Counterforce

by Richard P. Henrick

  Its oil could also be burned for light, while its trunk could be hollowed out into an excellent canoe. In the same grove he also located a patch of yellow, lemon-sized sweet guava and the colorful purple plumes of the wild orchid.

  A flock of white frigate birds soared up above, and Cooksey looked out to the surging Pacific. How different this view of the sea was from what he experienced six months out of every year. As an explorer of its depths, he almost felt as if the rippling surface belonged to another element altogether.

  Happy to have his present, solid vantage point, he took one last look at Kee Beach and the Haena Reefs beyond, then turned and continued upward.

  It took him a little over an hour to reach this portion of the trail’s summit. A thick band of sweat covered his forehead as he peered down into the lush valley that he would presently be penetrating. Here he spotted the plant called the hala. Jokingly referred to as the “tourist pineapple” because of its similar shape to the popular fruit, the hala had a value all its own.

  Not only were its leaves used for weaving baskets, mats and hats, but its trunk served as an effective pipe to drain the taro fields.

  Cooksey’s one-mile journey into the Hanakapiai Valley went much more quickly. It was several degrees cooler down there, as the trail snaked beside a tumbling stream resplendent with stately mango trees, guava and huge Hawaiian tree ferns. A crimson bodied apapane fluttered its jet-black feathers and lowered its curved, gray bill. Two white-tailed tropic birds sat serenely on a mango branch, their sixteen inch snowy tail feathers streaming in a gentle breeze.

  Conscious of the surrounding paradise, Cooksey unloaded his pack.

  Before grabbing something to eat, he took a dip in the nearby stream.

  The water was clear and warm. Close by, a small waterfall cascaded down into a deep, blue pool. Here, for the first time during his hike, he saw another human being.

  Floating on her back at the edge of the pool was a young woman.

  Oblivious to the voyeur watching from above, she lay completely naked.

  Cooksey could make out a tall, thin frame, bronzed by hours in the tropical sun. From her coloring and features he sensed that she was most likely a native Hawaiian. A wave of long absent longing rose in his loins and Cooksey guiltily backed away. He had decided long ago that it would be much safer to stay as far away from the female species as possible. He wasn’t about to break his promise now.

  After picking out a packet of trail mix, he reloaded his gear and began the four-mile trek to Hanakoa.

  Steep switchbacks dominated the route for a mile as he climbed out of the Hanakapiai Valley. Fortunately, the sun was still at his back and the cooling trade winds helped temper his exertions. The trail gradually narrowed and soon followed a most precipitous slope.

  It was on such a path that he entered the thickly foliated Hoolulu Valley. Again the temperature dropped as he crossed through forests of fern, kukui, guava, koa and hala trees. Morning glories and mountain orchids splashed the scene with color as thick bushes of tithe plant out of which hula skirts were made, pushed up in every available open space.

  The adjoining valley, the Waiahuakua, was a much broader one. Here he sampled a crisp, juicy mountain apple. Cooksey also sighted his first strawberry, coffee and ginger plants.

  At the five-and-a-half-mile marker, he got his first view of the Hanakoa Valley. This broad, terraced depression would be his last reference point until he reached Kalalau Beach. Here he received his first soaking, as a quick-forming tropical downpour drenched him with several inches of cool rainwater in a matter of minutes. Refreshed, he initiated the strenuous, three-hour hike to his goal, 4.8 miles distant.

  The character of the landscape changed drastically in the miles that followed. It was much drier, and as the path turned westward, a completely new assortment of vegetation was evident. Desertlike sisal and pink-blossomed lantana shared the banks of the barely trickling streams with dozens of foraging feral goats. The earth was reddish, as if scorched by the fiery sun itself.

  There was the distant, muted sound of human voices, and Cooksey caught sight of its source. When he did so, he had to look twice, for approaching him on the trail was a family of backpackers — long-haired father, mother and a ten-year-old son. What caught Cooksey’s attention was the fact that each of them was completely naked! He tried not to look so obviously shocked as they passed him displaying broad grins and flashing V-shaped peace signs with their hands.

  Not knowing what could possibly lay around the next corner, he continued on without complaint.

