“Well, we got what we came for,” Kaz said as we made for the jeep. “It was a long shot that paid off.”
“Yeah,” I said, wishing that it had cheered me up some. I climbed into the driver’s seat and looked into the POW pen. Standing by himself at the wire was Matsudo Kufuku, his sun-bleached green uniform unlike all the brown army clothing the other POWs wore. A man alone and apart, straddling two worlds, unready for death, uncertain of life. Like Daniel Tamana, John Kari, and Joe Sakato, each filled with his own brand of loneliness and longing.
Like Peter Fraser, except Fraser chose to break with his old world and start anew. Too bad it meant getting blood on his hands.
Like Kaz, with his family and perhaps his nation forever gone.
Like me? Separated from the only world I ever thought I’d inhabit, Boston and the sacred confines of the Irish brotherhood of the police department.
War makes white ghosts of us all.
Dark clouds blew overhead as we drove, churning thick and low, about to burst and crackle lightning. The pungent, zesty smell of rain ready to fall filled our nostrils as swirling winds lifted the palm branches high, showing us their light undersides as they rose toward the heavens. We might get soaked, but it would keep Betty and her friends at home, which was well worth a drenching.
We ended up with the best of both worlds. Thunder boomed in the distance and lightning bolts stabbed at the sea, the rains a grey wall moving northeast to the Blanche Channel, separating Rendova from New Georgia.
Back at Lumbari, we checked in with the communications center. There was a response to the question I’d asked Ritchie to pass on to the Sydney police. A description of Peter Fraser: six feet one inch, a hundred and eighty-four pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. No record of arrest. It was signed by Yeoman Howe, who had added Good luck. We were going to need it.
“That settles it,” Kaz said as we stepped out of the bunker and into the grey afternoon. “We have his description, the rifle, an eyewitness account of a massacre orchestrated by a hidden sniper, the testimony of Josh Coburn-what else do we need?”
“If I were laying this out to the city prosecutor back in Boston, he’d tell me we have a good case of fraud for Fraser taking on Porter’s identity. But murder? Circumstantial evidence, some of which was provided by an enemy soldier.”
“He had means, motive, and opportunity in all three cases,” Kaz said. “If he didn’t do it, who did?”
“It’s good enough for me,” I said. “Our job is to bring him in. We’ll let an Australian court-martial decide the rest.”
“Now what we need is a way to accomplish that,” Kaz said. “Are you sure you don’t want to ask Hugh Sexton to recall him?”
“No, that would spook him for sure. We need a reason for a rendezvous, something that won’t raise his suspicions.”
“Radio? Food?” Kaz suggested as a throng of sailors surged past us, heading for the beach where the PT boats were moored.
“No, they have all they need,” I said. “They were bringing in weapons for the natives when they were loading their boat. Maybe more weapons, to prepare for an uprising.”
“That sounds plausible,” Kaz said. “With New Georgia almost under control, it would make sense for there to be more landings. Choiseul could be next, or it would make a decent diversion. It makes sense militarily.”
“Okay,” I said, noticing a hubbub down by the beach. “What’s going on down there anyway?”
“Everyone is gathered around that PT boat,” Kaz said. “Is that Kennedy’s new gunboat?”
“That’s Jack alright,” I said, spotting the bushy hair and the aviator sunglasses. “A guy who owes me a favor, and happens to command a whole lot of firepower.”
“He may have orders beyond providing us transportation,” Kaz said.
“He’s not the only one with friends in high places,” I said. “Come on, let’s get back on the radio.”
At the communications center, we worked on a message to Sexton. It began with the word imperative and asked for orders to be sent to Porter and Kari to receive an additional shipment of arms the following night, and to advise the best time and place.
A second message was sent to Ritchie, meaning that the resourceful Yeoman Howe would take care of it. It also began with imperative and asked for orders to be sent to Garfield directing that PT-59 take Kaz and myself to Choiseul tomorrow night. I ended it with kennedy concurs. I figured that would be all Ritchie needed to hear to give Howe the okay. Jack owed me, so one little white lie didn’t bother me a bit.
We made our way back to the beach, where most of the crowd had broken up. There were still a few sailors gawking at the forty-millimeter guns, clearly impressed. We clambered up the ladder, Jack greeting us with a wide grin as we saluted the ensign and asked to come aboard.
“I didn’t expect to see you fellows so soon,” he said. “But they want us on standby for something the marines are cooking up. We’re still on shakedown, but things are coming along. Right, Chappy?”
“If you say so, Skipper,” Chappy said, from where he sat next to the forward gun, his hands grimy with grease. “I’m having trouble with the swivel getting stuck and the armored plate on the bridge isn’t secured properly, and with all due respect, she’s a real pig in the water. But other than that, we’re in great shape.”
“You’re doing a fine job, Chappy,” Jack said, leaning down to clap him on the shoulder and winking in our direction. “And you’re right about the boat. Heavy and slow with all the armor and added guns, not to mention extra crew. She guzzles fuel like crazy, but believe me, the Japs aren’t going to know what hit them.”
Jack led us down into his wardroom, which was about as big as a broom closet. A crewman brought in coffee, even though below deck it was as hot as Hades. Which wasn’t much different from being in the sun above deck, so we drank it.
“We need your help, Jack,” I said. I outlined what we’d figured about Peter Fraser, aka Silas Porter.
“He killed three people over a copra plantation?” Jack asked. “That’s nuts.”
“And he probably didn’t mind it that you were a suspect,” I said, making it as personal an affront as I could.
“What can I do?” Jack asked.
“Take us to Choiseul,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”
“You’re crazy,” Jack said.
“Don’t worry about orders,” I said. “We’re working on that.”
“It’s not orders I care about,” he said. “You two are going to get yourselves killed. Don’t you know there’s about five thousand Japs on Choiseul?”
“No,” Kaz said, giving me the eye. “We did not know there were quite so many.”
“They’re half-starved remnants from units withdrawn from other islands. But a half-starved Jap can kill you just the same.”
“How do you know all this?” I asked. It struck me odd that Jack would have such precise knowledge about any single occupied island, having been sidelined in the hospital recently.
“That’s why I’ve been ordered up here,” he said. “Tonight, a battalion of marines is landing on Choiseul. The brass wants some firepower on hand in case they get in trouble.”
“Why only a battalion?” Kaz asked. “That’s only five or six hundred men.”
“It’s a diversion,” Jack said, grabbing a chart from the rack behind him. “I don’t know where the real attack is going to be, but these guys are supposed to keep the Japs focused on Choiseul instead. They’re being landed by destroyer transports and establishing a base at Voza, here.” It was a coastal village up on the northern part of the island, facing the Slot. “There’s a Jap base on the northern tip of the island, here at Choiseul Bay, and south of Voza at Sangigai. South of there, the island is free of Japs.”
“It’s safe to assume John Kari and Fraser are involved in this,” I said.
“Sure. I don’t have the details, but they’re likely to be organizing native scouts and porters to help the marines.”
“They were bringing crates of weapons to arm the natives,” Kaz said.