Rising Sun

CHAPTER 7

WITH A FEW BEERS AND A FINE STEAK COOKED MEDIUM RARE causing an overfull belly, Dane drove cautiously back to his quarters, fearful that he’d doze off and get into an accident. A couple of cups of coffee had helped, but he still felt fuzzy when he finally made it back to the base. He’d planned to shower and change, but a message told him to get his ass to Spruance’s offices right now.

When Dane arrived, it was clear that a number of others on the admiral’s staff had also been off base and were still arriving. Like Dane, some even in civvies. Thus, it was early evening before Spruance let Merchant begin. He stood in front of a large map of Alaska and the western states and started with the obvious. The Japanese had landed troops at Anchorage and did not appear to be planning to leave. It was an invasion, not a raid.

“They were first spotted by military personnel on the Kenai Peninsula along with a number of civilians who promptly contacted everyone they could by ham radio or by telephone. Just for the record, most telephones in the area are still working, so we’re getting a lot of good intelligence.”

Merchant continued. “The spotters said there were half a dozen Jap battleships, which is clearly an exaggeration. Cooler heads and some ex-navy types said there were two cruisers and four destroyers followed by a dozen or so transports. There were planes, so we have to assume at least one carrier, although probably a small one. We estimate they landed approximately five thousand soldiers and we think most of them came from their existing garrisons on Attu and Kiska, which we believe were heavily reinforced just recently. It is also likely Attu and Kiska have been abandoned.”

“So what are their plans?” asked a clearly annoyed and impatient Spruance. Merchant had used the words “think” and “likely” too often. The admiral wanted something more precise. The damned Japs had just invaded the mainland of North America and were again showing how impotent the United States Army and Navy were.

Merchant was unfazed. “Sir, they don’t have enough men to conquer Alaska, much less threaten the United States, although people in Alaska and the West Coast are starting to panic over the possibility. Even if they do heavily reinforce their men on the ground, they might be able to take some nearby towns, but Alaska is so vast it’d still be an enormous undertaking and a logistical nightmare to maintain. Hell, it’s almost six hundred miles from Anchorage to Juneau and much of it is truly miserable going. In my opinion, Admiral, they took Anchorage because they could, and because they could rub our noses in it, and maybe because they think it’ll goad us into doing something stupid.”

“Which is not going to happen,” snapped Spruance. “But you will tell me what we can do.”

“Which isn’t much,” Merchant said and earned a glare from the normally even-tempered Nimitz, who had just entered. Dane stifled a smile. Merchant wasn’t afraid of the brass, which was good. Too many intelligence officers fed their superiors what they thought their superiors wanted to hear, rather than the unvarnished and sometimes painful truth. On the other hand, Nimitz, for all his apparently easygoing personality, was reputed to be a solid tactician and a proponent of attacking. Doing nothing had to be killing him, Dane thought.

Merchant continued. “The problem is distance. I assume we have some submarines heading for Cook Inlet to try to make life miserable for the Japs, and I also assume that any surface ships have been told to stay clear.”

“True,” said Nimitz. “We had two old destroyers patrolling Cook Inlet and they were lucky enough to neither see nor be seen. If they had spotted the Japs, they might have gotten off a slightly earlier warning, but it wouldn’t have mattered, and they likely would have been sunk for their efforts.”

“Right now,” Merchant continued, “Alaska cannot be reached by either road or rail. As you’re aware, we’re building a so-called highway to Alaska, but it won’t be ready for some months and will likely close down during the winter if it’s not through to Fairbanks. All supplies for the engineers working on the road coming down from the north have to come in by ship and I presume that lifeline has just been cut. I’ve been told by General Bruckner, who commands Alaska, that the army wants to pull those men out since they are so exposed and they aren’t combat troops in the first place. Many of them are Negroes and there is serious doubt as to how well they will fight. I assume we’ll try to speed up its construction from the south, but there’s only so much you can do. As to rail, there ain’t none. Also, the handful of planes we had at Fairbanks got shot up pretty badly by Jap carrier planes.”

