The Voice of Night
TROPICAL rain had begun to fall at supper time, and when the sun had dropped over the horizon to leave the world in darkness, water ran in torrents along the scuppers and crashed against the steel plates of the decks.
Hawk, heedless of the fact that he was clad only in thin dungarees and that the water had long ago soaked him through, sat in solitary vigil near the compressors and stared straight ahead without seeing the rain. For an hour he had remained motionless, mulling over the events of the day and pondering a course of action that might reasonably assure him of victory.
He didn’t know what strange thing he faced, and he could not explain the cause of the day’s disaster. He knew that Chuck Mercer, of Ocean Salvage, was someway involved, but just how anyone could so strike a salvage ship without showing themselves even for the briefest instant was the problem. He was reasonably sure that Vick Stanton had little to do with it, even though she might be in Mercer’s pay.
And then his thoughts were interrupted by the pounding of a diesel engine from the side of the Stingaree. Motionless, he listened, his thoughts a whirlpool. It might be a Haitian boat out to contest the Stingaree’s right to salvage off the island coast. Again it might be…
A voice floated to him through the rain-drenched darkness.
“Go away, I tell you! Go away! They’re fully armed, and you wouldn’t stand a chance. They have machine guns, understand? Machine guns and depth bombs are waiting for you. Yes, you were seen yesterday, so go! It’s the only way you can save yourself.”
Hawk stiffened and felt his heart beating in his throat. The person who spoke was Vick Stanton!
“One side!” rasped a voice Hawk failed to recognize. “We’ll clear them up here and now. This is our game, not theirs.”
Hawk’s hand went to his belt, where a Colt .45 nestled coldly inside his waistband. He stood up, balancing himself against the pitch of the anchored ship, and tried to locate the direction of the voices. Then, as cool and deliberate as a duelist, he strode across the slippery steel, his automatic tight in his fingers.
Dark shadows loomed ahead, and the pounding of the engine grew louder. Hawk stopped and drew in his breath.
“Come aboard, gentlemen, come aboard!” he snapped. “I believe we have a little score to settle.”
A tension so vivid that it was tangible struck silence to the ship. Then a hoarse tumble of words came:
“It’s Ridley! Sweep him down!”
“But the girl!”
“The devil with the girl! Fire!”
Hawk dropped to the deck as though struck and an instant later the sledgehammer blows of a stuttering machine gun crashed out just over his head. Cadmium flame streaked away from the red ball of fire at the gun’s muzzle, and the crack of lead on steel drowned the night in savage, imperious tumult.
Hawk leveled the .45 and sighted the caldron of powder flame before him to send a well-placed shot above the gun. A scream, dying as a body arched into the sea, came from the side of the Stingaree, and Hawk fired again. For an instant there was silence, save for the crash of water. Then a bellow of rage blasted down from the bridge.
“One side, Hawk,” roared Captain Gregory. “I’ve got a party fixed for those birds!”
The icy white streak of a searchlight leaped down from the superstructure and threw the entire well deck into a brilliance rivaling day. An instant later, pistols and rifles began to hammer through the light.…
Before him Hawk saw two masts and a round steel bulk which jutted up beyond the ship’s rail, and the surface was studded with swiftly moving men. The bulk seemed to split apart and, an instant later, light-blinded men leaped down to the deck of the salvage ship—a boarding party fully as determined as any pirate horde had been three hundred years before in the same waters. Bodies crumpled under the fire from above, but the invaders were not stayed.
Hawk rolled away from his exposed position into the protection of a hatchway and from there began to snipe away with all the harsh relentlessness born with the death of Stokey.
Men of the Stingaree were now sweeping down from the superstructure, to stay the rush before the attackers could barricade themselves on the ship. Hawk caught a blurred glimpse of Vick Stanton as she ran back into the shelter of a passageway, and even in this taut moment of battle, he wondered what possible connection she could have with the attack.
Two Stingaree sailors came up abreast Hawk. He jumped to his feet, threw up his arm in the time-honored signal of charge, and swept straight at the thickest of the boarding party. Voices mingled with the clatter of hammering guns and now and then a high-pitched scream told of a bullet taking its toll.
A fight-maddened brute caught Hawk with a mighty hand. Hawk saw a timely glint of a belaying pin as it swept down toward his skull, and twisted away. There came the crunch of brass striking his shoulder and then, just as the blow went home, he fired straight into the face of his assailant, blotting out the bared teeth and narrowed dark eyes.
As the body sagged away from him, Hawk saw Gregory wading in, furious.
