Matisse was right where he was supposed to be, as Arch had come to trust that he would be. Matisse was sitting at a booth near the Hawaii Kai harbor water nursing a giant soda when Arch walked up.
“Hey, brah,” Matisse said with a great smile upon seeing him.
“Matisse,” Arch responded obligingly, the local man again making him a bit uncomfortable with his expressive friendship and instant approval. “You ready?” he asked, sitting down across from the man with his back to the harbor.
Matisse sucked loudly from his drink container that obviously had no liquid left inside it. “Why you think the Virginia bitch Haole need to be saved? I thought you said it was her that got you into all this?”
Arch stared at his supposed new friend, wondering what made the man think in such circular ways. Trying to tell what Matisse was thinking was proving to be impossible. “She’s not a bitch and don’t call her a Haole. The “H” word is just that. And don’t call me one either unless you want more trouble than you’ve already got. And finally, I’m not the only one in this. You were down in the same valley I was all taped up and ready to die.”
“I know,” Matisse said, resting his empty drink cup on the table between them but continuing to jostle the ice inside. “You save my life. That’s why we friends for life.”
“No,” Arch corrected him, taking his good hand and jerking the empty cup from Matisse’s. “We’re friends only because nobody else will have you for a friend.” Arch successfully tossed the cup into a nearby trash container almost ten feet away.
“Thank you,” Matisse said, his smile dropping from his face.
“For what?” Arch asked in an exasperating tone.
Arch almost rolled his eyes but instead just looked at the mess of a local loser sitting across from him. Bits and small strips of duct tape goo still stuck to parts of his face and his clothes were a complete mess, but he was the only ‘team’ Arch had. Arch breathed in and out deeply. “She’s into something she thinks she knows about but in reality knows nothing about. No matter how smart an agent is, and Virginia’s very smart, there’s no substitute for life experience. What’s she’s got herself into here is both off the books and dangerous.”
“The radiation?” Matisse asked.
“No, nothing like that,” Arch answered. I think whatever radiation we find will be rather inconsequential. The medication is just a precaution because I’ve been around that stuff before. You don’t take chances with it. The Marines aren’t stupid either.
They won’t risk their own men unless they have to and in spite of the bizarre airplane thing I don’t see why they would have to. This mission is one of those off the books kind of things that involves someone’s personal agenda, and it’s extremely dangerous because of what my partner did.”
“He didn’t do anything,” Matisse said, spreading out both of his meaty hands over the table between them.
“That’s just it. You don’t understand what a big deal that was. He didn’t stand for me. There is no mission first crap in working with the Agency. Partners always take care of partners no matter what. What he did, or didn’t do, means that no other agent will ever work with him as a partner again. His field career is over, and he knows that. So why did he do it?”
“Some serious junk?” Matisse offered.
“Some serious junk indeed,” Arch answered. “Let’s hit it. I want to get aboard the base before the sun gets too low. Leave the Pontiac and we’ll get it later. I’ll put you in the trunk and then let you out when I find a safe place inside the wire.”
The drive to Bellows was uneventful. The road to the base was along the coast and the drive one of the most spectacular in the world. The waves beat up from one of the deepest ocean trenches with the island of Molokai in the distance. A constant booming spry of white was thrown up from the nearby cliffs and gawking tourists had to we watched out for as they veered to see natural wonders like the Blow Hole and Sandy Beach. The Caddy performed well although there were no demands placed on it simply because the non-stop continuous traffic permitted no performance driving at all.
As soon as Arch turned into the normally closed gate to Bellows, just past the Waimanolo Beach entrance he knew that nothing was going to work out as planned, not that he had any kind of real plan other than to show up and figure out how to gum up the works of whatever was going on. Not only was the gate closed but it was guarded by United States Marines. Arch couldn’t avoid pulling up to the gate once he made the turn in. A corporal stood at attention and saluted the Pearl base sticker when Arch stopped the car before the small wooden gate guard.
“I.D., sir,” the corporal requested, picking up a BuPers (U.S. Bureau of Military Personnel) scanner with his left hand while holding out his right for Arch’s card. Arch handed the card over and the corporal scanned it. He then stepped back and motioned with his free hand behind him. A staff sergeant appeared from nowhere.
“You have any paperwork, general?” he asked.
Arch understood instantly. He was in a “need to know,” situation. Having proper I.D. was just the first step in such a situation. Have the proper clearance and then a written need to be there were the following and more definitive steps of the process.
“Just visiting from the mainland and I thought I’d come aboard to take in some beach and sun,” Arch answered, lamely in his own opinion.
The staff sergeant was smooth as silk but firm as concrete.
“You can turn around right here and make your exit back to the main road. The base is currently closed to all non-essential personnel.” He waved one hand in a circular fashion. The corporal handed Arch’s I.D. back and salute again. Arch was dismissed.
Arch drove back to the Waimanalo Beach gate and found an empty parking place about as far from the beach itself as he could get. He looked around carefully before popping the trunk and letting Matisse out.
