West from Singapore (Ss) (1987) (8 page)

Hankins' recklessness cost him victory. The kick missed, and Mayo lurched drunkenly to his feet. The room swam before him in a smoky haze. A punch slid off the side of his head, and he staggered forward, fighting by instinct while Hankins wasted his fury in a mad rain of blows when one measured punch would have won.

Ponga Jim Mayo was out on his feet. The room circled him dizzily, and through the haze he saw the horror-stricken face of Li squatting on the floor, blood trickling through his lips.

Ponga Jim was punch drunk and he was still groggy, but suddenly he was a fighting man. With a growl like a wounded beast, he struck savagely. His left smashed into Hankins' face and knocked the surprised beachcomber against the bar with such driving force that his head bobbed, just in time to meet the sweeping right that lifted him off his feet and knocked him bloody and broken into a corner.

Then Ponga Jim whirled around. Half crouched, his eyes blazing with an unholy fire, he faced the crowded dive. Swaying drunkenly, he stared, hands working.

The startled crowd stared, and the giant Gunong ran a thin tongue over his parched lips. Feverishly, his eyes sought the door. Ponga Jim took a step forward, and then, with the speed of light, he leaped.

Gunong's knife slashed out. A half inch closer would have ripped Ponga Jim's stomach open. But it ripped his shirt from side to side and left a red slash across the skin.

Then Jim was upon him with a hail of blows that swept down almost too fast for the eye to follow. In seconds Gunong was out cold.

But Ponga Jim was playing no favorites. He smashed out and knocked a Buginese cutthroat reeling. Someone leaped astride of his back and he grabbed the man by the head and threw him bodily over his shoulder into the wall. With a roar of fury Jim waded into the crowd. Blows rained about him. Men screamed with pain, and he felt hands grasping at his legs. He kicked back desperately, and somebody cried out.

With a leap, Jim reached the bar. He smashed a bottle over the head of the nearest man. Maddened faces, streaked with blood and sweat, massed around him. A fist struck his chin, staggering him. He came up with a broken chair leg.

The room was a riot of fighting and insane fury.

Suddenly Jim remembered the gun, and his hand jerked up and ripped open the holster.

Then he cursed with fury. To hell with it! He slammed a fist into a face nearby, grabbed the man by the throat and jerked him to arm's length overhead, and heaved him out into the crowd. He was swaying dizzily, and suddenly he was conscious that his arms were heavy, that he was fighting with his back to the wall. Still they crowded around him.

The floor was littered with injured men, but still he didn't use the gun. For an instant, they drew back, staring at him with malevolence.

A big Dyak was down, his face a smear of blood. He tried to get up and then fell back. The pack sensed a kill. Like wolves about an injured bull, they circled warily. They were closing in now.

Ponga Jim Mayo crouched, waiting. He still had the gun, but like a true fighting man, he hated to use it. Guns were his business, but a fight was a fight, and gang fight or otherwise, Ponga Jim Mayo had always won. Desperate, bitter, bloody, but always he and his crew had come out on the top.

Stello, who had hung back, now came forward. He was clutching a kris, and his lips were parted in a sneer of hatred. Yet, even as Jim waited, knowing the next attack would be the last, he realized something was behind this, something more than a mere attack on his cook. These men were cutthroats, but they were organized cutthroats.

They hadn't gathered here by accident. Even as he realized that, his mind leaped to his ship, to Romberg, to ...

Stello smiled, his beady eyes gleaming maliciously. "You want beg now, Ponga Jim?

You want die now?"

The big half-caste took a step forward. Behind him, the semicircle moved forward.

In a split second they would attack! Ponga Jim's hand, out of sight behind the bar, fell across the handle of the shot-filled hose that the bartender used in case of brawls. In that instant, Stello lunged. But as he lunged the loaded hose swept up and lashed him across the face!

Ponga Jim Mayo heard the bones crunch, saw the big man's nose flatten and his face turn blue with that vicious blow. And in that instant the doors burst open and Slug Brophy leaped in, followed by the crew of the Semiramis. What followed was a slaughter.

