The War Planners Series

by Andrew Watts

  David took a step toward him. He didn’t seem to notice.

  Tom said, “You think your country is loyal to you? There’s no loyalty. Not with companies. Not with countries. Not with wives. Not with people. There’s money and there’s power and there’s you and that’s it. You want to know—”

  David’s first blow went into Tom’s stomach. He drove the rock into him with an uppercut. Tom doubled over, but David drew the rock back up and then down again into Tom’s temple. He felt it connect. It was a good, solid impact of stone and skull. There was some give, like the hard bone shield had been dented and caved in slightly. Tom went down and there was a lot of blood oozing from his forehead.

  David dropped the rock and picked Tom up with both hands. The walk to the water’s edge took about twenty seconds. The gashes on David’s arm opened and bled more, but he didn’t care. Expedience was more important than anything right now. David dragged Tom’s body towards the ocean. He was heavy and left a deep track behind them. But he didn’t make any noise or move. David thought he might be dead already until they got to the water.

  When the first layer of seawater covered Tom’s face, he started fighting. He kicked and thrashed. Not unlike how David had kicked and thrashed when the men had taken him from outside his home.

  Tom tried to get up, but he was weak and David had leverage. David pushed him under. Tom’s arms flailed wildly now, his face just below the surface. David could see his wide eyes looking up from below the waterline.

  The ocean’s pull was incredibly strong. Even in just three feet of water, it took all of David’s strength and balance to hold Tom under without falling down. David’s legs and back muscles rippled. Blood flowed from the gash on his left arm. He could feel himself sinking as the rush of water eroded the sand around his feet.

  David looked into Tom’s eyes as the struggle ended. There was a distinct moment when Tom couldn’t hold his breath anymore, and the ocean started pouring into his lungs. And then it was over. Tom’s eyes fluttered up into the back of his head and he stopped fighting. David kept pushing him down for a few more seconds, just to be sure. He didn’t want to take any chances. He counted to ten and couldn’t feel any resistance in Tom’s body. Just a limp, wet sack of traitor’s blood and skin and bones.

  It was strange. David didn’t feel any remorse. He let go of the corpse and let the sea take it away. Then he turned and ran back up to the boats.

  There were wheels underneath the boats. They were on a rig that allowed it to be towed. Probably meant to be hooked up to a machine. David hoped he would be strong enough to do it on his own. Thank God there were wheels. He moved as fast as he could go. There were chocks on all sides of the wheels, meant to keep them from slipping. David ran around each one, pulling out the chocks, and then pushed the boat into the ocean. Every few moments, he peered over his shoulder towards the buildings, but no one ever came out.

  Tom’s body was being tossed by the waves. It was already fifty feet down the beach.

  When the boat reached the water, bow first, it floated off the rollers. David pushed hard as soon as that happened, careful to keep the bow pointed straight into the oncoming waves.

  David knew boats. He had grown up on them and sailed up and down the East Coast of the United States for four years as part of the Naval Academy sailing team. Thankfully, the surf on this part of the beach wasn’t as bad as the waves David had thrown himself into on the other side of the island. Here the waves were breaking much farther out—about a hundred yards out. There must be a reef. He was able to hold the boat steady as he pushed it deeper and deeper into the surf.

  He got the vessel a good fifty feet out before he was chest-deep and decided to jump in. David pulled himself up and threw one leg over. He shimmied and squirmed his way over the large inflatable tube that served as a rim to the hard-shell hull. It was a small boat. Maybe fifteen or twenty feet long. If the waves were really twenty feet high out at sea—like Major Combs had told them during the weather report—then he and Henry would get tossed around like rag dolls.

  Henry. He needed to hurry. The sky was starting to dim.

  As soon as David climbed in, he hustled over to the outboard motor and manually put it into the ocean, then locked it into place and primed the pump. He prayed that it would start without any trouble. He pulled the T-handle and cord, and after a few lawnmower-like sounds, the engine chortled to life. He took hold of the steering wheel and slowly moved the power control lever forward, careful not to go too fast into the oncoming waves.

