Left on their own, the women milled around rather aimlessly until Leslie couldn’t stand the sight of the untidy cots and started to straighten them up, moving briskly. Gradually she became aware that the others were pitching in also, and talking in voices that betrayed their nervousness. The young teenager was helping, too. In fact, the only woman who was not paying attention to what was happening in the room was a middle-aged woman who stared out the window and smoked incessantly. Leslie counted up the women and noted that there were actually fewer women than men; there were only eleven in the group right at the moment. An uneven number. Having filed away this piece of trivia, she then proceeded to study each one in turn and detail. She introduced herself to the young woman helping her with one of the beds, and the other woman responded in a friendly manner. Soon almost everyone was gathering around, eager to talk. The woman watching out the window and smoking did not come over. Leslie then realised that she was one of the married women and no doubt was anxiously awaiting the return of her husband. She had a strained look on her face, and a tightness around her eyes and mouth. Her eyes darted all over the place restlessly, and she couldn’t seem to keep her hands still. As Leslie talked with the others, listening with only half her attention to what was said, she studied the older woman rather worriedly. The unmistakable signs of stress were there; if anyone were to break under the pressures of their unexpected ordeal, she feared it would be this one. She turned her attention back to the group.
Pat, the teenager, was fresh faced and healthy looking rather than strictly pretty, though she did have a nice figure. She was indomitably cheerful, a natural state of being, Leslie concluded, and not a release of nervous tension. The young woman to whom Leslie first introduced herself, Sherri, was in her early twenties and rather shy. These were the two that Leslie felt most attracted to, and the ones who seemed the most interested in herself. Another woman in her thirties named Helen looked rather cold, though strikingly beautiful, and though she listened to the others’ conversation, she did not offer much about herself. The two flight attendants—Leslie didn’t know what happened to the dark haired woman and didn’t much care—stayed pretty much close together and seemed to be good friends, though they were talkative enough with the rest of the women. The last three were married and also showing signs of anxiety as time went by.
After a while, when Leslie had begun to feel rather edgy herself, unmistakable sounds of people approaching had everyone jumping to their feet in hope and apprehension. The door swung open, bright sunlight spilling into the shadowed interior, and the men filed in, loaded down with suitcases and overnight bags, and canvas duffle bags. All of the women sighed in collective relief, and the married couples rushed to their spouses. Leslie looked for her friends, relaxing and smiling at them when she caught sight of the three. The guards locked the door behind the last of the men, and the group was left to themselves once more.
Leslie walked up and took her bag from Wayne with a thanks, asking, “Did you have any trouble getting the luggage? Were the guards polite or threatening?” She looked over to Scott quickly as she asked her questions, her eyes showing her relief. He walked over and dropped his hand to her shoulder for brief reassurance.
“Which question first?” Wayne queried, giving her a lopsided grin. “Yes, we had a bit of trouble getting all of the luggage because we had to go through the whole load to get it all. And the guards weren’t really anything except there. Of course, none of us tried to make a break for it.”
Scott remarked, “They were watchful, but it wasn’t anything that was particularly nerve-racking.” She nodded.
After some bustle, things more or less settled down, and soon Leslie was nearly out of her mind with the boredom. She rummaged in her things and drew out her stationery, preparing to try a bit of writing. Soon, however, she found that she just couldn’t settle into anything and she threw down her pad and pen in disgust. Scott lounged nearby and grinned at her sympathetically. His blond hair was casually rumpled, and in the heat of the day he had his shirt unbuttoned to his waist, a luxury, she thought wistfully, that she wished she could indulge. With the air of a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat, he flourished a pack of playing cards, well used, under her surprised and then delighted nose.
“Do you know how to play poker?” he asked her, shuffling deftly. She shook her head, fascinated with the fluid movements of his fingers. “Well, then, I guess I’ll have to teach you.” He motioned her to a corner, and they sat cross-legged on the floor. He dealt, while explaining the basic rules to her, and then laid out his cards, telling her to do the same. She laughed at him while clutching the cards to her chest.
