Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo Read online

  “Lenny,” he said, “it’s Barney.”

  A short distance away, Maguire swam toward the three men, the lifeline from PT-109 giving him his only sense of security. Fumes rose from the water, and Maguire’s head was spinning.

  “I have a line to the boat,” he said.

  With the blinker as their guide, the men slowly began to make their way back to the floating hulk.

  A short distance away, Charles Harris bobbed on the water with an injured leg. Seeing another body floating on the water, he swam closer. The body was the badly burned Pappy McMahon, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. He held on to McMahon.

  Yards away, Kennedy swam through the water. Harris heard him shouting for the crewmen.

  “Lieutenant Kennedy,” Harris screamed, “over here.”

  Kennedy followed the voice, and soon the pair of men materialized out of the gloom.

  “McMahon is hurt,” Harris said, as Kennedy came alongside.

  “How are you?”

  “My leg is injured but I think I can swim,” Harris said.

  “I’ll tow Pappy,” Kennedy said. “You just follow behind.”

  Kennedy grabbed McMahon’s life vest and began to pull him back toward the floating wreck of PT-109. Harris was having trouble keeping up—his leg was numb, and he was in shock. After Kennedy and McMahon disappeared from view, Harris began to wonder if he was going to die in the water. His will was fading, and the water was warm and comforting. Just when he had resigned himself to death or capture, Kennedy reappeared out of the blackness and grabbed hold. Harris tried kicking, but only one leg was working.

  Thorn had made it back to the boat and regained some strength. As soon as he felt strong enough, he took the line and slipped back into the water to search for other survivors. He was not a strong swimmer, but any fears or exhaustion gave way to duty.

  Alone in the water, William Johnston had swallowed a lot of gasoline. He had vomited until his stomach quivered, and he was shivering like a dog climbing from freezing water. He heard Thom yelling at him to swim for the boat, but he had little energy. A few kicks and he would rest. And then the idea of death began to comfort him. He passed out.

  “Come on, Bill,” Thom said, upon reaching him, “we’re going back to the boat.”

  “Boat?” Johnston said weakly.

  Thorn grabbed his life vest and started to drag him back to safety.

  Raymond Starkey was alone.

  His hands and arms were burned, and he could feel the heat through the water. Minutes later, the current carried him close to a dark outline in the water. He listened and could hear voices.

  “Ahoy,” he yelled.

  “Over here,” voices answered.

  Paddling closer, he could see Kennedy in the water near the wreckage.

  “Climb onto the wreck,” Kennedy said.

  Starkey managed to slip up onto what remained of the stem, then collapsed.

  Just then, Kennedy began to call out the names of the crew. Kirksey and Marney did not answer.

  Hours passed while the sky began to lighten. As the sun rose, the situation was grim.

  THAT MORNING, REG Evans built a small fire, warmed some water for tea, and then began to scan the water of Blackett Strait with his binoculars. Noticing wreckage on the water, he concentrated his telescope on the area. It looked like a Japanese barge, and he reported it to his base in New Georgia as such. Three hours would pass before Evans was notified that PT- 109 had been lost the night before.

  FOR THE MEN on PT-109, at first the rising sun brought a sense of relief. The warm glow on the main mountain of Kolombangara Island allowed the men to see one another and their surroundings, and that brought a sense of reality back to an otherwise unreal situation. They were alive, at least most of them, and they were glad.

  But these feelings were quickly replaced by a different reality.

  The men of PT-109 were floating smack dab in the middle of enemy territory.

  “If the Japs come,” Kennedy asked, “what weapons do we have to fight with?”

  After a count, the crew found they had six .45-caliber side arms as well as Kennedy’s .38. This was augmented with two knives and a pocketknife—hardly an arsenal.

  JUST BEFORE LUNCH, Reg Evans radioed that the hulk was still on the water and floating off Gizo in Blackett Strait. He was now aware that an American PT boat had been lost the night before, and he carefully watched the wreckage to see if he could make out what it was. It might be a PT boat, he thought to himself. But his telescope and binoculars were not strong enough to allow him a defined image. He continued to scan the water and report the movement of the wreckage.

