by Tripp Ellis
I was pretty good with underwater breath holds, but nowhere near the level of free divers. They could easily hold their breath into the double digits. I figured after a few minutes I would blackout, having reached my breakpoint. My lungs would fill with water, and that would be the end.
How should I use my last minutes?
Should I atone for my sins? Should I reflect solemnly on my life? Be thankful for the experience? Go peacefully into the long sleep?
51
Kicking and screaming!
That’s how I would go out.
The long sleep could kiss my ass.
We wiggled and writhed, loosening the duct tape that bound us together. Combined with saltwater, which weakened the adhesive, I was able to get a hand free.
Then another.
With some mobility, I was able to reach down and fumble with the ropes tied around our ankles.
My lungs blazed.
I finally managed to untie the rope that bound us to the anchor.
We peeled off the last of the duct tape and pulled toward the surface.
My lungs were on fire, and my muscles burned. Salvation was in sight, but I felt like I was going to pass out.
I kept pulling toward the surface, finally breaking through. I sucked in a breath of air and filled my lungs with glorious oxygen.
JD surfaced beside me, and we treaded water in the swells, bobbing up and down like corks in the water.
We were miles from shore. The amber sun headed toward the horizon. In a few hours, it would be night, and our odds of getting rescued would decrease significantly.
We both had done a 5.5 mile swim before. But BUD/s was a long time ago. It was grueling then. And I was younger. But it was either stay here, tread water, and hope somebody stumbled across us—or attempt to swim back to shore.
At least we were in warm, tropical water. That was better than the cold water off the coast of Coronado.
There are a lot of things that suck about long distance, open ocean swimming. Muscle cramping is one. It's inevitable. Surrounded by water, and not a drop to drink, dehydration is always a factor. Chafing is an issue. Of course, anytime you're swimming in the open ocean, you could potentially become a snack for a large predator. And fighting against currents can be dangerous and tiresome. All the little nagging injuries you have accumulated throughout your life come to the forefront during an event like this. That little twinge in your shoulder that didn't bother you most of the time starts to feel like someone shoving a hot poker into your deltoid. The knee that aches before it rains will start to yell at you—reminding you exactly how you tore your meniscus during that game of pick up on a concrete basketball court all those years ago.
"Tell me why we do this shit again?" JD asked.
"I'm beginning to wonder."
We headed toward shore, swimming the combat side stroke. The rising and falling swells had the potential to induce seasickness. There was nothing worse than puking your guts out, having your head spin while in the middle of the ocean.
Fortunately, the seas were rather calm this afternoon. But that could change at a moment’s notice.
The key was to pace yourself and not burn out early. Focusing on the magnitude of the distance can be overwhelming. It was best to keep the mind centered on the task at hand. One stroke at a time. Casual and relaxed.
90% of any physical challenge is mental. You can always do one more rep. One more stroke. One more anything. But if you give up in your mind, you’re finished.
Things started out okay, but JD began to have trouble about 45 minutes in. He was a tough bastard. But sometimes even tough bastards get themselves into a tight spot.
At first I thought the swells had gotten the best of him when he hurled a few times, chumming the water. But something more sinister was happening.
We paused for a moment as he tried to regroup.
"You okay?" I asked.
He looked pale and sickly. If we were on dry land, he would have been drenched in sweat. Fear bathed his eyes.
"What's going on? Did you eat a bad taco?" I asked.
"I saw a few tacos I'd like to eat."
“You’re not dying on me, are you?" There was an air of levity in my voice, but I was concerned.
JD didn't categorically deny my question. "I don't know. I feel like I'm fucking dying. My head is spinning, my heart is pounding, and I feel shaky."
"Take a few slow, deep breaths. Try to relax."
Jack heaved again.
"Dude, this is bad,” he said. “I never blow chunks."
"You’re gonna have to suck it up, ‘cause we can't stay out here forever."
Maybe he had picked up some kind of stomach bug? Maybe he swallowed too much salt water? Maybe he was having a fucking heart attack?"
"You have any chest pain? Pain that radiates down your arm?"
"I feel like I've got the flu. I hurt everywhere. I’ve got muscles cramping that I didn't even know I had."
Then it dawned on me. "When was the last time you took a pain pill?"
"Yesterday. Maybe the day before?"
“So, you abruptly stopped taking a highly addictive opioid?"
"Well, you've been on me for a while about that. And I thought I ought to cut that shit out."
"I don't think now is the time to go cold turkey."
"I'm just a little twisted around right now. It's no big deal."
"You're withdrawing from an opiate."
JD scowled at me. "I'm not a junkie."
"Okay. Whatever you say."
He was suffering from the classic signs of opioid withdrawal. And we still had a long way to swim.
52
I got into the zone and hit my stride. We were nearly 2 hours into the swim.
JD wasn't keeping up.
I frequently paused and waited for him, making sure I stayed in close proximity in case he got into trouble.
Well, more trouble.
He was struggling, and doubt entered my mind whether he’d be able to complete the swim. We paused for a moment, floating in the swells, our nostrils just barely over the water, expending as little energy as possible while JD attempted to recover.
