The Target

by Roger Weston

  Talia checked in on them occasionally. After they’d regained core body temperature, she took another look at Jake’s wound. “At least the bleeding has slowed down. How does it feel?”

  “It hurts.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Weak.”

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “It’s a good thing there are no sharks around here.”

  “There are—and killer whales, too. You’re lucky they didn’t smell the blood.”

  While Talia cleaned the wounds, Jake suppressed urges to scream and rave like a madman. His head twitched back and forth a few times, but otherwise he maintained his dignity. After the wound was bound, he gradually became drowsy. He was almost asleep when Len Jackson ran into the workshop.

  “Another dead,” he said in a crazed tone.

  CHAPTER 7

  Grytviken Whaling Station

  “Dead,” Jackson said. “One more. I should never have signed up for this trip. I came here to—”

  “Calm down, Jackson.” Jake rolled over in his sleeping bag by the bon fire and propped himself up on his shaking elbow. “What happened?”

  “Murder, that’s what. The caretaker was killed before we even got here.”

  “How do you know that?” Jake waved away smoke from the fire.

  “I found his charred body, that’s how, in the ashes of the whaling museum.”

  “They burned down the museum?”

  “As sure as hell,” Jackson said with stress lines tight on his face. “But who are they?”

  “That’s a good question. The one thing I do know is we have trouble coming our way—and soon.”

  In forty minutes, Jake had regained his core body temperature and cheated hypothermia out of another victim. The temperature hovered around twenty degrees in the repair shop, so it could have been a lot worse. His clothes had thawed out by the campfire and dried in the smoke. Freezing wind howled mournfully outside, and with the wind chill, Jake figured it was below zero degrees. Fully dressed now, he stood over the flames, keeping his weight on his good leg. He got the Satphone out of his waterproof bag and tried a call, but it wasn’t working. It had power, but all he could hear was static. He turned it off and stowed it in his waterproof bag, which he slung over his shoulder by the long strap.

  He checked on Efron, the sailor who’d nearly drowned and who now lay by another fire covered in blankets. Efron was curled up by a campfire in the old blacksmith’s shop. Fortunately, the guy had made a miraculous recovery.

  “I’m not gonna die here,” the sailor said weakly.

  “We’ll get out of this somehow.”

  “I know a girl. I had dreams.”

  “Just hang in there.”

  After tracking down several of the others, Jake called a meeting in the repair shop. Len Jackson had stacked wood on the fire, and it was roaring now. It was a large open building, like a barn with aluminum siding and some big ice-cold steel machinery with bullet dings. The sailors, scientists, and the artists gathered around the fire, slouched and frowning. Even though the building had sheet metal walls and roof, over the years, the wind had stripped away a couple of sections of siding. Smoke from the fire was constantly changing directions and blowing into depressed faces.

  “Alright,” Jake said. “We’re gonna have to make a plan because otherwise things could get worse. The gunboat left in a hurry, but I have an idea that they’ll be back to finish the job.”

  “Why bother?” Ava moved over by the corroded carcass of a harpoon gun to get out of the shifting smoke. “They won’t be back. We know nothing. We can’t even identify them.”

  “If it was that simple, they wouldn’t have bothered to attack us to begin with. For some reason, our presence here is a threat to them.”

  “Murdering scum,” Strom Pace said, hunched over his cane. “How can we survive? Half of the supplies were lost when the lifeboat capsized. That includes some of my medicine.”

  “Can you live without it?” Jake said.

  Pace cringed. “I had Ben get my pain pills from my cabin, my ibuprofen, my blood pressure medicine, and my fish oil. Now it’s all lost.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it.” Jake was distracted by Len Jackson who was leaning against a grimy engine lathe. Jackson was shifting his position around and twice he looked suddenly over his shoulder toward the doorway.

  “You could have waited until the weather calmed down before you went out there.” Ava focused on Jake like a laser. “I’m not one to judge, but your reckless actions have put us all in danger, not just Strom.” Her tone was unusually calm and measured.