  JUST PAST LUNCHTIME, the wreckage of PT-109, which had been riding bow-down, turned turtle. The hull was filling with water, and it seemed that the boat might sink at any moment. Kennedy had been studying the nearby islands all morning. The wreckage had drifted closer to Gizo Island, making Kolombangara Island a distant swim. There were more Japanese on Gizo, but there were also a few small islands and coral atolls that might be uninhabited. Kennedy made his choice.

  “Men,” he said, “we’re going to swim for that small island over there.”

  He pointed to a small sand-ringed island sprouting coconut palms a few miles distant.

  “Thom,” he ordered, “you and Ross remove the plank we lashed to the thirty-seven-millimeter gun.”

  Now that the bow was upside down, the gun had broken the lashings and dropped to the ocean floor two thousand feet below—but the plank used to wedge her in place still remained. Thom cut it loose, and he and Ross floated it over to Kennedy.

  Pappy McMahon stared at the blistered skin on his floating arms. He was in shock from the bums and weak from exposure.

  “Lieutenant,” McMahon said to Kennedy, “you’d better leave me here—I think I’m done for.”

  “No, Pappy,” Kennedy said forcefully, “you’re going to make it.”

  The crew assembled on each side of the plank and awaited the order to begin kicking.

  “Thom,” Kennedy said, “you and Ross keep the men together. I’m going to tow Pappy.”

  And with that, the crew of PT-109 began to paddle slowly toward the distant island.

  Hours passed as they painstakingly made their way. Kennedy had cut one of the straps of McMahon’s life vest and clutched the canvas strap in his mouth. Slowly, using a breast-stroke, he towed the delirious man to safety.

  Four men were on each side of the plank, with Ensign Thom rotating back and forth to even the paddling. Kennedy was towing McMahon. Eleven men in total—deep in enemy territory.

  LIEUTENANT JOHN F. Kennedy was feeling an exhaustion that ran through his entire body.

  To the west the sun was just dipping below the top of Gizo Island, as he slowly paddled the last few feet into shallow water alongside Plum Pudding Island. He was barely able to rise to his feet Once standing, he teetered unsteadily for a few seconds until he got his land legs, then whispered down to McMahon, who was floating lightly on his back.

  “Pappy, I’m going to check for the enemy,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Be careful, Skipper,” McMahon said weakly.

  Kennedy walked through the coral rocks and sand onto shore, then entered the foliage and disappeared. With his .38 revolver in his hand, he crept through the bush and trees. The island was about the length of a football field and half again as wide. Palm trees were scattered about, but the primary fauna seemed to be some form of long-needled, pinelike tree, along with bushes dotted with bird droppings. There was no sign of habitation save for the thousands of land crabs that scurried about, and a single bat that Kennedy flushed from sleep.

  He walked back through the island, rubbing his aching jaw. The canvas strap he’d used to tow McMahon was a little moldy, and Kennedy had swallowed a great deal of seawater. Suddenly, he felt his stomach roil, and he vomited the salty waste into the bushes at the edge of the beach. When he was finished, he raised h
is head and stared into Blackett Strait.

  The rest of his crew was entering the shallows near the island, and the taller men were finding footing beneath the water. The water was studded with coral outcroppings, and it tore into their feet. Stumbling through the uneven subsurface, the nine men made their way ashore.

  Kennedy helped Pappy to his feet, and the eleven survivors stumbled into the brush.

  UPON LEARNING OF the fate of PT-109, Reg Evans had alerted his native scouts to search for survivors. He could still see the wreckage, but now that the currents had changed, it was drifting north toward Nusatupi Island. Earlier he had requested an aerial search, and his last transmission of the night was to seek the results. So far he had received no word. Evans settled in for the night.

