by Kirk Adams
When the launch landed at Roanoke Island, matters were mostly as expected. Bodies hanging from trees were swollen and those left on the beach were stripped to bone by crabs. No signs of cannibalism, however, were detected and it was deemed safe to leave Jose alone. He was provided an assortment of tools and materials, including: shovel, ax, tent, bedroll, rope, hammer, saw, nails, knife, waterproof matches, magnifying glass, seeds, sharpening stone, fishing line and hooks, ten MREs, plastic jugs of fresh water, an emergency medical kit, a crate of canned fruit, and his own backpack including personal effects such as a Mennonite New Testament, an unopened deck of playing cards, and a leather soccer ball. Even after being asked one last time if he’d be willing to serve in the militia, Jose refused. Three of the four delegates expressed their hope that monthly visits would be permitted and asked Jose to care for the graves of the fallen in exchange for any additional support. For emergencies, Ryan left a flare gun and a short-range transmitter, along with a spare battery.
The launch returned before noon to Paradise Island, only to encounter a seventy-foot yacht steering toward shore. Ryan set a course to intercept the yacht and Steve signaled its captain to follow the launch through a break in the coral. The yachtsman did as told and twenty minutes later dropped anchor in the calm of the lagoon, having safely passed through the coral reef. As the yacht secured anchorage, Steve and Chuck returned Dr. Erikson and Steve Lovejoy to the beach near New Plymouth before they themselves motored back to The Spirit of Liberty—where they moored the launch to the yacht and climbed aboard. There, a middle-aged blonde served them sweet tea with real ice as she explained that her husband would be along shortly.
A moment later, a muscular and clean-shaven man emerged from the bridge.
“Captain James ... I’m sorry. It’s Jim Strong,” the clean-shaven man said. “Sorry to keep you, but we were trying to contact the Fleet.”
Ryan extended his hand.
“Really glad you’re here,” Ryan said, “I’m Ryan Godson.”
“On the way in,” Captain Strong said, “I was speaking with your people over the radio. They want to evacuate some casualties to Hawaii and they’re stabilizing one man for travel. We hope to sail tomorrow.”
“They explain what happened?”
“Someone said cannibals.”
Ryan nodded.
“I spent,” Captain Strong said, “over twenty years as a naval officer sailing the Pacific and never even imagined such tribes lingered hereabouts. What bad luck for you all.”
“It’s ruined everything.”
“We’ll get you fixed up,” the yachtsman said. “I’ve been in touch with a couple navy buddies at Pearl Harbor and they said they’d relay the distress call. If any ships are close, we’ll have the wounded choppered out as soon as possible.”
“That’s good news,” Ryan said. “We’ve already lost too many people.”
“Now tell me about those cannibals.”
Ryan relayed the whole story. He told of the harvest feast and the eating of Heather. He told of the brawl that first day and the pitched battle on the beach. Finally, Ryan explained that the State of Paradise had moved surviving natives to Paradise and punished its own draft dodgers and deserters.
Jim Strong listened without saying a word. Only after Ryan fell silent did he ask a question. “Where’s this Roanoke Island?”
“An hour or two east.”
Captain Strong pulled a folded map from his shirt pocket and pointed to what appeared to be empty sea along the edge of the map.
“About here?” the yachtsman asked.
“I’m no map expert,” Ryan said, “but if you say so.”
“I don’t want to sound like an international lawyer,” Captain Strong said, “but you’ve made a bit of a mess.”
“I’m not sure,” Ryan said with a puzzled look, “that I understand.”
“What I mean is it sounds like you’ve committed war crimes.”
“I ... I ...” Ryan choked on his own words.
“Not only,” the yachtsman said, “did you invade a foreign country without U.N. authorization, but slaughtering those natives clearly was illegal. When word gets back to The Hague, you may very well face a tribunal since that island wasn’t part of your territory.”
“They were eating our people,” Ryan protested.
