When night fell the island would radiate the heat it had soaked up during the day back into the atmosphere. The ground would shed enough energy to eliminate most infrared interference by two or three in the morning. One pass with a thermal imaging scanner then, and they’d have him.
Terson paused just short of his goal: an ancient, broken lava flow thrusting into the sea a few hundred meters from the hydrojet. He drained his canteen as he surveyed the blackened scabland. Seventy meters of skin splitting rock, thorn bushes and knee-high salt grass lay between him and the ocean. Where the flow met the sea, waves had broken the cliff face into a tumble of huge boulders and suck holes where an insanely desperate man might reach the water if he was lucky.
There was no overhead cover; once begun he was committed. Terson took one last deep breath and raced onto the flow. The temperature was twice that beneath the jungle canopy. The heat reflecting from the rock overpowered the sea breeze and penetrated his light footwear after only a few steps. Dry thorns tore at his exposed skin and rasp-like basalt punished every slip with bloody scrapes on hands, knees and shins. The edges of the wounds dried almost immediately, congealing the blood as it emerged, only to break open again at the next misstep.
The earth shook beneath his feet as he crossed from one hell into another. Deafening explosions of wind and spray exploded from openings all around him as he eased down the jumble of boulders. One moment of inattentiveness could pitch him into a suck hole to be drowned or beaten to death by the wildly oscillating water.
The boulders grew fewer and farther between as they marched into the sea. Terson watched the swells, timed his leap and hit the water swimming during the brief instant the waves paused. He had just enough time to surface for a vital lung full of air before the incoming waves crashed on top of him. The deadly washing-machine effect of water curling down and out under its own weight pulled him below the surface. He surrendered to the rip current, which carried him away from shore far faster than he could swim, praying that it would release him before the building pressure imploded his eardrums.
He struck for the surface the moment the current weakened and swam parallel to shore, just beyond the white line of the island’s lethal surf.
“Sir, when would you like to transport the prisoner to the ship?” the petty officer asked Ramos.
“We’re in no hurry, chief,” the officer replied. He rubbed the side of his nose with his little finger for the third time. Again, neither the NCO nor the seaman responded with the counter-sign identifying them as fellow secret service agents. Damn the luck!
“Lieutenant, this vessel is insecure,” the enlisted man insisted politely.
“It has been thoroughly searched by your own men,” Ramos pointed out. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t trust them?”
“Trust isn’t the issue, sir.”
“I think it is,” Ramos said. “If you would like me to pass your concerns regarding their inadequacies on to the Captain, I would be glad to do so.”
The NCO’s jaws tightened. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I didn’t think it would be.” Ramos climbed up onto the deck where he’d posted the seaman. “Give me the radio.”
“Yes, sir.” The seaman unclipped the handset and held it out to him.
“The radio, sailor,” Ramos snapped. “The whole radio!”
“Oh! Uh, yeah—yes, sir. Sorry sir.” He shrugged out of the straps and handed it over. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“It can’t reach the teams on the other side of the island,” Ramos said, precluding any opinion to the contrary with a withering look. He carried the mobile set to the cockpit, jacked into the boat’s antenna, and stood as far from other ears as the handset’s cable permitted.
Some characteristic of the hydrojet’s com system and the military set wasn’t entirely compatible. Voices leaked over onto the speaker in the cockpit that Bragg, sitting at the bottom of the companionway, could just make out. The sound didn’t reach across the cabin and likely wasn’t audible outside the cockpit.
Bragg sensed very quickly that something wasn’t right. The Coast Guard officer exhibited the smug air of someone with a secret—a secret kept not only from Bragg but from the enlisted men as well. The petty officer never said a word, but he clearly didn’t appreciate being cut out of the loop. A flicker of puzzlement, annoyance and once or twice outright suspicion crossed his face with each variation from established protocol.
Bragg kept his mouth shut and listened. Their search wasn’t coming along very well.
