Nick Carter
The Executioners
Dedicated to The Men of the Secret Service of the United States of America
I
The U.S.N. Paycock was the latest of the guided missile heavy cruisers in the South Pacific Joint Defense Fleet. It held fourteen hundred men, weighed twelve thousand tons, had six 8-inch guns and two twin missile launchers equipped with the «Terrier» S/A supersonic missile. The twin launchers were capable of firing two missiles per launcher every thirty seconds. They could fire four missiles in eight-tenths of a second. The U.S.N. Paycock was a magnificent piece of fighting equipment and cost 225 million dollars to build.
On the night of June 4, 1969, she was knifing through the blackness of an almost moonless night in the South Pacific. The men on the shrouded bridge could occasionally glimpse the dark bulk of the other vessels taking part in the joint Australian-American naval maneuvers. Captain Wilbur Foreman was on the bridge, watching as his helmsman began a slow turn to port, as called for, at precisely zero hours and fifteen minutes. All ships were sailing without lights, under battle conditions, as the radarman, peering into his green screen, frowned.
"Vessel bearing in on us on the port side, sir," he called out Captain Foreman looked out the port window and saw the huge bulk of the Australian aircraft carrier Downing, one of the Australian «Majestic» class carriers, twenty thousand tons loaded. She might be swinging a little wide, he concluded.
"Hold your course," he said to the helmsman, who did so. Then, with the sudden totality of disasters that happen at sea, the huge bulk of the aircraft carrier struck the U.S.N. Paycock amidships, moving through her the way a knife moves through butter. Men screamed, engines exploded, sailors dived into the sea in an effort to douse the flames that engulfed their bodies. The blow had destroyed the ship's electrical system, and it was impossible to close all the bulkheads by hand. The U.S.N. Paycock went down quickly. There were survivors, but not many.
Aboard the Australian carrier the thick bow had taken the brunt of the crash, and her bulkheads were quickly closed. On the bridge, the radarman leaned his head against the screen of his instrument, trying to shut out the sounds of those dying outside. His name was Burton Comford and at the naval inquiry he testified that his radar screen showed plenty of distance between the ships. It was concluded that radar could be misread, that electronic eyes could malfunction, and outright negligence could not be sustained. But Burton Comford had been the man assigned to operate and interpret the signals of the electronic eyes that were to guide the giant carrier.
It was a month later, almost to the day, that the joint military maneuvers of the combined Pacific Defense Alliance took place along the lovely white beaches of Papua. The White forces, the "attackers," had established a beachhead. The Blue defending forces, commanded by Australian Major Ronald Singleton, were over the ridge, waiting for an air strike by their defense planes. On the right of the beaches were the New Zealand and Philippine troops; to the left, the Americans with British support. The Australian Air Force planes were equipped with live bombs which they would drop offshore at pre-set targets. If the targets were struck, each hit would be equated with a predetermined number of «attacking» troops knocked out and credited to the defenders.
It was a fairly typical war-games exercise. Major Ronald Singleton, commanding the Australian defense forces, scanned the sky for his planes and suddenly saw them come swooping in. The squadron leader, coming in high, gave the command to drop bombs, and the squadron followed suit. Major Singleton looked up and saw the tiny objects, growing larger by the split-second, hurtle down upon the beach. Their thunder was pierced by the screams of the totally unprepared and unprotected men on the beaches.
"Not here, you bloody fools!" the Major screamed into his radio. "Stop them, dammit!" he yelled at the radio command post. "Stop them! They've released bombs too soon!"
But no giant hand could hold back the deadly bombs hurtling through the air, no magic command could call them back. The ambulances carried away the bodies for hours and hours-shattered bodies, dead bodies. There were New Zealand bodies, English bodies, Philippine bodies and American bodies.
The name of the Australian squadron leader was Lieutenant Dodd Dempster, and in the investigation that followed he showed that his computer had erred in time, distance and ground speed computations and that the malfunctioning of the instrument was to blame for his premature «release-bombs» order. Lieutenant Dempster said his visual observation of the beach had been unclear. No further formal charges were brought, pending continued investigation. But angry accusations flew through the air, mostly of casual attitudes and inefficient operations on the part of Australian Command. There was a lot more highly charged talk behind the scenes than found its way into the record. A number of our people were growing disenchanted with the Aussies.
The third incident occurred in September, during the Australian-British field maneuvers that had been planned six months back. The exercise concerned the defense of fixed installations — in this case an ammunition plant just north of Clermont in Queensland. The British had been assigned the defending role, and a line of Australian tanks advanced toward the defenders grouped in front of and behind a major supply of live ammunition inside a low-roofed building. They were using new, big, fast tanks, and at a pre-set point the tanks were to turn and withdraw, having either accomplished their simulated objectives or having failed to do so.
The line of clanking dragons started to wheel, all except the one on the right flank, the last of the line. Those watching waited for the driver to turn his metal monster. Instead, they saw the top hatch open and the man leap from the tank, falling in a rolling somersault and, gaining his feet, streak for safety. So did most of the onlookers as the big tank headed straight for the ammunition depot.
The bulk of the British forces, grouped on the other side of the building, didn't realize what was happening until the tank smashed into the stockpile of live ammunition. The earth erupted in a fireworks display straight from hell. And once again, the ambulances worked overtime to carry away the dead and injured. Once again, the voices of anger grew louder and more demanding.
The driver of the tank said his steering mechanism had jammed. There was no evidence left to check his story. He was dismissed from the service for having lost his head and panicked when he should have tried to halt his tank in time. His name was John Dawsey. But his dismissal didn't still the angry voices. Nor did it bring back the dead English soldiers.
Three tragedies — and I saw them again as they happened — just as I had during those days at AXE offices after Hawk called me. Every detail was imprinted on my mind. I'd seen the film clips that were available in some instances. I'd read the accounts of hundreds of eyewitnesses and participants. I'd digested thousands of pages of reports, accounts and testimony. Through the eyes and words of others, I felt as though I'd been at each one of them.
The big BOAC airliner was nosing down to land at Brisbane now, and I saw the twinkling lights of the Australian capital. But as we dipped lower, my mind again flashed back to AXE headquarters at DuPont Circle, Washington, D.C. I'd finished all that Hawk had given me on the three tragedies, and we sat in his small, neat office, his steel-gray eyes snapping at me — his leathery, New England minister's face belying his role as Operations Chief of AXE.
"It would seem that the Aussies are out to wreck the whole damn South Pacific Defense Alliance," he said.