Island Inferno

by Chuck Holton

  He had never visited this side of the island when he was a prisoner here, back when the guards had first given him the name Chombon and meant it as an insult. But he had embraced the epithet, determined to make it a name of respect, even fear, among the prisoners. And by virtue of his impressive size and strength he had succeeded.

  Behind him, an old man stepped onto the aft deck from the stairway that led to the hold. Cesar Plinio was probably the only one of the sixteen men on this operation who Chombon trusted farther than he could spit. Cesar was a friend of his uncle and had fished the teeming waters around Coiba for twenty years.

  With him were two of his men. “That is the last container, Jefe. Of the cargo, there is only the lumber remaining.”

  “Good. What about the provisions? I want the men to be rewarded tonight with a special meal, but only take ashore what we can eat tonight. Tomorrow we must begin repainting the ship. Then we must file the paperwork to reflag her under a new name.”

  Cesar nodded to his two lieutenants. “Take care of the food.”

  Then Chombon shouted at their backs. “And do not pilfer the best of it for yourselves, or I will be sure you have no tongues left to taste it with!”

  He thought to say so only because he had already removed a bottle from one of four cases of bottled water that had been in the refrigerated container and had stashed it in his hut. After all, rank had its privileges. He was tired of drinking the brackish water from the river.

  Cesar joined him at the railing and squinted into the late afternoon sun. “Have you decided what we will call her?”

  Chombon had been watching the tide overwhelm the lazy flow of the river, causing a small but noticeable tidal bore that momentarily changed the direction of the current. The phenomenon amazed him. With enough power, even the forces of nature can be reversed. It was a perfect picture of his life.

  He turned to face Cesar with a satisfied smile. “We will call it Asesino del Sino.” The Fate Killer. For that’s what it was. The few containers of Chinese products that the ship carried would sell for several hundred thousand dollars, and its main cargo of lumber would net several million, enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.

  He would no longer be bound by his past. He had overcome his own destiny and created a new one, reversing the flow of his life. He had been born a nobody—and should have remained so—but he had been willing to do what others would not, and that great risk had succeeded.

  Or nearly so. Another two weeks and his life’s new course would be set.

  Cesar nodded thoughtfully. “It is a good name. A Maltese flag and new paint will make her all but untraceable.”

  Chombon saw the first lancha was returning with a load of blue paint. “We must hurry. It will—”

  The force of the explosion slammed the two men to the deck and almost blew them overboard. A cannon of flame shot skyward from the doorway of the galley below, singeing off any exposed hair and sucking the oxygen from their lungs. The ship shuddered, coughing flame and smoke from nearly every opening amidships.

  Chombon struggled to stand, frantically scanning both sea and sky for their attackers. Nothing. No warship. No fighter plane. Confused, he staggered to the galley stairs.

  Excruciating screams tore themselves out of the smoke and assaulted his ears as flames lapped greedily at the walls and stairs.

  There! A fire extinguisher!

  He vaulted to the wall of the superstructure and tore the red canister from its mounts. He would not give up his dream so easily.

  With a deep breath, he started down into the flames, extinguishing a path for himself as he went. At the bottom landing, smoke seared his eyes, but within seconds he had put out enough of the fire in the immediate vicinity to get another breath of air.

  Just then one of his crew charged toward him screaming in agony and engulfed in flames. Chombon closed his eyes, raised the nozzle, and let fly, emptying its contents in the direction of the writhing figure until the horrible shrieking stopped.

  When the white powder and smoke cleared enough for him to open his eyes again, the man lay still at his feet. Chombon crouched and turned him over, fighting a wave of revulsion when the man’s charred skin sloughed off in his hand.

  It was one of the men Cesar had sent to see to the food. His hair was gone, as was most of his skin. The man’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and his bloodshot eyes darted back and forth, as if afraid the dragon that had incinerated him would return.

  Chombon leaned over the dying man, trying to get him to focus. “Hey! What happened?”