Spruance shook his head. “Damn place is larger than Texas and might as well be on the moon.”

“Sir, the army’s admitted that they have a true Hobson’s choice regarding the troops they now have in Alaska. Even if the road-building troops up there are poorly trained, they are still soldiers and should be able to help in the defense of Fairbanks and Ladd Field. However, we must have that road through Canada, so the army doesn’t want them to stop road-building. Also, the Alaska National Guard has fewer than three thousand men and they are scattered all over the territory.”

“So that leaves air,” Spruance said, uncomfortably acknowledging that the Japanese controlled the seas. He had a good idea what was going to be said next.

Merchant smiled grimly. “That’s right, sir, and we have little to work with right now. We have plenty of planes, but they don’t have the range to make it to Anchorage or Fairbanks and back. Hell, some of them couldn’t even get there in the first place, much less return. Even if we based our planes on Canadian soil, at Vancouver for instance, it’s more than thirteen hundred miles from Vancouver to Anchorage, and those are crow-fly miles that would require a lot of flying over the ocean and maybe running into Jap carrier planes on the way. If we take the overland route, we’d add several hundred more miles each way. The air force has B17, B24, and B25 bombers that could make it from Vancouver to Anchorage, but couldn’t make it back. They’d need a place to land and refuel. There’s a small base near Fairbanks called Ladd Field, but it’s not adequate and needs a lot of improvement. Besides, the Japs just bombed it.”

“Suggestions?” said Nimitz.

Merchant jabbed his pointer at the map. “Juneau. It’s six hundred miles from Anchorage to Juneau, and eight hundred from Vancouver to Anchorage. It’d be tight, but the planes should make it. Unfortunately, it’s going to take time to prepare a proper base. I don’t know if Vancouver has an airport that can handle planes as large as our bombers.”

Nimitz shook his head. “Of course, the navy has no planes that can make it, either.”

“No, sir,” Merchant said, “Maybe in a year or two, but not today.”

Dane raised his hand and earned a quick glare from Nimitz. “What, Commander? You’ve got an idea?”

“Yes, sir, or at least it’d be a stopgap until we get things rolling at Vancouver. A PBY can fly two thousand miles and carry a ton of bombs and doesn’t need an airfield. I suggest we stage them out of the waters of Puget Sound, fly up to Anchorage via the overland route, and bomb the place. We might not accomplish all that much with just a few tons of bombs, but they’ll know we’re alive and kicking.”

“It’s a great idea,” Merchant said. “In a way it’d be like Doolittle hitting Tokyo. Not much damage, but we sure as hell got their attention. We don’t even have to wait for an airfield to be developed. The Catalinas can land in the water off Juneau, or anywhere else for that matter, refuel, take off, and be on their way.”

Everyone seemed pleased that they could soon be striking back. “Hopefully, our people in Alaska can pinpoint some good targets for us.” Nimitz said. Then his mood turned dark. “The PBYs are large, slow targets. We might get in one or two raids before the Japs figure that out and either land their own planes at Anchorage or station a carrier nearby and slaughter our boys.”

“But it’s a lot better than doing nothing,” Spruance added softly. “We have to strike back. We’re all sick and tired of being kicked.”

“May I ask one more question?” Dane inquired, and Spruance nodded. “Sir, who is commanding the Japs in Alaska?”

Spruance laughed, recalling Dane’s background. “Think you might know him?”

“Yes, sir, I did meet some army officers.”

“His name is Yasuyo Yamasaki and he’s a colonel,” Spruance answered.

“Admiral, I never met him, but some of the people I knew in Japan said he had a reputation. Sir, he’s a fanatic. He’s cold, hard, and cruel, and one of those who will fight to the last man.”