“I’m not saying,” Captain Strong said, “you didn’t have the right to defend yourselves as a sovereign nation. Personally, I respect your guts. In fact, you may very well be exonerated for your behavior and you probably deserve a medal, but you will give an accounting—especially for murdered prisoners.”
Ryan turned to a northsman. “I warned you people,” he growled, “to be more civilized.”
Chuck said nothing.
“They were illegal killings by our laws too,” Ryan told Captain Strong. “There was no legal authority for them. They were never authorized.”
“I’m not your judge,” Captain Strong said. “I’m just here to evacuate the wounded. Why don’t we take a look?”
Ryan said he’d take Captain Strong to shore via the launch.
“Please,” the captain said, “don’t sail into open water with me in that boat. You people are suicidal. After years on cruisers and destroyers, even this yacht seems small.”
“We took the LCVP to Roanoke Island.”
“Suicidal,” Captain Strong said with a smile, “was the word I chose and I stand by it. Those things weren’t safe during the war and they’re museum pieces now.”
Now the captain called his wife to the deck bridge. Cynthia Strong was a fortyish woman whose shoulder-length blond hair already showed a few streaks of frosted gray and who dressed in a tank top and shorts that were neither too tight nor too fashionable; it was she who had served the iced tea. Now a second blonde, maybe two or three years older, accompanied her. The younger woman wore loose shorts and a knit blouse—and covered her hair with a bright red cotton scarf. A plain silver cross graced her breast. Both women sported wedding bands.
“Has Jim introduced you to the crew?” Cynthia asked.
Ryan shook his head.
“I swear he lost his manners at sea. This is my sister Jackie and she’s married to Steve. He’s another retired sailor ...”
“His name is Commander Steven Johnson,” Captain Strong said.
“Steve,” Cynthia continued, “is below deck. He was up all night navigating.”
“Tell him thanks,” Ryan said as he glanced at the second blonde.
“I will,” Jackie answered.
A minute later, Ryan and Chuck climbed down a rope ladder and boarded the launch. Chuck dropped Ryan at New Plymouth beach before asking permission to use the launch to motor north, claiming that he wanted to bring Father Donovan to New Plymouth to help with evacuation arrangements. Ryan didn’t object, asking only that Chuck return the launch as soon as possible since the wounded required transportation to the yacht. The northsman assured Ryan he wouldn’t be long.
Within the hour, Chuck talked with men from his village. Father Donovan clenched his fists in rage as he listened to his compatriot describe Captain Strong. Other northsmen also bantered, but it was Donovan who spoke loudest.
“Who the hell,” the priest muttered, “does he think he is? He’s not our judge.”
“Someone will be,” Chuck growled, “if he runs his mouth.”
“Let ‘em,” Donovan said, “it’s our word against his.”
“Really?” Chuck said with a shake of his head. “What about Steve and Ryan and John? What about the bodies we buried?”
“I was an elected officer and what we did was legal.”
“And maybe,” Chuck said, “they’ll try us at Nuremberg to make that point clear. Or we can share cells with Serbs at The Hague.”
“We’re done for,” Donovan growled as he slammed a fist into his own thigh. “Forensics will paint this black and white. No one will ever understand the situation we were stuck with.”
“I’m
not worried about forensics,” Chuck said, “as much as I am about that sailor.”
“Maybe,” Jason now entered the conversation, “he’ll let it drop.”
“No chance,” Chuck said. “He’s spit and polish.”
“Then,” Father Donovan said, “we need to escape before we hang,”
“Where to?” Jason asked, his voice strained. “How? That launch couldn’t sail us to our deaths.”
“There’s only one way home,” Father Donovan whispered.
Everyone looked at him.
“The yacht.”
Heads nodded.
“We’d be caught before we hit full throttle,” Jason said.
“Not if they weren’t looking for us.”
Jason asked how it could be done.
“We’ll destroy all radios and take the yacht,” Father Donovan said.
“And go where?” Jason asked.
