“An hour or two at the most,” Hawker promised. “We have a master ignition system laid out. One punch on the plunger and you’ll see more hell around here than you ever did at Pearl Harbor.”
Stark doubted that but didn’t say so. However, the words bolstered his confidence in the job that had to be done. He’d seen other men of the same breed; they usually produced.
Hawker continued, “Personally, I hate to see it happen. I’ve got a lot of my life tied up here—some pretty damned hard-working, sweaty years. I’ve watched this place grow from a hole in the jungles.” He flung his arm reminiscently toward the compound.
“Rough,” Stark murmured.
“Hell, yes, it’s rough, but I suppose it can’t be helped. From what I hear, we haven’t the chance of a virgin in sailor town. They say the main Jap fleet is streaming down from the Philippines like sardines.” He stared tentatively at the ONI man.
“Maybe so, but the orders are to wait until the last possible moment.” Stark smiled grimly. “How would you like to destroy a fifty-million-dollar plant and then have the island hold?”
Hawker laughed boisterously. “Damned if I wouldn’t have to get another job.”
“Uh-huh, me too.”
Hawker banged the desk and bellowed, “Boy . . . beer!”
A scurrying came from the other side of the door and a barefooted Javanese servant clad in a sarong carried in a tray containing the beer and glasses. He placed it on the desk and waited respectfully.
“Get out,” Hawker thundered. As the servant wheeled and disappeared, he winked. “You’ve got to talk that way.” he explained. “Treat ’em polite and your name’s mud.”
“Has he been listening all the time?” Stark asked casually.
“Hell, yes, he has. Them gooks are all ears,” he replied. “Obak—that’s my houseboy there—knows more about what’s going on than I do.”
“Maybe too much,” Stark suggested gently.
The superintendent smiled meaningfully. “I get the low-down, Mr. Stark, and that’s what it takes to run this business. I know every fact from the details about Hodges’ nympho wife to exactly how many drops of oil come from each well and, believe me, that’s important.”
“Who’s Hodges?”
“My assistant . . . a damned drunk,” he complained. “I would’ve replaced him a long time ago except the next one probably wouldn’t be any better. White men don’t last long out here. White women neither.” He gulped the beer and continued: “This war’s scared him silly. He’d take off now if he could, only he can’t. Not till I give the word, and that won’t happen till we blow the works.”
“How about the natives—any trouble there?”
“None to speak of.” He didn’t explain the statement.
“Much white help?” Stark asked.
“A few Texans and Oklahomans as field supervisors. They’re about the only people who know anything about oil,” he explained. Stark nodded politely, thinking the beer tasted good. “We’ve also got a white doctor, fellow named Ebell,” Hawker added.
“American?”
Hawker nodded. “From ’Frisco. He came out here six or eight years ago after his wife died. His daughter’s with him now. She came last year.”
“How old?”
“Old enough.” Hawker smiled evilly. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve all tried and failed—she’s colder than an iceberg.”
Stark thought he could see why but refrained from saying so. He’d seen other so-called icebergs—had watched them melt. Like Elena, whom he’d met in London a few years before while a junior member of a military mission. Tall and cool and composed, she, too, had been an iceberg, or so several of his fellow officers had informed him. He had probed the iceberg, read its message. Tall and cool and composed, but the thaw had been something to remember.
The superintendent gulped the last of his beer. “You might as well meet the wife, then we’ll have a look around.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “You’d better not ask too many questions. You’re supposed to be an oil man.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not sinkeh,” Stark answered. The native word for “newcomer” brought a startled glance.
“You’ve been in this neighborhood before,” Hawker accused.
“Some.” The ONI man’s face remained blank.
Hawker grunted, then led him through a door into the main part of the house. A number of rattan long chairs were casually grouped near several couches placed to catch any stray breezes from a large overhead fan which, at the moment, Obak was operating by means of a pull rope. A variety of woven mats and Oriental rugs covered the hardwood flooring. Four swinging copper lamps, each of a different size and shape, hung in the corners. He traced the pungent odor of incense to some green candles burning atop a writing desk in one corner.
A stir came from one end of the room and a native woman arose from a couch to meet them. Stark caught the impression of a slender figure clad in white; smooth, even Oriental features framed by a net of abundant black hair before Hawker said, “Selinda, my wife.” Hawker glanced at the ONI man, nodding. “This is Mr. Stark . . . of the head office.”
“How do you do, Mr. Stark.” He acknowledged her greeting with a smile, momentarily speechless and feeling a trifle gauche. Her body might be Oriental, he reflected, but her manner and speech were very much European.
“We weren’t expecting you,” she was saying.
“The war . . . schedules,” he murmured.
“Oh, I know.” Her face was slender, almost doll-like, and he found himself thinking she was very beautiful.
“You have a pleasant home,” he added.
“But not as nice as home.” She smiled demurely. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thank you. Just had one,” he replied gravely.
They chatted for a few minutes before Hawker said, “Have a seat; I’ll be right back.”
He walked toward a kitchen visible in the rear and Stark glanced around, waiting until she settled into a long chair before sitting on one of the couches.
“Will you be here long?” she asked.
A closer glance told him she was not a full-blooded Malay. Although face and figure were Oriental, she had the unmistakable impression of European.
Weighing his answer, he decided to take a plunge. “I don’t know. I’m really trying to get some information.” He stopped, waiting, watching her face.
“About the field? I think it’s terrible it has to go,” she said. “Mike has
