[What Might Have Been 03] Alternate Wars Page 8

  At the steel hut and where the cable lay unburied, he found no kind of trail to chase. Last time he’d been here, though, tracks had headed east. Lobo followed the shoreline that way.

  In the messhall Buster fried and ate some eggs, filled his canteen, and fixed two sandwiches to go. Then, outside and heading for Operations, again he bucked the hellacious wind.

  Coming into Ops he found Captain Rodgers chewing on Thorne. “That garbled radio message is clear on one point: we’re to expect an Urgent by cable. An Urgent. And you say the Adak cable’s out. Nothing more. Sergeant, what the hell is wrong?”

  When Thorne’s dark skin went pale he looked almost greenish. He said, “I don’t know yet, sir. I need some time to find out.”

  Shaking his head, the OIC stalked off toward the other hut. Buster came up. “Thorne? What’s it doing?”

  “Balance went to hell; trying to check it I broke the pen.”

  Buster hadn’t ever seen Thorne this way. He said, “Go eat something, lemme take a look.” Giving the sarge orders? Well, maybe it needed doing, just now….

  Thorne parka’d up and went out. Buster took a deep breath. The captain hadn’t given Thorne any chance to think. He didn’t believe PFCs could think, so likely he’d leave Buster alone.

  To break a pen, either Thorne screwed up or the cable itself was shot. Thorne didn’t screw up much. Buster rigged the test set. Conductor Resistance, normally about twelve hundred, was down around forty. Pretty much like the quarterly test, with the landline shorted at the cable hut.

  This one he couldn’t blame on Adak.

  “What d’you mean, the message isn’t going out?” Standing over Slim Barger, Major Poulsen glowered. “The tape’s moving, isn’t it? And the meters—” he gestured toward the cable amplifier cabinet “—they’re all wiggling the way they always do. So how do you know… ?”

  The trouble with Adak duty in the ACS was having the Area Commander on your back. Slim stayed patient. “Sir, you see that needle there?” Signal input, sitting solid on zero. “Amchitka isn’t giving us any signal. None at all, sir.”

  “That doesn’t prove they’re not reading ours! It could be any simple trouble. Just because—”

  “One of two things, sir. Power failure there, or the cable’s out. Either way, they’re not receiving. And power—it shouldn’t take this long to come up on emergency.”

  “But if it’s the cable…” Poulsen looked worried.

  “Our balance is good; any trouble, it’s their end.”

  The major’s evident relief didn’t last long. “But we’ve got to get that message through. The general said, expressly…”

  Breaking off, Poulsen scowled. “How’s the radioteletype?”

  “Running test both ways, sir. Garbling badly here. That on-off RTTY signal isn’t much good when the aurora kicks up.”

  “Can’t use it for an Urgent, anyway.” The major cracked his knuckles. “What else could we try?”

  Major Knowitall was asking? Barger thought. Adak and Amchitka both had frequency-shift RTTY to Seattle. “If you had authorization, sir…” And Slim told him the rest of it.

  Poulsen nodded. “I’ll tell the general. And if he suggests it…” Then, “Stay on that cable problem. And keep me advised.”

  He stalked out, leaving Barger to face a dead receive meter. The test set told him that the only voltage on the cable was earth currents, and that the Amchitka end had to be shorted.

  Back to sending test tape. Into an unmistakably dead end.

  Captain Rodgers glared. “You’re sure the line’s shorted?”

  Buster Morgan nodded. “Yes, Captain. The reading’s solid.”

  Hands clenched behind his back, Rodgers took two paces away, pivoted, and returned. “Where’s Thorne?”

  “The messhall, sir. Shall I go get him?”

  “No. Start putting gear together. Anything you can use to repair a damaged cable.”

  “I’m not a splicer, sir.” And neither was Thorne. The nearest one Buster knew of was Absher, if he was still on Adak.

  “You can cut and patch, rig something to get the signal through. Make sure you have—” he spread his arms “—hell, you know what you need. Get to it.”

  Starting to walk away, he turned again. “When Thorne gets back, I’ll run you two down in the jeep.”

  “Down?” Down that steep tundra valley? “I don’t think—”

  “I’ll do the thinking. And I’ll set you down there in one piece. Though God knows how we’ll get the jeep back up.”