“I’ve got an uncle in Panama,” a northsman said.
“In a stolen yacht,” Donovan laughed, “we’d never touch a pier. And we don’t own passports either. We’ll have to reach the U.S. mainland. From there, we can disperse and go home.”
“We’ll be arrested as pirates,” Jason said, the blood drained from his face, “if we steal the boat.”
“Only if they catch us,” Donovan said.
“We’re progressives,” another northsman said, “not criminals.”
“What do you propose?” Donavan asked.
“Wait for a fair trial,” the northsman said, “and a chance to prove our case.”
“Every one of us standing here,” Father Donavan said, “cut a throat, split a skull, or took an unwilling woman. And even those who stayed behind voted for war. No one believes in international courts more than I do, but I’m telling you a bunch of American colonists wiping out a native population won’t play well either in Omaha or The Hague. Even if we avoid prison, we’ll be ruined.”
When one northsman wept that they had no options and were lost, Donovan pointed east.
“We can leave,” the priest declared.
“Won’t work,” Chuck said.
Father Donovan told him to explain.
“The boat doesn’t have enough range,” Chuck said, “and we don’t have money to refuel. We’d never reach California and we can’t chance docking anywhere else.”
“You sure about the fuel?”
“I’m positive. Even if she’s full, we couldn’t make the coast. And she’s not full. They’ve burned fuel since Honolulu. A lot—I would guess—since they got here in a hurry.”
Twenty minutes was spent suggesting possible fuel stops before everyone agreed the yacht wouldn’t work. Another twenty minutes was spent spinning out additional options and the following thirty minutes was spent discussing possible legal charges and prison sentences—with everyone admitting they’d face several years for killings that U.S. soldiers were permitted. Only after the conversation died did Father Donovan present a fourth option.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” he said. “We have to get rid of the evidence. Courts can’t convict on hearsay.”
Chuck asked how it could be done.
“We put out our version of the story.”
Jason’s jaw dropped. “Wouldn’t we have to get rid of the bodies?” he asked.
“Fire and water,” Donovan said, “will do the trick. We burn them and throw the bones to sea.”
“What about witnesses?” Jason said. “We weren’t alone.”
“We’d have to quiet them,” Chuck said.
“Or discredit them,” Father Donovan said. “If we cut radio communications, they’d never get word out. We could stage it so no one could figure anything out or ... I wonder if those damned westerners could be made to take the rap; it’s their fault we’re in this mess.”
“That’s cutthroat,” Jason said, his voice hoarse and dry.
“It’s life or death,” Donovan said. “And it’s Godson and Lovejoy and Smith who forced this crap on us with their otherworldly ideals.”
“It’s war,” Chuck said.
“It’s murder,” Jason protested, “of civilians.”
“Do you think,” Donovan said with another scowl, “Ortega beat the Contras without shedding civilian blood? Every war has its collateral damage and its incidental casualties. We didn’t invent war; we’re only playing by its rules.”
“I don’t know about this,” Jason said. “I don’t want any part of it.”
“Every man,” Father Donovan stared down every one of his northsmen, “is for me or against me.”
“I don’t like it either,” Chuck declared “but they backed us into a corner. We fought for them and they betrayed us. I’m not going to prison so they can play the innocent heroes. Not after we saved their asses in battle.”
“What about the natives?” Jason asked. “What about our women?”
“Here’s the bottom line,” Father Donovan said. “Almost every man in this villages stuck a spear in a native or tied a rope around a neck. We’re all guilty by their sanctimonious rules. So we can either take their punishment like sorrowful boys or we can fight for our rights. If they pull the wounded out of here and repeat any of the stories Ryan told the yachtsman, we’re all doomed. Our terms of charter allow the Russians to reclaim the island for violations of international law and, if they do so, we won’t control the situation. I dare say every man standing here will be in a world of hurt. And don’t think you can plead down charges because I’ll see to it that anyone who plea bargains hangs with me—even if I have to confess to more crimes than were committed. Too bad for the Americans, but they aren’t our people. They’re foreigners inserting themselves into our domestic affairs and it’s our duty to fight them. They’d fight if some Russian mixed himself into American politics. If some boat landed in Florida with Cuban sailors? Am I right?”
