Understrike (21 page)
“
Get the hell out of it!” yelled the Admiral.
The
chatter of a machine gun from above and the sudden thud of something heavier from the PT-Boat.
The
helicopter accelerated, climbing, turning on its axis and moving away to the stern, its rotor blades whipping through the air, the Pratt and Whitney going wild. The firing was spasmodic, unconcentrated, lacking in confidence. Boysie’s leap had taken them by surprise and the helicopter had been badly angled for any real attempt from the PT-Boat. The hammock-winch whirred, and Boysie arrived in the HOK’s doorway like a load of freshly-netted herrings. They were out of range now, high and turning south in a steady curve.
“
Call in those jets. The real thing. My responsibility.” The Admiral was hopping mad. “I’ll teach ‘em to shoot at Charles P. Fullenhaft.”
“
And at James G. Mostyn,” murmured Mostyn.
The
radio man was talking quickly into his microphone.
The
PT-Boat was still trying to put up a show, firing in earnest from the heavy anti-aircraft cannon for’ard. But the shells were dropping short, spent long before they could reach the HOK-I.
They
disentangled Boysie from the hammock. He was the colour of a nicely-ripe Camerbert, and the wound was bleeding again.
“
What cheer, Boysie old, Boysie?” said Mostyn. “You are Boysie, aren’t you?”
Boy
sie could not help himself. He tried hard, but nature took over and he was violently sick, right over Mostyn’s brown aniline calf shoes.
“
Yes,” said Mostyn, gingerly shaking one foot after the other. “Yes. It’s our Boysie. The Boysie we know and love. The uncrushable flip-top spy.”
“
Look at ‘em go,” called the Admiral. Out of the sun two of the Voodoo jets were screaming in towards the PT-Boat. The Admiral turned to Mostyn, “That’s what they mean when they talk about calling down the wrath of the Almighty,” he said.
*
The Flight Leader brought his Voodoo down to fifty feet. His wingman was to his left—slightly behind him in case they needed a second strike.
“
This baby’s all mine,” said the Flight Leader to himself as the rocket sights came on to the PT-Boat—a toy on a blue lake. He could see men diving over the side, panicking with fear exploding among them like a sticky bomb. There was a small fat man in naval uniform standing in the cabin hatchway waving a stick. He looked as though he was shouting.
The
Flight Leader pressed the rocket release, eased back on the control column and took his jet up in a tight climbing turn. He levelled out and banked steeply, looking down the wing to see if the strike had gone home.
Both
rockets hit—converging just aft of the cabin. Across the quiet water a hand-shaped crest of flame splayed out, then died. The PT-Boat keeled over, fire and smoke spurting from her broken innards. The pilot could see another PT-Boat coming up fast on the Admiral’s orders; and away to the east, the Old Man’s helicopter, like a grotesque insect, chattering back towards San Diego Harbour, peaceful in the afternoon sunshine.
San
Diego, July.
“Boysie darling, you’ve been wonderful.” Priscilla Braddock-Fairchild gave a little moue of pleasure, leaned across the table at the exotic
Bali
Hai
, and grasped Boysie’s free hand. Even after three weeks—with the wound almost healed—Boysie granted himself the luxury of wearing a glamorous sling.
They
had only kept him in hospital for a week. There had been a personal letter of thanks from the Prime Minister and an invitation to dine at Number 10—date unspecified. Since then it had been fun almost all the way. The fears were gone. The terrors had flown (except, perhaps, for the nagging worry about flying back to London with Mostyn tomorrow).
Four
of the PT-Boat’s crew had been picked up alive—including a twenty-year-old boy with a face like a skull. Of Gorilka there had been no trace.
Playboy
had been brought to the surface by the early evening of that dramatic day when
Operation
Understrike
failed. Surprisingly, Gorilka had really only given Braddock-Fairchild pellets containing a mild nerve gas. The six observers, the Radar Officer and the rest of the crew were found unconscious but alive, oblivious to what had occurred. There had been a funeral, with full naval honours, for those killed on the Control Deck of
Playboy
. Commander Braddock-Fairchild RN was quietly cremated. Apart from his daughter, there had been only two mourners—Boysie Oakes and James George Mostyn.
The
remainder of Boysie’s time in San Diego was spent keeping a lot of distance between Chicory and Priscilla (who had not taken her treacherous father’s death much to heart). Boysie had run riot with ruses and cunning wiles. Tales of conferences with the Admiral, or dinner with his boss, Mostyn, managed to keep both the girls, and Boysie happy. But he had to admit that after a fortnight he was getting hard pressed, and running out of excuses.
At
this moment he was dining with Priscilla. As far as Chicory was concerned, he was having a farewell drink with the officers at North Island Naval Base. Priscilla was making the most of the evening, for she knew he had promised to have drinks with the officers at the North Island Naval Base when he left her at midnight (when Chicory was expecting him in her suite at the
El
Cortez
). Life was becoming very complicated.
The
dinner had been right for the evening—which was sultry with the moon riding high over the Bay, and an off-shore breeze tickling the palm tops, and all that travel bureau goo. Jar Won Ton (Chinese raviolo) was followed by a speciality of the house—Chicken of the Gods: breast of chicken sauted in Chinese wine and rolled in Waterchestnut flour, deep-fried and served with white sauce and Sesame pods. They had finished with fresh Hawaiian Pineapple, and Boysie was just wondering if they would have time before he had to meet Chicory. But Priscilla had stopped holding his hand and leaning over the table. She was not even looking at him any more, but at a point to the left of his shoulder. He sensed someone near him.
