The wind blew harder. Ito felt the pull on the wheel, came about. The sea tossed the boat like it was weightless. He fought to lock the wheel, hold his course. The barometer showed the pressure dropping fast. He secured the hatches, made his way aft. The dinghy banged against the railing. Tightening the lines, he pulled back the cover. A wooden trunk strapped to the dinghy’s bottom, shifted with the boat’s movement.
“Well, well.” Ito unfastened the trunk, pulled it on deck to the cockpit. “So, they did have it.” He turned the key, opened the lid. Notes on top were dated just before Stan Adams’s death. Ito thumbed through the papers. “That clever son of a bitch, he did discover what happened.”
Amelia slipped up the companionway, the knife clutched in her hand. Ito glanced up from the open trunk. The blade bore down on his neck. He lashed out an arm, hit her elbow. Off balance, Amelia whirled, kicked him away.
“Dad’s papers . . .” She set herself for retaliation. “How did you get them?”
Ito laughed in a low, throaty voice. “You thought you could hide these?” He dug his hands into the trunk.
“I’m going to kill you.” She pointed the knife at Ito’s chest. Her lips trembled.
He straightened up. “You won’t kill anyone.”
Amelia moved closer, waving the knife.
Ito backed away. “Your mother said she’d kill me, too. An idle threat. She never was spy material.”
Amelia’s glare cut into Ito. What was he talking about? Her fat, jolly mother, a spy? How could that be? She shifted the knife in her hands. It felt small, unworthy for what she must do... His lust for her, hands combing her body. Her father, unarmed, in a cane field. Her mother—tortured. At that moment, Amelia wished for a samurai sword.
Ito dug into the trunk again. “I lied.” He grabbed the papers. “All worthless.” When he opened his hand, the wind took the papers.
“Move away.” Amelia shook the knife, tightened her grip.
He did not budge. His face became a volcano on the verge of eruption.
“I said, move away!” Her hands quivered. Rain hit her in the face. She wiped her eyes.
Ito hurled more papers into the wind. Large waves swallowed them. The boat bounced with the sea’s fury.
Amelia lunged, pointed the dagger at Ito’s throat. He swerved, catapulted toward her. She ducked but he gripped her knife arm, flipped her around. Pressing the knife to her throat, Ito dropped her to the deck.
“Please . . .” Her chest heaved. “The papers.”
“Forget them, you are mine now. Get up.”
Amelia struggled to her feet. He still held the knife to her throat.
“No,” she said,” Vincent has your VC contacts. It’s over for you.”
Ito’s lips parted in a thin smile. “I don’t think so. Harry and Ruth already wait in Brisbane.”
Amelia’s face tilted. She turned her head. Didn’t he know? Harry wouldn’t be there.
Ito let out a sinister laugh. He picked up another stack of papers, tossed them overboard. Amelia whirled, beat her fists against his body.
“You’ll never know what happened to Amelia Earhart.” He increased the knife’s pressure on her throat. “Your father was a fool. Our secrets are safe.”
Amelia squirmed in his grasp. Ito tightened his hold. She stopped.
“The Society of the Cherry lives forever.” He refastened the padlock, threw the key overboard.
Amelia pulled back. “Your society is dead. Harry is dead.”
“What? What are you saying?” He pushed her. “My son can’t be dead. You’re lying.”
“He’s dead.”
“He left Saipan with Ruth. I made the arrangements.”
“Ruth lied. He and Vincent had a fight at the Grotto. Vincent won. Harry committed hara kiri. He couldn’t face another failure.”
Ito paled. He loosened his grip, lowered the knife, stared at the dark sea. Large, black clouds hovered over the boat. “A father should be proud of his son, but it is hard when he loses face.” He raised his head into the bracing wind.
Amelia thrust an elbow into Ito’s throat. He staggered, hit the railing. She lunged at his legs knocking him overboard. A large wave pitched him aft, swallowed his body. Amelia ran to the helm, fought the wheel, and headed into the rough sea.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
The sea raged around the bouncing boat. Amelia gazed into the water beyond the stern. Satisfied Ito drowned, she relaxed on the cockpit cushion. Never would he hurt her again. The sky blackened. Rain splattered against her. She stared at her father’s wooden chest. Better lash it down in the dinghy.
Amelia checked the compass, set the autopilot, and tied down the wheel. She dragged the trunk aft, wrapped a line around it, and lowered it into the dinghy. After securing the chest, she returned to the helm.
The endless ocean stretched before her. She felt more alone than ever before in her life. How had AE endured the long flights? The separations? She ached for Vincent’s touch. When would he find her? How would he find her? The violent sea held her, like the Electra’s humming engines, strapped in time—never making it home. AE disappeared in the same ocean. Never heard her adoring crowds again. Electra’s motors drummed closer....
