Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  Jeff was confused.

  “Jadovovic survived,” she continued. “Because you shattered his larynx he will never talk, but he has been able to pass on your last exchange with Andrei Tomolov. Although Tomolov knew you were bluffing about being tied to the Russian government, Jadovovic totally believed it, and he appears to have convinced others.”

  “Perhaps that will slow them down a bit.”

  Tanya nodded. “The death of their leaders and the rumor of an organized and informed task force working against them will prevent the Russian mafia from taking any significant international action for some time. We have won another battle. Your modus operandi has proven successful again. Things worked out very well.”

  Jeff tilted his head and stared down at his chest, which was decorated with bandages. He took a deep breath and sighed. Pain arced through his ribs with each breath. He said sullenly, “Yes, very well indeed.”

  13. A Drinking Club with a Running Problem

  Year 2014

  PETUR LOOKED FORWARD to Saturdays because that was when everyone ran the Hash.

  It had started with Evan Harrigan, of all people. He had not expected that Professor Harrigan would have any interests outside his laboratory, but he had been pleasantly surprised. Evan had brought the Hash to the Island. He had been surreptitiously running Hashes for years.

  It caught on like wildfire. Only seven people took part in the first run. The next had twelve; then twenty. It was now the fourth month running the Hash, Petur’s sixth month on Paradise 1, and every week more than one hundred people participated. Still more people were showing up. It was becoming a pastime for the whole island.

  He laughed as he dressed, and even more when he gazed at himself in the mirror. His blond hair was unkempt and he was unshaven. His face still betrayed signs of exhaustion from a late night: it was pale with dark shadings under each eye. But the most obvious sign that he was about to run a Hash was his obnoxious clothes. He wore black dacron tights with aquamarine socks pulled up to his knees. Purple shorts covered the black tights. Two cartoon footprints and the phrase “On-On” emblazoned his buttocks in large black letters. Pink writing emblazoned his hash name, ‘DUR,’ on his bright yellow T-shirt. He put on a silver plastic Viking cap with horns. A battery supplied power to the flashing green and yellow lights around the brim.

  It was a beautiful day in paradise, as Jack Gaimey always said. The crowd had already gathered by the time he arrived — a cacophony of outlandishly colored outfits. Most everyone had Hash names, often not acceptable in polite company.

  Irish Spring, as Evan Harrigan was known, called out to the crowd, “The hares are off!” At that point, one of the young technicians and another young man, the resort’s new sailing instructor, began jogging down the road. They each had a fluorescent orange shirt that proclaimed “HARE” in bold letters, and a leather satchel full of flour over their shoulder. As they ran, one of them, every twenty meters or so, would toss some flour on the ground to mark the trail. After half a minute, the two had turned around the bend and were lost to view.

  The remaining Hashers went back to their conversations, some sipping at the plentiful lemonade provided by Professor Harrigan. Petur sidled up to Isaac, whom he had not spoken to all week, slapped him on the back, and said, “Hey Lewd and Lascivious, how do you think you will hold up today? You should be near death by the end of the day!”

  “I will cover the trail like a cougar, with celerity and grace,” answered Isaac. “Although from time to time, I will turn into a vulture, soaring past my fellow Hashers, stopping only to feast upon those who have fallen on the journey…” Isaac looked off into the sky, as if he were peering into the future. “And how are you today DUR? Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “All is well in administration land, Ol’Timer. To a great extent, I am working myself out of a job.”

  Isaac made a wry smile, tapping his forehead with his index finger, then pointing at Petur. “Now you may be able to sit back and relax some.”

  “Yes, perhaps I should do just that. Things are on autopilot now. No one has tried to poison me lately, and with the OTEC on its way in just a few months, I have only good things to look forward to. I just have to make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  “You’ve already done that. I still don’t believe anyone ever tried to poison you, and the OTEC will be here soon enough. It is now up to the gods to lead us to our destiny. And speaking of that, have you heard any rumors about where the Hares are running today?”