Twice the ship’s commander ordered Bragg transferred to the cruiser. Both times Ramos stalled, assuring his superior that Bragg’s cooperation would shorten the search, but beyond the first interview they hadn’t said or done anything to coax or force his cooperation at all.
They found no sign of Reilly, although there was some excitement when two groups engaged each other in a firefight. Ramos’s smugness eroded to agitation. The petty officer remained stoic when the lieutenant was nearby but exhibited his disgust with grunts and rolled eyes when he and Bragg were alone.
He was ripe for an appeal, Maalan decided. “Excuse me. Chief? Could you loosen the cuffs a little—I can’t feel my hands anymore.”
“Nobody ever lost a hand to snug cuffs.”
“Listen, chief,” he pressed. “I haven’t done anything to warrant this kind of treatment and I haven’t given you any trouble. Sooner or later my boss and yours will be having a talk. You know how shit rolls.”
“Oh, it’ll be sooner,” the NCO assured him. “My Captain will hear all about it when we get back to the ship, I promise you. Now just sit quiet.”
Above in the cockpit, the radio signaled for attention. Bragg held his retort and closed his eyes to listen as Ramos answered.
The initial sting of salt water in Terson’s wounds faded quickly, replaced by the intense ache of muscle fatigue. Without mask, snorkel or flippers his progress was torturously slow and the water temperature, he discovered, was deceptive. Warm by most standards, the ten-degree difference between the ocean and his body, coupled with water’s capacity to trap energy, slowly siphoned the heat out of him.
What began as a swim in pleasantly warm water gradually transformed to a struggle through an increasingly chilly bath. Goose bumps rose on his skin as his muscles tightened up, threatening to cramp, and each stroke propelled him through the water a bit more slowly than the last.
Terson was shivering by the time he reached the reef; his limbs felt like raw meat in a refrigerator. He slipped into a shallow, sun-warmed tide pool where he lay for over an hour, reclaiming the warmth stolen from him by the deeper water. Once rested he eeled farther into the reef toward his boat. He found a vantage point next to a mound of coral-encrusted basalt where he could raise most of his body above the surface of the water without exposing his profile.
The sentry stationed on the hydrojet’s deck was no more than eighteen or nineteen, Terson guessed, and his training was not yet fortified with experience. He scanned the shoreline and the stretch of water between the boat and the island with binoculars frequently, but kept his back to the afternoon sun. When he did shade his eyes to peer that direction it was nothing more than a cursory glance to gauge how much time remained before dusk. Another hour or two, Terson guessed, and the setting sun’s glare would reach all the way to the horizon. That was when he’d approach, provided that they didn’t try to escape the reef again before then.
The commander remained near the cockpit. There was no sign of Bragg. Until that moment his plan consisted of nothing but getting his boat back, but now that he had time to mull it over he wasn’t sure what to do with it. They had to know who he was by now, either through Bragg or the hydrojet’s registration, so sneaking back to the mainland like nothing happened wasn’t an option. The smart move was to surrender and take his chances in court, but the magistrate’s threat those many months ago squelched the thought before it took root.
He would not let them
take him into custody, even if that meant marooning himself on the island to linger on the edge of starvation. He had to get aboard the hydrojet if only for a few minutes to snatch the supplies he’d need to make his exile remotely survivable.
Terson crept into position as the sun settled closer to the horizon. He swam the thirty meters between the reef and the boat underwater, surfacing once along the way. He came up gasping for breath in the shallow pocket beneath the port WIG surfaces, too exhausted to care if the echoes reached the deck.
After ten or fifteen minutes his breath calmed and he paddled to the rear of the boat. The swim ladder between the jets slid out of its housing and folded down with a gentle thump. He crept onto the deck behind Bragg’s equipment cases, which the sailors had hauled out of the stowage compartment during their search, quietly draining the water out of his rifle barrel and magazine before peeking out.
“What’s your status, Ramos?” the Captain asked.
“One of the teams located a trail,” Ramos lied. “I’m certain it won’t be much longer now.” He crossed his fingers mentally as the silence drew out. He’d managed to delay his commanding officer from taking any unilateral action so far.