The orange sun was a semicircle on the horizon. It colored the sky a beautiful shade of pink and blue. The thought crossed my mind that this might be the last sunset we ever see.
It was a grim thought that I quickly pushed out of my mind.
If I was thinking it, I knew JD was too. And that was the last thing he needed.
We resumed our swim, and a few minutes later I heard the rumble of a boat on the water.
A fishing boat sliced through the waves, heading back to shore. I frantically tried to signal them, waving my arms, hoping I was visible. It was easy to get lost in the swells.
The boat kept racing across the water on plane, spitting a trail of white, frothy water.
My heart sank.
I was sure the occupants of the boat hadn’t seen us.
Then the boat slowed, banked around, and headed toward us.
I breathed a hopeful sigh of relief. Before long, the boat was beside us, and an American man in his 50s pulled us out of the water. We collapsed on the deck in the cockpit, dripping wet. Our clothes soaked. Our muscles tired and sore.
The man slipped into the salon and returned a moment later with two bottles of water. We guzzled them down.
The boat was a 37’ SunCruiser Coupe, with 2 diesel engines, a modern salon, and 2 guest suites.
"I damn near didn't see you," the man said. "What the hell happened? Your boat sink?"
"How much time you got? ‘Cause it's a long story," I said.
I told him who we were and what had happened.
"What can I do to help?" he asked.
"You got any guns?"
A slight grin tugged at his lips. "Do I have guns?" He chuckled. "Just you wait and see."
He told us his name was Floyd, and he moved to the helm and cruised us back to his home on a neighboring island. He was a former Marin
e and had retired down in the Pristine Islands. He built himself a nice cabana on the beach, with a dock to moor the boat. Palm trees lined the beach, and a hammock dangled between two large trunks. The house was set back, just inside the tree line, ensconced by towering palms and mangrove trees.
It was a private little oasis.
No nosy neighbors. No loud hustle and bustle of the city. It was simple, cozy, and stocked with an abundance of food and beverages. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Floyd was a prepper, but he was prepared for just about anything. He had a large storage area with canned goods and nonperishable food items. Gallons and gallons of fresh water. He had MREs (meals ready to eat), and other dried foods. In a hut behind the house, he kept an ample supply of gasoline to run the generator.
Then he showed us the good stuff.
His arsenal.
He had several semi-automatic pistols. A Bösch-Haüer 9mm. A Krüeger-Schmidt .45 ACP. An old-school Smith & Wesson revolver .38 special. He had several hunting guns—a .25-06, a .270 Win Mag. He had a few short-barreled AR 15s fitted with lightweight tactical rails, red dot scopes, and SOPMOD stocks. He had built the weapons himself with ambidextrous billet lowers and titanium pins, BCX uppers, IR sights, tac-lights, and suppressors. Boxes and boxes of ammunition lined the shelves. He had smoke canisters, tactical vests, bullet-proof vests, night vision goggles.
JD and I smiled from ear to ear.
"You don't screw around, do you?" JD said, impressed.
"One can never be too prepared," Floyd replied. “There are no fingerprints on any of those cartridges. I wore gloves loading each of those magazines. You never know when something’s going to go down.”
"Where did you get all this stuff?" I asked.
"Between you, me, and the wall… We are in a major trafficking route. Just about everything comes through here in one direction or another. Now, I am not going to say how those came into my possession, but they’re untraceable, and you're more than welcome to use them on one condition."
I arched a curious eyebrow.
"You let me go with you."
"Too dangerous," I said.
"I ain't been in a firefight in God knows how long. You think I'm gonna sit this one out?" He smiled. "I'm well trained, and you two could use the extra hand."
I couldn't argue with that.
"I've got radio headsets. We can keep in touch. You'll need someone in an overwatch position at the least. It’s been a while, but I can hit a quarter at a thousand yards."
We weren't exactly in a position to decline his hospitality.
53
We got online and studied the satellite images of the perverted island and planned our attack.
I pointed to the villas. "This is where the guests stay." I scrolled the map over. "This is the compound where the girls are held. We were held over here, and this is the dock where we boarded the boat." I pointed to the northwest side of the island. "This is the main beach. I think we should make landfall on the southeast corner. There's nothing on that side, and there are trees all the way up to the girls’ compound. We go in, grab Violet, and we exfiltrate at the southeast beach."
"What about Randall and Cartwright?" JD asked.
"Once we secure Violet, I'll take care of them." I pointed to an elevated area of topography, and gave Floyd his mission. "If you can make your way to the top of this hill, you should have a good vantage on the girls’ compound, and the southeast beach. You'll be able to cover our infiltration and exfiltration routes."
"Aye-aye, sir," he said with a grin.
“We’ll call that Lookout Point,” I said.
I could tell Floyd relished the opportunity of a new adventure. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
The feds have authority in the U.S. Pristine Islands. Once we wrapped up, we could make an anonymous call to the big dogs and let them mop up the situation.
"When it’s done, I can take you guys over to St. Edward, and you can catch a commercial flight back to the states," Floyd said.
That was the plan. But no plan ever survives the battlefield.
