“If he won’t do it, I will! Tell him.”
Willow and I took turns overseeing the barge master’s compliance. We passed the guard post unchallenged. I went forward to look at Martin. He was having fever chills although he did his best to conceal them. He refused to come astern to the wheelhouse. He wanted to stay at his lookout post. I didn’t argue that the river ahead could be seen best from the pilot’s position.
The detailed charts of the river were old but useful. From them I calculated the distance to the rendezvous point with the rescue sub. It would end its two hour standby at 5:10 AM. I looked at my watch. “Ask him what our speed is,” I requested.
The answer he gave Willow sounded right, but it didn’t fit my time frame. The river current gave a three knot boost to the coal boat’s speed, but we were still going to arrive too late. Twenty minutes late, I figured. And ten minutes after that, sunrise would be on us.
There was no way we could survive through another day waiting for the time the sub would be on station the second time. Under the circumstances, with the entire Vietnamese countryside and armed forces alerted, I was sure there wouldn’t be a second time. The submarine would be recalled, leaving us stranded.
We had this one opportunity only.
If we missed it, we’d be written off for sure.
“Tell Captain Whiskers to increase to maximum speed,” I said to Willow.
He balked when she gave him the order. “He says we’re going as fast as we safely can now,” Willow repeated the man’s comments.
I believed the old river pirate. The throttle was up to the three-quarters point on the quadrant. I reached over and shoved it all the way forward. The engine picked up speed. It rumbled and whined. The old man snatched back the throttle, raising his voice in protest.
“He’s says the engine can’t take it. It can run at full power for a short time before it will tear itself apart. It sounded like it would. If he loses his engine, he could lose his barge.”
“He’ll lose his ass to the eels if he doesn’t,” I snapped. “Tell him he can either add three knots to our speed or start walking. And he’s got five seconds to make up his mind.”
It looked like he wasn’t going to do it. I reached over again and jammed the throttle ahead. The engine began laboring. The skipper glared at me. He drew the control back a full inch, then held up three fingers and shook them at me.
A half hour later we passed a navigation buoy. I took another fix. We had increased speed a shade over three knots.
I didn’t think I could sleep, but I did — seated on the floor of the pilothouse while Willow kept the barge master company. When I awoke we switched places. Willow got two hours of sleep. Martin was as comfortable as we could make him in the bow. He didn’t want to be moved. The night remained warm with no appreciable wind, but I covered him with a blanket taken from a locker in the wheelhouse anyway. Martin slept fitfully, groaning in his sleep. I felt his forehead. It was warm to the touch, but not feverish. Willow had loaded him with aspirin.
After four o’clock I remained awake. The river widened slowly as we approached the sea. The water surface turned choppy as it mingled with the saltwater of the Gulf of Tonkin. A string of lights dotted the northern shore. The dark land mass on our left six miles away was Pho Cac Ba Island.
I thought our speed was falling off, but it was the change in wave action that made it seem so. All seemed serene and quiet. My spirits lifted. We were going to arrive well within the set time limits for the pickup. We were going to make it after all.
Willow jumped to her feet. She turned up the volume control on the radio receiver. “There. I know I heard it. The river patrol is calling this barge number. There it is again!”
I took Wilhelmina out again and held it two feet from the skipper’s head. I snatched up the microphone and gave it to him. “Tell him I’m very nervous so he’d better be careful of what he says.”
The man’s hand was trembling when he took the mike. I hoped his shaky voice wouldn’t give us away. He answered the call. I watched Willow’s face. She frowned then clamped her lips together. “It’s the second guard watch station. They want a position report.”
I jabbed my finger down on the chart, placing it six miles upstream from where we actually were. It coincided roughly with where we would be if we’d been moving at normal speed. The old man understood, but hesitated. I rammed the gun muzzle into his thin ribs. He grunted, then spoke into the radio mike.
The reply that came back was a series of short orders. Willow briefed me. “We’re to pull in when we come up to the guard station. Seems they know we passed up the first checkpoint.”
I looked at my watch again. “We’ll run the gauntlet. Have him radio back a Wilco.” Willow instructed the boatman who reluctantly acknowledged the instructions.
When he completed his message, I shoved the throttle up to its forward stop. The engine coughed, then surged to full power. I waved Wilhelmina meaningfully at the skipper to let him know my decision was irreversible.
The submarine would hold on station for another eighty minutes. My figures showed we should reach it in fifty-five minutes. Almost half an hour to spare. With the extra speed gained by using maximum power, we’d have even more cushion.
After twenty minutes, I pushed on the wheel, urging the boatman to cut closer to the point. The barge had a shallow raft. Even fully loaded, there was no danger of running aground. I wanted to stay in the lee of the land to avoid any slowdown by gulf currents.
We were close — less than three hundred yards from the Kian An harbor. There the water could hardly be seen because hundreds of sampans and junks were massed together, gunwale to gunwale, and stem to stem in a seemingly endless expanse of floating craft. The bay at that point was almost totally carpeted with boats in an unbelievable demonstration of human togetherness.
It was difficult not to be impressed as we approached. The mind-blowing rows of lashed-together craft stretched all along the shore and into the bay. Every rocking, naked mast had a light at its tip. In the dark, the lights looked like bobbing fireflies. The illusion burst when the straining engine growled, then gave off clanking noises before turning silent. I waited for it to surge back into life, but nothing happened.
The barge began losing headway, although its inertia would carry it a long way. The old skipper, a true sailor, spun the wheel to head for open water.
I brushed him aside. With one hand I jiggled the throttle while reversing the wheel with the other. I pressed the starter button. It churned but the engine refused to start. The heavy, coal-laden barge plowed on, carrying us toward the outer row of junks. We stared silently as the gap between the scow and the anchored boats narrowed. A voice crackled over the radio. “That’s the river patrol calling us again!” Willow cried out.
“Forget it,” I snapped back. “Grab our stuff. We’re getting off. Where’s Martin?”
“Right behind you,” his deep voice told me. I shot him a glance. His chest was puffed out from the wrapped-up MIA documents safely tucked under his knitted turtleneck pullover. The Soviet AK-47 from Willow’s rooftop victim was slung over his shoulder. Willow steadied the helm while I worked my arms into the harness of the knapsack containing the mass of vital intelligence data we had acquired. Willow wore the pack that held the oxygen bottles, goggles, and breathing masks used during the glide-chute descent that now seemed half a lifetime ago.
We were getting close to the bunched sampans. “Get out on the starboard side and be ready to jump,” I ordered. “I’ll try to bring us close alongside. Then we’ll board. Go over the decks to the very last boat. We’ll commandeer that one.”
My words were cut off by a piercing, hooting noise coming from low on the water behind us. Upon hearing it, the barge skipper leered and spit out some contemptuous-sounding words at Willow’s back. She spun around to be met by his triumphant grin. “That hooting — it’s the river patrol!” she hammered at me.