Amanda was so weak she could barely stand up, much less work the sails or stand at the wheel. With food and water at dangerously low levels, they’d cut down to what they hoped was subsistence levels. Now she wondered if they’d gone too far. There was only a little left, and they were wondering if they should finish everything in one almost literal gulp that would build up their strength, however temporarily. Of course, when it was gone, it was gone and they would go back to dying slowly. No, it was decided, they would stretch it out. Every day they still lived was a triumph.

There had been no more rogue waves or storms. Instead, just the opposite. Too much of their time was spent floating in the calm seas and praying for a wind to take them to safety.

Nor had it rained. They’d seen cloudbursts in the distance dumping tantalizing loads of water into an ocean that didn’t need it. Once, a storm had been close enough for them to see the raindrops lashing the waves. They’d tried to steer the cat toward it, but the cloudburst ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving them with the feeling that they and their puny efforts were being mocked by the gods.

“I’m a Christian,” Sandy had said weakly. “I don’t believe in plural gods. At least not until recently. Get us to safety and I’ll believe anything.”

They’d managed to catch a few fish. They’d devoured them raw and gotten diarrhea that had left them weaker and sicker than before they’d eaten. Their joints hurt, their teeth were beginning to feel loose, and their gums were painful, sure signs of developing scurvy. Soon they would be unable to work the catamaran. Soon they would die.

Far, far worse was the horrible feeling that they were lost. They’d done their best to keep on course, but their navigational skills weren’t up to Mack’s and they had zero confidence that they knew precisely where they were going. That they were headed east and north was the best they could conclude. Assuming they could keep sailing, sooner or later they would hit the Americas. They could only hope and pray that they were still alive when it happened.

“I think I was falling in love with him,” Grace announced a couple of days after Mack’s death.

“We’ll have a memorial service for him when we reach California,” Amanda said, rubbing her aching jaw and wishing she had an orange or a lime. And that’s assuming we reach California, she thought.

When they left Hawaii they knew that the amount of time necessary to make the trip was impossible to estimate. Still, they had the feeling that they should have bumped into something as immense as North America by now. They were well north of the equator and should be on track, but they couldn’t be certain. They knew by the stars that they were headed in the right general direction, but that didn’t tell them how near or far landfall might be. In a few days, their reduced rations would run out, and a few days after that they’d be dead with no one to know what had happened to them.

They’d begun keeping journals in case the catamaran was found drifting at some time in the future with their desiccated, mummified corpses on board. Or maybe they wouldn’t be on board. Maybe their bodies would tumble into the ocean and be devoured by the fish. They wondered how long the last to die would want to spend staring at the bodies of her friends before she heaved them overboard. How long would the last one survive before going mad or killing herself? And what about cannibalism? Would the last one have the strength to devour the flesh of the others? They all said no, but nobody could truly rule it out.

Amanda wondered how long her parents and sisters in Annapolis would grieve for her, especially since they didn’t know that she was out in the ocean in the first place. Someday, when Hawaii was again free of the Japanese, her family might hire someone to look for her. She’d left messages in her apartment and “mailed” some letters to her family that might not be delivered for years, but that was it. All three of them wondered if they had done something truly foolish and tragic by setting out from Hawaii in the first place. At least starvation in Hawaii might mean a marked grave, Grace remarked bitterly.

Sandy was the one who first noticed the difference. The swells were higher, but that was nothing new. The size of the waves differed all the time. If it meant a storm was coming, however, it might mean that their end might be sooner than they thought. They all doubted that they had the strength left in their frail bodies to fight a storm. In that area alone had they been fortunate. With the exception of the rogue wave, the seas had not been at all treacherous.

“Quiet,” Sandy said. They did as they were told. “Do you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything but the wind and the waves,” Amanda said. “I hurt too much to hear anything else.”

“Listen for the waves,” Sandy insisted. “They’re different.”