  “The message reached Adak, Mr. President,” said George Marshall. “Buckner confirms that much. But no farther.”

  “Does he know what the difficulty is?”

  “The secure circuit. Adak has no contact with Amchitka.”

  Roosevelt grimaced. “And Mac’s primed to move on schedule. Fully depending on the Aleutian thrust to split enemy response.”

  Marshall never said I told you so; now was no time to begin. “General MacArthur’s risks are not much worsened, sir. It is our plan of surprise, our one-two punch, that I hate to lose.”

  “For want of a nail…”

  “Or likely a tenpenny fuse on a Godforsaken windblown rock.”

  But Roosevelt was off on a new scent. “What of Eisenhower’s proposal to expand daylight bombing? In particular, certain installations on the Baltic coast, almost due north of Berlin.”

  Marshall racked his brain. “That would be Peenemünde.” Silver leaves to four stars, in as many years, was quite a rise. Sometimes, Marshall thought, Ike got too big for his breeches.

  Rounding the headland, Lobo Tex scanned the creek-mouth area. Not much to see, but it felt wrong. The kind of tingle he’d had once when a rattler didn’t rattle but he heard it anyway.

  The creek was easy wading, but past it he lost the feeling. Something behind, he should have stopped to look at.

  The creek, yeah. Lobo dipped fingers into icy water, brought them up to smell. He couldn’t put a name to it, but something wasn’t what you’d expect. And the way the terrain lay, no GI area drained into here.

  It took him a time longer to find the hole in the bank.

  Buster hadn’t pegged the captain for a cowboy driver, but once the jeep turned downhill, Katy bar the door. The topheavy vehicle slithered, speeding up no matter what Rodgers did. The slitted-down headlights showed only moss that all looked alike.

  Flat and grating, Rodgers cursed. Brakes sent the jeep skidding wild; the man had to gun hard to straighten out.

  Buster hung on with all four paws; beside him, Thorne had better be doing the same. At this rate they’d all wind up in the drink! But Rodgers swung the jeep at an angle, then the other way, half-broadside to get more resistance, like skiers in the newsreels. Tricky as hell; jeeps tip over too easy. If this thing rolled, the homemade cab would crunch like an egg crate.

  Now the captain yelled: a highpitched ki-yippy like a rodeo hand. Why, the crazy bastard was enjoying this!

  A trick of the lights showed the final dropoff all too near. Rodgers cramped the wheel and slammed brakes; the jeep spun end for end and Rodgers floored it. In four-wheel drive the cleated tires threw moss like a cat in a sandbox.

  Less than five yards from the edge, they stopped.

  “All right, men. Hand me some of that gear. Let’s get out there and fix the sonofabitch.”

  Great—if they had any idea where the trouble was….

  The cable hut sat unharmed except for bullet smears; the fault had to be down at the beach. Glad that the dark hid how scared he felt, Buster picked his way down the bank.

  Akaji brooded. The Americans’ secure circuit was disabled, yes, but repairable. If within three days he could render it useless, he could signal the submarine for rendezvous.

  Such thoughts led nowhere; he had not the means. He and the others must remain here, inflicting such damage as might be devised, so long as their lives endured.

  They would move westward, to unpopulated, less peri
lous terrain. And there create a more secure shelter from which to mount further incursions.

  They would, at times, need to raid the Americans’ food supplies. That need would serve as continued tactical training.

  Preparing for sleep, Akaji was pleased; he had achieved greater serenity than his predicament could possibly warrant.

  Lobo Tex paused. The mouth of the hole showed some spade marks but didn’t tell him whose. Last time out he’d noticed a moonshine still was gone from East Cape; could’ve moved to here. So Lobo Tex had in mind, this didn’t have to be Japs.

  Most likely was, though; he didn’t smell any mash. So did he feel like crawling up that hole all by himself?

  Not right away. Anybody in there, be most apt to come out at night. At the cable landing he’d heard noises, but not since; if they’d holed up again, his best bet was wait here and watch.

  He checked inside, a few feet; didn’t find any traps or alarms, and backed out again. To set up one of his own. Nothing fancy, just a half dozen rocks placed where somebody coming out would knock a few off to hit the boulder straight below.