  Jake noticed how in a dim building Ava’s white hair and pale skin gave her a ghostly effect. He didn’t like what he saw in her eyes. It struck him as odd that she disliked him so much. “Actually, Ava, we’re just north of Antarctica in winter. This area gets around two hundred days a year of gale force winds. It could be a while before we have calm weather. Either way, there’s no guarantee that the gunboat crew won’t return and sink the ship at any time. If we have to spend the winter here, we’ll need the supplies, and we can’t get any from the science station at King Edward Point because they’ve left gunmen there to keep us away.”

  “Spend the winter here?” Her pale complexion seemed to shatter like a mirror. Hate entered her eyes. “Great! And you lost half our supplies. If anyone dies, you’re to blame.”

  Jake frowned. “Thank you, Ava. Okay, everyone. If we don’t prepare for the gunboat’s return, we may not live long enough to consume the supplies we do have. We may want to try and find a better place than here since they are better armed, and they’ll almost certainly be back.”

  “Leave here,” Ava said with monotone voice. “We have shelter here. You just said the storms never end.”

  Jake nodded. “We could move down the coast and make a warren of snow caves. The benefit is that the bad guys won’t know where we are.”

  “I don’t know,” Len said, nervously looking around. “That sounds like a lot of work, and they’ll find us anyway.”

  Jake shrugged. “The other option is we stay here and face them. I’m fine with that, but we have to be ready to fight. That means we’re going to have to create a kill zone so that when they come in here, we surprise them and take them out.”

  “Are you absolutely joking?” Ava said, a sharp edge entering her voice. “I’m not one to judge. Did I hear you right? Did you say kill zone? We haven’t even had a funeral for those two sailors yet, and you want more killing? I should have guessed as much considering you brought a gun on board the ship.”

  “We either defend ourselves, or there will be more funerals.”

  She stepped toward him and pointed at him. “If they come in here, we will engage them in dialogue. If you start shooting, they’ll show us no pity.”

  “They haven’t shown us any yet, and I’m not going to sit around and sing Kumbaya on the beach while they mow us down with their machine guns.”

  The lines of her pale face tightened and spread like cracking ice. “I vote for dialogue,” she said. “We must negotiate with them and show our good will. If we’re nice, they’ll show us pity. It’s all about compromise.”

  “We already lost nine men, Ava, and we didn’t do anything to provoke those people. Being nice isn’t going to work.”

  “Neither is violence. Like I said, I want negotiation and empathy.”

  “We’ll negotiate with guns.”

  She glared at Jake with pure hatred. “I have said my piece.”

  “Good. Now we need to decide how to take these killers out. They know we’re not going anyplace because they destroyed our ship. They’ll expect us to be right here, and when they return, they’ll strike a lot harder.”

  Strom Pace pushed against his cane to stand up straight. When he did so, he winced from pain. “Why do you say that?”

  Jake warmed his hands over the crackling fire. “Because they expected to take us out real eas
ily last time. They didn’t expect resistance because many ships these days don’t allow passengers to carry fire arms. Next time they’ll be prepared.”

  “I thought you said you were a maritime history professor,” Pace said. “Who are you really? You show up with a gun and take out one of those killers. Then you strip his body of the dry suit and kill a second frogman under water. What kind of maritime history professor does something like that?”

  “One who wants to survive. I need a couple of volunteers who can shoot a rifle accurately.”

  One of the sailors stepped forward, a man in rubber boots and yellow Helly Hansen rain gear. “I am Jose. I was in the Argentinean Navy. I’m trained in weapons.”

  Jake knew him because he and his friend Braulio had helped him recover supplies. “Can you swim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Who else?” Another sailor stepped forward. “I am Braulio. My father was a hunter in Patagonia. He trained me well.”