  “Not a one. With those guys leading the Hash, though, we could be running around the whole island!”

  Someone called out loudly from the crowd, “Are there any more Virgins out there? You need to sign in!” A few people who had never run a Hash were encouraged by others to scribble their names illegibly on a scrap piece of paper that was then thrown away. Among them was Joseph Onbacher. Petur smiled as he saw that the visitor, and first investor in the Island Project, was going to run his first Hash.

  Petur could overhear the man who called the virgins say, “We will provide all you virgins with a Hash name later after we ask you some question. And don’t worry about answering with the truth. Truth has nothing to do with your Hash name.” Petur knew the ‘virgins’ were headed for fun times at the end of the Hash. These poor folk simply had no idea what to expect. All they knew was that they would probably not be dead at the end of the day — probably.

  After a few more minutes, the same man shouted, “Tally ho!” and the crowd of people began jogging down the road, following the sequence of flour splotches left on the ground by the preceding Hares. Petur took up a slow pace alongside Isaac, comfortably sauntering in the middle of the pack. Naturally, Onbacher joined the two and jogged along with surprising ease.

  “I didn’t know you were a runner, Joseph,” Petur freely admitted.

  “I’m not. Used to be fairly athletic though, and despite my belly, I’m not really in that bad shape.” Onbacher poked a finger into Isaac’s shoulder. “Besides, this old con artist told me I would not have to run all that much.”

  “Well, don’t have a heart attack on your first Hash!” quipped Isaac. “You would miss the post-Hash celebrations. And that would be a shame. Especially since I’m sure there will be efforts to humiliate me for wearing these brand new sneakers.”

  “New sneakers are a problem, are they?” Joseph looked anxiously down at his own old, but hardly used, running shoes.

  “An opportunity will be given to you to drink large beer to pay for the sin,” Isaac huffed in response.

  Onbacher smiled. “Well, I like beer. Especially large beer. Perhaps I should change my plans and move to Paradise permanently.”

  Every half-minute or so, one of the faster runners up ahead would shout “On-On” indicating that the next splotch of flour was being passed and that the trail was continuing. With the various levels of fitness among the runners of the Hash, it was not long at all before the pack thinned out considerably, with those up ahead far out of ear- and eyeshot of those in the rear-guard. As this occurred, the middle of the pack added their own “On-Ons” to help keep people on the scent.

  Soon the island was echoing the “On-Ons,” encouraging the Hashers to keep their spirits up. Some of the eager beavers who had darted off rapidly from the first were now backing off their pace — several had started walking. Petur, Isaac, and Joseph kept their slow steady rhythm, and passed more and more of the runners.

  They jogged up through the airfield and turned onto the winding road up to the telecommunications center, and then off road onto a dirt path through the jungle. Ahead, a fast runner yelled, “False Trail!” The trailing runners halted, and groaned. As one, they turned around and looked back up the steep grade they had just descended, knowing that the hares had tricked them by laying a false trail of flour. They would have to go back and find the right trail. One man called loudly to the slower runners behind, letting them know to turn around. They all began a long run back to a m
ark shaped like a peace sign on the ground where the false trail had begun. It took much longer to ascend this road than to descend it, and by the time they returned to the fork, most of the trailing pack caught up, and ran ahead on what they thought was the correct trail. False trails were the great equalizer. The fastest runners were now at the back of the pack.

  Petur, Isaac, and Joseph resumed their slow and steady pace as they carefully navigated the rough and rocky path through the trees and brush. The three men were now at the absolute back of the pack. This was a route that neither Isaac nor Petur had ever traveled. Petur had no idea why it was even here. And Joseph had no clue where he was. Of course, as with any growing town, the transportation network quickly grows beyond that envisioned by the original planners, as individuals in the community locate places they wish to visit and things to do which the planners could never have conceived of. Indeed, this was one of dozens of similar paths on the island. Most of them had been given names, sometimes by the children, sometimes by the adults, but usually, the names just seemed to happen. It was part of the developing culture on Paradise 1.