Somewhere outside a policeman stopped. He looked at the door. He saw a notorious cutthroat stagger outside, trying desperately to pull a knife from his chest. Then the officer turned and disappeared into the darkness. This was no place for an honest policeman.

The streets were silent and still very suddenly, as a silent body of men walked out on Juliana Dock and aboard the Semiramis.

The Gunner was standing by the gangway, gun in hand. Ponga Jim came up, staggering.

His face was smeared with dried blood and his shirt was gone. The holster with the gun was still hanging from his shoulder. As the men trooped slowly aboard, Ponga Jim turned to the Gunner.

"All aboard, Millan? If they are, get the anchor up. There'll be hell from here to Batavia for this night's work." He glanced across at the Carlsberg, her shadow looming large in the darkness.

He walked to his cabin and fell across the bed. There were things to be done, but they would have to wait. With a sigh Ponga Jim fell asleep.

It was morning when he awoke. He took a shower, washing away the dried blood from his face and hair. Gingerly, he bathed a swollen lip and hand. There was a bad gash on his scalp, too, and a lump under one eye. Casually, he dressed then and checked his gun.

The morning sun struck him like a blow, and he stood still for a moment, looking out over the sea. It was calm, with the wind about force two. Ponga Jim climbed the ladder to the bridge. The Gunner came out of the wheelhouse. He looked worried, but brightened when he saw Mayo.

"Hi, Cap. Glad to see you around."

Jim grunted. "Yeah, I'm glad to be around."

"That must have been some fight!" Gunner exclaimed. "That fight was a plant, a put-up job!" Ponga Jim looked off over the sea astern. To the south loomed the heavy shoulders of a mountainous island. "Kabalena?" he asked Gunner. "That's Batu Sengia, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Millan agreed. "We're doing okay. You want to take over now?"

Jim shook his head. "Hold it till noon. I'll take the twelve to four. "

Ponga Jim walked into the wheelhouse and stood staring down at the chart spread on the table. Major Arnold had been right. That effort in the Parakeet Nest had been the first attempt. That failing, there would be something else. The only question was when and where. Soon his ship would be in Tioro Strait, then Wowoni Strait and the Banda Sea. These islands, Muna and Butung, were little known, their inhabitants strange tribes of Malay-speaking people who kept to themselves.

Ponga Jim had taken the cargo with the full knowledge that it meant trouble, confident of his ability to cope with it. Remembering the icy flecks in Romberg's eyes his scalp tightened. He glanced at the passenger list lying on the desk. Romberg, Kessler, and Braunig. Kessler was the thin, hardfaced man, Braunig the burly, silent fellow.

The Gunner came in. "How's it look, Jim?" he asked softly. "We got some tough babies aboard?"

"Yeah," Ponga Jim said. "Keep your eyes on them, and tell your watch to do the same thing. Keep a rod handy."

The Gunner slapped his waistband. "I got one." His brow wrinkled. "I'm more scared of that damned orangutan than I am of any of them."

"That what?"

Jim wheeled. "Did you say orangutan?" "Sure, didn't you know?" Millan was astonished.

"Braunig says it's a pet. Biggest one I ever saw. He feeds it himself, won't let anybody else get close."

"Pet, is it?" Ponga Jim's left eyebrow squinted and his eyes narrowed. "In a strong cage?"

Millan nodded. "Yeah. It would be a hell of a thing to tackle in the dark. Or in the daytime, for that matter."

Mayo shrugged. "It won't get out. Put ~ an extra lock on it. And if Braunig kicks, send him to me."

He watched the blunt-bowed Semiramis plow through the seas. Old she might be, but she was dependable. Ponga Jim knew that peace in the East Indies might erupt into war at any moment. The war that had thrown all Europe into arms and that threatened at any moment to turn cities into a smoking shambles, was already eating at the shores of these lonely islands. Twice, Ponga Jim Mayo had been involved in attempts to create strife here, at this furthest limit of the British Empire. An American adventurer and master of tramp freighters, Mayo preferred to mind his own business, settle his private fights, and stay out of international affairs. But following the sea in the Indies had never been a picnic, and he had come up from the brawling fury of a hundred waterfronts to a command that he meant to keep.

