper,” I said. “But then so does our scheme. What are the waters like off Nukiki?”

“Here,” Jack said, laying out several photographs on the table. “I got these reconnaissance photos from Garfield. This shows the beach right next to the village. There's an opening in the reef that runs offshore; see where the water is calm? We can bring you in close and put you on a rubber raft.”

“How about rigging up a dummy crate of weapons?” Kaz said. “We could ask Porter to come back with us to get more. Once aboard, it would be simple to secure him.”

“If he buys it,” I said. “If not, we'll need a length of rope to tie him up.”

“We'll have both in the raft,” Jack said. “I'll have the boys put K rations in a crate; that ought to work fine in the dark. We have enough canned pickles for a regiment.”

“We shall have to take him quickly,” Kaz said. “John Kari might intervene, if only out of confusion and shock.”

“They're both in the thick of a fight right now,” Jack said. “They're going to be keyed up, ready for anything. Watch yourselves out there. The Japs aren't the only ones to worry about.”

“Jack,” I said, “if we're not back pretty damn quick, don't wait more than those twenty minutes. If it takes longer than that, we're done for.”

“Don't worry, Billy. I like you two fellas, but I'm not going to endanger this boat. Now get some shut-eye if you can. Be onboard by eighteen hundred hours. We'll be in the Slot by dark, and then it's a hundred-mile run. Don't be late. If you're not here, I'll have to go after the bastard myself.” Jack flashed one of his patented grins, all white teeth and lively eyes. It was hard to resist his eagerness and his charm, and as we faced this hazardous mission together, I really didn't want to.

• • •

Sleep had been
elusive in the heat and thick, humid air, with sunlight blazing and baking our canvas tent. But that didn't matter now; we were slicing through the waters of the Blanche Channel, Lumbari at our backs and a cool wind on our faces. Explosions reflected off the low clouds, the sounds and sudden flashes of light like fireworks on a summer's night. Deadly up close, but at a distance, in the full South Pacific night, it was otherworldly, even glorious.

“They're pounding the last Jap stronghold on New Georgia,” Jack said, his voice raised to be heard over the motors. “We might spot some barges bringing troops out.”

“Be hard to see,” I said. It was a cloudy night, not even reflected starlight to see by.

“We finally have radar,” he said. “If they're out there, we'll find them.”

Kaz and I exchanged glances. That wasn't what we were out here for. I gave him a little shrug that told him not to worry. Jack wanted Porter taken as much as we did. He also wanted revenge, but I was hoping he'd hold off on hunting Japs until the return trip.

“This is Blackett Strait,” Jack said, his voice grim. He slowed the engines and turned to one of the crewmen who'd come from PT-109. “Mauer, get the boys up here.”

The four other veterans of PT-109 stood with Jack on the bridge as he raised his arm to the port side, out into the inky-black night. “Right about there.”

They stood quietly for a minute, hands on shoulders, crowded together on the tiny bridge, holding each other close, as they must have done that night in the water while flames licked the waves and every other PT boat left them alone and adrift—nothing between them and the Japanese but sharks, sharp coral reefs, and guts.

Then they broke up wordlessly, hustling back to their duty stations, scanning the sky and the horizon. We turned north, picking up speed as we moved along the perimeter of Kolombangara, the almost perfectly round island off New Georgia.

“Radar contact,” said the radio operator. “Bearing one-four-nine.”

“Changing course to one-four-nine,” Jack said. “Distance?”

“Two miles out, heading west by northwest.”

“Jack?” I said. He didn't respond. Kaz and I stepped back, grabbing hold of the radio mast as the boat accelerated and Jack went for the targets ahead. So much for caution.

Less than a minute later, I made out two dark hulks churning through the water ahead. Japanese Daihatsu barges, each about sixty feet long, crammed with soldiers, and armed with machine guns mounted at fore and aft.

They were no match for Jack's gunboat. He kept straight on course for the second barge, the forward forty-millimeter firing away, joined by the twin fifties in the turrets on either side of the bridge. A burst of bright orange leapt from the barge, an explosive burst of fuel catapulting men into the water and scorching those who remained on board, their uniforms catching fire as they scrambled through the flames and over the side where machine-gun rounds stitched the ocean into geysers of blood and fire.