  Petur’s favorite path had somehow been named the Fairy Path. Word had it that this had to do not with homosexuality, but rather with the more traditional use of the term. The path was well-named, for lining it were dozens of rare and exotic plants, most exceptionally the huge mushrooms which came up to a man’s knee and had the shape of round tables. Surrounding each large mushroom were several smaller ones, which appeared like stools, like a dining room. Other areas on that path where the sun was better able to penetrate had a variety of crocuses, lady slippers, and fine tall grasses. The morning dews, forming intricate lacey webs in the grass, added magical sparkle to the undergrowth, and the place appeared as a fairy kingdom. Standing still, early in the morning, one could hear the gentle whispering of the ferns opening to greet the day. Families particularly enjoyed that path, because it was the easiest route to the Pink Sand Beach. The children built fairy houses with shells, sticks and leaves, often several stories high, and with intricate paths and pools. Or maybe it wasn’t the children at all.

  In contrast to the Fairy Path, the path upon which he now ran was not nice at all. It was tortuous, wet, and slippery. Several times Petur fell when his sneaker slipped on a poorly rooted patch of moss. The palms of his hands bore the brunt and they were now dirty and roughened. Blood seeped through the rips in his skin. Isaac’s new sneakers were able to grasp the ground better, so he had fallen only once. But it was an impressive tumble; he landed directly on his left buttock with a loud thud and a soft groan to indicate that he would bear the wounds of this Hash for some time.

  They had been climbing uphill for what seemed like ages. This part of the path was a steep climb up a mossy cliff; it was totally unsuitable for running. That did not make it unsuitable for a Hash, however. Petur marveled that there were no dead and broken bodies lying at the base of the bluff, as he wondered for a moment how fast rescuers might be able to come to someone’s aid here. But this island was for risk takers, and not for people who wanted to slug along in the perception of security. Dr. Standall would be able to manage any minor injuries that may occur — he hoped. Petur ran faster along the dangerous trail.

  The two older men were ahead of Petur now and were struggling to pull themselves up the steep slope on their hands and knees toward the top of a ridge. They proceeded past a splotch of flour that had been carefully placed in a patch of moss to the side of the main path. It was encouraging, at least, that they were following the correct course. Isaac reached the top of the ridge a moment before Joseph, and he stood up and stared. He called back to Petur, “I think you will like this! It is definitely worth the trip!”

  They stood at the crest of a vast ridge, along which they had free vision both ways for over a kilometer. Far below them, a surprisingly gentle surf rolled up a rather short and steep beach. Obscured partly by a canopy of overlying tree branches, this beach was different than the others on Paradise 1. Instead of either pink or black, this was a mix of both sands. The sand made of light pink coral fragments ran in long lines parallel to the water, and intermingled with thick bands of black obsidian particles. It looked like zebra fur. Petur had not seen anything like it.

  It was not a large beach, and as Petur gazed downward he could see no easy access to it from the land side. It was nearly a straight drop down from where they were now and high ridges surrounded it on all sides. The approach from the sea was not any more welcoming. The coral reef one hundred meters off shore here revealed its particular treachery in the form of a crescent of foaming, broiling water. No surface vessel would cross this defensive ring intact. Even the mighty ocean swells were humbled as they hurled themselves against the living barricade, leaving as evidence of their power thick layers of spray and mist above the surface: an opaque wall of water.

  Petur realized now why he had never seen this place before. He had circumnavigated the island by boat several times, and he had noted the mist along the reef on each occasion. The mist was like fog on a pane of glass; it blurred the seagoer’s vision of this incredible segment of paradise within. And as it was so close to the base of the mountain peak above, it was not on any common flight path to the island. Jack Gaimey must have known about that wonderful beach, though he had never mentioned it.