  “Alright then,” Jake said. “Find good cover for two hunter’s blinds at least seventy yards apart. We’ll alternate shifts. I also took some extra M-16 clips off the scuba diver. I’ll get them.”

  “I don’t know,” Strom Pace said in a weak voice. “It sounds risky.”

  “It’s risky for the attackers too. Their boat will be a clear target.”

  One of the scientists stepped forward, a man wearing ski goggles and a down jacket. “You set up an ambush if you want, but I won’t sit on my ass all winter, waiting to die. I was funded to study the Neumayer Glacier. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll stay in the field until help arrives.”

  “Just be careful,” Jake said. “We don’t know where those assassins are holed up. It can’t be far away, or they wouldn’t mind our presence. You don’t want to go walking into their camp.”

  The other scientist said, “Count me in, Paul. I’ll be safer out in the field anyway.”

  Jake nodded. He kind of agreed with the man. That’s why he’d wanted to find another location. It was one thing to guard a fort when you had superior firepower, but when you were outgunned by an aggressive attacking force, death was probable. Jake said, “I’m sorry about your colleague, but he did leave a gun behind. I put it in the blacksmith’s shop. I recommend you take it with you.

  “I’ll pass,” the scientist in goggles said. “Didn’t do Brice any good.”

  The scientist in ear muffs nodded in agreement.

  “Suit yourself,” Jake said. “I’d stay out of sight.”

  “I won’t be going far with my bad back,” Strom Pace said, caning closer to the fire. “I may wander a little. Might be good to stretch out my atrophied muscles. Didn’t hear you say what you were going to do, Sands.”

  “I’ll give the M-16s to the sailors. Then I’ll strike out on my own. Find those murdering scum.”

  “You damn ape.” Ava cursed and stormed out of the building.

  The sailors laughed.

  “What about the lunatic who sabotaged the Atlas to begin with?” Pace said. “Makes me nervous. We still don’t know who did it.”

  Jake looked at the five sailors. It occurred to him that they were awfully quiet.

  Len Jackson, who’d been very quiet so far, now spoke up. There was strain in his voice, and his eyes flitted around from one person to another. “I agree. I don’t like being stuck in an isolated place like this knowing that someone here is a nutcase.”

  “Get used to it,” Jake said. “Not many boats come here this time of year. A few fishing boats maybe but who knows when they’ll show up.”

  “I’ll wander,” Jackson said. “Take some photographs and look for a safer spot. I don’t like being watched by the killers over at King Edward Point. Might check out one of the other stations in case we need a back-up plan.”

  “Be careful,” Jake said. “That’s a long way to go.”

  “He’s right,” Pace said. His face looked pained. “Why don’t you take your own advice and stay put, Sands? Listen, I’m glad you got a chance to vent your emotions, but your talk about tracking them down—” He shook his head. “—You try that and you won’t live long.”

  “Only place I’m going right now is the ship. We need more blankets.”

  “You think that’s a good idea? You barely made it last time.”

  “Supplies will help keep us alive.”

  Pace narrowed his eyes and regarded Jake with doubt and suspicion. “You sound like a man with a death wish.”

  “What did you say?”

  Pace turned and started to leave, but then he leaned on his cane, half turned, and looked back over his shoulder. As he hobbled away, he was shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

  Jake got up and started walking towards the beach, hot pain flaring up in his thigh.

  CHAPTER 8

  On Jake’s second run out to the boat, he got wet, but managed to stay in the skiff. The waves threw the boat around, aggravating his bullet wound. He returned with a full load of blankets and cold-weather clothes for the crew. These he brought back in plastic trash bags, so mostly the supplies stayed dry. The crew picked through the load, took what was theirs, and fanned out across the whale oil ghost town, settling into old company buildings. Jake threw more wood on the camp fire in the repair shop and dried his clothes again. He couldn’t get his mind off what had become of the missing crew from the King Edward Point research station. Maybe they’d all been killed like the sailors on the Atlas.

