Rising Sun (14 page)

“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.”