Rising Water

by Wayne Stinnett

  The two of us sat adjacent to the Snyders. “Only with the company I keep,” John said, looking over at Jerry. “You were para-rescue before becoming a police officer, right, son?”

  “How do you know that?” Alicia asked.

  John ignored her question. “That’s a very noble profession for a man who is worth what you are.”

  Jerry rose quickly from his stool. “Just who the hell are you people?”

  “Relax, son. We’re on the good side. I was Air Force spec-ops, too. Jesse here was a recon Marine.”

  There was no back-down in Jerry’s eyes, his posture, or his words. “And that gives you access to my financial dealings?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I said, realizing where John was going. He was already trying to recruit the kid. “Like I told you, we work for a research company, but that’s not all we do.” I turned to John. “Were you able to track the boat?”

  He nodded. “Had a friend out on the water fishing. The boat disappeared from radar around the eastern tip of Norman Island.”

  “What boat?” Jerry asked.

  “The boat with the people who tried to kill you.”

  Jerry slowly sat back on his stool. “I don’t get it. What kind of research company has this kind of ability and clout with the local police?”

  John went on to explain a little about Armstrong Research, the valid research we did, and our reach. The Snyders listened intently for the most part and didn’t ask many questions.

  Mitzi turned and placed two plates in front of the Snyders, then went back to the grill and returned with two more, placing them in front of me and John.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It is di best I can do on short notice.”

  “Smells great,” I said. “Thanks.”

  We all dug in. John swallowed a bite of his fish sandwich and asked, “What did Jack say when you called him?”

  I shrugged, figuring that John had talked to Jack Armstrong since I’d called him to report what I’d found.

  “He said to take a few days off and enjoy myself.”

  “And the new kid, DJ?”

  “I asked for him to keep his appointment. He’s cruising through the night and should arrive by mid-morning.”

  “Mitzi and I will take the Snyders up to my house. What’re you going to do?”

  “Mashonay would be on Tortola, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I think I’m going to go see what the compound here looks like.” I took my handheld GPS from my pocket and set it on the bar next to him. “Show me where to go.”

  “Technology will always be the downfall of lawbreakers,” John said, taking the device and powering it up. “Same with terrorists, and any other ne’er-do-wells. No matter how smart they think they are, the good guys always have better toys.” He handed the device back and lifted the case from the floor. “I got something else for you. It just arrived about an hour ago.”

  When he opened the box, I saw a large, black, full-face diver’s helmet. Actually, it looked more like a mask than a helmet.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You’ve heard about those Google glasses, that you wear and they display information on the inside of the lens? This is the U.S. Navy’s version.”

  I lifted the mask out. It was heavy, probably three or four pounds. Aside from the usual air hose attachment, there were a pair of water-tight electrical connections and a large mass covered with thick black latex above the face plate and on both sides.

  “When you float your GPS antenna, or when you surface, this thing will connect via satellite to a whole suite of apps. You can even have a heads-up display of the underwater topography, based on latest NOAA charts and civilian data.”

  “Civilian?”

  “GPS and sonar can be interactive. So many boats today are equipped with advanced technology. Charts are literally being rewritten every day based on readings from pleasure craft operators. When you have your sonar and GPS active on a single screen, the equipment is sharing topographical information.”

  I looked up at John. “You mean Big Brother knows everywhere I go, whenever my GPS is on?”

  “Only when it’s paired with sonar. And the sonar findings and location are the only information that’s shared.”

  “What else can this high-tech mask do?”

  “A built-in mic is able to transmit through the floating antenna to nearby encrypted receivers, or to an encrypted satellite. The signal can even be broadcast through the water for a distance of about 200 feet when the antenna is below the surface. It can be connected to an encrypted computer, and you can give voice commands, like, ‘search Floridablanca.’ Then the computer will read back the headline results. You can say ‘expand’ and it will read the whole page or whatever data you ask for, and it can show it to you on a heads-up display in front of your left eye.”

  I took the box and put the mask back in it. “Thanks. This might come in handy. Who else has these?”

  “SEALs are testing them, as are Marine combat divers.”

  “Who the hell are you people?” Jerry asked.

  John grinned at the younger man. “Just researchers,” he replied. “We sometimes research illegal activity and report it to the authorities, too.”

  We finished eating, then Mitzi locked up. I walked with them around to the front, where John’s four-wheel-drive electric cart was parked.

  Jerry rode in front with John, and Mitzi and Alicia climbed onto the rear-facing seat.

  “You get any sleep?” John asked.

  “I dozed a little on the way back,” I replied. “I’ll be in and out in a few hours and can sleep after.”

  “You be careful,” Mitzi said.

  “I also put the location of my house on your handheld,” John said. “Come there after you scout out their compound. There’s usually a lot of noisy activity there on Sunday nights. Keep your head down.”

  The electric motor whirred, and the rear tires lurched, breaking gravel loose.