The silver Electra had banked against heavy cloud cover. Amelia Earhart had spied a small opening, swooped down through the mist. She searched the horizon until a tiny spot of land appeared far below. Howland? She picked up the chart beside her. No, coordinates all wrong. Signaling Fred in the cabin, she descended for a better view. The island’s outline grew more distinct, a mass of dark, green jungle. Not Howland—only guano and a bare airstrip there. She’d hit it right—orders said jungle islands all Japanese. She glanced at the fuel gauge. Empty. Better set it down quick. Her hands had tensed. She had pushed the throttle, nosed the Electra toward a sandy beach….
A huge wave tumbled over the sailboat’s bow. Amelia lashed a lifeline around her waist. Her knees shook. She sat down, wiped water off her face. Damn, she was scared.
Late in the afternoon, the rain eased, the wind increased. Amelia tried to relax but a haunting feeling stayed with her. She took a deep breath. Had to combat fear head on. She checked the rpms, cut the engines, and adjusted the mainsail. Old Courage oughta have a better chance now.
Next morning, the charcoal ocean chopped against the boat. Winds pushed the sails full out. Waves crashed over the bow, pitching the vessel up and down. Amelia grabbed another lifeline, battled the twirling wheel. Her hands and arms ached, but she held fast until blisters popped on her palms. She rode with the waves until seasickness made her spit yellow saliva.
The boat rocked in mid-air. Waves like mountains broke over the deck. The sky unleashed slashing sheets of water. Amelia fought the wind—had to get the sails down. She fell, gripped a line, bounced up. Her vision blinded, she rubbed the rain out of her eyes.
A halyard winch snapped. The mainsail ripped from the splintered mast. The ocean sucked the sail under. Amelia tightened her grip on the wheel, dipped the boat into a giant swell. Water crushed the pulpit. Her throat closed, her breathing stopped. She trembled. How long could Courage take the assault? The wheel spun. She lost control. Waves pitched the boat sideways. The cracked mast split in half, thundered toward Amelia. She sidestepped but it sliced her line. The pull tossed her into the water.
Surfacing, she stretched for the boat, swam into the waves. The boat disappeared beyond her sight. Her lungs ached. She fought for breath. Her arms, lead pipes now, sank deeper. A piece of rudder popped up; she clutched it, held on until her hands numbed. Waves shot over her head; water filled her mouth. She spit, slipped beneath the surface.
The water sucked her down. Helpless in an angry ocean. No one could save her. She kicked, resurfaced. Another wave pounced on her head. She threw up her arms, turned on her back. Rain pelted her face. “Vincent!” The storm swallowed her words.
Amelia flipped on her stomach, dog paddled. Couldn’t stay up much longer. Her head sagged
under. Something floated in front of her. She forced her arms forward. The dinghy!
Each time she tried to grasp the boat, waves slapped her back. She persisted, inched her exhausted body over the side. The ocean churned around the dinghy like a cauldron of boiling water. She lay in the bottom, choking, coughing.
After catching her breath, Amelia tied a line around her waist, secured one end to the rudder. The dinghy bounced like a bumper car in funhouse combat. She held tight until her hands deadened, her eyes closed.
Amelia awoke to yellow rays of early morning sun slipping across the smooth water. Dried salt stung her eyes. She moved her tongue, cracked, thick in her mouth. Her body, half-submerged in water, throbbed. She sighed. Thank God. So far, she survived. She leaned against the trunk, still tied to the dinghy’s bottom
Hot sun beat down, blotched her arms and legs with blisters. Amelia searched under the bench seat for supplies. She found an aluminum box filled with small tins of food and a plastic bottle of drinking water. So hungry, so thirsty—exhausted. The water flowed down her parched throat.
Dusk rescued her from the sun’s searing radiation. The sky turned rose to deep purple. She lay back, dreamed of other sunsets.
Dawn broke cloudy, gray. Soft raindrops soothed her skin. Moisture bathed her chapped lips, slid down her raw throat.
The following day, king sun ruled once more. Amelia gulped water like it flowed from an endless fountain. She had to last, survive, see Vincent again. Curling in a fetal position, she blunted off the sun’s attack by pulling hair over her face and drifted off.
That afternoon, Amelia awakened to a dorsal fin slicing through the water. Her left arm dangled over the port side. Before she reacted, the shark grazed her biceps. Jolted, she flipped her arm inside, stared into a mouthful of steel teeth, glistening in the sunlight.
Blood flowed from the wound. She pressed her right hand on the ragged opening. Blood seeped between her fingers, down her body. She pulled off her top, bound it around her arm, and held it tight to her chest. The bleeding slowed, stopped after she applied more pressure.
The next morning, Amelia’s arm was sore, swollen. Pain surged up and down the wound. All day, she lay in the dinghy, lapsing in and out of consciousness until awakened by the coolness of night. She stared at the labyrinth of stars glittering above. “Where are you, Vincent?”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Dawn spit the sun over the flat horizon, devoured the night’s screaming blackness. Small waves rolled against Marvin’s sailboat. Vincent scanned the ocean with binoculars. His eyes were red and tired from fighting the storm. Where were they? Ito would take her. Vincent checked the instruments. Fastest course to Brisbane. Ito might’ve headed straight for Vietnam. Could be anywhere. Damn him.
