Fire And Ice Page 21

  A glare of light ahead announced a night market. There he mingled, among the temporary stalls, shaking his head "no" at postcards, Peking Opera dolls, toy pandas, lace handkerchiefs, and jade jewelry. Then, thinking to change his luck, and blend in like an ordinary tourist, or jet-lagged businessman who couldn't sleep, he bought a miniature stuffed panda for Ronnie and a lace handkerchief for Sarah. A crowd gathered to watch him make his purchases and hawkers descended.

  One old man was particularly persistent, an old, old man in a quilted jacket selling Baoding Iron Balls—a pair of shiny balls with bells inside, which he demonstrated, crying, "Good healthy, good healthy," rolling them in one hand like a benign Captain Queeg. Stone retreated. The old man followed. "U.S.? U.S.?"

  Here, too, it was getting to be closing time and the peddlers began to shut down their stalls.

  "Yank?" the old man cried. "Yank. Air Force." "What?"

  A joyful grin showed a half-dozen yellow teeth. "Tenth Air Force. 1945. Mechanic.

  Airplane mechanic. Tenth Air Force. Bomb shit outta Japs."

  Stone stopped, which was all the encouragement the old man needed. "You try!" He pressed the iron balls in Stone's hand. "Airplane mechanic. Bomb shit outta Japs."

  Stone looked at the shiny balls and as he did, an orange street lamp flared like a tiny Betelgeuse in each of the balls. He reached for his money. It had to be an omen. He pressed the money in the man's hand and put the balls in his pocket.

  "No, no. You take." The old man shoved the money

  back at him. "Tenth Air Force. 1945. Airplane mechanic. Platt and Whitney. Bomb shit outta Japs."

  "Thank you, sir. Thank you very much. Here, from me." He took a pack of Marlboros from his bag and gave it to him.

  The grin got huge. "Very good. Lucky Strike."

  Stone scanned the emptying streets. "Where was your base?"

  The old man pointed east. "Top secret. Very secret." And bending to fold up his table and chair, he repeated, "Tenth Air Force. Yank friend," pounding his chest for emphasis.

  "I could use one now," said Stone. "Here, let me give you a hand with that."

  Sarah's body ached in every muscle when she awakened to the distant bang and clatter of heavy machinery. Her kidneys burned, and she thought she tasted blood in her mouth.

  Bracing herself, muffling a groan so as not to wake Ronnie, she staggered through the sleeping cabin and out to the deserted lounge. She looked to see what lay on the port side of the ship. To her surprise, she saw another ship, immediately alongside, a passenger liner which appeared to be about as long as the Dallas Belle.

  Its superstructure was covered with bamboo scaffolding. Through portholes and windows, she could see the jagged light of cutting torches flickering upon gangs of workers in hard hats and overalls.

  As she had surmised last night, the slip was roofed over by a gigantic shed. Cranes and gantries hung over the liner from the far pier, and traveling hoists rode massive beams in the roof. Astern, the river was shrouded in thick fog.

  She longed to climb the stairs that led to the bridge deck, but the beating filled her mind and she had to muster her spirit. Now more than ever, her life and Ronnie's depended on her courage. She had to act.

  When she was finally able to climb, she found the corridor empty, as were the chart and computer rooms. She stole forward and opened the curtain to the bridge. She saw no officer on watch, only a seaman, who was sleeping in the big leather captain's chair at the windscreen. Moving silently, she went to the windscreen. Ahead, there was little more to see than what she had seen already: the crews at work on the neighboring ship, the vast shed roof over the double slip, the bow of the Dallas Belle, disappearing in shadow.

  But as she watched and the day grew lighter, she could see that the back end of the shed was open to a rail yard, with freight trains shuttling by. If they could get to a train, they could ride into the city proper, lose themselves in the streets. Perhaps she could make it to the British consulate, talk her way in on her accent. A daunting thought: a tall black woman and a little black girl would stand out in the Chinese city like an invading army.

  She saw movement down on the main deck. The bosun was leading a work party out of the house. They went to the Swan and began releasing the straps that held her to the cradle. Sarah ran below and woke Mr. Jack.

  "What are you doing to my boat?"