“I want the prisoner moved to the ship,” the Captain said.
“But sir, he’s been very helpful,” Ramos objected. “We wouldn’t have picked up Reilly’s trail without his cooperation.”
“This is taking too long, Ramos! I’m sending the helicopter to pick you up. Move the teams to their staging points and activate their ID strobes. We’ll sweep the island with thermal imagers tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” Ramos growled. “Out!” He hurled the microphone back into the cockpit savagely. The Captain had run out of patience and Ramos had run out of time. He had hoped to get both of them at once. One at a time would have to do.
He took the police officer’s service weapon out of his pocket, ejected the magazine and thumbed out the ammunition. Killing the man would be a simple act if one of the Guardsmen with him were a Secret Service member. Now he had to make a show of it. He replaced the empty magazine and put the gun back in his pocket. Be firm, Lieutenant, he thought. Be smooth; no hesitation.
The petty officer snapped to attention when he entered the cabin. Ramos motioned Bragg to his feet with a smile and directed the NCO to remove his restraints. “The Captain had you checked out. Your commander wasn’t pleased with your indiscretion, but he assured us that your offer of assistance was sincere.”
Bragg’s heart leapt to his throat. That’s not right; that isn’t what he said! He shook his hands, grimacing as circulation roared through the swollen flesh with the accompanying pain, stealing a few precious moments to compose himself. “About time,” he snapped.
Ramos turned to the petty officer. “Raise anchor. We’re going ashore.” Ramos calmly pulled Bragg’s service pistol from his pocket as the man turned to the hatchway and clipped him across the base of the skull. The chief collapsed on the steps in a groaning heap. Ramos tossed the gun at Bragg’s feet and drew his own sidearm.
Bragg stared at the weapon for a split second before he got the idea and dropped to one knee, fumbling at the weapon with sluggish fingers while Ramos watched disdainfully. Bragg glanced up into the barrel of a weapon for the second time in his life and rolled aside as two rounds punched through the floor into the bilge with deafening reports.
Bragg launched himself at the officer. He got inside his reach and his greater weight carried the smaller man backward into the wall, but he couldn’t hold him. Ramos scrambled away into the narrow companionway leading to the cockpit, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“He’s loose! Shoot him; shoot him!”
The petty officer rolled over, struggling to unlimber his sub-machinegun, half blind with pain. Bragg scooped up his pistol. Too light—it was empty! “Drop your weapon!” Bragg bellowed, and hit the floor as a spray of slugs perforated the air he’d occupied. The machinegun’s bolt stove-piped.
Bragg abandoned his pistol while the sluggish sailor grappled to clear the jam and dove for the bench seat, reaching for the bang stick beneath it. He ripped out the pin and launched himself at the sailor, thrusting the stick ahead of him like a lance. The Coastie got his bolt cleared and loosed another staccato.
Bragg jabbed the business end of the bang stick into the man’s sternum at the same time the hot kiss of lead ripped through his side.
Terson peered through a gap between two containers. The sailor standing watch on deck rocked back and forth on his heels, bored to death and daydreaming. His superior stood just forward of the cockpit facing the bow, speaking animatedly into a radio handset.
Terson choreographed his next move in his mind, charting a path around the containers and across the deck to the sentry. Knock him off the deck and reverse direction; commander hears the splash, looks aft and starboard as I come around the cockpit from forward and port. Put him over the side and jump into the cockpit. He could move the boat to the other side of the channel while the Coast Guardsmen were occupied getting ashore.
The commander exclaimed loudly and threw his handset into the cockpit. The sailor snapped to, suddenly vigilant as his superior strode aft and descended through the hatch. Terson heard faint voices.
More than just these two, then. That changes things.
Two gunshots rang out. “Shoot him; shoot him!”
Terson hit the deck and rolled, certain that he’d been seen. His body came up against the starboard rail, trapping him behind another container that afforded some protection against fire from the main cabin but exposed him to anyone on the bow. Adrenaline-charged blood pounded in his ears as he rose up with the stock of his weapon flush against cheek and shoulder, preparing to throw himself back over the side of the boat into the water.
