Island Inferno

by Chuck Holton

  He smiled and turned the page. Good. Keep their attention in the north.

  Skimming to the bottom of page two, he read a blurb that made him jump like he’d been slapped in the face. Adjusting his glasses, he reread the short clip that had caught his attention.

  A merchant ship due to enter the canal at Miraflores locks failed to arrive last Wednesday at its scheduled time. The ship was reportedly the M/V Invincible, a twenty-seven-year-old break-bulk carrier flagged in Liberia. According to canal records, the ship has visited Panamanian ports six times in the last three years to take on cargoes of sugar, coffee, and bananas, the last time on 6 March of this year. An official for the Panama Canal Authority told La Prensa that when the ship failed to arrive as planned and would not respond to radio calls, a search plane was sent to look for it along her charted course but found nothing. Officials are not speculating publicly on the ship’s fate, but the possibility of foul play has not been ruled out. A formal search-and-rescue operation is being mounted.

  Oswardo yanked a drawer out of his desk and dumped its contents—more electronic switches and activators—on the floor. Then, with the tip of a letter opener, he carefully pried up a false bottom in the drawer. Retrieving a spiral-bound notebook, he pulled from between its pages a bill of lading bearing a date three months prior. The form was filled in with barely discernable script.

  Origin: Panama. Destination: Sidon. Pieces: 3. Weight: 40 kilos.

  The space for shipper address and phone number bore only the name Oswardo and a phone number to a prepaid cellular phone now lying amid the heap on the floor. Under consignee address—the name Franjo Karovik and the words M/V Invincible.

  A quiet curse escaped his lips. Karovik had phoned him several weeks prior to report that his contact in Sidon had not appeared to take delivery of the shipment.

  Oswardo had stifled the urge to skip the phone like a rock across the mildew-ridden rooftop of the crumbling apartment building where he maintained a flat. He kept it for tinkering with his gadgets and for business that needed discretion. “Very well,” he had said. “When do you return to Panama?”

  “Not for t … onths,” was the captain’s static-laced reply.

  “Did you say months?”

  “Yes. We have … ps in Indone … a and Korea.”

  Oswardo sighed. “All right. Listen. Return the package to me. I will settle up with you once I have again taken possession of it. Call me when you arrive, and we will meet at our usual place.”

  Oswardo slapped the notebook shut and dropped it on the desk with a thud. Losses had to be expected in a business such as his. Perhaps his client in Sidon had been arrested. Maybe he was dead. At least half of the payment had already cleared his bank. He would pay for the return shipping and then resell the product elsewhere. It would be easy to find another interested party.

  But now this? He picked up the newspaper and checked the name mentioned a third time, hoping he had been mistaken. But no, there it was. M/V Invincible vanished without a trace.

  Any way he looked at it, this would be costly. As if he needed another burden, with a wife and teenaged daughter who despised him and were permanent fixtures at the Multicentro, a mistress here in Chorrillo who spent more money than she was worth, and a shiftless son who was presumably still in college. Oswardo could ill afford more setbacks. Life was expensive, but he hoped to soon be rid of most of his problems.

  He picked up the throwaway phone and turned it on. Only three credits left. He would need to purchase some more.

  He had many contacts. If someone had stolen his shipment, he would find them.

  And they would pay.

  Outside Panama City. 1015 hours

  WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

  The village of Chame sped past outside the passenger window as Fernanda tried to shoo the butterflies from her stomach. Something had her unsettled, but she hadn’t yet figured out what it was.

  Thirty minutes earlier, the expedition team had left the parking lot, after piling all of their gear into the professor’s Rexton SUV.

  Fernanda took the passenger seat, and Hedi started out between Zack and Carlos in the backseat. But it soon became apparent that she was going to take photographs of every square meter of Panama’s sprawling countryside, so Zack offered to switch places with her. Carlos plugged in the earbuds for his iPod and was head-bobbing to the beat of Panamanian hip-hop.