Amanda listened intently. They were surrounded in the rolling sea by a fog so thick they’d tried to lick its moisture off their arms. Sandy was right, the sound was different. She thought she heard breakers. “Oh, God,” she yelled, “we’re near shore!”

“Or rocks,” Grace said, quickly dampening their sudden enthusiasm. They lowered the main sail and attempted to coast toward the sounds, which were becoming louder. If they were headed toward rocks, they didn’t want to crash into them. They might be close to shore, or the rocks might be part of a reef scores of miles away from land. Either way, they had to get through them unscathed. They grabbed poles to use to push the cat away from the still unseen rocks.

Sandy went to the bow of the cat and tried to peer through the fog. “I still can’t see a thing, but we’re definitely near land. I can almost smell it.” She giggled almost hysterically. “God, I hope it’s California and not the Galapagos, or Easter Island.”

An unseen force suddenly lifted the cat and threw it forward, causing them to fall backward, again held tight by their lifelines. They felt the hull grate on sand and another wave pushed it onto land. “Get out,” Amanda yelled. “Get out and pull the boat farther onto the shore.”

With the remnants of their strength, they managed to drag it a few feet farther onto the sand where they collapsed, gasping and choking from their exertions. The catamaran wouldn’t run away, at least not for a while. Maybe they’d find a little water, or some food. Maybe they’d find out just where the hell they were. Of course, it would help if they could see through the fog.

They stood, but it was difficult to walk. The steady ground was so different from the plunging of the cat that they fell down like a trio of drunks. They lay there, helpless and exhausted until a breeze stroked them and blew away the fog. The gods had not mocked them. They had somehow landed between a number of large rocks, any one of which could have smashed the catamaran into pieces and sent them into the ocean to drown. A few feet away, two men with rifles stared at them incredulously.

“What the hell are you people doing out in that damn thing?” the older of the two said. They were wearing armbands. “You idiots are gonna catch hell for violating curfew.”

Curfew? Amanda began to laugh, which angered the man. “Don’t piss me off, young lady. Where’d you come from? Which yacht club let you go out in violation of the law, and how long ago did it happen?” His eyes widened and his tone changed as he took in their ragged and gaunt condition. “Good lord, what is going on here? You people look like refugees.”

Sandy managed to stand up and smile through chapped, torn lips. “We came from Oahu.”

The man blinked, and then smiled. “You tellin’ me you little girls sailed that piece of crap catamaran all the way from Hawaii?”

“That’s right,” Amanda said, and accepted his helping arm. The men sat them back down on the beach and let them drink from their canteens. The water was warm, brackish, and delicious. With each swallow they felt life returning.

Amanda smiled. “Now, where the heck are we, and please don’t tell me we’ve been blown back to Honolulu.”

“Not a chance,” laughed the second man as he guided them toward a truck that was parked on the hard ground above the beach. “You’re just about ten miles south of San Francisco.”

Wilhelm Braun drove his rickety old truck slowly and carefully down the dirt road toward the dilapidated shack occupied by U.S. Customs outside the small, dull town of Campo, California.

The wretched wooden building did little more than keep two American customs agents out of the sun. Before reaching the post, Braun left his truck behind a hill that overlooked the border and was out of sight of the Americans. He’d crawled over the hill and reconnoitered the area just before dawn, confirming that only two men were in it. He wanted to get there before any others showed up to relieve or reinforce them. Two he thought he could handle, but any more would be just too much. Another concern was that the army was building a base somewhere nearby and he didn’t want to run into any military personnel.

The main crossing point from Mexico to California was to the west at Tijuana, and he hoped that this spot was far enough away to have little traffic or witnesses. He’d passed an empty Mexican customs post a half mile back. It looked like no one had been in it for quite some time. There were no cars in view behind him and the road coming from California was likewise devoid of traffic. Perfect.

Braun drove on and stopped the truck a few feet from the wooden bar that separated the two countries. He stepped out, feeling only a little foolish wearing the cheap but colorful Mexican serape over his shoulders. It was baggy and hid the pistol in his belt.