  Twice he had to take long drafts from his canteen before the trail again turned toward the cooling ocean.

  Here he was afforded a breathtaking view of Kauai’s ruggedly beautiful northwestern coastline. This sight alone was well worth his arduous journey. With the sun gradually falling toward the western horizon, the sharp cliffs and rounded valleys stretched out in a seemingly endless, misty procession. This was the type of scene that belonged on a master’s canvas, and Cooksey felt humbled in the presence of such raw, natural beauty.

  There could be no denying the rapidly passing hour and the tightness gathering in the calves of his legs. It was time to reach his destination and begin setting up camp. Before long the trail began snaking its way down a narrow ridge and Cooksey got his first look at Kalalau. Nearly two miles wide and three miles long, the valley beckoned invitingly. A good-sized stream could be seen smashing its way toward an unspoiled, spotlessly white beach. Like a pilgrim called home from a decade of wandering, he pushed on to this final goal.

  It was well into dusk by the time a proper campsite was set up. In order to deflect the incessant wind blowing off the ocean, he chose a site on the opposite side of the remnants of a solid, six-foot-square volcanic stone wall. He barely had time to unload his gear and begin work on dinner before the waning light gave way to total darkness.

  Seated on the soft white sand, with his back propped up against the wall, Cooksey gobbled down a meal of chicken, carrots and rice that proved to be quite good for dehydrated food. With the pounding surf surging behind him, he topped off his repast with a dessert of fresh, ripe mango, picked from a nearby grove. With his hunger now temporarily appeased, he stretched out his sore limbs and contemplated the day’s activities.

  The hike had progressed way beyond his expectations.

  Bountiful vistas, unlike any he had ever dreamt of, seemingly lay around every corner. Added to this were rarely seen plants and animal life, which could be appreciated in a clean, fresh setting with hints of man few and far between.

  Cooksey had forgotten how much his privacy meant to him. Being surrounded by his crewmates, twenty four hours a day for months on end, afforded him little time for personal contemplation. Though he had left Pearl only three days ago, it felt like weeks. So much new stimuli had been generated during this brief time that his past worries were but hazy shadows of a distant life.

  Gazing up into the crystal clear, blue-black heavens, he issued a brief prayer of thanks. With practiced ease, he identified the great box of Pegasus and followed the tail of Pisces to Aquarius’s urn. A shooting star shot through Capricorn and triggered Cooksey’s imagination.

  What had been the prayers of the ancient mariners who had landed on this island thousands of years ago? What had their thoughts been as they looked up into the nighttime heavens to contemplate the wonders of the universe?

  The hiker’s guidebook had mentioned that Kalalau Beach was one of the first inhabited sites in Hawaii.

  Here the original Polynesians had built a massive heiau, or temple, where they worshipped the magical menehunes. For all Michael knew, the wall that he was presently leaning against could be a remnant of such a structure.

  A sharp “wolf whistle” pierced the darkness, and Cooksey stirred to the cry of the elepaio bird. Its alien, raspy call was soon swallowed by the hypnotizing sound of the pounding surf. Lulled by this song, he slipped into his double-wide sleeping bag and drifted off
into a deep slumber.

  Sometime before dawn, Cooksey was possessed by a vision whose source balanced on the thin line between dream and reality. It began with the sound of crackling underbrush waking him. He directed his weary eyes to locate the creature responsible for the disturbance.

  Softly lit by the glow of the stars, he saw a tall, thin, familiar figure break from the stand of coconut palms. Only when this wraithlike vision calmly entered his campsite did he identify it as the girl he had seen floating in the jungle pool that afternoon. She was still completely naked. He couldn’t help admiring her long, silky black hair, pert, dark-nippled breasts, flat stomach and slender legs.

  His loins ached, and this time he didn’t look away as she smiled and continued on toward him.

  With his heart beating wildly, Cooksey reached out and guided his phantom lover into the sleeping bag.

  Afterward, he would never forget the hot, smooth feel of her skin and the sweet, floral scent that permeated her every pore. The only greeting was a silent communication that emanated from her almond-shaped eyes as she expertly peeled off Cooksey’s sciwies and positioned herself on top of him. Without a word, he responded to her urgent touch. Her soft lips merged with his as he penetrated her hot depths.