  “Let me apologize again for the late start,” Professor Quintero said as he drove. “Although this is my fifth expedition to Isla Coiba, the permit process has become more difficult on every trip. ANAM has a new director, and I believe he’d rather not have anyone traveling to Coiba for any reason.”

  “What’s ANAM?” Hedi snapped a photo of the back of the professor’s head.

  “It’s the Autoridad Nacional del Ambiente. The National Environmental Authority. Ever since Coiba was designated as a World Heritage site a few years ago, they’ve been in control of its administration. Now they’re making it really difficult to visit any part of the island other than the ranger station on the north end.”

  “Why?” Zack asked.

  “I’m not sure.” The professor stroked his close-cropped goatee. “It’s a huge island, larger than several Caribbean countries. The problem is, plenty of corporations would like to get their hands on the island’s resources. And even if that doesn’t happen, the tourists are coming in droves now, and they could easily upset the balance of the island’s ecosystem.”

  Fernanda had heard this story before in some of Professor Quintero’s classes. The intense look in his eyes whenever he spoke about the island revealed his passion.

  She found it quite attractive. Most of the guys her age were too busy pretending to be cool to show a passion for anything. The professor, on the other hand, was passionate in everything he did, and it made him seem younger than his forty-eight years.

  The only thing that bothered her was that he seemed to enjoy bashing any religion. For this reason, she’d never really felt the need to flaunt her faith in front of him.

  “Professor?” Fernanda had been quiet until now.

  “Please call me Alex.” He spoke to the group but locked eyes with her. “We’re all going to spend the next seven days together, so let’s dispense with formalities, shall we?”

  Fernanda nodded. “Okay, um, Alex.

  “Just a moment, please.”

  Fernanda studied him as he changed lanes to pass a lumbering semi truck loaded down with fresh-cut sugar cane. She was especially drawn to his hands. They weren’t the pallid, effete hands of your typical academic, but tanned and strong. She’d heard he was an avid runner and scuba diver. And a staunch evolutionist. But hey, she could respect his good qualities. He was self-confident, among other things. She liked that.

  “Oh no!” Hedi shouted.

  Fernanda looked up to see the semi truck drifting into their lane. She grabbed the door handle and stomped the imaginary brake.

  “Idiot!” Alex hissed. But instead of braking, he floored the gas pedal. As the Rexton shot forward, rage exploded on his face, and he cursed the driver of the semi, one hand pounding on the horn.

  Hedi squeaked again, and Fernanda braced for impact. The SUV surged past the truck, missing its front bumper by a few feet, then jerked back into the right lane.

  For a moment nobody spoke. Fernanda glanced around. Carlos was asleep, still plugged into his iPod. Hedi peeked one eye open, then let out a huge sigh. Zack appeared somewhat annoyed but said nothing.

  Alex looked at Fernanda, once again cool and confident. “Sorry about that. They let any moron who can reach the pedals drive those things.”

  She’d forgotten her original question, so she said, “How much farther to Santa Catalina?”

  He turned up the air-conditioning a notch. “It’s about three hours. Was anyone missing anything from the list I gave you?”

  Hedi shook her head. Zack reached over and punched Carlos, who sat up looking bewildered. He jerked out t
he earbuds. “What’s up, brah?”

  “Alex wants to know if you have everything he told us to get,” Zack said.

  “Who’s Alex?”

  “The professor.”

  “Oh. Uh, I think so … except I couldn’t find the brand of hammock on the list.”

  Alex frowned. “Hmm … so you didn’t bring a hammock, Carlos?”

  “No, I did. I borrowed one from my roommate, Trevor. He bought it from some Indian dude.”

  The professor pursed his lips, looking irritated. “Let me look at it when we get to Santiago. If it won’t work, we’ll see if we can find one for you there.”

  “That’s cool.” Carlos resumed jamming.

  “What’s Santa Catalina like?” Hedi asked.

  Alex glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Beautiful. It’s a small fishing village, and until recently it took a four-wheel drive to get there. But they’ve paved the road, and the town is growing like mad. It used to be that the only foreigners you saw there were surfers. It has some of the best waves in Central America. But now, the tour buses show up on the weekends, full of fat American tourists.”