  "Take it easy— Ah Lee. Ah Lee. Where the hell are you? Coffee!— Doc, I'd have thought after dancing with Moss last night you'd have slept late."

  "They're moving my boat."

  "Relax. We'll drop her in the water and sail her around the other side out of the way."

  "Let me do it."

  "Doc, you're starting to annoy me again."

  "Please. Call the captain." She handed him the phone. "Tell him I'll move my boat.

  Please, it's our home. They'll make a mess of it."

  The old man shrugged and dialed. "Keep your shirt on, Doc. . . . Captain? Let the doctor move her boat. She's worried you'll bang a hole in it. Right. She's on her way." He hung up. "Okay, run down to the main deck. And, Doc? No monkey business. Put the boat where they tell you and come back. Ronnie stays here."

  She took the elevator to the main deck, opened a heavy steel hatch, and stepped over a high sill into the cold. The air was damp, and the noise from the workmen on the passenger ship was deafening. The ship's crane was already hooked onto the sling. A seaman held a ladder for her, and Sarah climbed up to Veronica.

  Her decks were gritty with salt and coal ash. But, as she had seen from the bridge a week ago, they had stowed things properly. She started the engine to make sure it would run, then shut it down, as the cooling system required the hull to be in the water. She hung the fenders, which the ship's crew had dumped in the cabin.

  Moss came out on deck. Her heart leaped with fear as he headed for the ladder. Sarah shoved it away and the seaman dodged it as it fell.

  "Moss," she called, "tell the crane driver to be careful of my mast." She pointed at the roof and was satisfied to see Moss confused as she had first been by the optical illusion.

  There was, in fact, plenty of room for the mast, which barely reached the bridge windows, while the roof soared higher than the ship's smokestack and radio mast.

  The slings tightened. Veronica lurched under her feet. She grabbed the handrail on the compass pedestal and steadied herself as the boat was hoisted from the cradle.

  "Watch the keel," she shouted to Moss. "Make sure it clears the bulwark."

  She looked over the side and saw Moss step under the hull as the crane operator swung Veronica slowly over the ship's bulwark. Now, clear of the hull, it descended, swaying between the two ships. Halfway down, it began swinging like a pendulum. Sarah tried to fend off with a boathook, but the momentum was too great and twice the hull scraped the steel ship with a heart-wrenching screech.

  She looked up. Ronnie was waving from the bridge wing, accompanied by the captain, who was issuing orders into his walkie-talkie. Then the hull smacked the water. The slings slackened and Sarah, familiar with the operation from boatyard repairs and bottom painting, started the engine and released the shackles. The crane hoisted the slings and Veronica was free.

  There was not enough room to turn around in the canyon between the ships, so she had to back out—never an easy operation for a sailboat. The trick, Michael had taught her, was to start a strong flow of water over the rudder by gunning the engine, which was precisely what every instinct said not to do in close quarters. It worked. The boat started backing toward the river and, after one awful

  moment when the bow threatened to veer against the cruise ship, Sarah got control, throttled down, and eased slowly from between the sterns of the two ships.

  The tide was ebbing, the river current strong. The Huangpu spread tantalizingly before her, nearly half a mile wide and dense with junks, lighters, sampans, coastal freighters, and oceangoing ships.

  Moss plummeted down one of the mooring cab
les, swooping onto the pier like a huge bat. He landed gracefully, removed his work gloves with the dignity of an aristocrat home from the opera, and pointed to where she should moor the boat.

  "Mummy!" Ronnie waved gaily from the bridge wing.

  The current was sweeping Veronica toward the pier. Sarah left the engine in reverse and nudged the helm, angling her stern to the current, backing slowly into the river.

  "Right here!" Moss yelled through cupped hands. "Move it!"

  She eyed the river, longingly. Upstream was the city. Downstream, the sea and freedom.

  Foolishness. She couldn't leave Ronnie. Unless she could find help, immediately. As she hesitated, weighing the impossible, a small Navy patrol craft veered from the line of outbound traffic and came skipping toward her, red lights flashing.

  Her heart jumped and she felt an immense joy shoot like adrenaline through her veins. A siren whooped. She saw an elderly Army officer steadying himself on the windshield.

