26

TERUMBU ISLAND, LATE JULY

Havok struggled to breathe through the choking smoke that seared his throat. Only the bullet holes and two vents allowed in enough cool, clean air to survive on.

“Stone!” Havok yelled through spasms of painful coughing. “Strap in. This thing ain’t taking us anywhere but down.”

Stone poked his head up into the cockpit between Havok and Pilar. “Make sure you set this thing down near a beach. I don’t feel like trying to outswim a boat full of armed commandos.”

“I’ll try,” Havok said as Stone’s head popped out of view.

Havok circled low over the island and, this time, aimed the aircraft at the small gleaming white beach at the other end of the bay. He gently rolled out of his turn at one hundred feet. Ahead he saw the two ships: one, a flaming grave settling in the water; the other, clean and alive, anchored along the southern shore.

He was taking a chance flying past the research ship with its machine gun, but he needed a straight, long path to land the large airplane. He pulled back on the throttle and lowered his flaps in increments, slowly bleeding off air speed and altitude, until he was fifty feet above the water and at 120 knots, stalling speed. He passed between the two ships and chanced a peek at the research ship to his left. He saw several men on deck. Instead of blasting away at a choice target less than a hundred yards away, they were running around the main deck madly, like a confused colony of ants. He looked right and caught a passing glimpse of the minesweeper, with the netting burned away, low in the water and smoldering.

He looked ahead and adjusted his aim point, just ahead of the white beach. At twenty feet, Havok pulled back the throttle and flared the plane. The hull dipped into the sooty black water. It bounced roughly back into the air, but he maintained backpressure on the yoke and the plane settled back into the water. He released his grip on the yoke and steered with only his feet. Looking over at Pilar, he said, “Get aft and be ready to jump. Grab anything useful and tell Stone to do the same. After I beach this thing, I’ll join you back there. Now go!”

Needing no further encouragement, Pilar unbuckled the seat belt and hurriedly left her seat. Havok steered the plane until he felt the nudge as the hull dug into soft sand. He threw off the headset and killed the ignition, then joined Stone and Pilar, who were standing by the large side door. The only thing they carried were the four pistols they’d collected the night before, spare pistol ammunition, a small first-aid kit, and a one-gallon water jug.

Havok stepped between his companions, out the door, and into the calm surf. He sank up to his neck, and the salt water bit into his wounds. He disregarded the pain and held his hands up to grab a pistol and the water jug from Stone and then waded ashore with his friends following.

Havok turned and saw men aboard the research ship lowering a Zodiac from a davit. He looked over at the minesweeper and saw that only the top of the ship’s electronic mast remained above water. The smoke was no longer billowing and rolling away; instead, it was now a stagnant black fog bank. Unseen to Havok, along the northern shore, buried behind the fog bank and the tangled mangrove swamp, was a party of Russian commandos bent on revenge.

With throbbing wounds, the injured party stumbled across the sand and reached the jungle, gratefully accepting its protection. Havok looked back at the wet and bloody footprints they left behind in the white sand. Beyond their tracks, he saw a Zodiac with four men on board peel away from the Kona Wave. He grabbed Pilar’s hand and started running. They buried themselves in the island’s overgrown interior. After five minutes of exertion, they dropped to the ground and started on the jug of water, emptying the plastic jug in one round.

“Now what?” Pilar asked, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth.

Havok looked at her dirty, tear-streaked face and wondered if he would ever see her cleaned up. He didn’t have a clue what was next, but he couldn’t admit that to her. She had been rather hardy in her efforts to survive this island so far, and the last thing he needed was to reverse that stoutness. “We need to put another mile or so between us and them, and fix ourselves up.”

For two miles, Havok and Stone led Pilar through the jungle, walking in silence toward the western rim. Secretly, Havok hoped that these men would just cut their losses and leave on the research ship. He knew the Kona Wave still had hostages for a crew, but he wasn’t worried about them. He was, instead, more worried about Pilar. While they walked, sweat and exertion irritated torn flesh, and the exertion exhausted their thirsty bodies.

Soon Havok spotted a large banyan tree surrounded by a forest of broad-leaved ferns. They went inside and rested in relative peace while they took turns dressing their wounds.