  As NIGHT CAME on August 2, the crew of PT-109 began to understand their precarious situation. Only moments after taking cover in the bushes, a Japanese barge had slowly passed from south to north less than seventy-five yards out into Blackett Strait. The men kept quiet and the barge passed, but it confirmed just how close to the enemy they were.

  Once the barge was safely out of sight, Kennedy motioned to Ross and Thom. Walking a short distance away, the three of ficers held a conference.

  “Okay,” Kennedy asked plainly, “how are we going to get out of here?”

  The men discussed their choices, but in reality there were few. All agreed that as soon as night fell, the other PT boats in their squadron would return to search for them, but how would they be able to intercept the rescuers in the black of night?

  “Our only hope is for one of us to try to swim out in the channel with the blinker,” Kennedy said finally, “and since I’m the strongest swimmer, I’ll go out tonight.”

  The three officers nodded slowly. They knew the waters around the Solomon Islands contained sharks. That, combined with the Japanese nearby, the strong currents in the water, and the fact that Kennedy was exhausted, made the idea about as risky as borrowing money from an angry loan shark.

  “Jack,” Ross said, “I don’t think this is wise.”

  “What other choice do we have?” Kennedy said quietly.

  It was a question without answer.

  AFTER A FEW hours of fitful sleep, Kennedy awoke and stared out at the water. It was a black, limpid pool of the unknown. In the last twenty-four hours, his boat had been run down by a Japanese destroyer and lit aflame. To add insult to injury, he and his crew had been forced to swim to a deserted island deep in enemy territory. They had no food, no water, and very little with which to defend themselves. Kennedy was as scared as the others, but he was also their leader. If there was any chance for rescue, he would take it, even if it meant a nighttime foray into shark-infested waters.

  With his .38 on a lanyard around his neck, he waded into the water and began to follow an underwater reef to the south toward Ferguson Passage. On the northern edge of the passage lay Nauru Island, bordered with a thick coral plate that caused the waves to crash at heights of up to ten feet. The sound of the breakers made it hard to hear the sound of boat engines, and Kennedy struggled to listen. Hard knobs of coral cut his feet and ankles. In places he could walk on the reef at chest depth; other times the coral receded and he would plunge into the black water and swim for a distance. Slowly making his way south, Kennedy awaited the rescue ships he knew were coming.

  Hours passed as he stood in the water, waiting.

  Once he thought he heard a boat, and he signaled with the blinker. But it was nothing. For hours he stood, with only the blackness of the water and the feeling of marine life brushing his legs. Once the sun rose, he struggled onto a small island south of Plum Pudding and collapsed.

  He was out in the open on the sandy beach, but he was too exhausted to move.

  A FEW MILES away, a pair of Reg Evans’s Gizo Scouts, Biuku Gasa and Eroni Kumana, were awakening on Sepu Island. During the night, the Japanese had landed several hundred more troops on Gizo Island, and the two scouts wanted to report this development. Sliding their dugout canoe into the water, they began to paddle toward Kolombangara Island.

  While the men were not large by Western standards, just a shade over five feet tall, they were lean and strong. As their canoe paddles bit into the water, they began to chant. It was a song of the sea in their native language, and the cadence carried them forward. Finding some floating debris, they stopped and placed it in the dugout. Implements for shaving, a few olive-drab pieces of cloth, and a letter they could not read. They continued on.

  THE SUN WAS roasting Kennedy as he awoke on the sandy shore. He tried the blinker and found that he had left it on and the battery was dead. Tossing it outside, he stared to the north. He was about a mile south of Plum Pudding Island, and he began to walk and swim toward the other men.

  Ensign Thorn had posted night guards, but they reported no sign of Kennedy. Thorn feared his friend had been swept away or eaten by sharks, but there was little he could do. He could only tend to the crew as best he could. McMahon’s bums were festering. Thorn ordered some coconuts felled and then hacked them open with a knife. He tried to rub the oil on the wounds, but it did little to alleviate the suffering. Harris tried to use the coconut oil to lubricate their handguns, but the experiment proved a failure. The oil gummed up the slides, and Harris was forced to strip all the weapons and clean them. Just then, Maguire saw someone in the water.