  The man’s lips were moving, but no sound emerged. His eyes were wandering again, and he was rapidly going into shock.

  Chombon grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “¿Qué pasa? Tell me what happened!”

  Barely audible sound escaped the man’s lips. Chombon leaned close, trying to discern his words.

  “I told him … not … not to drink the water.”

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina. 0800 hours

  You’re a bonehead, Rubio!

  Rip slammed the door on his wall locker but stayed sitting on the bench in front of it, alone with his thoughts.

  His teammates Bobby Sweeney and Buzz Hogan had already finished their workouts and left to get some breakfast.

  Sergeant First Class Frank Baldwin entered and began fiddling with the lock on the wall locker across from Rip. “ ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions,’ eh, Rubio?”

  “What are you talking about, Baldwin?”

  “It’s Shakespeare. Never mind.”

  Rip just grunted.

  Frank opened his locker. “From one gadget head to another, here’s something that might cheer you up.” He reached into a green nylon kit bag, produced a cylindrical metal object, and held it out for Rip to see.

  “A rifle grenade. Just what I always wanted.”

  A sly grin appeared on Frank’s face. “Ah, your sarcasm reveals your ignorance. This is no ordinary forty-millimeter rifle grenade. Look more closely.”

  Rip took the round and turned it over in his hands. Frank was right. This was no standard high-explosive grenade. “What is it? Some kind of parachute flare?”

  Frank’s grin grew into a full smile. “You got the parachute part right. It’s called the HUNTIR. That stands for High-Altitude Unit Navigated Tactical Imaging Round.”

  Rip shook his head. “What? You’re missing some letters in that acronym.”

  Frank waved a hand. “Yeah, who cares. This baby gets shot out of a handheld grenade launcher, travels up to one thousand feet in the air, and then transmits up to five minutes of high-quality video back to us as it falls back to earth under a small parachute.”

  “Whoa! Really?”

  “Yep. I haven’t tried it out yet, but it ought to come in real handy for doing a quick aerial scan of a location before approaching a site—checking for snipers and such or seeing what’s on the other side of a ridge, etcetera. I’m testing one on the range tomorrow.”

  “Wow. That’s cool, bro.”

  Frank took the round back. “I’ll let you know when I go if you want to come along.”

  John Cooper stuck his head in the door of the team room. “Hey, Rubio! You coming?”

  “Yeah, Coop. Be right out.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait for you in the truck. But get a move on before I eat the steering wheel!”

  With a sigh, Rip picked up his black leather jacket and headed outside. It was just past Easter, and though the worst of the winter weather had passed, the mornings were still chilly. At the moment a light drizzle was moving in. He shrugged into his coat and stepped out the door of the shop. Coop’s silver Tacoma was idling in the parking lot.

  When he opened the passenger door, John was talking on his cell phone. It didn’t take Rip long to figure out who was on the other end. Liz Fairchild.

  “No, really! I loved your grandmother. Yes, I can see where you get it. Uh-huh. No, Philadelphia is fine.
Well, listen, hon, Rip and I are going to get waffles. Call you later? Love you too.”

  Coop hung up the phone and put the truck in reverse. “Liz is already planning our next visit.”

  Rip was lost in thought. “Mmmm … sounds serious.”

  Coop smiled. “Could be. We had a great time last week. Went white-water rafting in the Youghiogheny and drove down to Seneca Rocks for some fantastic climbing.”

  “And you met her grandmother?”

  “Yep. Stayed with her. She insisted.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Coop gave him a sideways look. “I detect a note of sarcasm.”

  Rip shrugged.

  “What’s the matter, Rubio?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “Well, anyway. I still can’t believe Phoenix cut us loose for a whole week. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to eat a home-cooked meal and sleep past zero seven hundred.

  Rip stared out the window. I almost wish I had stayed here at Bragg.