  Loud enough to wake him up. Locating himself for a good clear shot at somebody outlined against nothing but sky, Lobo Tex crawled into his fartsack to catch some sleep.

  Thorne spotted the uncovered stretch of cable, but it was the captain who found the little shard of metal wedged between two armor wires. “Somebody spiked this thing, men. Now then—how do we fix it?” As rain came in bursts.

  Thorne had worked with a splicer, rigging the new cable hut. Now the sergeant said, “We’ll have to cut some armor wires—four at least. Pull that thing out, melt rubber to seal the Anhydrex insulation. If the conductor’s damaged … ”

  He took a deep, shuddering breath. “We should make a full splice, but even if I knew how, there isn’t time.” He spread his hands. “Over the Anhydrex is steel tape. All right, I cut so it overlaps when I lay it back, and lash on extra armor. But—”

  “You’ll do fine,” said Rodgers. “How do we cut the armor?”

  The hacksaw blade wore out fast; they had only one spare. Rodgers sent Morgan for some more, and for a head start ran the jeep as far as it would go, up the least steep part of the slope.

  When it stalled, Buster jumped out. “Thanks!” He saw the jeep was making it back down okay, so he leaned into the spraying wind and began to climb. Once up on the level he just kept trudging, until finally he reached the Detachment area.

  He was hungry again, but that would have to wait.

  Chmielevski always knew he’d get lucky sometime, and his night of tonight, sure looked like it. Red Cross girls never had to do with anyone but officers. Yet after the movie he’d been trudging back up from Post Theater to the Detachment area, and this redhead girl Clarice Dawson, driving a jeep all alone, gave him a lift. And then a drink of whiskey. Back home it would have been pretty bad whiskey, but here on The Rock there wasn’t any such thing.

  They’d stopped near the edge of the ACS area, off the road but not out of sight. With the engine on idle: low battery.

  They got to talking, like old times back home. Shemmy just had to try and kiss her, he couldn’t help it, and now here they went hand in hand down the tundra slope. Him carrying her sleeping bag. Well, he knew he had to get lucky sometime….

  Silent Yokum and Scooter were in Ops. Buster said, “Somebody spiked the cable; I need saw blades and some stuff.”

  In the shop he found the blades, and wire to lash across the armor break. To avoid more talk, he went straight out the front.

  His shortest route lay across the area, out the headland. He was past the Motor Pool when off the road a little he saw a jeep, motor idling. Then down the ravine he heard rifle fire.

  Somebody yelled, “…shot me, dammit!”

  And a woman screamed.

  Awake in seconds, Lobo Tex got himself out of the bag and set to placing those sounds. Upslope, and not all that far. But part came from the hole; somebody in there was shooting out.

  Which way to do this? Whoever was being shot at was topside, so going up the tunnel might surprise somebody.

  Lobo uncased both guns and slung the rifle so he could get at it. Moving his alarm rocks aside he slid into the hole.

  Scratchy, compacted moss roots dug him from both sides. Jap tunnel, all right. GIs, they’d make it bigger.

  The confined blast of gunfire jarred Akaji awake, dazed. Fumbling brought his light to hand; it showed Miyake crouched awkwardly, aiming his rifle up the smokehole “Hold!” But Miyake, deliberately ignoring him, fired again.

  Akaji repeated the command; Miyake did not lower his weapon. Dimly Akaji discerned the other three, frozen in lack of purpose.

  The mission—! For any chance of success—Akaji drew his pistol. With little regret, he shot Miyake through the head.

  “Gather your equipment,” he said. “We must leave here.”

  Amid sudden silence, he heard rustlings from the tunnel.

  Buster found himself in the jeep, heading down to where the noise was. This wasn’t steep like the next valley, but squinting at patches of dim light he felt the jeep teeter and knew he was too near the treacherous center; he pulled to the right a little.

  Ahead he saw a man on the ground and a woman trying to pull him up. Double-clutching the jeep down to compound, Buster got it stopped. Another shot sounded; he jumped and hit the dirt.

  The man yelled, “They’re down the hole! I stepped in it and fell; sonofabitch shot me from below.” Buster knew the voice: Shemmy’s. But who was the woman?