“We can’t stay here long,” Havok said. “There could be Russians three meters from here, and we wouldn’t be able to see them. We need to be someplace where we can see them coming.” He noticed a small cut above Pilar’s left eye. “But first we need to fix ourselves up. Here, let me take a look at that cut, Pilar.” He opened the first-aid kit and tended to her bruised cut.

“I bet you were one hell of a Boy Scout,” Pilar said, looking at his strong face.

“I got my share of merit badges,” he said as he finished wrapping gauze around her head to hold the bandage in place. He avoided Pilar’s admiring gaze by looking at Stone. “Let’s take a look at your scratch.”

Unabashed Stone, leaning on his back and feet, lifted his butt off the jungle floor and pulled his trousers down. Once the trousers were down by his knees, he rolled over the exposed tree root. Havok went to work immediately. The wound itself was superficial; the bullet had dug a long, deep trench in the pale flesh of his right buttock, leaving behind a gouged and swollen muscle.

“What do you think?” Stone asked, his face an inch above the dirt.

“How many fingers do I have up?” Havok said, holding up two fingers.

“Two. Why?”

“Good. No brain damage.” Havok wiped the wound with an antiseptic pad. “It looks more painful than anything.”

“Not my butt,” Stone said. “I mean the fix we’re in. Our backs are against the wall.”

“Yeah, but so are theirs.” Havok stretched a butterfly bandage across Stone’s wound.

“How’s that?” said Stone.

“Simple,” said Havok. “They haven’t got their nerve gas, and now they just lost their precious gold, their ship, and probably a good portion of divers, sailors, airmen, and soldiers. We forced them to shoot up their own airplane, and with half of its crew dead, it’s not likely they’ll repair it soon. Next, the friendly neighborhood loan shark seems to have picked up stakes, and I’ll bet he’s ready to call in his markers.”

“They still have the Kona Wave,” Stone said, “and can leave on that ship if they want to.”

“They could,” Havok said as he sat back and looked at his work. “But they still have its real crew to deal with. In addition, Anisimova is going to have to pull something from his hat besides a hot, steaming turd before he goes back to Mother Siberia. His superiors won’t be too happy if he leaves here empty-handed. Go ahead and pull your pants up. Good as the day you were born,” Havok lied. Even though he had cleansed the wound and applied butterfly stitches, without proper care, a nasty scar was the least of Stone’s worries. Out here, infection could kill him. “Leave it to you to get shot in the butt.”

“You’re right,” Stone agreed as he rolled over. “I wouldn’t want to face his bosses now.” He stood, grunting in pain. “Your turn.”

Havok leaned back against a root and wrenched the boot off his right foot. The wet leather and sand scraped against the heel, sending shivers up his spine, but his face remained steady. He held up his foot for Pilar, who peeled off his sodden sock. Under the sock was a foot wrinkled from prolonged saltwater immersion. She felt a lump.

“It’s still in there,” she said.

“I know; take it out,” Havok demanded calmly.

“You asked for it,” she said as she reached for a pair of tweezers in the first-aid kit. “You know it’s going to hurt.”

“Know what you’re doing?”

“First time for everything,” Pilar said honestly, and she began to dig for the spent bullet. Though lodged just under the calloused skin, it took almost a full minute for her to dig the pointy copper-jacketed slug free. She held it up for Havok. Except for a few beads of sweat on his forehead, his expression had remained a casual, disinterested gaze.

“Didn’t that hurt?” she asked.

“No,” Havok lied. “After penetrating the fuselage and then going through the sole of my boot, it must have been pretty much spent.”

“I guess so,” she said.

She laid down the bullet and started on the glass splinters in his neck. It took another fifteen minutes to clean and dress the wounds. After all had been cared for, the group inspected their weapons and stood. Havok turned and looked into Pilar’s eyes. The black Asian orbs sparkled curiously.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Pilar answered, a hint of mirth in her voice. “It’s just that all we need now is a drum and a fife and we would look just like those guys in that painting‍—you know, The Spirit of ’76.”

“There’s something else we have in common with those guys,” Stone said.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“They’re all dead.”