  Ten minutes later, they were sliding into a booth at the Waffle House. The middle-aged waitress took their drink order, then left them to attend to her other customers.

  Coop leaned forward in the booth and skewered Rip with a stare. “All right, buddy. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Rip just looked at him. “What do you mean, bro?”

  “I mean, you haven’t been yourself since we got back. What’s up?”

  “It’s nothing. Really.”

  Coop frowned. “Okay, sorry. I thought that we were like, you know, buddies who trust each other with our lives on a regular basis. Don’t let me intrude or anything.”

  Rip felt the blood rising in his face. The red patent leather seat groaned as he sat back and crossed his arms. “I have a lot on my mind, okay?”

  Coop raised his eyebrows. “Like what?”

  Rip hesitated, chewing his lower lip, then nodded. “All right, you asked for it. For one thing, it’s my sister, Gabi. She’s only thirteen, and when I was home, I found out she’s dating this gang-banger from the VNE. I caught her one night hangin’ all over this punk who was messin’ with a Glock 19.”

  The waitress appeared with two large glasses of milk. Coop smiled at her, ordered their waffles, then looked back at Rip. “Yow.”

  “Yeah. And it got worse. I show up and this bonehead punk draws down on me. Dude had one in the chamber too.”

  “Lemme guess, you found that out after you took the gun and fed it to him?”

  “Something like that.” Now that he was talking it out, he felt like the emotional dam he’d built was about to burst. Oh well. If it helped unjumble the thoughts ricocheting around his brain, then so be it.

  He leaned forward, hands on the table. “I’m worried about my little sister, bro. I know how the gang treats their women. It feels like I get kicked in the gut every time I even think about that slime-bag putting his hands on her.”

  Coop nodded. “So what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Mom needs to get out of there. She’s going crazy just trying to keep food on the table. I told her she should find somewhere else to live, even said I’d help with the cost of moving.”

  John took a sip of milk and set the glass back on the table. “Where is she going to go?”

  Rip shook his head. “That’s just it, man; she won’t. She’s been in that dump of an apartment for twenty years. No way she’s going to leave.”

  “Hmmm.” Coop pursed his lips. “And Gabi?”

  “That’s what really gets me. She was only five when I left. In a way, that’s still how I see her. But now she’s runnin’ with the VNE, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I want to fix the problem, but I don’t know how.”

  But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there? The emotions swirling inside him threatened to boil over, and Rip clenched his jaw to keep it from trembling. The waitress appeared with their order.

  Coop was looking at his hands on the white Formica table and chuckling softly, which made Rip want to smack him.

  “Dude, what about this is funny?”

  One corner of Coop’s mouth turned up slightly. “Nothing. I was just thinking that I know what Liz would suggest.”

  Rip spread his arms wide. “I’m all ears, man.”

  “She’d say we should pray about it.”

  Rip blinked. It was the last thing he’d expected Coop to say. Not that it didn’t make sense, now that he mentioned it. Rip had prayed lots of times, usually when he needed a little extra luck. On his first combat deployment to Iraq, he’d even made a habit of crossing himself before every mission, praying at meals, and wearing a pendant inscribed with a picture of Saint Philip, the patron saint of the Special Forces.

  Rip blinked again. “You mean like right here, right now?”

  Coop glanced around. “Sure. Why not? I’m man enough to bow my head in public.” He looked Rip in the eye. “Are you?”

  Well, when you put it that way … “I’m gonna slap you, Coop.”

  John’s smile had “gotcha” written all over it. “I take it that’s a yes? Okay. I’ll pray.” He bowed his head. Rip did too but kept one wary eye on his friend. This wasn’t like him.

  “Lord, uh … thank You for this day. Please be with Rip’s little sister and protect her from … uh … the bad things she’s been getting into. Help Rip know what to do in this situation. Keep us safe too. Amen.”

  “Okay, ese, who are you, and what have you done with my team sergeant?”

  Coop just threw back his head and laughed.