  Hedi looked puzzled. “I thought you were American.”

  “I’m an expat. But that only makes it more appalling when I run into Billy Bob from Arkansas here on vacation. Or worse, some blasted missions team scurrying around destroying the way of life for every indigenous group they come across.”

  “So where are we staying?”

  “Oh, you’ll love it, Fernanda. It’s called the Oasis. It’s a handful of cabanas owned by an Italian guy. You can step out the door of your room right onto the beach.”

  Hedi clapped her hands. “Oh, it sounds so romantic!”

  The professor briefly locked eyes with Fernanda again. “You’re right, Hedi. I suppose it is.”

  Fernanda blushed. The butterflies were back.

  Fayetteville, North Carolina. 1800 hours

  Rip was still frantically tossing dirty clothes and other assorted detritus from his recent trip into the spare bedroom of his apartment when the doorbell rang.

  “Be right there!” He heaved a duffel bag down the hallway. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to cook supper for his new girlfriend, but since he never knew how long it would be before the team was sent on another deployment, it was important to make the most of every night he was in town. Besides, he’d been gone so much lately that Chelsea would kill him if they didn’t do something tonight.

  He quickly checked his close-cropped black hair in the bathroom mirror. It was still a little wet, but that was okay. On the way to the door, he picked up a remote control and pointed it at his iPod, sitting in its dock in the corner of the room. Flamenco music played softly.

  He dropped the remote onto the brown leather couch, which faced the forty-two-inch plasma television on the wall, then turned the handle and jerked the door open with a flourish. “Buenas noches, amiga.”

  Chelsea emitted a little squeak and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Rip. I’ve missed you!”

  “I’ve missed you too, querida.” He stepped back and took in her long blond hair, normally up in a tight ponytail, but tonight it flowed over her shoulders. “Wow, you wore a dress.”

  She feigned offense. “Just because you’ve almost never seen me in anything but running shorts doesn’t mean I can’t dress up.”

  He smiled. “I like you in running shorts, but you look fabulous in anything.” And he meant it. The form-fitting black dress showed off her incredibly fit athletic figure and dropped off one tanned shoulder.

  Rip shook his head. “Caramba, you should have been a model instead of a fitness instructor.”

  “Oh, stop.” She playfully slapped his arm. “So what’s for supper?”

  He bowed slightly and held a hand out to the coffee table sitting in front of the couch. “Your table awaits, señorita. I will have your meal shortly.”

  Chelsea’s perkiness was just what he needed tonight. Time to forget about the problems back in L.A. and just enjoy not being in some foreign country for once.

  Yeah, pretend to have a normal life. That’s it.

  He turned and headed for the small kitchen. “Are you planning to run the Cinco de Mayo 10K in Fayetteville this year?”

  She bounced slightly as she spoke. “Actually, no. I’m going back to California to see my folks, and I’m running the redwoods marathon while I’m there.”

  Rip’s eyebrows shot up. “A marathon? Hey, good for you, chica.”

  “So are you running the Cinco?”

  He shook his head. “No idea. Don’t know where I’ll be then.”

  “It must be really strange, never being able to plan ahead like that.”

  “Sometimes, but you get used to it.” He lied.

  “What smells so good?”

  He retrieved two plates of food he’d been keeping warm in the oven and walked over to sit beside her on the couch. “Chilaquiles mariscos.”

  A cute little furrow appeared in her brow. “Chila … what?”

  He laughed. “Chilaquiles. Say it slow. ChEE-La-kEE-Layce.”

  She looked at the plate and shrugged. “Looks like nachos.”

  He put the plate down in front of her. “Kind of, only better.”

  “Ooh, shrimp! I love those.”

  “Great! Plus it’s good carbs.” He winked at her. “Hang on, I’ll get the drinks.” He returned to the kitchen and came back a moment later with two glasses of wine.

  “So what’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion, just wanted tonight to be special.”

  She gave him a flirtatious look. “Oh, really?”

