"French cooperation," Carter said.
"Yes. Much like Guantanamo Bay. Despite the French histrionics of the sixties and seventies, we managed to hang on to our bit of land on Hiva Faui."
"Satellite tracking?" Carter asked.
"Yes," Smith replied.
"Spy-in-the-Sky satellite," Hawk said. "Interagency. Big stuff."
"I see," Carter said. "How long have we had this operation running?"
"In one form or another since the mid-sixties," Smith said. "Actually, it was one of our first. We watch the Far East from there. Before that it was routine electronic surveillance. Radio and cryptography, and things like that."
"I get the picture," Carter said. "So what's happening out there now that has us worried? Sabotage? A mole?"
"That's just it," Smith said. "We really don't know."
"But it has to stop." Karsten added.
Smith thumbed deeper into the files he held on his lap. He looked up at Hawk, who nodded for him to go on, then cleared his throat.
"In January 1969, Tom Hawkins, a technician at what was then called Number 17HF Site, apparently committed suicide. They found him hanging in the forest," Smith said. He paused just a moment and went on. "August 1971, Stew Scharaga, Donald Deutsch, and Wally Hoggins died when the truck they were driving apparently went out of control and crashed over a cliff just down from the station. May 74, and again in July of 75, 76, and 78, there were major fires at the station. A total of fourteen people killed, twenty-seven injured."
"The list goes on?" Carter asked. He had a funny feeling about what he was being told, although he had no idea where it was going.
"Indeed," Smith said. "The troubles out there increased. Suicides, fires, accidents, landslides, and even several murders."
"What else?" There was something more; Carter could feel it now.
"Headhunters. Cannibals. Natives hostile, for some reason, to our being on the island."
Carter looked at him, then turned to Hawk who nodded. "We're not serious, are we?"
"Perfectly," Smith said. "In the last five and a half years there have been seventeen technicians killed, another thirty or so wounded. And that's not counting the various cases of physical and mental exhaustion reporting back from Hiva Faui."
"What have we done about it?" Carter asked. He could not believe he was hearing what he was.
"As far as the accidents, suicides, and fights among the staff go, not a lot," Smith said. "As far as the attacks go, we've cleaned out Natu Faui and Akau Faui at least three times. Or at least the Navy has."
"To no effect?"
"Apparently not," Hawk said, sitting forward. "It's technically a French protectorate. There isn't a whole lot we can do about it."
"Surely security is…"
"Security is and always has been very good at the Hiva Faui site," Hawk said. "Somehow, though, the natives always find a way of getting through."
Carter sat back and lit one of his cigarettes that were specially made for him in a small shop in Washington. The paper was black, and his initials were stamped in gold near the tip. The tobacco was very strong.
"I'm to go out there and see what the trouble is."
"Something like that, Nick," Hawk said. "You're to see a Justin Owen — he's the station manager — and a Handley Duvall who witnessed a part of the last native attack."
"I see, sir," Carter said. "Who's in charge of the island? I mean, who is the French governor, or isn't there such a position?"
"Indeed there is," Smith said. "Albert Remi Rondine. He and his family own an enormous amount of stock in French manufacturing… especially steel and oil."
"Yet he chooses to be governor of a tiny Pacific island group?" Carter asked.
"He is quite a colorful character, actually," Karsten said. "He was born in Hong Kong in 1930 or 31, and when the war broke out he was taken prisoner by the Japanese."
"How'd he end up on Hiva Faui?"
"We don't know. But he is autocratic. He hates Americans. And he has a wife and at least half a dozen mistresses. It's his little kingdom."
"You want me to find out what or who is killing our people and put a stop to it on Hiva Faui."
"Exactly," Hawk said.
"Our people at the tracking station call it Death Island," Karsten added.
Two
Heading west, San Francisco was very nice for a night's stay, and Honolulu was expensive and very cosmopolitan. But after that things began to get a bit primitive by comparison. At Wake Island, the local BOQ — which the soldiers stationed there jokingly called the Holiday Inn — was a two-story barracks that had been built during World War II and had seen very few improvements since then, but there was hot water, and every room had its own shower and sink. At Agaña, on Guam, no one had the guts to call the accommodations anything but the "crash pad." And by the time the Faui Faui group showed up as a number of thick clouds on the horizon from the cockpit of an ancient but still serviceable DC-3, Carter had to wonder if he hadn't slipped backward in time.
They were bringing supplies down from Hall Island for the Hiva Faui Satellite Tracking and Receiving Station, and Tim Torrence, the sardonic civilian pilot, had nothing good to say about the place.
"The French may own it, and the Americans may work there, but the Chinese run the joint," the man said.
They had already begun their long descent, and the copilot, a little man from New Zealand, was just waking up. The cockpit smelled like a cross between lubricating oil and body odor. It was not very pleasant.
"What do you mean?" Carter asked. "I would have thought the Japanese would be here, if there were any Orientals."
Torrence laughed out loud. "You've got a lot to learn if you think anything like that. pal. The Japanese may have been here for the duration of the war, but right afterward they were either all killed or they hotfooted it back to their home islands."
"The Japanese aren't very well liked here? Still?"
"Still. But neither are the Chinese, for that matter, although the bastards are a fact of life."
They broke out of the intense cloud cover over the main island a few miles north of the end of the runway. Carter sat forward as they came in, and he got a good view of the sprawling satellite receiving station and the radar domes, four of them stark white in contrast to the dark green of the surrounding jungle. But even from here Carter could see where repairs were being made to a long, low brick building, and he could see that a number of the barrackslike structures were blackened by fire.
He swiveled around in his seat and looked toward the south, in the direction of a paved highway. "Where does the road lead?" he asked.
Odets, the copilot, glanced sleepily that way. "Town," he mumbled, and he turned back to the landing.
Torrence was very good. The DC-3 greased in for a landing on the paved runway, and soon they were pulling up and swinging around in front of a long, low building. The engines were cut, and Torrence looked around and grinned. "Here we are, pal, home sweet home. For you, that is."
Carter unstrapped from his seat and worked his way back to the cargo bay. Odets came back a moment later, undogged the main hatch, and shoved it open. The furnacelike heat hit them in a big rush at the same moment as a canvas-covered truck backed up to the open hatch. There were several men, all dressed in khaki, waiting below.
Carter jumped down, and Odets tossed down his two leather bags. A short, slightly built Chinese man scurried around the truck and scooped up Carter's bags, then hurried over to a jeep with them as a tall, rugged-looking man with red hair came over. Just behind him was an even taller, more heavyset man.
"Nick Carter?" the first man asked, extending his hand. Carter took it.
"Justin Owen?"
"That's right," the red-haired man replied. "I'm station manager out here, although these days that's nothing to brag about." He half turned as the other man came up. It seemed as if he were in pain. "I'd like you to meet my chief engineer, Handley Duvall."