“Oh, no you don’t!” she declared. “One thing I do know about poker is that you don’t let the opponent know your hand!” Cautiously she peered at her cards, keeping them close to her body and eyeing him suspiciously over the edge while he shook with amusement. Her brow cocked, her lips pursed, and she rearranged her hand thoughtfully, aware of his laughter, and his exaggeratedly patient regard. Then she laid down her three of a kind and picked up a card from the stack by his thigh. “Your turn.”
“That’s rummy!” he accused.
“That’s right!” She wrinkled her nose and childishly crossed her eyes.
“You’ve seen my cards. We’ll have to deal over if we’re going to play that.” He captured her hands and tried to take her cards away from her.
She howled at him and struggled futilely to hold on to her hand without bending or ruining the cards. He was soon victorious, and as soon as she lost the hold on her cards, she grabbed up the rest of the deck, aimed it for his face, bent them in an arc and shot them at him in a rapid fire succession. Laughing, he tried to catch them all, but it was dismally hopeless. He sat in a puddle of scattered cards while she stood and laughed down at him. As he watched, her eyes suddenly widened as she stared down, and then the vivid amusement and enjoyment shuttered into a blank mask. Her fine features, in contrast to the vivaciousness of a moment before, were almost dull.
He leaned back on one hand and stared up at her thoughtfully. “Sit down,” he said quietly.
Her eyes slid away. “No, I think I’m going to—”
He interrupted as quietly, but she found herself shutting her mouth immediately in deference to his words. “I said sit down,” he repeated softly, eyes steady. “And if you don’t do it, I’ll make you. We’ve attracted enough attention to ourselves already. You wouldn’t want me to make you, would you?”
She glanced swiftly around and found eyes interestedly trained on their play. Taking a deep breath, she sat and faced him stiffly. He started to stack up the cards carefully, one by one, and by his very care, she knew he wasn’t paying attention to it. “I get this feeling whenever I’m around you,” he said reflectively, deep voice nearly a rumble. Involuntarily she glanced at his chest and found herself drawn, in spite of herself, to the brown, silken skin. Her head tilted up and she stared at the ceiling. “I see glimpses of a Leslie whom I admire and am attracted to, but whenever she sees me coming, she slams a door in my face so fast and so hard that it makes my head spin. Why is that? What does that Leslie have to hide?”
“Your last statement is a presumption,” she returned, feeling oddly breathless. She sucked in air deeply, held it a moment, and then continued, “You are going on the assumption that first of all I have something to hide, and secondly, that I would for some reason feel the need to hide it from you, of all people. You have no power over me to make me afraid of what I do, or do not, tell you about myself.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of? Are you afraid of letting me glimpse perhaps too much of you, a certain something that would give me some kind of hold over you? What a strange preoccupation you have! How have I ever threatened you, or encroached on your privacy?”
She just looked at him, unable to reply. Then she pushed off the floor and walked to the window, feeling constricted. She stood there and stared out at the lush, green, alien growth of the
forest near by, so confused she couldn’t answer the questions she tentatively asked herself. Shame, fear, and resentment teemed in her in a jumble, along with a certain amount of pride, and strangely, loneliness.
As the afternoon crept by, agonisingly slowly, into early evening, almost everyone in the barrack was ready to climb the walls in supreme frustration. Uncertainty, boredom, tension, fear, anxiety, all made the people cooped up together snappish, hemmed in, rude. Finally she was to the point where she had just about had enough, unable to stand the sight of the others pacing around and sick to death of the spare, ugly building. Leslie marched on over to the door and rapped sharply. There was no answer, so she rapped again, harder. Silence fell in the room behind her as people turned to look, curiously.
“What is she doing?” a woman’s voice querulously demanded. Leslie didn’t turn her head, identifying the voice as the nervous older lady.