  “Someone’s approaching,” he said, pointing.

  Ross waded into the water and helped Kennedy to his feet. Taking a few steps, Kennedy stopped and vomited up seawater. He was barely coherent as he struggled ashore. Collapsing in a clearing just off the beach, he managed to croak, “Barney, you take it tonight.”

  “Okay, John,” Ross replied.

  The day passed, waiting for a rescue that did not come.

  Johnston and Starkey passed the time trying to catch fish. Zinser tried bathing his burned arms in salt water, but it did not help. Whenever he felt sorry for himself, he had only to look at McMahon. The older man was obviously in pain, but he suffered his discomfort without complaint.

  That night Ross waded out into the passage, but again no boats were seen.

  REG EVANS HAD explained to Biuku and Eroni about the wreck of PT-109 and asked them to keep an eye out for any survivors. They stayed at Kolombangara to rest before beginning the long trip back across Blackett Strait the next morning.

  KENNEDY HAD REGAINED his strength by the time Ross returned early the next morning.

  “Nothing, Jack,” he said disgustedly. “I don’t think they’re looking for us at all.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Kennedy said to Ross and Thorn, “that we should move to that island.”

  He pointed south to an island named Olasana located about two miles away.

  “It’s closer to Ferguson Passage, as well as larger,” he said. “Maybe we can find something to eat there. If not, at least we wouldn’t have to swim as far on our nighttime journies.”

  Thom was not a strong swimmer, but he was game.

  “It looks like the reef runs there,” he said. “We should be able to walk a lot of the distance.”

  “Then it’s agreed,” Kennedy said. “I’ll tell the crew.”

  Tonight would mark the fourth night of the ordeal, but the men took the news well. The tension was taking its toll, and the crew was glad to be doing something. Just waiting for rescue or capture was stressful; doing anything about their situation was preferable. They set off for Olasana Island. Hours later, the crew struggled ashore and made their way into the trees. The currents had proved stronger than expected, and everyone was tired.

  That night no one swam into Ferguson Passage. Help would have to find them.

  BIUKU AND ERONI were flying across the water. The sea was slick, and the day’s rest had given them strength. Mr. Evans had shown them the wreckage of a vessel through the spyglass. It had washed ashore on the south side of Nauru Island, where the breakers crashed on the coral reef. They decided to check it out on the
way home—maybe there was food or fuel aboard.

  “SITTING HERE DOING nothing is killing me,” Kennedy told Ross. “Let’s swim over to Nauru.”

  “Our planes should be flying over,” Ross agreed. “Maybe there’s a clear spot of sand where we can write a rescue message.”

  Leaving Ensign Thom in charge, the two men made the short swim to the southernmost island bordering Ferguson Passage. Because of the islands’ strategic location directly on the passage, Kennedy and Ross figured that the Japanese might have a post there, but they found no sign of habitation. Walking through the trees to the southern side, they stared out on the passage and noticed the wreck of what appeared to be a Japanese barge. A few boxes had washed ashore, and Ross pried one open and found it filled with hard candy. After eating their fill, they decided to return to the others and share the windfall. Walking along the shore, they came upon a pair of dugout canoes and tins of fresh water. The canoes had been stashed by the scouts, but Kennedy and Ross had no way to know that.

  BIUKU AND ERONI anchored their canoe near the Japanese barge and set out searching the interior. They found a Japanese rifle, took it, and climbed back aboard their canoe. They were just starting to paddle when they looked toward Nauru.

  “LOOK,” Ross SAID, pointing.

  Kennedy stared across the water and saw the two men in the canoe.

  Were they Japanese?

  Kennedy and Ross had no way to know, so they filtered back into the bushes and hid.

  “JAPANESE?” BIUKU ASKED Eroni.

  “Don’t know,” Eroni answered.

  The men were paddling furiously away from the encounter north on Blackett Strait. If not for Biuku becoming thirsty at just this instant, history might be very different.