  Time came to a standstill. The only thing that mattered was prolonging the pleasure that her touch induced. Thrusting his manhood into her with short, quick strokes, he felt like the hull of a ship plunging through a surging sea.

  Nor did it matter when he realized that an unknown number of tiny, dark-skinned figures had totally surrounded them. Again it proved to be the light of the stars that illuminated these wild-eyed miniature humans dressed in shiny grass skirts. Fear and shame were far from Cooksey’s mind, for these Lilliputian visitors seemed to sanctify his frantic coupling.

  The hint of rising seed increased the rhythm of his thrusts. Unable to hold himself back, he succumbed to a heart-stopping climax. Sleep again clouded his mind, and the last thing he remembered was his lover covering him with a lei of purple orchids. As the first hint of dawn colored the eastern sky, he slipped off into a dreamless slumber, his lips sealed in a satisfied smile.

  He awoke to the warming rays of the morning sun.

  The night’s vibrant vision still painted his consciousness with pleasure, but soon the images began to fade.

  Groggily, he sat up and desperately attempted to hold on to the blissful recollections. Try as he could, his attempts failed. Unable to recall the dream’s exact progression, he only remembered that something about it was all too real. It was only then that he turned and laid eyes on the volcanic stone wall that formed his camp’s northern perimeter. Etched on this surface were a number of intricate petroglyphs, recognizable now by the light of the sun. The tiny, grass-skirted natives represented in this ancient drawing filled him with a familiar warmth. Looking down to the base of the wall, he spotted a pile of fresh orchid petals, painting a vibrant purple swatch on the pale white sand. Upon seeing this, a vision rose in his mind’s eye.

  The tall, thin, brownskinned native had come to him in the night with a single message. The events of the last few days made this lesson obvious. He had been taking his career much too seriously. In the process, he had failed to take the time to rediscover his real self.

  Above all, he had to learn to trust his instincts. There was certainly nothing shameful in experiencing self-pleasure. Life without it would be cold and dry. Revisualizing the exotic ghost who had brought him the key to this secret, Cooksey rose to take a swim and then continue his day’s explorations in earnest.

  Chapter Five

  The morning was gray and frigid as Petyr Valenko returned to the naval base. Oblivious to the drifts of newly fallen snow, many of which were knee-deep or better, he pushed himself forward as briskly as possible.

  Crews of workers were visible in the streets, busy manipulating their brooms and shovels in an effort to clear the icy precipitation. Little motor or pedestrian traffic was apparent, although Valenko passed a jubilant gang of bundled up children headed into the park with their sleds and toboggans in tow.

  The young captain’s thoughts were far from the inclement weather conditions as he continued on. The night just passed had been one of the most wonderful, joyous evenings he had experienced in a long time.

  Except for a brief affair three years ago, no woman had attracted him as Ivana did. She was charming and sensuous, with a keen intelligence and a quick wit. Even though they had known each other for an extremely short time, he could already relate to her as an acquaintance of many years. Of course, mutual physical attraction had a good part to do with their initial relationship.

  In the past, when Valenko made love to a woman it too often became but a one-sided operation. He took what he wanted physically and rarely felt any emotional bonds developing. From the moment that he met Ivana, he immediately sensed a difference. Confident and poised, she responded to him as an equal.

  Just as she satisfied his longings, so he had satisfied hers.

  The alcohol had served as the icebreaker; the snowstorm — and the conveniently vacant apartment — had sealed their fates. Their initial lovemaking had served to whet his appetite. Never before had his hunger been so insatiable. All through the night they were linked together. Each time that Ivana shuddered in orgasm, he was wildly driven to give her more. This morning their passion had still been evident. The warm, soft touch of her skin and her sweet, musky scent were still with him when he reluctantly left to fulfill his present duty. Already he was looking forward to the moment of his return.

  Aware of an alien soreness in his loins, Valenko grinned as he set eyes on the guard shack perched at the base’s entrance. A smile still painted his face as he pulled out his credentials and flashed them before the bored sentry. With a salute, he entered.

