Hunter's Moon - Randy Wayne White

by Randy Wayne White

  I didn't get a chance. The canoe was still gathering speed when there was a sharp Bang. Not a big explosion; more like a dozen firecrackers with the same fuse. Even so, water conducted a mild vibration through the plastic hull. Above the tree line, a haloed incandescence flickered.

  My brain was still trying to pinpoint the source of the noise when there was a second firecracker, Bam.

  On the water, most explosions are caused by sparks in unventilated boats, a sickening sound because passengers are usually aboard. But these twin detonations had the sharper, metal-on-metal report of military ordnance. My first impression was they were stun grenades or flash bangs, but the shock wave didn't carry the distinctive stink of nitro aromatics. Whatever had fueled the combustion was odorless.

  I stopped paddling as I considered the significance. There are a bunch of odorless explosives, but only one stuck in memory —Semtex, a Czech-made plastique preferred by terrorist types, sold on black markets worldwide. More power than TNT and undetectable to conventional security devices. A firecracker-sized glob made a grenade-sized noise.

  It fit: foreigners using black market ordnance.

  The explosions were on the western side of the island. The men I'd seen were on the eastern side. It meant they had accomplices . . . or the explosives had been planted earlier and detonated by timers, or remotes.

  I reconsidered my options. A western approach was now suicide. The Secret Service would be on a war footing. They'd shoot before I had a chance to identify myself. Even if they gave me a chance to talk, I would be too late. The assault team had landed by now, or soon would.

  I had to intercept the killers, I decided, before they got into position. Find a way to slow them and give the feds time to regroup.

  Once again, I turned and began trailing the inflatable, retracing my path along the mangroves. As I paddled, I heard muted shouts. Expected to hear automatic weapons fire but didn't. Not a shot fired. The silence told me there was no follow-up attack.

  It also told me there were no human targets visible to Secret Service. Anything that moved they would have shot.

  The explosions were a diversion. Silence carried that message, too. Freeze the attention of security agents; make them focus on the island's western rim.

  I began to paddle harder, the canoe lunging with each stroke.

  I'd made the right decision. I knew something the Secret Service didn't. Assassins were approaching from the east.

  ***

  Bam . . .

  A third detonation sounded like a dud bottle rocket. Once again, I expected the clatter of small-arms fire. Once again, fog conveyed only the outrage of screaming night birds, then a drizzling, shadowed silence.

  Weird. A tactical diversion is designed to create a hole in security. Move fast, it might work. Hesitate, it will not. The timing has to be tight or the hole slams shut.

  If the fireworks were a diversion, why hadn't the assault team slipped through that hole, into the island's perimeter? Federal agents don't run from gunfights, yet there was nothing to indicate Ligarto Island was under attack.

  I considered the possibilities. Maybe the assault team's timing was bad. The guys I was trailing hadn't had time to get into position prior to the feeble series of bangs and booms, so why detonate before they were ready?

  They wouldn't—not intentionally. So . . . maybe the charges had gone off accidentally.

  Terrorists use garage remotes and cell phones as detonators.

  Remove the phone's outer casing, solder a blasting cap to the ringer circuit, and wire it all to a chunk of explosives. Later, dial the number from anywhere in the world to ignite the blasting cap.

  On a soggy, foggy night, how reliable was a cell phone?

  Detonators could be short-circuiting because of moisture. Even the timing between explosions seemed accidental.

  Maybe these guys weren't so professional after all.

  I paddled close enough to the mangrove fringe to see under branches but focused on the contrail of bubbles that marked the inflatable's path. The fog was so dense that I risked rear-ending the other boat. Even so, I continued to push.

  If the diversionary explosions hadn't gone off accidentally, I'd overlooked an explanation: The assault team had an accomplice already ashore . . . an insider waiting for his support team to arrive.

  It meant the man I'd promised to help might already be bound and bagged for delivery. Or he could be standing quietly, awaiting my arrival, while a shooter focused crosshairs on his chest.