  His coat appeared to glitter like fish scales, and as the boat drew nearer, she saw it was covered with medals and decorations. His hat was speckled with a general's stars. He waved. And from above, on the balcony behind the owner's cabin, came a shout. Sarah looked up.

  There was Mr. Jack in his bathrobe, grinning ear to ear and waving his good ann. "Hey, pal. Where you been?"

  The old general waved a bottle.

  "Doc," yelled Moss, "get your ass over here."

  Crushed, Sarah put the engine in forward and steered toward the pier. The patrol boat burbled to a stop at the pierhead, leaving room for Veronica farther in. The crew helped the general up the ladder with solemn deference,

  and a pair of polished young officers trailed him up the gangway of the Dallas Belle.

  Moss was gloating. "Throw me a rope, Doc."

  She could not tell whether he had goaded her into defiance, or whether she was in the grip of a survivor's instinct, but without thinking, she turned the boat around. Her hands moved surely about the helm and throttle. Using the current to advantage, she backed Veronica into the space between the ship and the pier, so that when she finally threw Moss a line, the boat was facing out, bow to the river.

  "Way to dock, Mummy!" Ronnie called down. "Daddy should have seen that."

  Sarah looped the stern line over the pier bollard and secured it on the boat. Then she climbed onto the pier, undid the bow line which Moss had tangled around a bollard, and led it back to Veronica. Moss watched suspiciously as she went below for more line, which she ran as stern and bow spring lines. She doubled them through a mooring ring in the side of the pier, and secured them on the boat.

  She shifted all the fenders to pierside. Finally, she brought up two anchors, which she looped over the bow and stern lines as tensioning weights. "For the tide," she explained to Moss, who was watching suspiciously.

  "Are you done?"

  Sarah closed the hatch and stole one more glance at the river. She had tied every line so that she could release it from the boat. Right under his nose.

  "I'll need to check her at low tide."

  "Let's go. I'm freezing."

  It was cold. She had been so busy she hadn't noticed it, and had even forgotten the pain.

  Until now, when both penetrated to her bones. She was still shivering as they rode the elevator to the owner's suite deck. She stared ahead. The aluminum reflected Moss's grin.

  "Good time last night?"

  "I'm in pain, if that is what you're asking. You did your job."

  He seemed startled that she had answered him and said, only, "Mr. Jack wants you to meet his friend."

  The Chinese officers were guarding the door. Moss reached between them and knocked.

  Mr. Jack called to come in. He and the general were sitting with a mai-tai bottle between them. The room was thick with smoke, and the general was lighting a fresh cigarette as she entered.

  "There you are, the docking doctor. Saw you tied her pointed out—ready for a getaway?"

  "I thought she'd ride the ship wakes better."

  "Sure, sure." He turned to his guest. "General, here's the reason I don't need a hospital.

  Got my own doctor. What do you think?"

  The general was a wizened old man with bright eyes and a quick smile, his skin leathery from a lifetime outdoors. He looked Sarah up and down and muttered something in Chinese. Mr. Jack laughed. "Yeah, she's a looker. My man Moss's tongue is hanging down to his fly."

  The general asked Sarah, "Does my friend's health improve?"

  "He should be in hospital," Sarah said bluntly.

  "Very stubborn man, Mr. Jack," said the general, dismissing her with a smile.

  "I've made out pretty good in my life," Mr. Jack said that night, after Ronnie had fallen asleep. "But I'm a piker compared to my pals. Think about it: a handful of old guerrilla fighters have ruled a billion people for fifty years."

  Sarah had no way of knowing whether Mr. Jack was exaggerating his friend's power, though the fact that PLA patrol boats and soldiers kept passing the ship on water and land indicated that the general was well connected in Shanghai, if not part of whatever it was that Mr. Jack was planning to do. "How did you meet?" she asked.

  "Remember, I told you I crashed m Chekiang Province?"

  "Of course." She was drinking tea. He was on a whiskey, watered at her insistence. In the pocket of her white steward's coat, wrapped in handkerchiefs, were two hypodermic needles, which she had practiced palming like a weapon—one for the old man, one for Moss. The question was when to use them. Part of the answer depended on when the fog that blanketed the river most mornings would next roll in.