The two customs agents approached with their hands on their holstered revolvers, but relaxed visibly when they saw that Braun was neither Mexican nor Japanese, just a slightly overweight middle-aged white man in a ridiculous outfit. They relaxed even more when he showed them identification that showed he was an American citizen named William Brown.

“Watcha doin’, mister?” the older of the two asked as he looked over the truck.

Braun grinned in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner. He wanted to get through without incident if he could possibly do it.

“What I’ve got here, gentlemen, is a load of cheap Mexican souvenirs that I intend to sell to the troops in San Diego. This is my first trip by truck. In the past, I’ve sent them by ship, but that’s not a good idea anymore thanks to the fucking Japs. So I’m driving this stinking relic filled with my inventory.”

The guards laughed, but the leader of the two had a question. “We heard a truck an hour or so ago and then it stopped. Was that you, and, if so, why did you stop?”

Braun rolled his eyes in mock dismay. “Because I had dinner in a little place south of here and I’ve been sick ever since then. I stopped for a while to let things pass, literally, and thought it was a good idea to make sure I had control over myself and my bowels before continuing on.”

The second guard nodded solemnly. “Damn greaser food’ll kill you. I’ve been in your position a few times.” He laughed again. “And that position is squatting and crapping your brains out. Goddamned Montezuma’s Revenge is gonna kill us all some day.”

The leader shook his head. “We can’t spend all day out here. Who knows, maybe somebody else’ll come along and we’ll have a traffic jam. Mind if we see what’s in your truck?”

“Of course not,” Braun said hopefully.

The two guards walked to the back of the truck. A tarp hid what was inside. The contents could stand a cursory inspection, but something told Braun that the two bored guards might pay a little more attention if only to kill the time. He briefly wondered if he shouldn’t have chosen the busier Tijuana route, but it was far too late for second thoughts.

“I hope you don’t mind if I stand back a ways,” he said, “my stomach’s still grumbling and I’m not fit company.”

“Not a problem,” they said in unison and began to undo the tarp. The leader stuck his head in and began to poke around. “What the hell is this?”

Braun already had the pistol gripped tightly in both his hands and fired before they could turn. At fifteen feet, two bullets struck each of them in the back and they crumpled to the ground. He checked and they were still breathing, although probably dying. He wouldn’t take any chances. He rolled them on their stomachs and shot them once each in the back of the skull.

Braun looked around and saw nothing. Still nobody coming down the road in either direction. Killing the two men was a shame, but also his duty. Nor had the shots aroused any interest from the few distant houses scattered in the area. Live and let live seemed to be the rule in this area.

He dragged them by the feet into a shallow ravine maybe a hundred yards away from their post. He dumped them in and covered their bodies with brush after taking their badges and their weapons. He thought about burying them, but decided he didn’t have the time. Or a shovel, he thought, and laughed harshly.

He wiped away scuff marks and footprints and traces of blood and brains as best he could. With a little luck, it would be hours before the two bodies were discovered. It was the first time he’d killed an enemy since the Great War, unless he counted a couple of Mexicans, but Mexicans don’t count at all.

A slowly moving dot and plume of dust in the distance marked another vehicle heading toward the United States. When they saw the abandoned post, Braun hoped they’d continue on, thanking their good luck that said they didn’t have to declare what they were bringing in. At least that’s what he would do. Finally, he cut the telephone line leading to the shack.

Humming softly, he lifted the wooden bar, left it open, and drove into California.

“Why me?” Dane asked. “I thought I was going to be an observer on the PBY raid on Anchorage?”

“You are,” said Merchant. “It’s going to be your punishment for suggesting it. But it’ll be a couple of days before we’ve got the planes all in a row and ready to fly.”