  I couldn't let that happen. The doctors had already presented the man with a death sentence. He was so desperate to make the most of his final weeks, his vulnerability had been unmasked. I liked him better because of it.

  When a great beast stumbles we not only wince, we also feel an indefinable dread as it falls. Our weaknesses are magnified, our fears confirmed.

  This guy wanted to go down fighting. There was hope in his strength, strength in his survival.

  ***

  . . .Survival.

  He'd brought up the subject five days earlier, the first time we met. The first time we met officially, anyway. I'd been invited to a party on Useppa Island, a classy Old Florida sanctuary isolated by water and time. It's not unusual for powerful politicos to vacation on Useppa, so I was only mildly surprised that the invitation's RSVP response card required a Social Security number.

  Someone was doing background security checks.

  I avoid the high-society party circuit, but the hostess was persistent. "You have to make an appearance, Doc. I can't tell you why, but you really must."

  That's not the reason I went. I went because my new work-out partner, Marlissa Kay Engle, is a musician and actress who's savvy enough to understand that entertainment is one of those rare industries that pretends to loathe wealth and power, but, in fact, is a courtesan to both. I didn't mind. Marlissa is hauntingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. It was reason enough for me to endure a social function that required shoes and slacks.

  I arrived, prepared to make polite conversation with a visiting ambassador or two. Instead, I was surprised to see him. When he spotted me, he nodded as if he'd been waiting. Suddenly, I understood why I'd been invited.

  "It's been a long time, Dr. Ford. The last time we spoke, you were stepping off a boat in Cartagena near the Old Walled City. And I was still a little numb from how close that rocket came to nailing my vehicle. Colombia, remember?"

  I was aware of a Secret Service agent to his right, another on the Collier Inn's balcony. Both wore Hawaiian shirts, neatly pressed but baggy enough to conceal weapons. The agent on the balcony held a beach towel that probably hid a submachine gun.

  "I think you've confused me with someone, sir. Colombia, as in South America?"

  "I don't recollect any rocket attacks in South Carolina, do you? Of course I mean South America. Not that I'm surprised by your reaction. Selective memory is a survival device. I've heard you're an expert on the subject."

  He emphasized the sentence in a way that forced me to struggle with the double meaning.

  "Expert on what subject?"

  I watched him exchange a knowing glance with the agent to his right—a stocky man of Mongol or Asiatic heritage who looked too old to be on active duty. His personal bodyguard, I discovered later. Also the celebrated man's friend and confidant.

  "I'm talking about survival. The Darwinian theory. Your friend, Tomlinson, was just telling me about the paper you two are coauthoring on . . . what did he call it? Fatal Specialization something."

  Tomlinson was at the party? Another surprise. Yes . . . there he was, standing beyond the pool where coconut palms framed the Gulf of Mexico. He was wearing white linen slacks, a linen jacket. He was also barefooted, and shirtless, to the delight of the women around him. Marlissa included.

  Not a surprise.

  Marlissa was the reason we'd argued a few weeks earlier, though we never referred to her by name. Tomlinson and I both embrace the conceit that we are chivalrous
men and therefore equitable.

  "I'd like to take a look at your research, Dr. Ford. Sounds like it might support what I've been preaching for the last few months. Would you mind?"

  I was flustered by our unexpected meeting. I also didn't know what he was talking about. Aside from the plane crash, and an occasional headline, I hadn't read much about him for many months, maybe years. He interpreted my expression accurately.

  "Don't worry, you're one of millions who hasn't been getting my message. Which really pisses me off."

  He enjoyed my reaction. "That's right, once a sailor, always a sailor. I'm mad because no one takes what I'm saying seriously—a disaster waiting to happen. 'Apocalyptic,' although I seldom use the word. It makes people nervous." He waited through my bland silence before adding. "But it's happening. Now. "

  I said, "Apocalyptic, as in 'catastrophe'? Or the Bible story?"

  "That's the first time I've heard someone refer to Revelations as a Bible story." He was still having fun. "You've read it?"

