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Molokai Forest Reserve
Sunday, 9 May
1947 Local Time
Austin surprised Charlie by jumping into Kong’s path. He jostled Charlie when he bounced up, knocking her on her butt. Instinctively, she tried to brace her fall and banged her broken hand on the floor. Light bombs exploded in her head, and it was all she could do to keep from passing out. She curled into a ball and bit her lip, hissing like a steam kettle, while Austin bulled up to Kong, chest to chest.
“Where’s my wife!”
One of Kong’s blocky hands grabbed Austin’s chin, and the other snagged in the back of the Californian’s hair. He twisted as though jerking a wheel, and Austin’s neck cracked. Kong dropped the limp body.
“C’mon, Mizz Yeager!” Danny yelled. “Get out of there!”
Charlie scrambled for the hole in the wall on elbows and knees. Electric bolts of pain jolted her right forearm. Behind her, footsteps thumped closer. Danny grabbed her shoulders, snagging a handful of blouse. He pulled, and her top rode up, though she gained a little momentum. The outside air felt cool against her feverish cheeks. Danny’s sweat stink was strong as she pushed her face into his side. He was half helping, half obstructing her escape, his big body clogging the hole while he struggled for a good grip.
Hands seized her ankles.
“Nooo!” Charlie’s bare stomach scraped the floor as Kong dragged her backward. Danny’s fingers scrabbled for a better hold, raking her back. She slid farther away, and Danny grabbed her broken hand. She screamed. He let go like releasing a hot rock.
Kong’s paws clamped around her waist, and he tossed her behind him with the ease of a man forking hay. Charlie cradled her hand to protect it as she crashed into a cot and skidded over the rough planks. Splinters stabbed her back. The cot bounced away with a clatter. She banged her head on the floor, and light bloomed behind her eyes.
Charlie heard Danny shout, “Oh, hell no!” and when her vision cleared, the big man had pushed himself inside the barracks like a walrus flopping onto a wharf. He’d left his weapon outside, and Kong had deposited his somewhere when he had come for Charlie. The two men faced each other unarmed, an equal match for size, though Danny was more pear shaped and Kong was more like a hewn block of granite.
The Hawaiian terrorist laughed. “Okay, old man. Let’s see whatcha got.”
Danny roared, and the two giants slammed together.
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1950 Local
Manu Ho, leader of the special operations force attached to the intelligence officer known as Mr. L, chewed his lip and considered his diminishing chances for a long and successful career in the armed services of his country. The corpse of the man at his feet was more than a bit mangled by a grenade blast, though not mangled enough to obscure the man’s civilian clothes or advanced age.
Manu considered a number of answers to the questions his superiors would pose to him, chief of which was How? How had a grandfather decimated his command? Of his original forty, the only acceptable casualties on the mission had been the four on the Delphinius mission. Those he could have lived with as they had died in action against the US Navy during the exfil of a primary mission. But the others...
Of the remaining thirty-six, he had lost eleven while hiding in the jungle and playing nursemaid to the idiot sadist Kimo Ekewaka and his band of barbarians. Two sentries had been slain by stealth and five lost chasing their killer through the forest. In a logical world, he could not be blamed for those, as the men had been under the temporary command of the gweilo. However, the men were his responsibility. He would be blamed for their deaths.
Four more dead and two wounded in that night’s attack by... by an old man with a stolen rifle and grenades? No. It made no sense. There had to be others—younger, more capable men. Maybe even special operations soldiers. If he had to return to his superiors and report his losses, attributing them to this fossil, this white American grandfather... he would be executed, and rightfully so. He had lost face, too much face.
Manu Ho surveyed the expressions of the two men near him, Sergeant Zhao and Private Tuan. Both men gripped their weapons tightly, their eyes wide and constantly scanning the black surroundings. Sweat ran down Tuan’s cheeks, and the man swallowed frequently. Zhao twitched at every small noise. This was Tuan’s first combat deployment, so it was understandable he might be nervous. Zhao, however, was a veteran with more than fifteen years of service. Apparently, high losses from unseen enemies could unnerve even the toughest soldier.
I need to get these men out of here. Mission parameters allowed for losses, but they still had to execute a difficult and stealthy assault, followed by a dangerous exfiltration. High attrition before the final phase would degrade their chances of success. Tired, anxious soldiers would also reduce their effectiveness. These were tough men, the toughest his country had to offer, but even tough men needed time to rest and recuperate after a firefight.
Something knifed through the fronds nearby, followed by a thud, as though a pinecone had fallen to the ground. An object rolled to a stop at Tuan’s feet. Zhao dived away, and Ho instinctively propelled himself backward an instant before the stunning crump of the grenade slammed into him. Warm, wet rain spattered Ho’s face and neck. His ears rang, and his mind blanked of conscious thought.
Images. Sight only. No sound. Sergeant Zhao. Bright streamers speared from the muzzle of his weapon. Private Tuan’s body somehow seated in an upright position. A dark fountain spraying from the headless man’s neck.
Ho’s first coherent impression was one of relief. He had been correct. There were more attackers. Perhaps US Army personnel or one of their famed SEAL units. Assuming Zhao survived this attack, he would need to be convinced the attackers were special ops soldiers and not geriatric civilians.
“Sergeant Zhao,” he snapped. His voice sounded hollow and far away. “Take five men, and run this ghost to ground.” He used the form of the word ghost that, in his native language, was more a racial epithet for white people than a supernatural entity. “Keep the pig fucker pinned down and on the run. Meet us at the exfil point at oh four hundred hours.”