The navy was gathering a dozen of the Catalinas and sending them to Vancouver where bombs would be added. In the meantime, Merchant had a job for him. There had been an incident at a border crossing and there were concerns about Japanese saboteurs crossing into California. For a variety of reasons, Dane had his doubts about that, but kept silent. Whatever thoughts and doubts he had, he would bring them back from the border and discuss them with Merchant.

Two hours later he had been flown to the border in a Piper Cub piloted by a kid who said he was fourteen and wanted to kill Japs when he was old enough to enlist in the navy. Dane also found that the kid’s parents were divorcing and that his father drank a lot and beat up on his mother. Dane wished him well. They landed on a road near the border, where a stocky middle-aged man in a rumpled suit met them.

“You Commander Dane? If so, I’d like to see some ID. I’m Special Agent Roy Harris, FBI,” he said and flashed his own credentials. Dane did as well and also showed Harris his hastily typed orders. Harris grunted and seemed satisfied that Dane was for real.

“Commander, do you understand what’s happened here?”

“Very little. I was told there’d been an incident and, since I’m with intelligence and otherwise free for a couple of days, I was tagged to come down here. I also read and speak Japanese, if that’s important.”

Harris looked impressed. “It might come to that, but not today. What we have here, however, is a double murder. Sometime early this morning, either somebody or a group of somebodies murdered two border guards. Shot them in the back and then in the back of the head just to make sure. The bodies are on ice in town and, unless you have a strong stomach and a devout wish to see them, you can take my word about the shootings. The bodies are in terrible shape after being swollen by the sun and chewed on by a host of animals.”

Dane grimaced. “I’ll pass, thank you. I saw enough torn up bodies when the Enterprise went down.”

Harris was clearly impressed, then recognized the Purple Heart Dane had thought to wear. “You’ll have to tell me about that some time. I had a cousin on the Hornet. He’s missing and his family can’t deal with the fact that he’s probably dead.”

Harris shook his head. “In the meantime, here’s what we do know. The two men were likely first shot in the back and then in the head to finish them off, and their bodies dragged into the brush. We don’t know how many people were involved in the shooting, and we have no idea how many vehicles they drove, or how many went by the border afterwards and just drove by since nobody was in the post.

“Finally, some good citizens got curious about the buzzards congregating off a ways and seeming to have a good time, and checked it out. They tried to call on the post’s phone, but the line had been cut. They went into town and called the sheriff, who called me since it was federal property and federal agents have jurisdiction. I got here an hour ago. The sheriff says it was Japs trying to sneak in. We found some tire tracks where somebody had tried to erase them and we think they came from a truck. What do you think?”

They walked to the border and looked around. The tracks in question were barely visible. He’d take the agent’s word that they came from a truck. Dane stared in disbelief at the shack. “Do people actually work in there?”

“Yeah, and for damn little pay, which makes it worse. They were good guys. Each was married and had kids.”

Dane looked around and tried to think. Japs? It just didn’t seem right to him.

“Agent Harris, I think the sheriff’s wrong about it being Japs and I think you know it. It just isn’t logical. If the guards were shot in the back, that means they had turned away from their attacker or attackers and they wouldn’t do that if they were dealing with Japs, even ones born in the U.S. National paranoia’s just too deep for border cops to let that happen. I also think there was only one person, and likely a man, since the guards didn’t seem concerned enough to split up and keep an eye on somebody else. I also think it was a white guy and someone who probably appeared to be an American. Anything other than a white man, even a Mexican, would have set off alarm bells.”

Harris grinned, “Damned good. I’m almost impressed. Now, do you think it was a smuggler?”

Dane gave it some further thought before replying in the negative. “I had an uncle who was a cop in Texas and he liked to tell a lot of stories. Once he told me that smugglers tend to be locals who know all the back trails and how to avoid problems with border crossings like this. He told me that driving right up the road to a customs post is something you do only if you absolutely have to. Given the openness of the border, real smugglers wouldn’t have been caught. I think the killer isn’t from here and very likely not smuggling in anything more than himself.”