  Yes, and I thought it a bizarre mix of myth and wistful psychosis—it was disappointing that a man of his accomplishments considered it worthy of discussion.

  "You don't take it seriously?"

  "I wouldn't want to impose on someone's religious beliefs, sir—"

  "Speak freely, Dr. Ford. I've got big shoulders, and so does God, I suspect, if there is one."

  "All right. I put Revelations in the same category as astrology and palm readers. Nostradamus, conspiracy theories, and visitors from outer space—the same. Sorry."

  "No need to apologize. You're a realist."

  "I'd like to think so."

  "In that case, you should take Revelations very seriously. Because it doesn't matter what you think or what I think. There are powerful people who believe—really believe—that the Apocalypse is divine prophesy. Leaders who not only welcome the end of the world, they're determined to make it happen. The scary thing is, these people are gaining political clout in both hemispheres.

  "Their followers are devoted, educated, and absolutely secure in their righteousness—the most dangerous of all human trinities. Destabilize the United States, lure us and our allies into Armageddon, and the doors to heaven will open. That's what they believe. That's their goal. And we're making it easy for them."

  The man had a speech on the subject. It had to do with a connection he perceived between prophecy and technology. He was worried about the country's reliance on fragile essentials, or "blind horses," as he called them—an old horse trader's term for unreliable equipment. Internet. Cell phones. Satellites and oil.

  He was an articulate speaker, but I was more interested in his intent. It was no accident I'd been invited to this party. The same might be true of Tomlinson. Why?

  "The First World has created a techno-environment that's unrelated to the natural world. It's a manufactured reality. But it has become America's national reality.

  "What happens if zealots scramble the Internet? Or interrupt the oil supply? The impact would be similar to environmental cataclysm on a primitive community—volcanic eruption, a meteor strike. Disrupt a society's perceived reality and you've desta-bilized its foundation. Panic would roll across this country like a wave. The perfect setup for World War Three."

  His fervor reminded me of the driven men you sometimes hear preaching doom on busy street corners. I commented that he spoke of panic as if it were a weapon.

  "In terms of bang for the buck, panic's the most lethal weapon around because we're not prepared. Think about what's going on right now in Central America. I understand you're currently doing work there?"

  I nodded, surprised he knew. I'd made several trips in the last few months. An international consortium was proposing to build a canal across Nicaragua. Unlike the nearby Panama Canal, it wouldn't use locks to raise and lower sea level. Two oceans would, for the first time in many millions of years, be connected.

  What would be the impact when sea creatures from the Pacific Ocean, Caribbean, and Atlantic Ocean intermingled? I was one of several biologists hired as a consultant.

  "I assume you've been following the conflict there?"

  I nodded. "Along with the rest of the world."

  The conflict had to do with the Panama Canal. In 1979, after the U.S. transferred control to Panama, Panama leased the canal's operational rights to a Hong Kong company. When the Hong Kong company's multidecade lease expired, Panama awarded the contract to an Indonesian firm, Indonesia Shipping & Petroleum Ltd (IS&P).

  Indonesia is the world's most populous Muslim country.

  The CEO of Indonesia Shipping & Petroleum was Dr.Thomas Bashir Farrish, heir to an oil fortune, who lived a playboy life as "Tommy Raker" in Europe and the United States until he became a follower of Ustaz Abu Bakar Bashir.

  Farrish's mentor was sent to prison after a café bombing in Bali that killed 202 people, but Bashir continued to preach that "the Western world will crumble when Indonesia joins in Jihad."

  Awarding operational control of the Panama Canal to a company owned by Thomas Farrish was controversial—and critics were soon proven right.

  Within months, owners of Western-owned vessels were complaining of a lack of security and unfair treatment while in the Canal Zone. Three crewmen on a Canadian containership had been beaten to death. The captain and cook of a Texas oil freighter were abducted and beheaded.

  Recently, when the U.S., in protest, imposed economic sanctions on the countries of Panama and Indonesia, IS&P announced it would turn away all U.S.-owned ships until the conflict was resolved. So far, the Panamanian government and the League of Latin Nations had refused to intercede.