JD put on a good front, but he still looked like hell. He had a pale, greenish color, and sweat misted his forehead. His hands trembled slightly.
"Are you sure you're up to this?" I asked.
"Hell yes, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You're not looking so good."
"You are looking kind of sickly," Floyd said. "I didn't want to mention it, but… You got the flu? Pick up a bug down here?"
"Something like that," JD said.
"I've got a stockpile of antibiotics, painkillers, you name it."
"I'm getting over a gunshot wound, and I ran out of my medication."
JD lifted his shirt and showed Floyd the scars on his belly.
The salty Marine’s face twisted. "That's a scratch."
"Looks can be deceiving," JD said, making a pathetic attempt to defend his injury.
"Did that go through your belly? Puncture any vital organs?"
"No. Just lodged in the skin."
“When did you get shot?”
“A few months ago. In Monaco.”
Floyd’s face crinkled. “Monaco?” He rolled his eyes and gave him a sideways glance. "What were you taking? Oxy? Hydrocodone?"
"The latter."
"You know they mix that with acetaminophen, and too much of that is no good for your liver."
"I know. I was trying to wean down, then… shit happens," JD said.
Floyd sighed. "Hang on. I'll get you a dose. But that's it. I am not enabling a junkie."
"I am not a junkie," JD protested.
"No wonder you looked on death’s door when I picked you up." Floyd returned a few moments later with a tablet and handed it to JD.
He swallowed it down with a swig of water. "That ought to take the edge off.
“Much appreciated."
We prepped the gear and painted our faces with grease paint. I'd be lying if I didn't say the anticipation gave me a thrill. It was like the good old days.
Floyd had old-school, Vietnam era tiger striped camouflage fatigues. The strap on the adjustable waistband allowed me to get a good fit, though they were a little snug on JD. A little too much pizza and beer.
He pulled his hair back tied in a ponytail and put on a camouflage cover and we were ready to roll.
We moved a little slower, the joints ached a little more, but we felt like we were 18 again.
There's nothing glamorous about war. And I don't mean to sound like there is. It sucks. You watch your friends die. You take lives. But there are bonds forged among men who go through the crucible of battle. Bonds that can never be replicated in any other way. You may hate the guy next to you, but you know in a pinch, he's going to do everything he can to save your ass. Though death lurks at every turn, you know you can count on your brothers in arms. It's something most people back in the world will never understand. It's why people re-deploy to hellish war zones. The adrenaline, the camaraderie, and the ability to shoulder powerful weapons and unleash torrents of molten lead at your enemy.
We were waging our own war. A war on scumbags. A war that I had every intention of winning.
54
It was just after midnight as we approached the island. About a mile out, we cut the lights and idled forward. When we got within a half mile, Floyd cut the engines completely and we drifted with the current. Floyd dropped anchor, and we prepped the tender for launch. It was a small inflatable boat, 8 feet in length, with a gas-powered outboard. The rattle of the tiny engine would make too much noise as we approached the shore, so JD and I planned to row the boat. We loaded the tender with gear, climbed aboard, and cast-off. I gripped the oars and sat at the bow, pulling. The boat wasn't exactly made for this kind of thing, and it was a slog. Floyd and JD offered to take turns, but I didn't want JD over exerting himself, and Floyd wasn't exactly a spring chicken anymore.
JD scanned the shoreline with night vision goggles. The approach looked clear.
We coasted in on the surf, hopped out, and pulled the inflatable to the tree line. We did our best to hide it in the underbrush, covering it with fern leaves.
Floyd headed to Lookout Point, while JD and I advanced toward the compound. We crept through the forest, pale rays of moonlight stippling the ground. We moved like panthers through the jungle. Silent. Deadly.
In a few moments, we reached the edge of the compound.
Randall wasn't worried about the girls escaping the island. There was nowhere to go. The nearest island was farther than an untrained girl, strung out on heroin, could swim. A few security guards roamed the island, but they mainly patrolled the resort area, the dormitory where the girls were kept, and the pier. I don't think they had considered the possibility of an invasion from a hostile force on the southeast beach.
"What if we find Violet and she doesn't want to leave?" JD asked.
In the back of my mind, that thought did occur to me, but it seemed unlikely. Then again, she did have access to drugs, booze, and an endless party. No one here would be hassling her to kick her habit anytime soon. If her addiction became a problem, she'd be discarded. Probably thrown overboard and tied to an anchor.
Randall had enough money to pay off local law enforcement, and anybody else who nosed around the island.
When the coast was clear, we crossed the meadow and crept to the girls’ dormitory. A mercury vapor light high atop a pole lit the area. Moths and other insects buzzed around the bright light. The air was thick with humidity—and don’t get me started about the mosquitos.
We flattened our backs against the wall and crept toward the main entrance.
I pulled open the door, and JD rushed into the building with his weapon in the firing position, clearing the area. There was always the possibility of running into one of Randall's goons inside.
I followed, and we swept the corridor for threats. The building looked like a typical college dorm. The hallway was lined with doors that led to bedrooms. I jiggled the handle of the first door we came to.
It was locked.