“And the contents of the truck,” Harris added. “And they all had to be worth killing for. I’ve got a local doctor pulling out the bullets and he’s said they might have come from a Luger. However, he’s more certain that they came from the same weapon. We’ll know for certain when run a ballistics check.”

Harris walked to his car and popped the trunk. A cooler was inside. He opened it and handed Dane an ice-cold bottle of Coke, taking another for himself.

“Not bad thinking for a navy guy,” Harris said. “I’m glad they sent you. I was afraid they’d ship me the least qualified person they have just to say they were trying to help out.”

Dane took a swallow and belched lightly. Coke always did that to him. He thought he might still be the least qualified person in the office for this kind of work, but kept quiet.

“How come nobody heard gunshots?” Dane asked.

Harris shrugged. “They probably did and thought it was either hunters or something else, like a backfire. Either way, people don’t get involved in somebody else’s business down here. I’ve asked around and a couple of the local yokels think they maybe heard a truck driving off about the right time we think this happened. Nobody saw it, of course. It wouldn’t surprise me if a lot of people around here did some periodic smuggling, so they’d all believe in live and let live.”

Dane took another long swallow and controlled the belch. “Now where do we go?”

Harris shrugged. “I guess you go back to your normal duty while I try to figure out what this guy is planning. My guess is sabotage. And unless he does something truly stupid that makes him stick out like a sore thumb, we’re going to have a devil of a time finding him before he strikes.”

“Firebells in the night” was a term Farris remembered from a history class he took in college before he left to join the army. He thought it was Thomas Jefferson who said it but couldn’t remember when or why. Maybe it had something to do with a possible slave rebellion in the American south before the Civil War?

Since there wasn’t a quiz coming up, he really didn’t care. His real concern was the burning oil tanker that was clearly visible a couple of miles offshore and closer to Captain Lytle’s headquarters than to Farris’s position. The explosions had awakened everyone and the entire platoon was armed and ready. This was the first time any of the many ships passing in front of their post had ever been attacked and the first time carrying a rifle was serious business. People were being killed out there on the ocean and it was a sobering experience.

A second explosion sent another cloud of flames billowing into the night. Oil was burning on the water and Farris thought he could hear screams as people burned to death. He prayed it was his imagination.

“That ship’s gonna take a long time to die,” Stecher said. “Maybe it’ll give the crew time to get away.”

“God, I hope so,” Farris said.

They had binoculars and were looking for lifeboats as well as the submarine that had torpedoed the tanker. Trying to find the sub was futile; the roaring, billowing flames had destroyed their night vision. They’d only see a sub if they picked up its silhouette, although just maybe they’d be able to spot lifeboats in the light caused by the fires. Farris commented that the spilled oil was going to leave a mess on the shore and kill a lot of wildlife. Stecher replied that war was hell and that he was more concerned about the crew than the seals. Farris agreed.

A distant pair of lifeboats came into view. The bulk of the dying ship had hidden them from sight, but now they were backlit by the flames. They were rowing toward shore and Farris thought they would come close to his position, but more to the south and closer to Lytle’s spot. He told his men to be ready with blankets and water and to stack their weapons. The Japs weren’t going to invade this night. He radioed his company commander for more blankets and water and for medical help as well, and the call was acknowledged. Farris wondered if that meant Lytle would actually send more help or was just noting the request. On a positive note, people from the little town of Bridger were arriving with all kinds of first-aid equipment. Sullivan, the store owner, was organizing the efforts. Apparently shipwrecks had occurred before. Farris wondered if the locals also scavenged for valuables that washed up on the shore.

“Jesus,” yelled Stecher. Tracers from shore-based machine guns south of them snaked out toward the burning ship, which was well out of their range. What the hell were Lytle’s men shooting at?

“Did you see a sub?” Farris asked Stecher with a feeling of dread.