There were perhaps fifteen in the boarding party, most of them black and stripped to the waist, the rain pelting against their bare skin. In the glow of the searchlight, their teeth glittered hard and white, and the knives, revolvers and belaying pins threw back a savage fanfare of brilliance.
Hawk fended blows as he sought to discover the leader, but his height made him a target for the center of the rush and he was unable to catch more than an occasional view of the entire melee. All he could see was flailing arms and weaving legs, and his own fists were valiantly battering down any who came within reach.
He felt arms encircle him from behind, but before he could twist about, the grip tightened and he was borne aloft with incredible rapidity and flung a dozen feet along the slippery plates. He brought up against a bitt and scrambled to his feet, but while he was still crouched, a second bulk crashed into him and threw his head down between the iron blocks. A fist caught him on the temple, and the blow was repeated before Hawk managed to free his arms and reach up to drag his attacker down.
The fellow howled under the force of the rib-cracking grip and kicked up with a knee in an attempt to catch Hawk in the groin. Teeth sank into Hawk’s shoulder and he brought up a hand to crash the man’s skull into the iron bitt. This time the invader went limp. Hawk managed to crawl from under in time to meet a concentrated rush of men.
By now the fight had spread out and the invaders had succeeded in penetrating through to the limits of the searchlight. Shots from passageways and from behind ventilators were beginning to take their toll of the Stingaree’s men, and with a quick glance about him, Hawk made a break for the shadows.
He found Gregory crouched behind a locker, automatic in hand.
“They’re all through the ship!” Gregory snorted. “We’ll play hell clearing them out tonight. What’ll we do?”
“Hunt them down!” snapped Hawk. “They’re here to wreck us and the equipment, and perhaps to find the charts of the wreck.”
“Who are they?”
“How should I know? They came over the side from a boat of some sort. I thought they were Haitians at first, but they all speak English. It’s some of Mercer’s work. Get that devil behind that ventilator.”
The captain carefully sighted the crouching shadow which was silhouetted against the lighted deck, and the man pitched forward and sprawled lifeless, the rain seeming to beat him down and hold him where he fell.
“Come aft,” Hawk ordered. “We’ll pick them, somehow.”
Together they slipped toward the stern, taking advantage of whatever cover offered itself, until they were under the bridge and could make their way with reasonable safety. Hawk found an enemy hovering in a passageway, but before he could do more than send a parting shot, the man disappeared up a ladder. Hawk lowered his smoking .45.
“Collect some of the crew together and make a search. Be quick! Anything might happen! I’m going above to my cabin.”
“Why?” asked Gregory.
“Because I think I have a caller. It’s impolite to keep people waiting, you know.” Hawk gave the captain a crooked grin and swung himself up a hatchway.
For some seconds, he crouched outside his cabin listening. From below came the sound of an occasional shot and the throb of the diesel engine, and now and then a hushed voice penetrated the slither of rain. He gripped his Colt automatic and cautiously thrust in the door, stepping aside, ready to shoot.
“Come out!” he ordered.
Nothing moved in the room. Hawk, standing in the faint blue light of a passageway lamp, spoke again.
“Come out! You won’t find anything!”
It was taking a chance to step through the door, for the room was in darkness and the passageway would silhouette whoever tried to enter, but Hawk catapulted himself inside the room and dropped, with the same light motion, to the floor. Flame spat at the place where he had passed the light, and then, aside from hoarse breathing, silence reigned again.
“Drop the gun!” snapped Hawk. “I can see you against the port.”
Something crashed against a chair as the intruder leaped away from the supposed light, and Hawk snapped a shot in the direction of the sound. The slug cracked twice into steel before it whined out into the passageway, but from the interloper came no sound.
Cautiously, Hawk raised himself up until he could reach the light switch beside the door, and then, gun held ready, he flipped the button on, switched it off, and dived away just as his visitor fired. The one glance Hawk had taken around the room had told him but little. He knew that the intruder was small and dressed in black, and that there was something vaguely familiar about the man’s attitude. For fear that his shots would ricochet to his own disadvantage, Hawk crept silently forward, groping with outstretched hands for the legs of his opponent.
Seconds flicked by before Hawk encountered a leg. Then he snatched back with all his strength and brought a body crashing upon him. Hands reached for Hawk’s throat and a gun butt cracked into the floor before he succeeded in rolling over on top of the squirming body. The elation of victory surged up in Hawk as he felt his fists smash the face of the man he held down. Then a fleeting instant turned the tables and the cabin flooded with light.
Hawk tried to leap away from danger, but he was too late. Something crashed into his head. He felt the cabin spin about him, and then, fighting to stay conscious, he slipped to the floor and was engulfed in blackness.