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Molokai Forest Reserve
Sunday, 9 May
1925 Local Time
Kimo met Alapai in the clearing, the hoe leiomano dangling from his left hand. Its shark-tooth edge gleamed orange in the firelight. Two burning barrels of material—maps, supply lists, timetables—provided a bright-yellow glow to the open space. Like a campfire, Kimo thought. Kenny and Hambone ferried stuff out of the command hut, adding to the blazing contents. Sparks and swirls of red-tinged confetti spiraled up whenever they dropped another load.
“Damn, bruddah,” Kimo observed. “That’s a lot of paper for one little rebellion. Gonna hafta get us another barrel.”
“Yeah, who knew?” Alapai grumped.
“Just set the damn building on fire, da kine? Be faster.”
“And light a beacon for everyone to see? Yeah, great plan.”
Kimo tapped the younger man on the neck with the hoe leiomano. Alapai yelped and clapped a hand to the bright points of blood welling from fresh holes.
“Don’t be a smartass,” Kimo warned.
Near the center of the clearing, a full-sized tripod held a mini-camcorder. Kimo walked over and examined the video device. “We good to go? Got batteries and shit? Don’t want to be like that movie, the one with Arnie and the terrorists.”
“It’s ready,” Alapai said, smearing blood along his neck and examining his red palm afterward. “Soon as the guys are finished with the docs, we can start on the hostages.”
Kimo swished the ceremonial knife like a musketeer with a rapier. His palm ached from the hole put in it by the redheaded bitch. A fucking nail. He wondered when he’d had his last tetanus shot.
The last of the daylight seeped from the sky, and the first stars were winking on, showing clear and bright in a cloudless sky. Fitful puffs of wind whipped the flames rising from the barrels. The night birds, usually vocal at this time of day, were holding their peace. In fact, it seemed to Kimo that every native creature had gone quiet, leaving behind nothing but the rattle of palms and the gurgle of fire.
“Why wait?” Kimo flexed his sore hand. “You and I can handle these pansies, da kine? At least the bitch I want to start with.”
#
KUANAKAKAI HARBOR, South Coast of Molokai
Sunday, 9 May
1925 Local
Monalisa maneuvered the Guppy alongside the Kuanakakai Harbor pier with the gentlest of bumps. Victor hopped out and tied the boat off with a half hitch, which Monalisa retied as a bowline as soon as she cut the motors and joined him. She returned to the yacht to finish locking up while Victor recovered his legs.
Many people described the shape of Molokai as resembling a shark, with the south coast forming the underbelly. Made up of alluvial and volcanic runoff from the mountains to the north, the southern and western side of the island resembled West Texas more than Hawaii, which was to say, flat and brown. From his spot on the concrete pier, Victor had a good three-sixty view for several miles in any direction. Pinpoints of lights from houses and businesses dotted the coast, concentrated on the town of Kuanakakai, while the orange ball of the sun dropped into the western sea. To the south and east, twinkling yellow lights of container ships edged across the darkening sea.
And less than a mile away, hidden by nightfall, a ghost ship lay at anchor, its crew and passengers ripped apart by gunfire. Victor shivered.
Closer in, all along the dock, gulls stood in scattered packs, feathers ruffling with the breeze as they roosted in place. Voices carried from other boats. The tinny sound of a sitcom laugh track drifted faintly from the other side of pier, and Victor caught a whiff of smoke from a hibachi.
Monalisa joined him, pocketing a set of keys. She’d thrown on a light jacket as nightfall brought a lower temperature. Victor was both relieved and disappointed at the concealment of her twin peaks.
“Let’s go find someone in charge,” Monalisa said.
“Uh... okay.” Victor had a long-standing dislike of involvement with any law-enforcement types, but he could see no way around it. He didn’t have the resources to run all over the island looking for Yeager by himself, and the cops might already know what happened to the tour group from the Fair Breezes. It would save him a lot of trouble if that were the case. “Let’s go find the po-po.”
The harbormaster’s office was closed. Victor cupped his hands around the door’s window glass to check inside. The office was dark and deserted. To the right of the door was a box full of envelopes, a pencil hanging on a string, and a mail slot labeled Slip Rental. A sign with rates advised people to drop their money through the slot when the office was closed.
“The honor system, huh? Now what?”
“Now I use some of Thad’s petty cash to take care of the boat.” Monalisa squinted toward the narrow two-lane blacktop leading into town. “Then I guess we hike to the police station.”
“Dial 9-1-1. See who shows up.”
“Or that.”
Victor wandered into the parking lot while Monalisa scribbled on the back of an envelope and stuffed some bills into it. Several of the docked craft were occupied, either by live-ins or weekend sailors. Overriding the smell of the grill, the tang of pot smoke drifted on the breeze.
A scarecrow materialized under the light from an overhead fixture and approached an antique Willis Jeep that might have been abandoned by Douglas MacArthur. He was carrying a five-gallon bucket, a seven-foot-long fishing rod, and a stringer of silvery fish in one hand. The other hand pinched a joint tight between finger and thumb. Older than Methuselah’s babysitter, the guy stood a hair under five foot six and wore a floppy straw hat and janitor’s overalls. Flip-flops scuffed the tarmac as he approached his rust-and-primer truck.