“No, sir, just those lifeboats and the bullets are coming damn close to them. Aw shit, sir, you don’t suppose that our beloved captain ordered his men to shoot at the survivors in the boats, do you?”

Farris didn’t know what to think. Finally, the firing stopped. The two lifeboats had veered north and were now definitely heading right toward him. As they crashed through the surf, soldiers ran out and grabbed them, pulling them onto the beach. Other soldiers and civilians helped crewmen out and onto the sand. Many were unhurt, but others had broken bones and suffered horrible-looking burns. A few were covered with oil and were shivering uncontrollably. One crewman didn’t have an arm from the elbow down, and a buddy was trying to keep him from bleeding to death with a tourniquet. From the way the wounded man’s head was lolling, it was a losing battle.

Farris’s men laid the injured on the ground and tried to administer first aid. Vehicles were arriving, including still more civilians from Bridger. One man, clearly the tanker’s captain, strode up to Farris. He was livid with anger.

“You weren’t the asshole who opened fire on us, were you?”

“No, Captain, I wasn’t. The firing came from farther south. Was there a sub near your boats when it happened? I mean, could you actually see the one that hit you?”

“Hell, no,” he said and wiped some greasy blood from his face. “We never saw a thing, never knew there was a Jap out there until we got hit. One torpedo and we become a torch and the little Jap bastard is well away from here. Whoever shot at us from shore must be either blind or drunk or totally stupid. Or all three, dammit. Whoever he was is just damned lucky he only hit the boats and not us in them.”

He held out a large dirty hand. Farris took it and felt his fingers being crushed. “My name’s Ed Neal and I’ve been skippering that ship for ten years now. I guess I should be thankful I still have my life. And I am grateful for the help all you people here are providing. However, I guess I’m now unemployed. If you ever find out who the prick was who shot at us, let me know. I’d like to have a little talk with him.”

Farris assured him he’d look into it. The angry skipper strode away to check on his men.

Steve shook his and wondered if he should have told the tanker’s captain of his suspicions. He walked over to an arriving jeep. Lytle was in the passenger seat and got out unsteadily. He reeked of alcohol.

“Did we hit the sub? Goddammit, we had him in our sights and I wanted to sink the fucker.”

Farris seethed. The man was totally drunk and had just tried to kill a bunch of American merchant seamen. “Sir, the tanker captain and crew said the sub was long gone before you opened fire, and that you were shooting at his lifeboats.”

“Bullshit, Farris. I’m not blind. I saw the conning tower of a sub. Some of the men, like your buddy Sawyer, tried to argue with me, but I gave them a direct order to shoot. I know there was a sub and I know we hit it.”

“Sir, the captain of the tanker might disagree with you. He says gunfire from the shore wounded two of his men and shot up one of the boats.” Farris kept a straight face as he lied to his captain. Nobody’d been hit by Lytle’s machine guns. “He’s really angry and looking for somebody to kill and maybe send to jail when he’s done with him. He’s a big, mean-looking son of a bitch, so you might not want to talk to him right now.”

That finally got through to Lytle, who paled at the idea of the threat. He staggered back to the jeep and ordered the grim-faced private to drive him back to his headquarters. As they pulled away, Farris saw the private looking at him and shaking his head as if to say “get me the hell out of here.”

The tanker captain had calmed down seeing that none of his men had been killed or hurt by Lytle’s actions. Farris decided not to stir things up by saying he knew who’d done the shooting. Neal said he could almost understand how somebody could panic and shoot at shadows. He really wanted vengeance against the Japs and not necessarily against some trigger-happy son of a bitch, but he would knock the man’s head right out his ass if he was to find him anytime within the next ten years. Farris decided to keep that happy thought in a mental pocket for future reference.

“This may be the first attack on an American ship so close to shore,” Neal said, “but it damn well won’t be the last.”

Farris concurred. He wondered why it had taken this long.