Jim's eyes narrowed angrily, and his jaw set. Once, he had deliberately butted in to avert more trouble. Now they were out to get rid of Jim Mayo as fast as possible.

Carefully, his fingers touched the swollen lump under his eye and felt his jaw. He felt stiff and sore from the brutal kicking and beating he'd taken.

Somewhere in the islands, perhaps still back in Makassar, Major William Arnold was waging an almost single-handed fight to keep peace in these East Indian waters. But it was a lonely, dangerous job. All over the world secret agents of the Gestapo were striking at the lifeline of the British Empire. All through the islands there was sabotage, propaganda, and undercover warfare.

Slug Brophy came up to the bridge. "Romberg was asking about you," he said, winking.

"When I told him you were on the bridge, he seemed surprised. Those guys got enough guns to arm the U. S. Navy."

"Yeah?" Jim stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Let the Gunner handle this a bit longer.

You come with me."

He wheeled and ran down the ladder. Sakim and Longboy were painting amidships.

"Drop those brushes," Jim snapped. "Slug, get them a couple of guns."

When they were armed he went amidships. The three Germans were sitting in the petty officer's mess, talking and drinking beer. Jim stopped in the doorway.

"I understand," he said crisply, "that you men have guns aboard. I want them. Nobody packs a rod on this boat but my officers and myself."

Romberg shrugged. "But in times like this maybe we need our guns," he said softly.

"You get them when you leave the boat," Mayo snapped. "All right, on your feet for a search."

Romberg's face whitened.

Kessler got to his feet, face flushing with anger.

"There will be no searching here!" he snapped. "This is insolence!"

"Yeah?" Ponga Jim chuckled without mirth. "You guys got a lot to learn. An' when you talk about insolence, sourpuss, remember you're not in the German army now. You're on my ship, and I'm in command here!"

Kessler started forward and then stopped. "So? You know, do you? Well, what of it?"

Mayo's gun slid into his hand. "You guys asked for transportation for yourselves and your cargo. You're getting it. Get tough, and you'll get a lot more. I said I'd get you there, but I didn't say I'd get you there alive." He shrugged. "Take their guns, Slug. The first one that peeps will have to digest some lead. "

The three men stood very still, hands raised, while Brophy frisked them expertly.

Once Romberg's eyes flickered to the port and he stared.

For outside was Sakim, with a rifle barrel resting on the edge. Longboy stood outside the other, his brown face eager. Romberg's eyes swung back to Mayo, and there was a hint of admiration in them. "You'd have made a good German officer, Captain Mayo."

Jim snorted contemptuously.

Brophy passed out of the room with the guns tucked in his waistband. Then Ponga Jim slid his back into its holster. "Sorry to have bothered you, gents. Adios."

Day slid into night. Mayo was worried. Something had to break. There was a possibility that disarming them had also wrecked their plans, but he had no faith in the idea.

There was something else, something more to be expected. At twelve he would go on watch, and by that time, if everything went well, they would be entering the Banda Sea with a straight shot for Bangkulu before turning east for Banggai Bay.

Night had fallen and the stars were bright when he turned aft for a last look around before his night watch. The passage amidships was empty, but he heard voices in Romberg's cabin.

For an instant, Ponga Jim hesitated outside the door. Kessler was talking. If Braunig was there he was not speaking. But that was usually the case. Jim walked aft to the sternpost and stood watching the wake, his back to the after deckhouse. Then he turned and started forward.

Sharp, fierce snarling and then a shrill, angry yapping shattered the still air.

Puzzled, he hesitated. Something was bothering the orangutan. He went down the ladder to the storeroom beneath the after wheelhouse.

In the small space was the cage of the orangutan, a huge beast, almost as big as a gorilla. Foaming at the mouth, the big ape was screaming with fury and trying to get through the bars at Braunig, who was crouching before the cage. His wide, ugly face was contorted with sadistic frenzy as he stabbed at the ape with a pointed stick.