  "Dangerous," I said.

  "Worse than dangerous. I think Thomas Farrish is the most dangerous man on earth. Panama is like Noah's Ark, the population's so varied. You've been there, you know. It could potentially signal Arma—" He almost used the term again but caught himself. "It could start global war. That's why I'm trying to get the message out. Dependency equals vulnerability. Fragility invites attack. Hook your wagon to a blind horse and sooner or later it'll pull you off a cliff.

  "Mr. Tomlinson was telling me your paper has to do with plants and animals that go extinct because of overspecialization.Our country has become too specialized. Do you see the connection?"

  I nodded. Our paper's working title was "Fatal Tracks of Adaptive Specialization."

  But I didn't believe for a minute that he contrived this meeting because of a research paper. What did the man want? If it had something to do with the assassination attempt in Colombia, why was he lecturing me on the dangers of technology?

  He continued talking about parallel dynamics, biological and social, but he was suddenly more formal. I realized that people were gravitating toward him, drinks in hand, munching hors d'oeuvres, as they eavesdropped. Private conversation over. Local power brokers present. Their courteous attention told me they didn't take the man seriously.

  I stole a glance at Tomlinson. He smiled, sleepy-eyed, already pleasantly stoned, and flashed me the peace sign. Apparently, he'd forgotten our argument and the chilly civility that had followed. I'd heard he'd been living alone on a barrier island. Staying on his sailboat some nights, but also beach-camping. "Spiritual Bootcamp," he told one of the fishing guides. I was glad to see him.

  I listened to the famous man say, "Reporters treat me like a circus act. Humoring me. Know why? Because I've called for mandatory drills—a couple of days a year, ban all but emergency use of cell phones and the Internet. Make citizens learn how to communicate by mail or, God forbid, face-to-face, like human beings. Same with personal transportation. Our people should know what to do during a gas crunch so they don't panic when the inevitable happens. 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.' Everyone knows the quote but no one thinks about what FDR meant."

  Anticipate the fear, that was his point. The economic depression of the 1930s, he said, wasn't caused by the stock market collapse. It was caused by a panic spar
ked by the stock market collapse.

  "Schools have fire drills, ships have lifeboat drills. Is that crazy? But my colleagues in D.C., and the press, react like I've gone off my rocker. Tell me, do I look old enough to be senile?"

  He had the politician's gift for self-deprecation. He chuckled as he combed fingers through his silver hair. I watched the power brokers mirror his smile, but their cheery condescension said yes, they thought he was irrational.

  Half an hour later, as the man left the party, he motioned me to a private corner. "I'll be in Florida awhile. Would you mind if I came to Sanibel some night to discuss your research? Maybe get Vue to help me slip away." He indicated his bodyguard. "I'll bring a bottle of wine or a six-pack—or give you a signed picture for your son. It's the least I can do for a man who maybe saved my life."

  Later, when Tomlinson and I compared notes, I didn't mention the incident in Colombia, but I told him the man wanted to visit the lab.

  Tomlinson already knew.

  I said, "You saw him after I left the party?"

  "Yeah. And we talked earlier, too. He's entered what he calls his 'redemption phase.' He told me he spent a month at a Franciscan monastery studying the Bible and the Quran. Now he's interested in meditation. Wanted to know if I could take him through the basics, 'Zen Beginner's Mind'. "

  "Why you?"

  Some of the chilliness of the previous weeks returned. "I'm sure that surprises you—me being such a flake and all. Isn't that what you called me? No, wait . . . you said I was a 'weirdo flake'. "

  He was mistaken. During the argument, I'd called him a "flaky weirdo," but I now shrugged as if I couldn't remember. "How did he know you're an ordained Buddhist monk? That's what I'm asking."

  "Oh. He's read my book."

  Tomlinson has published several books, but his little volume One Fathom Above Sea Level is considered a classic on spirituality by New Age mystic types. It's the man's own guide to life and the universe as seen through his eyes, six feet—or one fathom—above the water's surface.