  Henry hid in the last grouping of tropical shrubbery before the jungle ended and the runway cutout began. He looked at his watch. Almost 6 p.m. It had been a full hour since David had left for the other side of the island. The rain had stopped. If the soldiers were looking for them, how long would it take before they came this way?

  After David had left, Henry had run through the barracks building. He’d grabbed two pillowcases and filled them up with anything he could find that might be valuable: water bottles, fruit, and snacks that he found in people’s rooms. Someone had brought a whole box of granola bars back from the cafeteria. Henry grabbed it, feeling like he had won the lottery. He tried to think of what else they would need. He took someone’s alarm clock and smashed it into the bathroom mirror, then took a piece of the mirror. Maybe they could use it as a reflector to signal for help. He couldn’t find any sunblock but he did find black shoe polish. He figured they would use that to coat their exposed skin. It was an impulse grab. He had no idea if it would work.

  As he waited in the jungle, he decided that covering his face with the black shoe polish might make him harder to see. He would be camouflaged, like a commando. Like Rambo—except that Rambo never looked scared shitless.

  He still carried the HF radio and had tried transmitting several times on all of the frequencies he thought might be used. Nothing. He had the volume down almost all the way, but the antenna was sprawled out flat on the ground. Not ideal. He decided to grab a piece of the duct tape and attach it as high as he could reach on one of the many palm trees.

  Henry looked up the hilly path he had followed to get here. No sign of anyone. Then he looked to his right, down the runway. It was empty for a good mile, except for the three helicopters that were shut down on the taxiway. Their rotors wobbled in the heavy winds.

  It was 6:10 p.m., according to his watch. He really hoped David would get here soon. If he didn’t make it, Henry didn’t want to know what would happen if he turned himself back in to the Chinese.

  Henry was on one of the MARS frequencies. He tried one more time. David would be here soon…he hoped.

  “Any MARS station, any MARS station, this is Hotel Golf, how do you copy, over?”

  Henry put his ear to the receiver, listening to the static. Nothing. He sighed.

  “…over…Hotel Golf, this is MARS radio transmitter seven-three, I say again, I read you…and garbled…over…”

  Henry’s heart leapt. He held down the transmit button and said, “MARS seven-three, this is Hotel Golf, request immediate connection to the following US phone number…break…area code…”

  These days, Henry just didn’t need to memorize phone numbers. And it wasn’t every day that you needed to connect with someone via an HF radio enthusiast in order to save your life and stop an invasion. He thought about just telling the radio operator what was going on, but he would probably think it was some type of prank. No, he had to call someone he knew. Henry sighed as he realized who it would be. Henry gave him the only phone number he knew. His first ex-wife’s. Henry spoke the number and listened as the radio operator repeated it back, then told him to wait.

  Henry told himself that she would come through for him. They had shared a special bond, after all. Henry still thought of Jan fondly. He imagined that she remembered him the same way. They had been young, after all. And she probably wasn’t sore about the details of the divorce at this point. Or that he’d dated two of her girlfriends in the year after
they’d split. Hell, they’d had great times together. Henry thought so. Jan was a smart, reasonable woman. She would hear how important this was and act accordingly.

  Henry heard the static change to a ringing sound and to a brief conversation between a woman he hadn’t spoken with in fifteen years and the pubescent-sounding HAM radio operator from who knows where.

  “Ma’am, my name is Ron Jacobson, and I am a MARS radio operator. I have been asked to connect you with—”

  Henry didn’t have time for radio etiquette. He couldn’t wait for this young guy to explain the rules about saying “over” after every sentence. Henry said, “Jan, it’s Henry.” He hesitated. “Henry Glickstein. Look, I need a favor. I know I haven’t talked to you in a while, but I need you to call—”

  Henry heard her voice on the radio, “…NO, I will not accept a collect call from that womanizing ass—”

  “Jan, now hold on. Listen. I’m in trouble.” Henry tried to control his voice. He wanted to yell, but he wasn’t sure how well the noise would carry through the trees. It was less windy here.