  He gazed along the ridge. To his right, far above to the northeast, he could see the telecommunications station and observatory above the jungle — a solid symbol of the high technology that the Island project was involved in. The only other signs of humanity visible from this vantage were the several dozen people still working their way gradually up along the ridge in the general direction of the big satellite dish. Above the din of the surf, the men at the back of the pack could hear the occasional cry of “On-On” prompting the pack to go on.

  Isaac looked down at his feet and motioned to his friends. On the ground, barely visible, was a circle with a Y in its midst. The Hash mark indicated, possibly, the beginning of a false trail. An arrow pointed toward the receding crowd ahead. Nothing pointed down the ridge to the southwest. Apparently no one had looked for the Hash trail in that direction. This raised an intriguing possibility, and the two experienced Hashers shared a knowing smile. Although unlikely, the remainder of the crowd just might be following another false trail. The young men who were serving as the hares were fast runners and their combined efforts could lay long and arduous false trails. Isaac and Petur turned to their left, away from the rest of the pack, and marched steadily down the ridge.

  Joseph called down to them, “Everyone else is going this way.” He pointed up the ridge to his right.

  “The worst thing that can happen is that we have a nice relaxing walk across the island,” said Petur.

  Isaac responded, “I don’t like the idea of missing the post-Hash revelry. But, it’s worth the gamble. Come on Joseph. We know what we’re doing.”

  Onbacher trotted down toward them, a bit bewildered.

  They left the zebra beach behind, and now looked down upon the standard shoreline of this part of the island. It was still beautiful, but there was no sand here. Here were the steep black basalt cliffs, with the large ocean waves eroding them in an incessant barrage. The spray from the assaulting water was beautiful — each wave pounded furiously into the base of the cliff, as if trying to tear the island asunder. A dual rainbow, one crescent parallel to the other but with opposing light spectrums, floated weightlessly above the water.

  “This is beautiful, DUR,” noted Isaac, using Petur’s Hash name, “but we have come a long way without picking up the trail. I expect we lost our little gamble.”

  “You speak too soon, Ol’ Timer. Look there!”

  Just ahead, as if magically placed, was an entirely out-of-place splotch of fine white powder.

  “DUR is not so stupid,” said Petur as he winked at Joseph. He liked his Hash name. It was short for “Icelander” with a change in spelling to reflect the spelling of his first name. �
�I just hope that this one is not the false trail! It easily could be, you know.”

  Isaac nodded, and the three men moved on. They ran at a gentle trot — just enough speed to keep them huffing. Exercise was one of the points of the Hash, after all.

  It seemed that the narrow and steeply sloping route, although navigable, had not ever been traveled. Their general direction seemed to be down and back toward the zebra striped beach.

  Just as Petur was about to give up on this route and turn back, Joseph spied more flour marking the trail. They seemed to be on the right track. Working their way through the dense underbrush was not simple, but neither was it unmanageable, and finally the three men burst out of the tree line and onto the edge of the soft sands of Zebra beach. It was a sight to behold: a completely untouched expanse of paradise.

  Untouched, that is, except for the small four-seat helicopter that sat on its haunches toward the back of the beach. It snuggled under the edge of the encroaching jungle canopy, invisible from the ridge high above. A big sign on its side proclaimed “Beer Near,” and two men, one of them Jack Gaimey, were soaking up the sun on two lawn chairs brought for the purpose.

  “Jack Gaimey, damn good to see you!” called out Petur gleefully.

  The large man opened up one eye below his sweaty brow and peered at the oncoming Hashers. He smiled a broad and toothy grin. “Hey, it’s about time. I am a bit shocked to see you three clowns be the first to make it this far, though.”

  “Well, we are the best of the best, don’t you know,” responded Isaac, as he reached into a shiny new blue ice chest and pulled out three beers. He tossed one to Petur and the other to Joseph, who immediately popped it open and guzzled down half. “Want one?” he asked Jack Gaimey.

  “No, Ol’Timer. I am flying this here whirlybird, and I never drink when I fly.”