“Your fake I.D. not work, general?” Matisse asked, stretching his arms and back as if he’d been in the trunk for hours.
“It’s not fake,” Arch replied, slamming the trunk closed.
“You a real general?” Matisse went on, stopping his ridiculous stretching exercises.
“Not exactly,” Arch responded. “We can’t get on the base. I don’t know how to proceed without getting on the base,” he said, his tone despondent.
“What? Of course we can get on the base,” Matisse said. “We go to the boat, go to Rabbit Island, wait for night, and then we land on the sand anywhere we want. They don’t patrol the beach at night. Our people on Rabbit Island watch with binoculars.”
“They have high technology gear. They don’t need to patrol,” Arch said, his voice depressed.
“So? We steal water from the base almost every night. They don’t want us on Rabbit Island but they let us steal our water from them? I don’t think so.”
“Where’s the boat and what’s on the island,” Arch said, staring out across the beach to the azure sea beyond. “I can see the damned thing out there from here. There’s nothing there. Magnum P.I. island. Nobody goes there.”
“Back side,” Matisse replied, looking out to the breathtaking island in the distance. “Brilliant idea we occupy. The Department of Natural Resources has no amphibious stuff. We safe.
“Yeah, right,” Arch laughed out. “Like the governor can’t call up the Marine National Guard anytime he wants. They might just have an amphibious capability.”
“Boat’s near Sea Life Park by Makapuu,” Matisse said, point toward Diamond Head way.
Arch drove in the traffic back the way they’d come. The boat proved to be a battered and patched Zodiac in such bad condition Arch thought it might never make it through any seas, much less out in the open ocean. Matisse read his expression. “We get to use boat and the park people make believe we don’t exist as long as we bring it back.”
“I don’t want to know,” Arch said, is attitude still near rock bottom.
Matisse guided the boat away from the pier that stuc
k out from near the entrance to the park. The water proved to be choppy but no threat to the Zodiac’s limited capability. The old Evinrude outboard that drove the boat sputtered and backfired but held up until they reached the only sandy beach on the island. “They can see us land because it’s only rocks on the other side,” Matisse stated, killing the motor. “I’ll have one of the Bruddas drive it back for supplies.”
Arch frowned but said nothing. What were they supposed to do without a boat?
Both men climbed the mountain using an old and little used winding path back from the very peak. Just over the top they came upon a small collection of blue plastic covers held up my tent poles. The whole mess of wind-flapping plastic sounded like a bunch of kids passing on bicycles with baseball cards clipped to their wheels.
Matisse’s small band of locals, five men and three women looked a bit bedraggled to Arch but he allowed himself to be introduced around.
“What’s the plan?” he asked of Matisse when they finally broke free to stand just beyond the top of the ridge and view Bellows Beach stretched out before them.
“Tonight we cross to beach under cover of darkness,” Matisse whispered into the wind so quietly that Arch almost couldn’t make out what he said.
“Cover of darkness? Where do you get that crap, from the movies? What do we use for a boat,” he went on scanning the island in every direction for sign of something capable of putting them ashore in surf conditions.
“No boat,” Matisse replied, like the conclusion was self-evident. “We swim. You must swim good. You raised out here like local. You pass CIA swimming tests.”
“Jesus Christ,” Arch said in disgust. “Swim? It’s over a mile and we’ve got to come through surf to get on the beach. I can swim that far but the water looks treacherous as hell.”
“Water just choppy because reef not far below,” Matisse said, pointing over the ridge at a distinct line of deep blue and light blue. There were only large slightly breaking swells in the deep blue field of view. “As soon as we cross reef, I mean. See, reef only about four hundred yards off. Only have to worry about sharks in the deep water. They don’t swim over or inside reef.”
“Sharks? Sharks? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Arch replied, his disbelief evident in his expression and tone.
“No worry,” Matisse said. “I swim many times. Never bitten once. Only seen sharks a few times and they stayed away. Jelly fish bigger worry.”
“Jelly fish? What?” Arch’s voice began to rise in tone as he spoke. “I’m allergic to Jelly fish venom.”
“Good and bad news, boss,” Matisse said, somehow adopting the title ‘boss’ in addressing Arch. “Good news is full moon gone so hard to see us. Bad news is just past eight days gone and that’s when the jelly fish come out.”
“What was the good news again?” Arch asked, acidly.
“No worries, I told you,” Matisse said in a calming voice. “We have rash guards to wear. Like wet suit but thinner. Guard against stings.”
“Rash guards,” Arch repeated in a low disgusted tone. “Over a mile swim through shark and jelly fish infested waters to arrive through pounding surf onto a beach that we’re supposed to get across unseen and search through a pine forest to discover something we don’t know anything about.”
“Yes boss,” Matisse grinned. “We have great adventure.”
Arch’s shoulders sagged, as he turned to follow his new friend back to the flapping plastic tents to await the coming of night and to get into whatever rash guards were.