Finally someone came and a lock scraped at the door. Leslie stepped back and let the door swing open. Something made her glance briefly to her right. Scott stood not far away, watching alertly. Jarred and Wayne were just behind him, a silent, though puzzled support. She flashed them a grateful look.
One of the guards stuck in his head and said in short, impatient sounding Spanish, “What the hell do you want?” But Leslie looked at him blankly, and then pushed right past him to march into the sunlight. She heard gasps behind her, exclamations, and then the other guard snapped up his gun to point it into her stomach. Acting far more bravely than she felt, she put her hands on her hips and glared at him. He told her to move back into the building before he blew her into little pieces. She didn’t blink an eye, sure that he thought she couldn’t understand, and told him to go to blazes. He glared at her and asked the other guard what he should do. The other man, barricading the open doorway and training his gun on the occupants inside, shrugged.
The commotion caught the attention of some men moving around at the other buildings, and soon the commander was striding impatiently their way, anger taut in every body line. He approached Leslie, who refused to shrink away, though her insides were like jelly, quivering. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked harshly.
She threw back her head and was haughty. “I am not an animal, sir, nor am I used to being cooped up like a chicken.”
He cocked a sardonic eyebrow. “Come now, surely you are much more pretty than a chicken,” he murmured mockingly. In spite of herself, her mouth quirked.
“Your guards have machine guns,” she stated, with a wide gesture of one hand.
He looked his two men over. “To the best of my knowledge, yes.” She was relieved to see that instead of staying angry, he now appeared more amused and entertained.
She continued, “My understanding of such weaponry is not good, but presumably the guns can fire at least eight rounds per second?”
“As an estimation, it is good enough.” His eyes were hooded; she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but at least he was letting her finish.
“Then with two guards shooting, at sixteen rounds per second, and with thirty people, you should have us all shot within five seconds, max,” she concluded flatly.
“Assuredly, if that were my intention.”
“Not even the fastest professional runner could make it to the treeline over there in less than eight to ten seconds, therefore it is not logically possible for any of us to escape. And where would we go, anyway, on an island?” Dead silence, in front of her and behind. “Then why, may I ask you, are we kept shut in that horrible closed-in building all day without the least chance to stretch our legs? Surely even your men cannot be afraid of us, unarmed and defenseless as we are. If they were positioned far enough away, they could easily shoot down anyone who tried to come too close, or who tried to run. In short, sir,” and she suddenly grinned at him, blue eyes sparkling, “I would like some fresh air, please.”
He regarded her for a moment or two in inscrutable silence. One of the guards said something extremely rude. Her expression never flickered. Then with a short laugh the commander fired rapid Spanish to the two guards, telling them to set up markers in the wide clearing. Leslie forced herself to look slightly puzzled, exaggeratedly patient, arms crossed, mouth pursed. The borders were marked, a good thirty paces in length, with what looked like paint cans. He then turned and flicked his eyes suggestively over Leslie’s figure. “None of you may go beyond these borders. If you even attempt it you will be instantly shot. If there is any trouble at all caused by this, you will be sent back inside to remain there. Abuse this privilege in any way and you will lose it forever. You cannot remain out after sunset.” And without another glance, he turned on his heel and left.
The tension melted away, and everyone laughed a little in relief. There was a general exodus to the open space, where people made themselves comfortable in the long cushiony grass, walked around for exercise, and talked. Leslie flopped down and spread her arms over her head as she stretched out her legs, laughing at something Pat said. A dark shadow blocked out the slanting evening rays and Scott sat down beside her.
“Quite a scene you caused,” he remarked mildly, shading his eyes and staring to the cluster of buildings some distance away.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” was her flippant reply.
He turned his head sharply and stared at her hard. “But was that quite the way to go about it?” he asked calmly. “I’m not ashamed to admit that it gave me a queasy feeling to see the muzzle of that gun pointed dead at your delectable abdomen. Why’d you do it?”