  “You tell that bastard that he can call me on his cell phone. Where is he? Is he in prison? Is that why he’s calling collect? Well, you tell him he can rot for all I care.”

  “This is MARS radio operator—”

  “Goddammit, Jan, listen for a second!” Henry spoke as loud as he dared, his eyes darting up the path to see if there was any sign of the Chinese. “I’m in serious trouble here!”

  Static noise.

  “Hotel Golf, this is MARS radio operator seven-three, over.”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “What is it?”

  “Hotel Golf, this is MARS radio operator seven-three—break—I regret to inform you that the number you have been connected to has terminated the call, over.”

  Henry wanted to scream. That woman was literally going to be the end of him.

  He was thinking about what to say to the MARS radio operator when he saw it. A raft-like black boat bounced along the waves and headed straight for the spot that David had told him to be at. Henry swiveled his head one last time, checking to see if—

  Up on the path. A football field away, but walking towards him. There were at least six of them. Black uniforms. Machine guns drawn. They crept along, scanning their weapons back and forth as they walked.

  Henry froze. He suddenly felt incredibly visible, wearing a white tee shirt and greyish pants in a dark green jungle. He needed to run. He looked back at David’s boat. He had to go now. He looked at the HF radio. The antenna was spread out fifteen feet, the end taped to a tree. Those men were getting closer. He dropped the radio.

  Henry grabbed the pillowcases of supplies and heaved the large, heavy cylindrical roll of shower curtains over his shoulders. Then he bolted towards the beach, running as fast as he could while carrying the load of supplies. He looked up every few seconds to see David heading towards him, bouncing through the surf.

  The boat practically flew onto the beach and lodged itself in the sand. David was looking all around. He said, “Hey! Get that stuff in here, quick. We’ve got to get this boat turned around and back out there right now.”

  Henry said, “Up on the path. I saw some of them approaching.” They got to work turning the boat around. The engine was off and swung up so that the propeller wouldn’t get damaged.

  Henry hopped into the craft and started the engine as David instructed him. David was walking the ship by its side into the water, until the engine was in the water and able to push it along. As soon as that happened, David hopped into the boat and Henry pushed the power lever forward. Once David was in, he took the controls and drove them out to sea.

  A gunshot rang out behind them.

  The two men looked back towards the island and saw half a dozen men in black uniforms sprinting towards them. One man was on his knee, taking aim. David saw a flash from the muzzle. He heard a weird snapping sound as the bullet whizzed by, followed by the crack of gunfire a split second later.

  “Holy shit, get us the hell out of here!” said Henry.

  David gunned it. The boat heaved forward into the heavy waves, thick white foam and salt spray splashing up over the bow. Henry lay pressed flat against the deck of the boat, holding on to metal cleats for balance. The bow hit a larger wave and they pitched up so high that David thought they might tip over. But then they came back down, hard, and kept driving forward, farther away from the soldiers on the shore. David turned left, maneuvering them back around the island and out of sight.

  Several shots rang out behind them, but they were getting far enough away and bobbing so much that none of the rounds came close. After a moment, the gunfire stopped. David looked back at the men. They were running the opposite direction, no doubt going for reinforcements.

  Henry said, “Are they gone?”

  David looked down at Henry, huddled on the floor. He said, “What happened to your face?”

  Henry waved him off. He said, “Shoe polish. In retrospect, it was an ineffective solution to a larger problem.”

  “Can you hand me the duct tape?”

  Henry dug in one of the sacks and handed it to him. David ripped a long patch of duct tape and put it over the gash in his arm.

  As they rose and fell with the waves, David began giving Henry his idea on how they could set up the makeshift sail out of shower curtains, shower rods, and duct tape.

