Danny Mellin couldn’t walk properly. Conditions on the PLA navy destroyer that had picked him, Sheng, and the guard from the raft along with other survivors of the torpedo attack against the Jianghu frigate had been so crowded that his right leg had gone to sleep. As he walked, or rather limped, down the gangplank toward the waiting POW trucks, he had little sensation in his right leg. He didn’t know where he was except that it was a Chinese naval port, given the number of destroyer frigates and fast-attack patrol boats moored there. As they parted company, Sheng said something to him, laughing at him, dismissing him with the contempt of a man who had been down a little while before but who was now clearly on the winning side.
“You prick!” Mellin said. “Should’ve let the sharks—” The next instant he was down on the dockside, his head numbed by the blow, blood oozing from the left side of his face. A PLA soldier clubbed him again with the AK-47’s stock, this time in the stomach.
Somebody, an Australian by his accent, helped Danny up. “Easy does it, mate. These jokers ‘ave no bloody sense of humor at all.” The same guard pushed the Australian in the small of the back. Both Danny and the Australian kept quiet, half climbing, half pushed up the tailgate of one of the three-ton trucks loaded with an assortment of captured rig workers. Two PLA navy guards, including the one who’d just struck him, rode at the end of the two benches of about ten POWs each, the AK-47s unslung, ready to fire. As the truck took off with a jerk that jarred everybody aboard, the Australian held up his hand. “Hey, Thumper,” he called out to the guard who’d just clubbed Mellin. “You got any water? Me mate here,” he indicated Mellin, “looks pretty badly dehydrated.”
“Up shut!” yelled the other guard. “You up shut!”
“All right,” the Aussie said. “Piss on you too.”
Mellin could see the guard starting to move toward the Australian, but the ride was so rough the guard stayed where he was, glaring at them, holding on to one of the truck’s two high roll bars. The Australian waited till the truck was climbing a hill, its engine in a high scream, the guards glancing at some peasant women walking along the roadside.
“Name’s Mike Murphy. What’s yours?”
“Mellin, Danny.”
“You a rigger?” Murphy asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“I tease Chinese.”
“Yeah, well, be careful.”
“Not to worry.”
“You been—” Mellin’s mouth was so dry he could barely talk. “—interrogated yet?”
“No,” Murphy said, and for the first time a shadow of alarm crossed the Aussie’s face.