“A Cuban would be fried for sure,” Chuck said.
“You’re damned right he would be,” another northsman added.
“I’m not sure,” Jason said.
“Everyone kills or dies,” Donovan said with an anger that twisted his face such that his right eye appeared shut and his left forefinger and middle finger clenched and trembling, both fingers curled almost in a hook, “so we’re all in it together. If we burn the bodies and sink the yacht, we’ll have a few days before anyone else arrives. We can arrange cooperation from our neighbors or silence them for good. Dead men tell no tales. Who’s with me?”
“I can’t do it,” Jason said.
“Can you trust American justice?” Donovan said. “Against progressives?”
Jason shook his head.
“Besides,” Donovan said, “we only need to silence those on the beach at the time. The rest are speaking hearsay. That’s just a few men. We can live in peace with everyone else.”
“What about the yacht?”
“It’s in our territory,” Donovan said, “and under our jurisdiction. We can board her and take the radios. We’ll claim that ... let’s say, that the westerners are stirring up civil war and planning to maroon us.”
“That’s lame,” Jason said, “they’ll never believe it.”
“We only have to prove we believe it.”
Jason dropped his eyes and said he didn’t want to face prison.
“You will,” Donovan said, “go to jail if they dig up those bodies. We need to buy enough time to burn them properly. The worst that can happen is they add a few years to a life sentence for genocide. I’m not bloodthirsty, but it was Morales who stirred this up and the others with him. We were forced to fight for the very reasons Americans justify their wars, but they’ll never recognize it. So it’s their own hypocrisy that makes us fight them.”
Now all of the others nodded, except Jason.
“Also,” Donovan continued, “the natives didn’t see their husbands die and they can’t speak English, so they can live. When this is over, we’ll let you pick out a girl for your own.”
“H
ow about the tall teenager with straight teeth?” Jason asked.
“Tall?” Donovan said, “she’s not even five foot.”
“That’s three inches taller than any of the others.”
“She’s yours to keep, but we get a turn too.”
“Share and share alike,” Jason replied, smiling at his own quip.
Now the mood relaxed as Donovan put his arm around Jason’s shoulder. “Can we count on ya, buddy?”
Jason nodded.
“Everyone fights,” Donovan said, “and, if necessary, everyone kills. We conquer together or we hang together. Anyone who shirks, dies.”
Jason gave his assent and the desperate men drew up plans to seize the yacht—passing a flask of rum to steady nerves while they schemed.
It was late in the afternoon when the motorized launch pulled beside the yacht. Donovan shouted for assistance and both women peered over the rails to see a northsman stretched across two seats of the boat—his leg in a splint and blood dried around his ears. Jason and Chuck sat beside him.
“He fell from a tree picking coconuts,” Donovan shouted. “Doc Graves told us to evacuate him.”
“No one’s boarded yet,” one of the women said, “my husband’s still ashore.”
Donovan cut the engine as a fellow northsman grabbed the ladder extending down the boat’s hull and secured the launch.
“The doctor said to bring him straight here,” Donovan shouted.
The women looked at the four northsmen, then whispered between themselves. Finally, Jackie nodded and Cynthia waved to the men waiting for permission to board.
“I guess we’re all Americans,” Cynthia said, “bring him aboard.”
“Do you have a backboard? He shouldn’t move.”
Cynthia moved toward the cabin and shouted something inside and soon a man’s voice asked what was needed.
“A back board to pull him up,” Donovan replied.
Commander Johnson now appeared on deck, shaking his head. “We have everything but that,” he explained.
“I have an idea,” Father Donovan said as he pointed at Jason. “You stay with him. We’ll be right back.”