  Unlike the portion of Petropavlovsk through which he had just passed, the base was alive with activity.

  Snowplows had already cleared the streets, allowing for a variety of truck and auto traffic. As he crossed the administrative complex, he noticed a large contingent of over a hundred workers furiously clearing the snow from the recently built reviewing stand and bleachers.

  He found the going a bit more treacherous in the warehouse sector.

  There, a thick sheet of ice covered the narrow, dark passageways.

  Several times Valenko lost his traction and went sliding. One of these excursions landed him hard on his buttocks.

  Because of the conditions, this sector held little traffic. Alone in the slippery alleyways, he considered backtracking to follow a safer, yet considerably longer path down to the sub pens. But this was his usual route and the footing probably wasn’t that much better elsewhere.

  The distant cry of a gull and the nearby scent of the ocean called him on.

  After crossing a particularly treacherous intersection he had but a single block to go. He moved cautiously down an alley flanked by a pair of huge, corrugated warehouses. An elevated construction scaffold clung shakily to the building on his left. The latticed, steel catwalk had long since been abandoned, its workers waiting for more reasonable weather to complete their tasks. A bone-chilling gust of wind swept up the alley from the sea, and Valenko could hear the rattle of the catwalk’s rigging as it scraped up against the side of the warehouse.

  Ducking his head into the gale, he decided to proceed quickly now, before becoming frozen in his tracks.

  Valenko’s progress went unimpeded, until a scrambling black cat darted from the shadows to his right, skidded, found its traction and dashed in front of him. Surprised by the unexpected movement, he stopped short, heart pounding. Then he heard an ear shattering tearing sound.

  Glancing upward, Valenko watched in disbelief as the steel scaffolding came away from the building. Instinctively, he dove backward just as the catwalk crashed to the pavement. Gasping for breath, he raised his head and saw the smashed and twisted metal beams only inches in front of him.

  As the debris
settled, he saw a bloody black tail amongst the wreckage, and knew that the cat, which had most probably saved his life, hadn’t been as fortunate.

  Shaken, he looked up and caught sight of the frayed cord to which the catwalk had been attached. It hung from the roof uselessly, swaying in the stiff, frigid breeze. Despite the cold, Valenko’s body was covered with a thick sheet of nervous sweat. A ripe candidate for pneumonia, he knew that he had to get to shelter at once. Since there were no apparent witnesses, he decided to push on to the Vulkan. There he could take proper refuge and report this near-tragedy to the base authorities. Most aware that the hand of fate had saved him from certain death, Valenko forced down a calming breath of air and continued shakily down the alley.

  By the time he reached the pen housing the Vulkan, a sliver of arctic sun had broken through the gray bank of clouds. Happy to hear the familiar slapping sound of water against the sub’s hull, Valenko anxiously boarded the sleek black vessel. Entering the control room from the forward hatch, he bumped into the bearded weapons chief, Yuri Chuchkin. The plump sailor was sitting before the armament console, the well-chewed stem of his favorite brown briar clenched between his teeth.

  “Well, hello. Captain,” Yuri said, and he put down a manual he had apparently been studying.

  “A bit nippy out there, isn’t it?”

  Valenko answered while slowly peeling off his coat, muffler and gloves.

  “I’ll say, Chief. What’s our status?”

  “All systems remain operational. Captain. Foodstuffs and other supplies were loaded yesterday without incident before the storm hit.

  We’ve also got that load of new missiles stowed away. You won’t believe what we’ve taken on board, why, a good half of those warheads are of the ground-burrowing variety. That’s sure a first.”

  Not giving this revelation much thought, Valenko asked, “Has Senior Lieutenant Leonov shown up yet?

  I understand that the poor fellow has had his share of problems this shore leave.” Chuchkin said grimly, “We still haven’t heard a word from him. You know, I led a bunch of us into Petropavlovsk last night to search for him. We hit Comrade Leonov’s place twice, and almost every bar and brothel in town. With that blizzard coming down, we almost froze our balls off in the process. If it wasn’t for the vodka, we would never have made it back.”