  And what to do? Wait a minute—the gas can, flat against the jeep’s side. He tore at its web belting; the can came free. He scrambled past the two and slid to rest alongside the hole.

  “What—?” No time to answer. Buster took the cap off and tipped the can flat; gas poured out, down the hole. Then with a convulsive shove he sent the can after its contents.

  He was reaching for a matchbook to light and throw down, when the explosion pelted him with moss.

  Akaji smelled the gasoline; when he felt it spatter on him, he realized the source. “Leave everything! We must escape!”

  To one side he glimpsed movement; Yamagiwa’s rifle lifted. But he was the dependable one! “No!”

  Too late. Yamagiwa fired. The flash created inferno.

  A few yards into the tunnel, Lobo Tex had no warning; the Whoom!, the heat and impact, stunned and half-strangled him. All he could do—fighting not to pass out or breathe more of the searing fumes—was wriggle backward to open air.

  Even before he could quit coughing he had his Springfield ready. Any half-fried Jap did come out, wouldn’t get far.

  From the hole, flame popped and whistled.

  “Godamighty!” Shemmy rose to one knee. “Clarice honey. I never would’ve thought…” Then, “Hey Buster! Wha’d you do?”

  The woman’s voice came calmer than she had any right to. “You have to help me. His leg—”

  Buster took Shemmy’s other arm, which held some bulky object.

  “Come on; maybe I can get the jeep up out of here.”

  Once they were in, Buster turned uphill and gunned ahead. When the engine began to lug he slacked off, letting the slope eat momentum.

  And reached the edge of the road. Barely.

  “Left now.” Her tone made it an order, but Buster stopped. Voice higher, she said, “The hospital, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Hospital?” Shemmy sounded plaintive. “What’s the rush?”

  Buster asked, “How much you bleeding?”

  “Not a lot. Hey, I can even walk.”

  Buster nodded. “All right. Ma’am, it’s only about fifty yards to Ops. Call Post Hospital; they’ll send a wagon.”

  Bringing the woman along, Shemmy climbed down. She didn’t like it.

  “Are you both insane? This man’s been shot.”

  What Shemmy had under his arm was a sleeping bag. He said, “Can’t it wait?” Maybe it could, maybe not, but Buster co
uldn’t.

  “I have things they need at the cable hut. Now. Okay?”

  In a hurry to get there, he didn’t wait for an answer.

  If Rodgers could move a jeep down and not wreck it, Buster figured he could too. He was more than halfway when he saw he was wrong. The jeep broke loose; he could barely keep it aimed downhill, let alone slow it. As dim-lit patches of moss flashed by, he wished he’d unmasked his lights and the hell with orders.

  Skidding, he saw the ACS jeep square in his path. Hellfire! He swung the wheel and hit brakes, but slammed into it broadside.

  Grazing the cable hut, the captain’s jeep went off the drop. Breathing hard, Buster picked up what he’d brought, climbed out, and walked over to the edge. “Thorne? Captain Rodgers?”

  The captain’s voice had an edge to it. “Jesus Christ, Morgan! What took you so long?”

  “Yes, Mr. President; very satisfactory.” The Aleutian raids were beginning to help tip the balance. In Marshall’s opinion, the Pacific War was now embarked on its final phase.

  If MacArthur could be kept in check. Toward that end, the general had a thought. “Sir? About Mac; a suggestion?”

  The cigarette holder waved. “Yes, of course.”

  “Well sir, supposing that if he stays strictly in line, he will be given full command of the eventual occupation of Japan?”

  The famous Roosevelt chuckle. “Capital. Oh, capital!”

  Tired or not, George Marshall never went to bed without checking his briefing room digest. Tonight’s was not designed to help him get a good night’s rest.

  Eisenhower reported that fighter pilots escorting daylight bombers had observed, emanating from a ship lying well north of Peenemünde in the Baltic Sea, a phenomenal explosion. It had thrown a blinding glare across more miles than Marshall cared to believe, and a glowing toroidal cloud into the stratosphere.

  Marshall called Oak Ridge. “How soon can you test?” The answer made him set the phone down harder than he intended. Hitler was at least a year ahead of the Manhattan Project.

  Evaluation time. With the Aleutian offensive in support of MacArthur’s southern push, Japan was a matter of months.