  “Wait! I have something for you.” He jumped up and hurried down the hall to his room. A moment later, he returned with a small box.

  “What is it?” Chelsea asked, wide eyed.

  “Something I’ve had for a while.” He sat down and handed her the box.

  She opened it and gasped, lifting out a crystal pendant on a thin golden chain. “It’s beautiful, Rip!”

  He grinned. “Not just beautiful but rare. I had it custom made.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He reached out and took it, turning it over in his hands. “That crystal came from one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces.”

  Her jaw dropped. “This pendant belonged to the king of Iran?”

  “Um … it’s from Iraq. Anyway, the crystal was a part of a big chandelier in the palace. We got mortared there one night, and some of the crystals fell down. I picked it up and brought it back, then had a jeweler here in town make it into a pendant.”

  Chelsea looked like she was going to cry. “You did all that for me?” She threw her arms around him.

  He hugged her back, figuring it’d be better not to tell her that he’d had several of them made and had been thinking of selling them on eBay.

  Dinner was apparently over. Chelsea planted a kiss on him that would have given Fabio heart failure. She fell back on the couch, pulling Rip with her.

  But for some reason, Rip wasn’t into it. I should be enjoying this!

  He mentally shook himself. Come on, Rubio. Focus! Wasn’t this the plan for tonight?

  But that was just it. What was he doing? He’d only been out with Chelsea twice, and one little gift had turned her into this—a cross between Anna Kournikova and a yellow lab puppy. All of this was too calculated, too easy.

  Too much like Chaco.

  Rip broke away from her embrace and sat up. “Hold up, chica. This isn’t cool.”

  The cute confused eyebrows were back. “What?”

  Then the doorbell rang.

  He jumped up. “Hold that thought, Chelsea.” He jerked open the door to see a tall, slender Puerto Rican woman.

  His blood froze. “Nicole! Hey … I … uh … What are you doing here?”

  The Latina pursed her lips as she took in the food, the music—and the blonde on the couch. “I just thought I’d drop by and see if you were doing anything tonight. I guess yo
u are.” She nodded at Chelsea. “Who’s she?”

  Rip looked from Chelsea to Nicole and back again. He could almost see the sparks sizzle. “Her? Uh … she’s … this is my friend Chelsea.”

  Chelsea now stood, straightening her dress indignantly. “Your friend, huh? Is that what I am to you? Just your friend? I guess you give all your friends a necklace from Osama Bin Laden’s castle?” She twirled the pendant with one hand.

  “It was Saddam Hussein’s palace,” Rip muttered, feeling his face go hot.

  “What?” Nicole screeched. “You gave her one too?”

  Rip looked back at her. Oh no, she’s doing that head-shake thing.

  “You mean I’m not the only one?” Chelsea asked, incredulous.

  “Join the club, sister.” Nicole was staring at her long red nails.

  “Ooohh! You …” Apparently Chelsea couldn’t come up with a suitable word for him. She dropped the pendant on the table and stormed out the door.

  “Puerco,” Nicole spat out, then turned and followed Chelsea down the stairs.

  Obviously, Nicole had no problem finding the word.

  Rip only wished he could disagree.

  Isla Coiba, Panama. 0550 hours

  IT IS TIME. Finalmente.

  With one very black hand, Chombon absently ran a thumb over the jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow and smiled. The low outline of the island was barely visible in the rising daylight. It looked lush and inviting, but he knew better; it was a dark, wretched place. A place not meant for humans. The scar over his eye was a reminder of its horrors. Untold numbers of souls had expired on that island, and he did not intend to join them.

  From the stern of the Invincible he watched the last launch pull away from the ship and arc toward the place where the wide river met the sea. The tide was rising, covering up the long crescent expanse of beach that stretched off to the north for more than a mile.

  Sixteen days of backbreaking labor had been required to clear the encroaching jungle away from the long-abandoned compound on the remote windward side of the island. But the location was perfect, tucked away from the shore, safeguarding his secrets. That was all that mattered.