  "Crash-landed in a rice paddy. Bombardier drowned. Hell of a guy. The rest of us got out okay—pilot, copilot, armorer-gunner, and me. We climbed out of the water and there were a hundred Chinese peasants, standing there grinning at us. The whole village turned out. Huge party.

  "A couple of them spoke English—the missionaries had been through there—and they told us there were a lot of Japs between us and Chungking. Then the general appeared.

  Just a kid, then, like me. But a set of eyes that looked right through you. And stature. The man stood proud—a real fighter—like Moss. Only—" he lowered his voice "—only with more to fight for.

  "You see, Doc, the peasants here had been beaten down and stomped on for two thousand years. The general was a communist. A rebel. He had a guerrilla unit that had been fighting Chiang Kai-shek and now they were fighting the Japs. `Party's over,' said the general.

  "Japs were hunting us. People hid us in their houses and helped us head for Chungking.

  Soldiers and farmers carried us in sedan chairs, on riverboats, pony carts. Once we were on a bus that burned charcoal. The Japs were on our tail all the way.

  "They went crazy, Doc. They raided Chekiang Province with fifty battalions of infantry.

  Slaughtered civilians, destroyed entire villages, killing the farmers who helped us, killing every Chinese they could get their hands on. Probably killed a quarter of a million peasants and villagers in two months. Quarter million people." He swigged his drink and motioned for her to get him more. She poured a weak one. When she brought it to him, he was staring at his hands.

  "It sounds as if the Chinese paid a terrible price for your bombing Tokyo."

  "Awful," Mr. Jack agreed. "But we got what we wanted, and then some. A real boost to American morale. Bonus was, we shook up Yamamoto—hurt his pride—spooked him into rushing things at Midway—and tied up half their Air Force protecting the emperor's palace, making sure we didn't pull that stunt again.

  "We took them off the offensive. And when he blew it at Midway, it was the beginning of the end. The Rising Sun stopped rising after that." He laughed, bitterly. "At least until the war was over."

  "I would think you must feel some guilt, Mr. Jack." "Me? Naw. I paid. I was punished.

  Bastards caught me,

  remember?" He held up his nailless fingers. "And this was just for starters. Yo
u seen the scars on my back." "Did you tell them what they wanted to know?" "Didn't matter."

  "How so?"

  "I told you. They killed everybody, whether they'd helped us or not. Killed everybody in the villages." "Why didn't they kill you?"

  Mr. Jack looked away. Then he said, "My old friend the general rescued me. Attacked the goddammed police station the Japs had commandeered."

  "Ah. Now I understand."

  He jerked his head toward her. "What?"

  "The Chinese say, if you save a man's life you're responsible for his life."

  "Oh, that. Yeah, but I evened things up. Fought with his unit for two years. Never did get to Chungking. Then we got our mitts on some planes and I started flying for him— We been pals ever since."

  Sarah could tell he had been about to say more. She had the curious feeling that he had stayed on after the Japanese were defeated, and kept fighting Chiang Kai-shek until Liberation. That would explain his extraordinary connections to the People's Republic.

  "Mummy?"

  Ronnie was standing in the doorway, half asleep. "Sweetheart." Sarah embraced her. "

  Can't sleep?" "Bad dream."

  "Curl up with your mom, kid. I was just telling her about flying in China. Do you know how we loaded the airplanes?"

  "No."

  "Elephants."

  "No way, Mr. Jack."

  "Think I'm kidding? We were flying gasoline. They

  picked up fifty-gallon drums with their tusks. Seen it with my own eyes. Elephants."

  "Mr. Jack? When are you going to let us go home to Daddy?"

  "Hey. Everybody behaves themself, we'll all be home for Christmas."

  After breakfast, while fog still blanketed the river, Mr. Jack had another visitor. "

  Vanishing act, ladies. Run up to the bridge. I'll call you when I'm done. And, Doc, keep your mitts off the phones."

  When Moss reported that they were up there, well beyond stethoscope earshot, and that he had secured the phones and radios, Mr. Jack said, "Hold it, Moss."

  "Yeah, Mr. Jack?"