  Rip was getting sorta weirded out. “Yeah, laugh it up. But like you said: We rely on each other to come back alive. So don’t let this new girlfriend turn you into some kind of religious sissy, you know?”

  Coop stopped laughing. “What, praying over my food makes me a sissy now? I’ve seen you do it!”

  “Only if it affects how you do your job.”

  “And why would it?”

  Rip shrugged.

  Coop dug into his waffles. “I think it makes me better at what I do.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure. I mean, it really is easier when I can trust that God is looking after the unknowns. Then I don’t feel like I have to control everything. I can just focus on doing my job.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  Coop chewed for a minute. “Well, if there isn’t a God but believing there is makes me a better soldier, then it’s a net plus whether I’m right or wrong.”

  Rip nodded but said nothing. It was hard to argue with that line of reasoning.

  Coop brought his napkin up and wiped his stubbly chin with it. “So anyway, what’s your girl situation?”

  Man, he’s leaving no stone unturned today. Rip shook his head. “Nada. I’m swearing off them for Lent.”

  Coop’s eyebrows shot up. “What? You’re kidding.”

  Rip’s reply was muffled by a mouthful of waffle. “Naw, just tired of their games, you know?”

  “What brought this on? Things go badly with that girl, Naomi?”

  “Naomi? Dude, that was three girlfriends ago.”

  Coop shook his head. “Wow. You change girlfriends like I change socks.”

  Rip put his fork on his plate. “Exactly.”

  The simple fact of the matter was that Rip had been a ladies’ man since puberty, maybe before. Drugs and alcohol never appealed to him, two things for which he was thankful since it kept him from being disqualified for military service.

  But girls were another matter. The real problem was the word no. He hated to disappoint a young lady. Even when it would have been best to do so, Rip couldn’t bring himself to say that word. Combined with the natural testosterone of youth and the need to prove his manhood to his homies in the VNE, that weakness had resulted in a long string of bad choices and broken hearts.

  Coop downed the rest of his milk, then gave a satisfied sigh. “So why is it bothering you now? Most guys would kill to have that problem.”

 
Rip felt like an idiot for even talking about it. “That’s just it. Everyone thinks I’m a stud, but if you ask me, I’m a total failure. I mean, look at the major—he’s happily married to the same woman for years. And you—I know you and Liz haven’t been going out that long, but it’s obvious you two belong together. I’ve never had anything like that.

  “I was having dinner at my apartment the other night with this good-looking mamacita I met at the 10K I ran month before last. We were having a great time until my old girlfriend Nicole decided to pay a visit.”

  Coop grimaced. “Ooohh. That can’t be good. Didn’t she get the memo that her turn on the merry-go-round had ended?”

  “Apparently not. But I’d rather play football with an IED than go through that again.”

  Coop gave a low whistle. “I can imagine. Nothing in the EOD manual for defusing angry girlfriends.”

  Rip sopped up the last of the syrup on his plate. “Don’t I know it.”

  While the resulting scene had been all-out ugly, it had made one thing crystal clear in Rip’s mind: He didn’t really care for either girl. Both had simply been convenient ways to get his needs met, and he couldn’t escape the feeling that he was little more than that for them either. There had to be girls out there who were deeper, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever had a relationship based on anything other than basic hormones.

  He was no better than Chaco, and images of his little sister with that greaseball made him physically ill. Talk about a mood killer.

  Coop signaled the waitress for the check. “So what, you’re not going to date for forty days?”

  “Nope. Maybe longer. I think it’s time to find a good girl. It might sound funny, but I think it would be awesome to have a girlfriend who I’d never laid hands on.”

  The burly team sergeant looked like he’d just heard the major announce he was giving up coffee. “I honestly never thought I’d hear you say such a thing.”

  Rip’s laugh was curt and humorless. “Neither did I, bro. Neither did I.”

  Santa Catalina, Panama. 1700 hours