The scarecrow sucked a final hit on his joint, stubbed out the coal on the Jeep’s fender, and tucked the roach in a shirt pocket. He regarded Victor for a long second and spoke on the exhale. “You looking for Dave?” A gray cloud billowed up from under his hat brim.
“Depends on who Dave is.”
“He da harbor man. Run da office dere, brah.”
“What we need is the cops,” Monalisa said, coming up to stand next to Victor. “You know where the station is?”
“Sure.” The scarecrow took the time to heft his tackle and string of fish into the Jeep’s rear bed. With a vague wave toward the town, he said, “Dey off up dere. Not far.”
“Wanna give us a ride, señor?” Victor asked, though he wasn’t sure if the guy could drive in a straight line.
The old man scratched his chin, the rasp audible from six feet away. “Ten bucks.”
Monalisa flicked a sideways glance at Victor, who shrugged and dragged the folded itinerary from the Breezes out of his seat pocket. He angled it to catch the overhead sodium-vapor light so the old man could see where he was pointing. He was careful to keep the bloodstains hidden. “How much to take me here?”
The fisherman shook his head. “Too dark up there. You won’t see nothing.”
“He’s right,” Monalisa said. “It’s pitch-black up in the reserve. You might as well come with me to the cops. Maybe they know something.”
Victor tapped the folded sheet of paper into his palm, a sour feeling in his guts. Getting tied up with answering a bunch of official questions was not his idea of a vacation. “Me and cops don’t always get along.” He cocked his head at the fisherman. “Another twenty do it?”
The man’s grin looked like a broken picket fence with peeling paint. “Da kine.”
“That means yes,” Monalisa said.
“Bueno. Let’s roll.”
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1930 Local
Yeager found the enemy’s observation post where he expected it—in a thick stand of trees to the right of the main trail, directly across the stream from his position. The bright flickering from the camp provided enough backlight that he could make out one outlined figure kneeling between two leaning palms. Once he’d spotted the first man, careful study gave him the positions of two more concealed under the fronds of low-growing bushes. No doubt, more lay in wait, better hidden in the thick, shadowed vegetation.
They were twenty yards away, maybe a shade more. They had been lucky to approach so close without being seen or heard. The stream chuckling between them must have served to mask Yeager’s sound, and the fire at the enemy rear was probably more hindrance to them than help. Light would reflect back at them from the fronds, leaving everything beyond in total blackness.
He tapped Pyle and pointed out the enemy position. With Pyle’s nod of acknowledgment, Yeager counted down with three fingers. Three... two... one! They simultaneously pulled the pins on a fragmentation grenade, popped upright, and tossed together. He and Pyle dropped back to the ground and covered their heads.
The grenades crashed into the brush like thrown rocks. Yeager knew in his bones his throw had been on target, damn near hitting the enemy’s head. He had time to draw a single breath before two heavy cracks split the jungle. The concussion thumped him through the ground.
Someone screamed. Yeager pushed his AK forward and rained fire on the enemy position. The muzzle flare blinded him—he aimed more by memory than design. With two solid bursts, Yeager was moving. Pyle fired as well, though Yeager didn’t stop to check how he was doing. The man knew the plan and the fallback point.
Slithering to his right, Yeager pushed through bracken on his belly. He caught the flicker of muzzle blast from the opposite side of the river. None of the return fire had come close—so far. He didn’t expect that to last. This was the worst kind of fight, in his opinion—in the dark, with no solid intel on enemy strength or position, no fire support, and absolutely no margin of error. Each side blazed away into the jungle. Random chance decided who’d die and who would live.
He tasted dirt. Sweat burned his eyes. Yeager targeted the strobing light of an enemy’s weapon and squeezed off a burst. The firing ceased. Injured, killed, or repositioning? Yeager couldn’t know. He moved again. More weapons opened up from the far bank. Bullets zipped and zinged overhead, chopping leaves and smacking bark, distinctive sounds despite the ringing in his ears.
At least he and Pyle had the easy job. After reluctantly concluding that Pettigrew was a better woodsman, Yeager had detailed him and Osterchuk for the hostage rescue while he and Gomer provided the diversion. It was a risky play, but the decision was made, the die cast. Now it was up to him and the deaf Vietnam vet to draw as many attackers as possible and leave the back door open for Pettigrew and the big Minnesotan to get their people out of harm’s way.
Muzzle flashes lit up the far bank from multiple locations. Yeager shifted and fired, fired and shifted. One mag ran dry, and he popped in a second.
How long before the enemy crossed the river and dislodged them? As soon as the terrorists advanced, he and Pyle would be forced to retreat. Their only advantage lay in keeping ahead of the enemy, drawing them out, and making them pay for ground with casualties. If the terrorists reached this side of the stream, they could easily flank and pin them down. Outgunned, he and Pyle would be destroyed in minutes. They had to keep pulling back.
The tenor of firing changed. The pace slacked off. Then elements on his left began laying down suppressive fire, lighting up the jungle with steady pulses in three-round bursts. Rounds peppered the branches close to where he estimated Pyle had withdrawn. Yeager saw no response from Gomer’s position. Is he down? Injured? Or already moving to a backup position?
The terrorists would be crossing the river soon. Yeager readied his weapon, resting it against the shaggy bole of a palm tree. He had a good position, overlooking the river crossing. All he had to do was wait, then he could drop at least one, maybe two. Yeager steadied his breathing and waited.