Checkpoint Charlie

Sure, I thought. They’d picked a Mongol for the job because they wanted someone expendable and someone expert at outdoor maneuver — a man who could read the earth like an Apache and find an object that American eyes had missed. An animalistic soldier who could move across an enemy island without being trapped by the enemy.

In short he was formidable. Primitve but clever; simple but expert — a fighter, a survivor, a killer.

All this I understood with one look at him. And something else:

He wasn’t programmed to surrender.

*   *   *

HE CAME to his feet with slow menacing care. He kept looking from me to the machine pistol and back. Judging his chances. His eyes lingered a moment on my survival carbine. It was a high-velocity .22, very small and light. He was thinking he could absorb one or two of those and still live to kill me.

He wasn’t a technological sophisticate. There was something I knew that he didn’t know. I had an edge that had nothing to do with the gun in my hands. But just the same I faced a terrible dilemma.

I said in English, “I won’t kill you in cold blood. It’s not my style.”

I could see by the slight squint of his eyes that he didn’t understand my English. I went on, talking in a calm voice as you might talk to a skittish animal to calm it. “I can’t just walk away. You’d come after me. I can’t tie you up — if I get that close to you, you’ll find some way to get the better of me. I can try to take you down to the beach at gunpoint but that doesn’t have much appeal either. In this fog? You’d have too many chances to escape or jump me. Look, I want to get out of this alive.”

He only stood there, facing me, adamant.

I said in Russian, “Don’t try to reach the gun.”

He made no reply but from the flash of his eyes I knew he’d understood that. Stubborn, willful, he watched me with singleminded intensity.

I said reasonable, “You might kill me and get the box. But you can’t get off the island. We’ve driven your submarine away. You’re stranded here. Your only choice is to go back with me. I won’t hurt you if you don’t force it.”

With one hand I held the gun on him; with the other I wormed the radio out of its bag. I spoke into the mouthpiece in English:

“Shemya, this is Charlie Dark. I doubt you can hear me. But if you can, send a squad over here to help me out. I’ve got my hands full with a Mongolian Tatar who wants my guts for lunch.” I waited for a reply, got none, switched it off and fumbled to put it away.

He was motionless; his very stillness was menacing. His quick determined mind was racing visibly and I knew I’d never get him to the beach.

I spoke to him in English. “It’s splitting hairs and I’m going to hate myself for a hypocrite but I don’t see any other way to do this. You’re too healthy for me to contend with.”

He didn’t even blink.

I switched to Russian, defrauding him: “We’re going to walk down to the valley to the beach. You first.”

Then I turned my head as if to locate something in my pack.

It was the break he’d waited for. He pounced on the machine pistol, willing to take his chances, figuring he could survive my first shot or two, figuring my reaction time would be slow — an old fat soft American.

The weapon rode up in his grasp and in that broken instant of time I wondered if I’d guessed wrong. But it didn’t matter now. I didn’t bother to try to lift my carbine; it would have been a useless gesture. I saw the grim stubborn satisfaction in his eyes; a trace of puzzlement flicked across him but he was already committed: he pulled the trigger.

*   *   *

THE EXPLOSION rang in my ears. Pieces of heavy steel whacked into the walls of the trench. The Mongol wheeled back with a wail, blood streaming from his right hand in a gout. He sank to his knees and folded himself protectively over the shattered hand, grunting his agony.

I found the first-aid kit in my pack and tossed it to him. “Here. Bind it. We’ve got a long hike ahead of us.”

And hike we did. He was docile enough now; the injury had blown the fight out of him.

The chopper collected us at noon on Massacre Beach.

*   *   *

THE BASE COMMANDER drove me to the plane. When I got out of the car we shook hands. He said, “Thanks for bringing him in alive. We’ll milk him for every drop. But I still don’t understand how you brought it off.”

“I guess I didn’t play fair with him. I could have told him not to try to shoot that machine pistol. You can’t fire a weapon that’s got mud jammed up its muzzle. It won’t shoot — it’ll only explode.”

*   *   *

Charlie’s

Dodge

STREAKS OF FALLING GREY RAIN slanted across the silhouette of Sydney Harbor Bridge and when the taxi decanted me under the shelter of the porte-cochere canopy my poplin suit was still steamy from the dash at the airport. I carried my traveling bag inside the high-rise, found my way to the lifts and rode it up to the ninth floor.

The door had frosted glass and a legend: Australamerica Travel & Shipping Agency Ltd.—New York, Los Angeles, Sydney.

The girl at the reception desk sent me down a sterile hall. I could hear typewriters and Telexes in the warren of partitioned cubicles.

The conference room had wraparound plate glass; it was a corner suite. The view of the stormy city was striking.

Two men awaited me. The ash tray was a litter of butts and the styrofoam coffee cups had nothing left in them but smeared brown stains. Young Leonard Ross hurried like an officious bellboy to relieve me of the B-4 bag. “I hope you’ve got a spare suit in here. You’re drenched. How was the flight? Bill, I guess you know Charlie Dark?”

“Only by reputation.” The tall man came sinuously to shake my hand. “Good to meet you, Charlie. I’m Bill Jaeger, chief-of-station down here.”

When the amenities were out of the way and we’d sent out for sandwiches I settled my amplitude into a wooden armchair at the table. It was a bit of a squeeze. “Now what’s the flap?”

Ross said, “Didn’t Myerson brief you?”

“No.”

“That figures,” Jaeger said. “I may be stepping out of line but it baffles me how Myerson keeps his job.”

I let it lie. It wouldn’t have been useful to explain to Jaeger that Myerson keeps his job only because of me. Either Jaeger would refuse to believe it or he’d resent my conceit.

“The flap,” Ross said, “goes by the names of Myra Hilley and Iwan Stenback. They purport to be journalists.”

Jaeger made a face. “Underground press. They’re tearing our station to pieces.”

“Systematically,” Ross said. “Causing a great deal of embarrassment for both the Australians and us.” Then a wan smile: “You and I were sent in to get rid of them for Bill. Actually that’s not quite accurate. You were sent to get rid of them. I was sent to hold your coat.” With his collegiate good looks Ross was the picture of earnest i

A girl brought us a tray of sandwiches and rattled something at Jaeger in ’Stryne — I didn’t get but one word in four; the accent was more impenetrable than Cockney. Jaeger said, “I’ll have to call them back later.” The girl smiled, nodded, departed, legs swishing; Ross’s eyes followed her until she was gone.

Jaeger was one of those lanky Gary Cooperish people who seem to have flexible bones rather than joints. I knew him as he knew me: by reputation. Easygoing but efficient — a good station chief, reliable, but not the sort you’d want ru