  A lot of noisy activity? I wondered.

  The Onayan compound was a little over a mile away, as the gull flies. That meant nothing on a tropical island. The GPS showed a road of sorts, several of them, in fact. Each followed the natural contour of the island.

  I threw my lightweight pack over my shoulders, pulled a pair of night-vision goggles over my head, and started off in the opposite direction from where John’s cart had disappeared.

  Once away from the ambient light of the restaurant and bar, the goggles settled down and I could see clearly, so I picked up the pace to a slow jog.

  The terrain was rugged, much of it uphill or down; very little in the way of level ground. But the road was mostly clear of trip hazards. After twenty minutes, the goggles began to pick up a faint glow to the east.

  Checking the GPS again, I saw that I was only about 300 yards from the compound and the road I was on looped around to the north when it reached the rocky eastern coast. I assumed the entrance would be guarded, just like the one on Tortola. The waypoint on the screen was on the road, near where the satellite image showed it ended. The road itself was only a couple hundred feet from the shore, so I made an educated guess on where the compound was and left the road, angling up a steep hillside. The other compound had a commanding view, so I figured this one would, as well.

  When I reached a fence, I studied it carefully. It didn’t appear to be electrified. It had four strands of razor wire, though. That was a little more dangerous than regular barbed wire if you got tangled in it. After putting my goggles back in the pack, I dropped it onto the ground on the other side of the fence, then easily climbed over the wire at one of the posts.

  Donning the goggles again, I set out a little more slowly, working my way up the hill.

  A woman’s scream froze me in my tracks, and I squatted, looking all around.

>   The scream had come from the top of the hill, to my right. Seeing nothing moving or man-made anywhere around me, I started that way, crouched low.

  There was another scream, a man this time. It sounded more like a primal yell. I could see light through the trees.

  I unslung my pack and opened it. Pulling out a holstered Sig Sauer P226, I removed it and clipped the empty holster to my belt, behind my back. I flipped on the Sig’s infrared laser sight and a bright dot appeared on the ground in front of me, invisible to the naked eye. Though I didn’t have to, I pulled the slide back a little. There was a round in the chamber, ready to rock and roll.

  Pulling the pack on again, I quietly rose and proceeded up the hill, staying among the foliage as much as possible.

  The light ahead began to dance and flicker, rising and dimming in intensity.

  A campfire?

  I knew there was no electricity on this end of the island, and I didn’t hear a generator.

  The shouting ceased and a man’s voice resonated down as I moved nearer. I couldn’t yet hear what he was saying, but his tone sounded instructional, as if he were lecturing in a college classroom.

  Finally, I had to get prone, as a clearing opened up ahead of me. There was a small fire burning, with people sitting around it in a semi-circle.

  A man and a woman, both wearing what looked like Roman togas, stood next to a table, their backs to me. They were both fair-haired, but the woman’s hair looked totally white through the goggles. Probably a platinum blonde.

  Blondie’s garment was a simple wrap that went under both arms from the back, crossed in front, and was fastened at the back of her neck, like a halter. The man’s robe went under one arm and fastened at the opposite shoulder.

  On the table were an assortment of what looked like plastic bottles and stacks of nested cups. “That’s a good start,” the man said, turning toward the table and picking up one of the cups. “But all of you must fully purge your rage, not just one or two. We have something here that will help.”

  His accent was easy to recognize, though the Frenchman had obviously been speaking English as a primary language for some time; his accent was very slight.

  The group all wore simple T-shirts, though longer than usual. They sat cross-legged, backs ramrod straight, and hands resting on their knees.

  “The purging must be as a group,” the blond woman said, addressing the people around the fire as if she were a loving mother. “Have no fear, this drink will do you no harm. To become Onayan, you must completely shed all your hostile thoughts and darkest secrets.” She had an accent as well, but it was so subtle I couldn’t place it. Eastern or northern European, maybe.

  Frenchy took two cups from the table and handed them to the two people nearest him. “You must lay your hostilities and negative thoughts bare for all others to see. This drink will help you.”

  Blondie took two cups and handed them to two others in the group. “There are no chemicals or mind-altering drugs in this drink. That is not the Onayan way. It is made simply from the plants you have been so lovingly cultivating this past week.”

  I made a mental note to return during the day to find out what kind of plants they were growing here, as the man and woman continued to distribute the cups.

  “Please wait until everyone has theirs,” the woman cautioned, her voice soft and reassuring.

  The area around the fire was covered in what looked like gym mats, for lack of a better description, only thicker. The group was sitting on the mats, which appeared to be the same shade of gray-green through the night-vision as the clothes they wore; a shade I recognized as blue.

  Beyond the group were at least four small dwellings, smaller than my own house, each no more than forty feet long and half that in width.

  Bunkhouses?

  The group appeared to be about an equal mix of men and women, most of them young, but some my age. I counted twenty, plus the toga-wearing man and woman. None of them looked armed, and I couldn’t see anyone beyond the group, due to the optics dimming the available light because of the brightness of the fire.

