13

SOUTH CHINA SEA, LATE JULY

The blackness in front of Havok seemed to be an infinite void, and he could see nothing except for fat raindrops assaulting the windowpanes of the pilothouse. He’d been standing at the helm for several hours now, and his legs were numb from his wide bracing as the seas surged past the Outfit from astern. He did not notice the ache in his legs, though. Instead, he stared at the white lubber line under the hand-sized dome of the floating compass face. His hands maintained a 210-degree course, while his mind pondered the human head many miles behind him. Who had it belonged to, and how had it ended up on such a desolate lump of land?

The men had examined the lonely stub of Ituba Island but had found no other sign of human presence: no footprints, shelters, or dead campfires. Before they departed the island, they inspected the gruesome flotsam the island had snared and discovered a single bullet hole at the base of the head. Somebody had executed the man.

By three a.m. the narrow white lubber line had become a stinging blur. In what seemed like slow motion, Havok reached over and rapped his knuckles on the raised wooden hatch of the cabin below. Within a minute, Manny opened the hatch and stuck his head out.

“Take the helm,” Havok said, yawning. “We’re still a ways out. The seas are coming in from the port quarter, and I’ve embedded us in a line of rain squalls, so stay with them as long as you can maintain a direct heading to Terumbu.”

“Got it.”

They swapped places, and as Manny wrapped his hands firmly around the spokes of the old-fashioned wheel, Stone popped his head up from below. He stretched and yawned while he scratched his short gray hair. “What’s going on?”

“Manny has the wheel and GPS has us on track,” Havok said, still looking out the window. “We’re still twenty-five miles out. Why don’t you get some more sleep?”

“I’m good.” Stone stumbled his way toward the chart table for his cigarettes. “I’ll wake you when we get close enough.”

Havok faltered down the steps to his bunk. Manny was getting used to adjusting the course to match the surging seas coming from astern.

***

It seemed only a minute had passed since Havok’s head hit the pillow when somebody roughly shook his shoulder. He opened his eyes. Manny’s face leaned over him in the darkness. The pounding of the engines and the surging sea had ceased. Raindrops still hit the wooden deck above the cabin, but their pace had slackened.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, we’re here.”

“No way,” Havok mumbled. He brought his dive watch close to his face, and his gritty eyes focused on the luminous crystal. The hands indicated that he had been asleep for over two hours. “I’m up,” he grumbled as he stretched his arms above his head. After a minute of stretching, Havok threw his legs out of the bunk and sat up. After another minute of rubbing his eyes, he headed toward the staircase leading out of the cabin.

A pitch-blackness enveloped Havok as he stepped onto the deck in front of the pilothouse. The landmass ahead was a shade even darker than pitch black, like the ebony of a shadow in the night. The rain squalls that had escorted them to the island continued to move on, passing over and beyond the island. He turned around and saw Manny in the pilothouse. The weak light from the compass and other gauges highlighted his outline. Manny was wearing the night-vision goggles he had borrowed from Kilgore.

Havok, no stranger to using NVGs, could imagine what Manny was seeing through the device. Havok turned to look at the ebony island, which took on a fuzzy green outline, and at the subdued surf, which was light green, and the break in the surf, which revealed the channel through the reef. Havok saw Manny in the pilothouse grasping the twin control levers with his right hand, pushing them with his thumb and pinkie, one forward and one in reverse. This directed the boat to twist to port and coast a short distance southward. When the break in the surf line was abeam of the boat, Manny reversed the positions of the throttle levers, turning the boat until the bow pointed into the narrow channel.

Havok turned to the island again and thought back to the day he had flown over and around this island. He remembered the broad reef flat along the eastern shore and the channel that cut through it. He could almost see the hidden cove at the other end of the channel.

After glancing at the LED readout of the fathometer above the chart table and then the details on the chart itself, Stone announced to Manny, “Looks like we’re just off the channel entrance.”

Havok stepped aft and entered the door to the pilothouse.

Stone looked at him and said, “We’re right where we need to be.”

“Good,” replied Havok. “Now let’s get into our swim gear. I would hate for a coral head to scratch the bottom of your precious boat.”

Stone replied with an unintelligible mumble and followed Havok out the door.

Manny stayed at the helm while his employers went aft to get ready for their next task. Although the chart indicated that the channel was deep and wide enough for the Outfit’s three-foot draft, Havok had to assume there might be scattered coral heads not indicated on the chart. The depth finder’s transducer, mounted on the stern, would give no warning of them until it was too late. They would have to guide the boat past any obstructions.

Leaning against the handrail up on the bow, they each wore swim trunks and basic snorkel gear and carried a dive light. Duct tape covered the lenses of their lights, leaving one square inch uncovered. Havok waved to Manny before he and Stone rolled backward off the bulwark and fell into the black of the sea. The sudden temperature change from the warm, tropical night air to the cool water chilled Havok. He ignored the discomfort and turned on his dive light. Several feet to his side, the slim blade of Stone’s light stabbed into the depths. Havok’s eyes followed the light stiletto, but the only thing he could see, other than Stone’s faint light, was an endless green space. He could hear the haunting throbs of the diesels behind him.