  The whole station was a mess. He came here to ski around with a metal detector, but his plans had been frustrated by disaster. Now, instead of looking for historical relics, he had to find a pick and a shovel to dig graves. He had to watch the bay because the death boat had not finished its job. History surrounded him and showed him how sterile and whitewashed his textbooks were. What they lacked was the heavy sense of evil and anxiety that weighed upon the human heart. Funereal clouds hung over the station and watched the weak. The mountains surrounded them and watched them like prison guards. The water threatened them with more doom. In spite of all this, Jake felt a dim spark of optimism, a small light in the darkness. Adversity was the great teacher of life. Every adversity carried within it a great lesson and a hidden opportunity, but one had to listen to the still, calm voice, the guide through troubled waters that brought sun beyond the storm.

  Late in the afternoon, he strapped his downhill skis to his back. Wearing a white hat, jacket and ski pants, he struck north along the coast by snow-shoeing up a thousand foot mountain behind the whaling station. His leg wound hadn’t seemed too bad, but climbing told another tale. The bleeding started up again along with the pain. It felt like someone was twisting a hot knife in his leg. He would rather have just walked along the beach, but the mountains and the sea cliffs to the north stood in the way. The armed research facility was a waiting trap.

  He thought about the story of the German ship that had brought him to this hard land. Not only had the ship played a role World War Two, but it disappeared in this area with a priceless hoard of treasure. As Jake looked out across the water, it all looked so hopeless. To come to a place as forbidding as this and expect to find something marvelous required faith. The water and the landscape were utterly depressing and awe-inspiring at the same time. The waters ran on the treacherous side. Standing on that hillside, he realized how utterly insignificant he was in the grand scope of things. He was like a grain of sand on the ocean floor. All the excitement and optimism that had brought him here was now vanquished by a thousand waves and the feelings of weakness that could plague a wounded man. He had come here to find the Greifswalder and her war booty. He would be lucky to leave here as a man, rather than a skeleton in a body bag. Nevertheless, the wind spoke to him, whispering tales of the past and present. He realized that fierce struggle was the true business of life and that life without struggle was a kind of death. In the wind he tasted a wisdom that crossed a thousand years in the blink of an eye.

  The wind blew in hard and r
aw, and albatrosses labored in the dark gray sky while Jake plodded up the mountain. Everything was a struggle here. It seemed to Jake that South Georgia was a place where man and beast alike toiled for survival. For man, it was a battleground where he had to fight a war on two fronts—first against man and then against environment. Or maybe it was the other way around. He wasn’t sure. It was hard to know which foe would prove to be more aggressive.

  Jake was sweating now, and that was never good in the cold because the moisture could become chilled. He ignored that and climbed. He kept his head down, watching his feet. He stopped occasionally and scanned the terrain—rock buttresses, overhanging cornices, icicles on ledges, dark clouds, and wind slowly eroding away his tracks. These weren’t huge mountains, but there plenty of ways for a lone hiker to perish here. If he fell down a slope and smashed into the blue ice, that could prove fatal. An avalanche couldn’t be ruled out completely. Exhaustion could set in due to the blood loss of a bullet wound. Rest could lead to chills and hypothermia. Loss of blood didn’t go well with mountain climbing. A loss of over ten percent would cause the pumping phase to slip into shock. The bleeding had to be stopped. He needed to elevate his leg above his chest level, but he couldn’t do that unless he stopped hiking. That wasn’t happening. He slogged and stumbled and climbed. Fear touched him. He knew that the blood carried the oxygen through his body, which kept him alive. He wasn’t worried, he told himself.

  He focused on elevation gain. He was getting higher and higher. He wasn’t gaining the kind of elevation where the oxygen got super thin and embolic accidents became a concern, not even close. The oxygen was fine here, but it was a tough march in the steep snow, and thoughts of diminished oxygen due to blood loss tempted him to quit and turn back, to take the wide road through life with its flat trails and warm retreats.