  Very quietly, moving at glacial speed, I crept forward and to the left to a more concealed spot where I could see better. Finally, I was in a position where my head and upper body were concealed by the large leaves of a hand leaf plant. I disturbed an anole, which jumped to another leaf. The little lizard bobbed his head a couple of times and extended his red throat pouch.

  Sorry to invade your bedroom, little fella, I thought, peering through the leaves, as Frenchy finished passing out the drinks.

  I couldn’t help but think of the Jonestown massacre, where nearly a thousand people, a third of them children, drank poisoned Kool-Aid or were injected with cyanide. That had been a cult also.

  “Drink up, future Onayans,” Blondie said, as she and the man also lifted cups to their lips.

  Some of those in the group laughed nervously. Others took tentative sips, and still others eagerly tossed the drink down. Afterward, they sat looking around at one another, as if they all expected someone to do something.

  The man and woman standing in front of the group reached up and undid the fasteners of their garments.

  “You may now disrobe,” Blondie said, letting hers fall to the ground.

  She was silhouetted against the flickering firelight, which diminished the capacity of the optics whenever I looked that way. But not so much that I couldn’t tell, even from behind, that she had a shapely body.

  The man also dropped his one-piece garment on the mat. Several of the people sitting in the group pulled their shirts over their heads. A few seemed a bit shy, but soon they were all sitting naked on the mats.

  “Within a few minutes, you will begin to feel the effect of what you just drank,” the man said. “You will have an overwhelming feeling of liberation at first.”

  “At the same time,” the woman added, “you will be completely lucid and in full control of your actions.”

  “The mats are there,” the man said, spreading both arms. “Use them to release your hostility. Remember, you are in full control, so be careful not to hurt anyone around you.”

  A man on the far side of the group shrieked with rage as he leapt to the side and began screaming and pummeling the mat.

  Soon, others joined in, shrieking and yelling at the tops of their lungs, all of them writhing around on the mats. Many struck it with their forearms. Some began to push and wrestle with one another, making no distinction between man or woman.

  The two leaders walked around the group, looking every bit like wolves deciding on their prey. Frenchy moved in among the writhing and wrestling throng of people, grabbed a woman, and rolled with her onto the mat. Blondie did the same with a young, dark-haired man.

  This insanity went on for over thirty minutes. Then, one by one, the participants settled down, lying prone or in a fetal position, some curled up with someone else, or with a small group of others. Several began to cry, their plaintive wails in sharp contrast to the anger and fury I’d witnessed earlier.

  I did notice that the man and woman who seemed to be leading the group hadn’t seemed to go through the same process of rage and anger. Perhaps they’d already purged themselves of “hostile thoughts and dark secrets,” but in truth, they just seemed to enjoy wrestling with the naked group.

  Frenchy rose and stepped away from the group, stopping now and then to kneel and speak softly with one of the people. He helped the female leader to her feet, and together they returned to the table.

  “That was great,” the woman said, somewhat out of breath. “Do you feel better now?”

  There was a chorus of shouts in the affirmative as the group of people began to situate themselves back into attentive sitting positions. However, they were no longer spaced as they had been before. Some had paired up, others were clustered together in groups of three and four,
sitting close and leaning on one another.

  The man picked up a plastic bag I hadn’t noticed and walked among the group, taking something from the bag and handing one to each individual, while the woman passed bottles of water out to everyone.

  “You’ve earned this,” I heard the man say to a group of four young people. The woman also stopped and knelt with some of the group, answering questions and offering her advice and congratulations. Those in the group treated her in a way that was somehow different from how they acted toward the man; an odd sort of reverence.

  I watched as the people put what the man had given them into their mouths, washing it down with large gulps of water. I checked my watch; it was 0130.

  I hoped the group would break up soon and leave the cleanup until morning. I wanted a sample of whatever they’d drunk and one of the pills they’d all taken.

  Blondie and Frenchy also took one of the pills. After only a minute or two, a slow transformation came over the group. No longer alert and attentive, those on the mats began to touch one another, stroking and caressing hair and faces. They all seemed to be smiling—languid, flushed sort of smiles, almost lewd, but also empathetic.

  The man and woman disappeared into the group, which soon devolved into what I could only describe as a writhing mass of humanity. The sex started out gently, couples and groups moving together and joining in a variety of ways. It soon escalated, as they threw themselves into it, often changing partners.

  The little anole on the leaf by my head suddenly jumped off and onto a branch. As it scurried away, I heard the snapping sound of a dry twig behind me.

  “Don’t even think about moving, man,” a male voice said, very close to my feet.

  Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a gun’s hammer being cocked. Louder, the man behind me said, “Sunna! We have an intruder!”

  The female leader lifted her head above the others, the young men she was coupled with, as well as the others seemed unfazed by the shouting. “Where are you?”