Havok rolled over in the water and kicked ahead until he could see the silhouette of the pilothouse above the bow. Stone had done the same, and when Havok was sure Manny could see the beams from their hooded lights, he rolled back over and kicked ahead on the surface.

The sloped, gravel-strewn bottom of the channel began to appear about fifteen feet under Havok. To his left, the channel wall rose out of the void. Although their lights were covered, the beams were still visible. Havok was not sure if the people on this island had patrols out and could have heard the diesel engines or had already zeroed in on this spot as a likely landing point for Havok to park his boat. After quite a bit of internal dialogue, he decided that whoever was on this island hadn’t taken the time to post a guard on this spot‍—at least not yet, as that Chinese frigate was probably still in Cebu in the central Philippines. But there was also that run-in with the two Russians. Had the survivor had the time to contact others for help or to alert those on this island? Maybe or maybe not, but in any case, they were now on this island.

Still kicking into the channel, Havok swam over a coral head. Its rounded top crested ten feet beneath his fins, leaving plenty of room for his boat to pass over it. Soon, his light culled out a second coral head. It was about eight feet under the surface, which still allowed plenty of room for his boat to pass over. Suddenly, he felt it: the sudden movement of water against the side of his head. Havok shot his light over to his left just in time to see the angular tail of a shark disappear into the blackness.

Hope the sharks around here are well fed, he thought.

The bottom began to level out at about five feet, as Havok entered the cove. Thankfully, the bottom was clear of any obstructions and sharks. He rolled over and could see the ghostly shadow of his boat glide toward him. He moved a bit farther to his left as the muffled sound of the engines reached a deeper pitch. The boat slid past him into the small pocket of the cove. The sound waves, having no place to go, reverberated off the sides and the bottom of the narrow confines and thundered painfully against Havok’s eardrums. The pain exploded as Manny put both engines in reverse and increased the engine’s rpm to stop the boat. The propellers churned up the bottom of the cove, cutting out any visibility. Not wanting to lose a leg in the propellers, Havok remained where he was until he heard the engines go silent, and then swam to the plastic rungs of the rope ladder that hung from the portside dive gate. While waiting for Stone, he listened to the jungle and could hear the running of water somewhere in front of the boat. He could also see the rocky edge of the cove about three feet away. The boat fit nice and snug in its little refuge. Stone, who was still on the other side of the boat, free-dove down, squeezed under the keel, and surfaced next to Havok.

“Manny,” Havok whispered loudly.

Manny’s head loomed out of the darkness above the men. The bulky night-vision goggles were still strapped to his face.

“What do you see?” Havok asked.

“Looks like we found a perfect hideaway,” Manny answered. “There’s a rocky wall on both sides and in front of us about as tall as the boat. They’re covered with jungle vines and roots that we can tie mooring lines to, and there is a waterfall in front of us.”

Havok now recognized the sound of the falling water. “Drop the mooring lines.”

Manny walked around the deck, dropping two bowlines and two stern lines into the water. Havok and Stone found the ropes and tied them to the nearby tree roots that snaked down the crevices in the rocky wall. They left enough slack in the lines to account for tidal changes.

Havok’s stiff biceps bunched as he pulled himself up the narrow rope ladder. When he reached the deck, he stripped off his snorkel gear and, wearing only swim trunks, went forward to help Manny with the camouflage bow net, stretching it from the bow to the top of the pilothouse. When the net was in place, Havok helped Stone with the other net, while Manny removed his goggles and went into the salon behind the pilothouse for dry clothes, towels, and hot coffee. Havok and Stone stretched the stern net from the transom up to the pilothouse, leaving a gap between the two nets so they could get on and off the boat. Dawn was still an hour away, and the air was humid and motionless. Both of them sweated heavily, and the drying salt water on their skin, combined with thick sweat, created a sticky coating on their skin.

Havok accepted the towel and mug of hot coffee that Manny offered him. The rough cloth seemed to smear the coating of dried seawater and sweat. The bittersweet black coffee, though, washed the salt water from his mouth.

Stone was doing the same, and Havok saw a smirk develop on Stone’s face.

“What’s so funny?” Havok asked.

“I’m just remembering that time in the Keys,” he replied as he threw his towel on the table behind him. “You know‍—when SPAN Expeditions gave us a boat and hired us to sneak onto Marathon and steal that stash of marijuana from Big Mike’s gang.”

“Yeah,” replied Havok. “That stash of marijuana they stole from an international artifact smuggler with no idea that there was a golden Mayan idol hidden under the reefer. So what?”

“Nothing,” mused Stone. “But those damned dentally challenged Keybillies sure were pissed as they tried to shoot up the boat during our getaway. I just hope that whoever’s on this island are bad shots, just like those Keybillies.”