“
So this is North Island Base and these are the nice officers you’re having drinks with, hu?” Chicory was standing by the table, her cheeks flushed in the traditional manner of a woman on whom infidelity had been practised.
Priscilla
quickly recovered her poise.
“
Who is this person, Boysie?” she asked.
“
Ahrrghurr…” began Boysie, when a smooth voice mercifully intruded from the other side of the table.
“
Hallo Boysie,” said Mostyn, a gleaming blonde on his arm. “Cable arrived for you. Thought it might be urgent, so Tibby and I brought it down. From England?”
“
Ah ... I ... expect ... so,” said Boysie precisely. He knew darned well the cable was from England. He had cabled Elizabeth yesterday morning during a brief moment of nostalgia.
This
would be her reply. Mostyn might not be such a blessing after all.
“
Why don’t you open it then, old Boysie?”
“
Yea, open it,” said Chicory, leaning over the table. Priscilla got up, came over and stood behind him, a hand on his shoulder.
“
Open it, Boysie darling.”
He
felt Chicory’s hand on his other shoulder.
“
Should if I were you, old boy,” said Mostyn. “They’ll probably tear you apart if you don’t.”
Probably
tear me apart if I do, thought Boysie. Resigned he ripped open the envelope with his teeth (Not having a spare hand) and spread out the paper for all to see.
SO
HAPPY TO GET YOUR CABLE STOP WILL MEET YOU WITH CAR AT LONDON AIRPORT STOP FORTNIGHT IN PARIS WITH YOU A WONDERFUL IDEA STOP MISSING YOU TERRIBLY STOP ALL AND DEEPEST LOVE STOP ELIZABETH
“
And who’s Elizabeth?” chorused Chicory and Priscilla in unison, their grips tightening.
“
Ah . . Yes ... Now I’m glad you asked me that,” said Boysie.
If you enjoyed reading
Understrike
you might be interested in
The Liquidator
by John Gardner,also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from
The Liquidator
by John Gardner
August
1944
Mostyn was fighting for his life. Twice he had thrown the short one into the gutter, but now they were both at him: the short one trying to pinion his arms while the big fellow's hands were almost at his throat. He was tiring now, sweating and furious: furious with himself for being caught like this. It was an object lesson in lowering one's guard while still operational.
That
morning he had seen British tanks in the Place de la Concorde. He had whistled all the way back to Jacques' flat - feeling that life was his again. The job was nearly over - and now, to be jumped by the very two men he had so carefully avoided during the past long six weeks. It was unforgivable.
The
big one reached for his throat: he could feel himself being pressed against the wall: the cold bricks hard at the back of his neck as he pushed his chin down on to his chest to stop the great hot hands forcing through to his windpipe.
But
the big man was winning: the world was going red. He could hardly breathe, and the pain had begun to paralyse his shoulders and arms as he threshed about, panicking to set himself free. What a way to die - in a back alley off the Boulevard Magenta, with all Paris singing at her emancipation on this gorgeous afternoon.
Somewhere,
far away beyond the waterfall noise in his ears, he thought he could hear the tanks again. One last effort. He heaved upwards with his arms, kicked out and brought his knee sharply between the big one's legs. He felt the knee-cap make a squashy contact. The man yelped and dropped back, growling a German oath before springing in again. Out of the corner of his eye, Mostyn saw something flicker farther up the street. Still grappling with the two men, he gave a quick turn of the head. The newcomer was running out of the sunlight at the alley entrance, the mottled camouflage jacket unmistakable. Mostyn shouted - shocked at the frightened falsetto of his own voice: 'Help! Quickly! I'm British! Help! Intelligence!'
The
big fellow looked round, startled and off-guard. There was a moment's hesitation, then he began to stumble away. The little man had lost his balance, pushing himself from the wall in an attempt to follow his companion.
They
only managed three steps - four at the most. To Mostyn, panting against the wall, the shots sounded like cannon fire. Then, suddenly, it was all over. The two Germans lay like crumpled piles of clothes - the big one sprawled face-down, his head resting on the pavement, a matted patch of spreading red where the base of his skull had been: the little one was on his back, a bullet through the neck, his eyes looking up with the reproachful surprise of one who has met his Maker unready and with unexpected swiftness.
Mostyn
looked at his saviour. He was a sergeant: from a tank crew, judging by the accoutrements - map-case and binoculars - slung round his neck. Now the big Colt automatic seemed too heavy for him. His wrist sagged as though the weight was dragging it down; a thin trickle of blue smoke turning to wispy grey as it filtered from the muzzle, up the barrel and over his hand.
But
it was the eyes that made Mostyn catch his breath, sending the short hairs tingling on the nape of his neck: ice-blue, cold as freezing point, looking down at the bodies with immense satisfaction.
Mostyn
prided himself that he could read the truth in other men's eyes. These told the story all too plainly. This man, a perfect technician in death, had enjoyed shooting to kill. He was, thought Mostyn, a born assassin, a professional who would blow a man's life from him as easily, and with as little emotion, as he would blow his own nose.
The
sergeant was still gazing at the corpses, his mouth curved slightly at one corner in a wry smile. This one, thought Mostyn, will be worth watching. One day he might be useful again.