Zhao nodded sharply and disappeared into the jungle.
Face can be maintained, but not if we fail the next phase. He had to focus on getting as many troops as possible to the Kekepi and rally for the final assault. Playing nursemaid to these Hawaiian simpletons accomplished nothing except getting his men killed. It was stupid and wasteful.
It was time to go. If the Hawaiians wanted to go with him, fine. If they wanted to stay and kill the ghosts, fine. Either way, Manu Ho and his team were headed for the beach.
#
MOLOKAI FOREST RESERVE
Sunday, 9 May
1950 Local
Danny Osterchuk’s rage demon had been caged for fifty years. It had a lot of catching up to do. Osterchuk opened the cage and let the demon take him. Conscious thought vanished. Reason evaporated. Fear fled. Only one goal drove Danny Osterchuk, and that was to beat the ever-lovin’ shit out of the brutally ugly Hawaiian thug in front of him. His first punch started in Wisconsin and brought with it a freight train of rage. His fist detonated against the granite face, pulping the man’s nose into a mashed strawberry lump.
The slab-faced goon staggered back, surprise and pain written on his features. Osterchuk’s demon danced with glee. Secret fact: Osterchuk liked hitting people. He cocked and fired the same fist. Same spot. Same result: blood sprayed.
The Hawaiian matched him for size, and he’d obviously been in some fights. An experienced fighter knew how to deal with pain—block it out, and stay in the fight. Slab Face ducked his chin and blocked with his forearms. He backpedaled, blinking away the watery vision brought on by a solid strike to the nose.
Osterchuk bored in, driving hooks to the body. It felt like he was punching a suitcase full of bricks. He tried to back-heel the man to the ground, but Slab Face stepped out of it and unleashed a counter-jab that rocked Osterchuk and turned his legs to jelly. He was forced to break away, step back, and shake off the cobwebs. Osterchuk had never been hit that hard in his life. It felt like having a Buick fall off a cliff and land on his face.
Slab Face crashed into him sumo-wrestler style. Osterchuk grunted and staggered from the impact. They clinched and traded body jabs—short, piston-like punches that stole a man’s wind. The Hawaiian broke the clinch and stepped back. An enormous fist filled Osterchuk’s vision, delivered by a looping swing from right field.
The lights flickered and dimmed. Osterchuk’s knees hit the floor. A thought percolated up from the swamp, drowning his consciousness. Oh, shit. I’m about to die.
Nothing happened. Osterchuk’s vision cleared, and he saw Slab Face stomping away, headed for Mrs. Yeager. Bless her heart, she had circled around them and gone for the AK propped in a corner, where the ugly fuck had left it.
She gripped the rifle awkwardly in her left hand and fumbled at the bolt with her right forearm. Slab Face was on her in an instant. He snatched the gun away and popped Charlie Yeager between the eyes with a short right jab. The redheaded woman’s eyes rolled up, and she dropped in a heap.
The giant Hawaiian turned and came back toward Osterchuk. He tossed the rifle on a bunk in passing. Blood sheeted the lower half of his granite face, and murder danced in his eyes.
Which was fine by Osterchuk. The demon wasn’t done with him yet. He spat blood and gunk on the floor and filled his lungs with oxygen. His chest banged and shuddered like a misfiring John Deere tractor. Osterchuk gathered his legs under him, fueling his muscles with will power and pure junkyard-dog meanness.
Danny Osterchuk liked hitting people, true. Hitting bad people made him very happy. Hitting this evil shit stain felt like a dozen Christmas mornings come all at once. You betcha.
The man was six feet away. Four feet. Two—
Osterchuk launched himself off the floor and tackled Slab Face with a shoulder to the gut. He wrapped his arms around the man’s tree-trunk legs and heaved. Slab Face fell backward. The Hawaiian’s back slammed the floor with a whump that shook the building.
And then Osterchuk was on top of the man, knees pinning his shoulders, hitting him as if Slab Face was the world’s ugliest piñata. Right, left, right, left, bouncing Slab Face’s head off the floor. Blood sprayed up.
Something broke in Osterchuk’s left hand. He ignored the popping sound and never felt the pain. His vision had shifted to deep red, though that might have been from blood splattering his face.
If Danny Osterchuk could have asked himself if this was the happiest he’d ever been, he would have said no. The day Jan accepted his proposal, his wedding night, the birth of any of his children, or any of several milestones since... those would have won. But not by much.
His enemy was down. Danny Osterchuk would beat the life out of him. He’d heard what had happened to Lu Kim. Knew the fate of the blond man’s wife. Saw what happened to Charlie Yeager. Seventy-six years old didn’t matter. Fat and out of shape didn’t matter. No way was this woman-raping, murdering sack of shit getting up from—
A lightning bolt of fiery purple pain seized Osterchuk’s chest and lanced down his left arm. Once again, the lights flickered and dimmed. All his strength drained away. The will left his body. The rage demon vanished. Nothing existed except the pain blowing up through his body.
All he could think was, Not now, by damn. Not now.
Then he was facedown on the floor. The scent of wood. Roaring in his ears. A knee settled on his back, but it was nothing compared to the crushing weight squeezing his chest. A giant hand clamped his chin, and another tangled in his hair. All he felt was relief. In a second, the pain would be gone.
Danny Osterchuk felt the crack of his own neck from a far distant galaxy. And he was right. The pain went away.