The young sailor’s back filled his gun sight. The seaman had taken a few reluctant steps toward the hatchway when the commotion broke out. He stood frozen until a burst of machine-gun fire from farther forward, inside the cabin, answered the command.
He spun on his heel and ran straight at Terson, wide-eyed with terror.
Reflex tightened Terson’s finger.
The rifle bucked in his hands as bullets stitched the sailor’s body, throwing up a spray of bloody mist. The last round tore through his throat and severed his spinal column, killing him instantly, freezing an expression of surprise on his face. His lifeless body pitched forward and slid across a deck lubricated with his own blood.
Another gunshot shattered the corner of the container at Terson’s elbow. He vaulted the obstruction and rushed the cockpit. The Coast Guard officer inside dropped the microphone he’d been screaming into and used both hands to steady his sidearm. He anticipated the recoil, subconsciously pushing the barrel of his gun down as he pulled the trigger and planted each round in the deck not two meters away.
Terson fired from the hip. Bloody mist mixed with sparkling fragments of the canopy and the man folded sideways, dangled upside down with his legs caught inside the cockpit. Blood welled from his nose, ran up his face into his hair and pooled on the deck beneath his head.
Silence then, except a voice over the cockpit radio demanding to be acknowledged. Terson stepped lightly over the sentry’s corpse, trying to ignore the dead eyes and the voice inside telling him that he’d just committed murder. He bobbed his head, looking for movement inside the cabin and saw none.
He found Bragg clutching a spent bang stick at the bottom of the steps next to a dead man. The police officer’s face was blue. His chest heaved wildly, but the wet sound of air being drawn in did not come from his lips.
Terson ripped Bragg’s blood-soaked shirt and found crimson froth bubbling from a wound in his side. He grabbed a plastic garbage bag from the pantry, smeared it liberally with Bragg’s own blood, and slapped it over the hole. The officer strained to breathe again. A few torturous moments later air rattled into his lungs. His color returned while Terson ripped strips from his shirt and wrapped his chest to maintain
the seal over the wound.
“I...I had to...to k-kill him!” Bragg moaned.
“He did a fair job trying to kill you!”
Bragg shook his head emphatically. “The officer...set us all up. He was...the one. The chief and the kid...he used them!” He put his hand on the dead man’s arm. “Look what I’ve done!”
The faint thump of rotor blades echoed from the cliffs.
Terson dragged the policeman up the stairs and dug a life jacket out of the locker. Bragg let him slip it over his arms, complacent as a child. Terson tugged the straps tight and snatched one of the life raft canisters as he dragged him aft to the diving platform. “I can’t take you with me,” he said as he yanked the lanyard to trigger the gas cartridge, and eased the policeman into the inflating raft. “You’ll be okay.”
Bragg was deep in shock and didn’t answer. Terson pushed the raft away from the boat and headed for the cockpit, pausing to shove the young sailor’s body overboard.
A helicopter appeared over the trees as he reached the cockpit—not, he noted relief, the gunship. He unhooked the officer’s legs and flipped the corpse over the side. A few slugs had penetrated the dash; blood-spattered gauges stared at him like dead eyes. Terson’s guts knotted. He leaned over and wretched, spewing a thin stream of bile over the seat and radio set.
He wiped his mouth and vaulted into the pilot’s seat. He held his breath and flipped on the power. Damage to any imperative circuits or the ignition system would make for a short-lived escape. Acrid smoke poured from the panel with a sizzle as half a dozen fusible links blew. He didn’t try to figure out what worked and what didn’t; he’d know soon enough.
Rotor wash filled the cockpit. “We’ve got bodies in the water!” the voice on the radio yelled. Terson ripped out the wires and hurled the radio overboard. It left bile on his hand, slick and cold. He held his rifle overhead in one hand firing randomly and heard metallic pings as slugs caromed off the side of the aircraft. The pilot piled on collective and banked away.
Pale Boundaries Page 28