“It wasn’t really such a gamble,” she said, closing her eyes and basking in the sun’s warmth. “I was no obvious threat to the guards, and so they would not have wanted to be responsible for injuring or killing me. The commander was the one last night who interrogated me, and underneath the harassment he was attracted to me. He—gives me looks that…” She didn’t finish the sentence, but shuddered.
Scott’s eyes, as they looked again towards the buildings, were hard. “I know.”
“Well, then, I did what any female would have done. I captured his attention, amused him, while asking for something that was really very reasonable, and because he was diverted, and because I batted my baby blues at him—” She fluttered her eyelashes at Scott, who laughed. “—he said yes. It was just a little manipulation.”
“A universally feminine trait, eh? No, don’t look at me that way! I quite agree with you. All one has to do is look back at history to realise that more often than not the woman has been placed in positions of vulnerability. You do what you can to survive, that’s all.”
“Exactly.” She abruptly sat up and plucked at the grass restlessly. She thought of how she had cajoled Dennis into letting her enroll for a few college courses, to keep herself from going crazy. Her mouth twisted as she felt shame deep within her. She shouldn’t have had to beg. But she had given him that power over herself, and it is always harder to take power than to give it away. She had no one but herself to blame. Sensing eyes on her, she looked up and encountered Scott’s dark, oddly sympathetic eyes, as if he knew what she had been thinking. She grimaced, eyes falling away. “And for what was gained, it was well worth it,” she continued, oddly defensive. “We’ve got more freedom, fresh air and some space…”
“…and a good view of the buildings over there, so that we can see what is going on,” he finished, looking at her instead of the buildings.
“You—you aren’t thinking of trying anything, are you?” she whispered, eyes wide.
“Who can tell? I certainly don’t plan on doing anything foolish, but then circumstances are a bit beyond my power of control,” he replied offhandedly, glancing sharply at either guard to make sure they were well away. “By the way—”
“By the way, what?” Wayne asked, as he and Jarred walked up to squat beside them. He was regarded with a sharp look from Scott.
“Keep your voices down,” Scott admonished him softly. “I was just thinking that there’s every chan
ce that our guards have been instructed to pretend they don’t know English, just as we’re pretending, and for the same reasons. What better way to keep an eye on the hostages?”
Silence for a moment. Leslie felt a chill run down her spine. Jarred looked thoughtful, and Wayne looked uncomfortable. “Wow. It’s not so much what you’ve already said,” she muttered, “but the thought of what you could have said.”
Wayne flashed her a look and Jarred nodded. “It makes sense,” he said. “All the same, it’s an eerie feeling, isn’t it, Les?”
Wayne said abruptly, “What in the world do you think they want from us, anyway? The whole situation doesn’t add up.”
“No, it doesn’t,” agreed Scott slowly, turning back from squinting at the sinking sun. Jarred and he exchanged a look. Leslie stirred in the grass beside him. She felt oddly reassured by the sheer bulk of the man sitting by her. It was irrational, she knew, for at the moment Scott was as vulnerable as the others. But the intellectual knowledge didn’t make the feeling go away. Whereas everyone else reacted with various disconcerted emotions: fear, anxiety, resentment—Scott acted more like a cat who lands on its feet, cool and collected, always storing IP information and always observing. While being in a position of uncontrol, he gave the impression of having everything well in hand. It was soothing.
Covering up her true feeling, she asked, “What d’you mean?”
“None of it adds up,” Wayne replied, turning around and facing the forest, away from the alert guards. Scott and Jarred were watching him alertly, keenly. Scott leaned back on his elbows as his shirt fell open, his nearly white hair glinting in the light, shadowing dark face and eyes. “Why would the People’s Revolutionary Republic want to hijack an American airliner and risk the retribution of the admittedly powerful U.S. government? They’re a small enough group and already in an uncomfortable situation with Cuba so close by and hostile. Their island is sandwiched right between the two powers. If their politics would have allowed it, they would have been wise to embrace capitalism and the States, but they’re as communist as Cuba, right? Their main gripe is that they don’t like the present Cuban government.”
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