“Somehow,” Havok replied, “I don’t think we’re going to run into a bunch of Keybillies with Halloween candy corn for teeth, shooting at us with worn-out shotguns and secondhand AR-15s.”

They both fell silent and finished dressing.

Havok peeked through the netting at the entrance of the cove and could see the black sky starting to turn a lighter shade.

“What about some sleep?” Stone asked. “Even just a few minutes?”

“One of us will have to stand guard,” Havok answered.

“I’ll stand watch,” Manny volunteered as he joined the two to collect the towels and coffee cups.

“Keep your shotgun handy,” Havok ordered.

An hour later, just after sunrise, Manny woke his employers and had a breakfast of canned guava juice, cold sardines in mustard sauce, and day-old rice waiting for them. Havok appreciated his friend’s thoughtfulness, as the smell of frying meat would have traveled far and advertised their arrival. The group sat on the fantail, under the cover of the netting and the lush tropical canopy overhead, eating their simple fare off paper plates.

Havok looked out the round, tunnel-like entrance at a dark blue sky and the sun sparkling off the ruffled turquoise sea. A tiny fraction of the early-morning sea breeze was able to sneak in, providing comfort. The boat moved slowly up and down in synchronicity with the gentle seas. The sound of water falling over rocks in front of them serenaded the tranquil morning. While Havok bathed in nature’s serenity, he wondered what kind of human ugliness awaited them that day. He also saw the rope that Manny had stretched from the roof of the pilothouse, over the four feet of space between the side of the boat to the trunk of a tree on top of the embankment, and just a few feet into the jungle.

After the meal, Havok and Stone prepared for the day’s expedition. They had worn their camouflage clothing to bed, and now they pulled two olive-drab backpacks from under the padded bench seats in the salon. Havok also pulled out an overstuffed army rucksack. While the two men slept, Manny had removed all of their weapons from the compartment under the pilothouse deck and made sure the weapons were loaded, as well as their cartridge belts.

When breakfast had settled, they each drank a quart of water.

Havok turned to Stone, who was checking his MP5 assault weapon. “Ready?”

“We ain’t gonna get back to Subic standing here,” Stone answered while looping the strap of the weapon over his head.

Havok pulled a folded map from the left cargo pocket of his trousers. He opened it up and pointed to a red X that marked the southern shore of the large bay. “This is where we’re going,” he told Manny. “We should be back well before sunset. While we’re gone, set up an observation post up on the bank. Never know who might come snooping around.”

“Already done,” Manny said. “I found a spot about ten yards into the jungle. Put my gear there before I woke you.”

“Good,” Havok said, slipping the straps of the day pack over his shoulder. “Now help me with the emergency pack.”

After both bags were in place on Havok’s back, he slung his M14 over his head and jammed his Beretta into his beltline and walked up to the taut line Manny had assembled. Before he grabbed the rope, Havok looked ahead of the boat, at the eight-foot waterfall cascading over the rocky edge. Havok felt the dried salt water and sweat on his skin. Well, a bath’s going to have to wait. He hoisted himself up, swinging his legs over the rope, and pulled himself headfirst toward the bank. Once above ground, he dropped from the line, removed his rifle from around his neck and shoulder, and moved deeper into the jungle. Stone followed, and joined Havok in the jungle. They kept guard while Manny slithered across the rope bridge. Once Manny was on the ground, he silently moved off to his observation post hidden in a patch of ferns. Havok and Stone started their hike without a word spoken.

They hiked for thirty minutes, heading south and getting close to the island’s largest bay. They had already passed the smaller bay, where they had stopped to rest, observe, and share a canteen of water. Sweat now soaked their fatigues. Although the walk was comparatively easy, humidity made the hike arduous. The interwoven canopy above kept the hot sun from reaching the forest floor, which limited undergrowth, but it also trapped moisture-laden air. Now, as they walked in silence, they searched for a cache site for the emergency pack.

Havok spotted a fallen tree surrounded by broad-leaved ferns. “How does this look?”

Stone looked around before answering. “We can use that big tree back there as a landmark.” He pointed at a large banyan they had just passed. He also sniffed the air. “We can use that smell too. Is that a dead pig?”

“Not likely. I didn’t see any game trails or droppings,” answered Havok as he loosened the straps of the emergency pack and slid it off his shoulders. “I doubt there are any large animals on this island. I’ll clear a spot for the pack. Keep guard.”

Havok stepped into the ferns to look for a spot under the fallen tree.

Well, something died here, Havok thought, seeing a pile of leaves about seven feet long. The smell was proof of that. He squatted and poked the barrel of his rifle into the long pile of leaves. Suddenly, a sortie of enormous purple-black flies came to life within the pile. Having been disturbed from their meal and egg laying, they swarmed, darting over Havok’s head as he ducked. Their sudden departure threw aside all but a few leaves and exposed a ghastly sight.