  “I think I can fix something up,” said Henry.

  The two men did an inventory in the boat and were thrilled when they found an emergency kit with some fishing gear and a water purification device. With any luck, they could make it to a mainland or get rescued by a passing ship.

  They were still heading parallel to the shore, towards the other side of the island. David said, “We will need to turn out to sea now. If we keep going this way, we’ll risk getting seen by anyone occupying the other base.”

  Henry looked out towards the ocean. White caps went on as far as he could see. He nodded. “The weather looks like it’s clearing up. Maybe the waves will slow down a little. We’ve got to go for it, right? It’s our only shot to get word out.”

  “Yeah…our only shot.”

  David turned the wheel to starboard and they began their journey out to sea.

  13

  Either you decide to stay in the shallow end of the pool or you go out in the ocean. —Christopher Reeve

  David held the plastic bottle up, letting the final drops of water fall into his dry and open mouth. It was one of their last water bottles. He sat listening to the now-calm ocean lap the hull and wondering how far they would make it.

  Only two days and they were almost out of water. At first Henry and he had planned to use rain to replenish their stores. Since the storm had blown through, however, they had seen nothing but clear skies.

  David brought up the idea of using his tee shirt as a filter for salt water, but Henry assured him that it wouldn’t work. Henry was now setting up one of the shower curtains like a tent so that any condensation would drain into the empty bottles—a sort of fresh water collector. But that was a long-term solution for a short-term problem - they needed freshwater soon. It was very hot. They could stretch out the collection of snack foods that Henry had gathered for another few days, but not the water.

  David looked over at Henry. He seemed better than yesterday. His face was still a little green. At least he had stopped throwing up. He was not meant to be at sea, he kept saying. The experience they’d had in the storm that first night had been both frightening and physically draining.

  The storm had tossed the tiny boat around like it was a bath toy. They could barely control the direction of the boat. The motor and rudder kept coming up above the waterline as they surfed up and down the gigantic whitecaps. After turning out to sea, David had put their supplies into a small storage chamber on the port side. Henry and he had spent the next ten hours throwing up while holding on for dear life. The waves were the biggest David had ever seen in person. Twe
nty-footers, easy.

  He prayed a lot that night. There were moments when he didn’t think they would live. There were moments when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to, his misery was so great. But the thoughts of his wife and children would flash in his mind and he would pray some more. He felt guilty that he only called on God in times of need.

  The morning after the storm, as the seas calmed down and the sun crept over the horizon, they finally were able to rest. That was when they’d heard the helicopters.

  David had heard the noise and looked over the inflatable rim of the boat. He’d been slightly horrified to find that they were still within sight of the island. It was far in the distance, but he had still been able to make out its silhouette on the horizon. It had to be the same island because he could see the three helicopters taking off from it and flying in formation to the south.

  They were miles away and weren’t a danger to the two men. Still, David waited until the aircraft were completely out of site before starting up the motor and moving them away from the island. He didn’t want to create a wake that was visible from the sky and risk a chance of capture. The spare gas they’d found in one of the boat’s storage bays only gave them an extra two hours of propulsion.

  Now they floated, out of gas, hoping the wind would catch their makeshift sail. Neither Henry nor David knew which way they should head in order to reach the closest point of land. They had settled on west. Given the climate and the fact that the flight to the island had taken around nine hours from California, they both figured that they were probably in the South Pacific. Closer to Southeast Asia than not. West was as good a heading as any, he supposed. South America might take longer.

  David looked at Henry and said, “How’s your water purification contraption coming?”

  Henry was taking little tiny strings of duct tape and binding the rings of the tarp to the metal handlebar that wrapped around the top of the inflatable rim of the boat. It created a small tent for shade. He used one of the shower rods to prop it up in the middle and placed bottles at the corners, hoping gravity would bring any drops of condensation down in to them.