Jack slowed and turned, coming at the first barge with a full broadside. It didn't catch fire, but splintered and broke apart under the heavy machine-gun and cannon fire, bodies broken and shattered, dancing under the staccato light of tracers as the impact of multiple rounds sent them careening against each other. Ending in death's calm embrace only when Jack signaled cease fire.

He did a circuit of the barges. Screams—whether in agony or anger, it was impossible to tell—echoed out over the water. Jack ordered full speed ahead, leaving the carnage behind, a satisfied grin on his face, delight showing in his eyes as they met mine.

“I had a crewman when I first came out here. He was wounded on patrol, and transferred to another PT boat after he recovered,” Jack began, in answer to the question I hadn't asked. “A few weeks later, they sank a barge, like that one, and pulled four survivors out of the drink. He had them covered with a tommy gun. One of them begged for water, and being a nice kid, he leaned forward to give him his canteen. The Jap grabbed the Thompson and killed him with it. That's what comes of doing the decent thing out here.”

“Decency and war seldom go together,” Kaz said as Jack turned away, fiery eyes forward. “But here, they seem not even to have a nodding acquaintance.” That was something coming from Kaz, who'd lost his family as well as his nation to the Nazis.

“Jack,” I said, stepping up on the bridge. “If we're making good time, I wouldn't mind going ashore before oh-one-hundred.”

“So you can get a drop on him?” Jack asked. I nodded yes. “But we're still only waiting twenty minutes, there's no way around that. We'll put you in the rubber raft about quarter of. The twenty-minute clock starts ticking once you hit the beach. Clobber him over the head and paddle back as fast as you can.”

We crossed the open waters of the Slot at full throttle, more than making up time for the brief, one-sided engagement. As the island of Choiseul showed up on the radar screen, Jack slowed the boat, lessening the phosphorescent wake and the chances of being spotted by a Jap lookout. We moved slowly, the sound of breaking waves increasing in volume. I could make out the whitecaps where the tide drove water against the coral reef, a rolling, crashing tumult that threatened to rip open the hull of any small craft that went against it. Or the feet of any man swimming over it, as Jack had done trying to signal a friendly vessel in Blackett Strait.

As I was considering the chances a rubber raft had of riding those waves, I saw the opening. A river of calm water between the breakers. I looked at my watch, the luminous dial reading quarter of one.

“Ready?” I said to Kaz. He nodded, and we both slung our rifles and went aft, where Chappy and Mauer were putting the raft over the side. The crate filled with food and two coils of rope were in place. Next was us.

“Good luck,” Jack said. “As soon as you get onshore, the countdown starts. Don't dawdle, fellas.”

“Not planning on it,” I said, trying for a nonchalance I didn't even remotely feel.

“Speed is the essence of war,” Kaz said as he lowered himself into the raft. Jack gave a knowing nod and helped shove us off.

“Is that a quotation?” I asked, a bit irked that Kaz could always come up with a pithy saying.

“Sun Tzu, from
The Art of War
,” he said. “Jack seemed to know it.”

“Of course,” I said, digging in with my paddle. “He's a Harvard boy. Now row, before we're swamped.” It took both of us at maximum effort to keep the small raft from drifting, the current pulling us away from the smooth, glassy water ahead. We finally made it past the breakers, and with a few easy strokes were up on the sand, dragging the raft into the bushes.

We squatted beneath the overhanging palms. I checked my watch. Ten of one. If we weren't back in the raft and close to the boat by ten after, we were out of luck. Stuck on Choiseul with a killer and several thousand Japs on high alert. What the hell had I been thinking?

Blood was pounding in my head, masking all other noises. Or was that the surf? Kaz stuck his head out and glanced up and down the beach, shaking his head when he saw nothing. As we waited, I began to sense the sounds around me with increasing clarity. The wind through the trees, the breakers out on the reef, and the softer sounds of water lapping at the white-sand beach.

Nothing else.

Five more minutes passed. It was one o'clock on the dot.