VIII
The rash guards weren’t so bad, Arch decided, wishing he had a vanity mirror to check himself out in. Like a wetsuit, but better because the thin elastic long sleeve top and bottoms held everything in without giving him a feeling of being compressed. He knew he’d lost ten ponds in appearance alone. He sat and waiting while the sun slowly set over the deep blue beating sea fully on display from the back side of Rabbit Island. Molokai lay twenty miles, or so in the distance, its narrow east facing side fully visible because it was the eastern coast from which arose the highest cliff top to sea surface distance in the world. Rising up well over three thousand feet the cliffs would be visible until the sun was fully set.
“Matisse, let me use your cell phone,” Arch said, holding out his right hand.
Matisse wore only swimming trunks and a Dark Quicksilver sweatshirt. Although he’d provided the rash guards to Arch there’d been nothing available that would cover his short but incredibly thick torso.
“How you like sandals?” he asked Arch, handing over his phone, “and why you note use own phone?”
Arch looked down at his blue feet while absently accepting the phone.
“They’re not sandals. They’re shoes, reef runner shoes called Hydro Kick Backs,” he replied, knowing the heavy callouses on Matisse’s bare feet would need no such protection, but surprised that someone had thought of his own. The light canvas tops covering hard rubber soles were made by a local rapidly growing local company called Alukai He punched numbers into the cell phone before bringing it up to his right ear. “I can’t use my phone or they’ll know instantly exactly where we are, not that these tents are much protection from look down satellite equipment in use today.” After almost a full minute he hit a button and handed the phone back to Matisse. “Not answering, at least not to your caller I.D. number. I’m not leaving a message. She’d just give them your cell data, which she might do anyway.”
The phone rang. Arch reached back toward Matisse but the islander held up his free hand. “It’s the Haole bitch, calling back all aright.”
Arch stepped forward and took the iPhone from the man’s hand.
“Virginia?” he asked.
“What do you want and where are you,” Virginia responded, “and who’s phone are you calling from. You’re a fugitive from justice. Where are you and what are you trying to pull?”
Arch looked at the phone briefly, shot a nasty look at Matisse for turning on the speaker, but answered without turning it off.
“What’s that noise?” Virginia asked before he could get anything out.
“Just the wind,” Arch replied, weakly, which was the truth. Instead of dying down as the sunset, which was normal for the trades blowing over the Hawaiian Island chain, the wind seemed to be increasing.
“Hi, Virginia,” Matisse yelled at the phone with cupped hands, then started laughing to himself so hard he had to bend over.
“Who’s that?” Virginia asked, “are you in a local bar?”
Arch grimaced and then turned his back to Matisse and walked outside of the tent. The madly flapping edges of the tent sounded like machine gun fire so he moved as far away from the place as he could go without getting too close to the edge of the cliff. The wind still gave off so much noise as it twisted and swirled over the lip that it was difficult to near anything else. Matisse followed him outside.
“You have no clue what your involved with and I’m going to find out. You don’t work in the field,” Arch yelled into the end of the phone. “You only command agents like me to do your bidding. We don’t tell you what it’s really like at all. I’m going to save you from something you don’t understand.”
“You’re an idiot,” Virginia said, her voice thin and breaking up in the wind.
“Idiot? I’m an idiot?” Arch almost screamed to be heard. “You know better than that. I’ve never failed you once on any mission.”
“Not on any mission,” Virginia instantly replied with acid from each delayed word.
“Alright, I’ll quit right now if you tell me you don’t love me,” Arch said, more softly but with deep feeling. After a few seconds the line went dead.
“We not going?” Matisse asked, gently taking his phone from Arch’s clenched fingers.
“What do you mean?” Arch responded with amazement. “She didn’t say she didn’t love me. That means she loves me. We’ve got to go. We’ve got to find out. What about the radiation? The pollution? The Hawaiian Sover
eignty cause you support?”
“Man, the line went dead. She didn’t say anything.”
“I know her,” Arch said, turning to face back into the building wind. White caps covered the roiling tumbling waters stretching across some of the most treacherous seas in the world. The narrow stretch of water between Molokai and Oahu was almost seven thousand feet deep. Waves crisscrossed, coming from every direction, as the big long fetch swells of the North Pacific were broken and redirected by their encounter with the islands.
“How long do we wait?” Arch asked Matisse.
“A few hours,” Matisse answered, moving to the cliff and sitting down to dangle his feet dangerously above the sea breaking heavily a few hundred feet below. “The most dangerous thing about all this isn’t the jelly fish, the sharks, the surf, the reef or the swim. It’s that Haole bitch. I can just feel it.”
Arch sat down a few feet behind Matisse to watch the sun slowly make its way below the distant horizon. “You know, you can always bail out on this thing. I was a Boy Scout camping on that beach many years ago. I can go it alone,” Arch said, into Matisse’s back and blowing wind.
“I’ve gotta go brudda. They’re my tribe. I gotta take care of them like you want to stupidly take care of the Haole bitch.”
“Your tribe?” Arch exclaimed, quietly. “They don’t even talk to you and according to you I’m your only friend and I barely know you.”
Down In The Valley Page 6