Vincent’s head nodded down. He rubbed his eyes. Needed sleep. What’s that? His head jerked up. Straight ahead, a mast? He held his breath, put the binoculars to his eyes again. Gone. Where’d it go? He blinked, adjusted the focus. Strained against the lens, moisture formed in his eyes. Amelia—be there. She couldn’t just disappear. He’d find her. AE disappeared. He never found her... .
G-2 had wanted her down. Let the Japanese capture her. He should’ve stopped them. She was no spy. A spy had to be trained. He was the expert. She was so damn stubborn. What went wrong? Tad never got her out. He couldn’t be the bad connection. He was like a brother. Would AE ever come back... .
Late that afternoon, Vincent sailed through debris scattered over the water like pieces spit from an angry whale’s jaws. A blinking flasher light floated off the bow. He grabbed a grappling hook, snagged a horseshoe buoy from the Courage. When he unzipped the cover, the picture of AE dressed in prison garb was still stashed inside. A mixture of hope and fear knotted his stomach. He turned into the wind, sped toward more wreckage in the distance.
A broken mast bobbed in the water. Vincent pressed the glasses to his eyes, zeroed in on the cockpit. No sign of life. A small American flag furled from its holder at the stern. She couldn’t have survived on that skeleton. The few splinters of his boat wouldn’t float much longer. He didn’t like burials. Maybe she’d jumped into the dinghy? His face brightened. He turned hard aport in a wide arc, searched the surrounding water. Be safe, please be safe.
Hours spilled into days, became knots on a rope. Vincent scoured the sea without success. His frustration deepened with each log entry.
6 June 1967, twelfth day out of Saipan. Supplies low. Have raked waters in circumference of 1000 miles. Found no more clues to Amelia’s whereabouts. Afraid she’s gone.
His pen ran out of ink. He broke it in half, threw it overboard, stared at the ocean. A group of gulls fluttered on the water’s surface. Was he that close to land? The Carolines must be near.
When the boat approached, the birds flew away. Something floated on the water. Looked like a human body. Vincent’s chest tightened. He dropped the sails, glided past a mass of tangled black hair.
After he threw the anchor, Vincent picked up the boat hook, moved starboard, and snagged the face-down body, clothed in a green windbreaker. Sweat dripped off his forehead. He clenched the pole tighter. Amelia liked to wear his jacket.
Taking a deep breath, he flipped the body over, stepped back. A bloated, almost faceless human with short-cropped hair floated before him. A man—Oriental. A bony hole marked what once was his left eye. The right eye bulged from its socket, stared skyward. Claw and beak cuts pitted his forehead and cheeks. Vincent looked for blood in the eaten-away mouth. He pulled the body closer. It’d been in the water a while.
Vincent lifted the body. He jerked backward. The lower body was torn away. Jagged rib bones extended outward. Vincent swallowed hard. Some shark... He plopped the corpse into the water. “Be damned, Ito!” Vincent raised his fist. He held it up until his arm shook.
What if Amelia had perished that way? He’d never see her again. Never hold her, lie with her on the beach. Never touch her, laugh with her. Never caress her beautiful body.
Vincent awakened to a dismal dawn, checked his autopilot. He stretched, brushed back his thick hair. Amelia would pop on deck any moment, hug him, kiss him. He stared down the companionway. Damn, he missed her.
That evening, moonlight spread slender fingers across a smooth ocean. Vincent walked the deck, peered across the water. Hot night. His head ached. Not much food since he left Saipan. Constipation? He needed water, exercise. Body sweaty, dirty. He smelled bad. What he’d give for a swim in his lagoon....
A soft, husky voice invaded the silence, echoed in the night air. Vincent spun from the rail. Amelia appeared across the deck, shrouded in a misty haze. She wore her lavender pareau, wrapped around her waist. Her bare breasts peaked through the fog. Vincent’s mouth opened; his pupils dilated. How... She smiled, pointed off the bow. He started toward her. “Is it really you?” She raised her hands, disappeared....
Only sounds of the ocean remained. He rubbed his eyes, gazed into the mist. Must’ve gone nuts. A hot breeze blew the mist away. “Amelia!”
The next two nights Amelia appeared, propelled him, then vanished. If she’d only speak? Somewhere out there, she waited. He couldn’t give up. Not now. He knew she was close. Food, water almost gone—needed supplies.
The sun seared his face during the day. His bloated tongue hurt from sores. His head reeled. Sometimes he dropped to his knees, almost fainted. The little water left didn’t revive him. Only one chance... He gathered his remaining strength, looked at his compass. She’d pointed him toward his island.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
During the night, the boat slammed over the reef at Vincent’s island and threw him into the water. The boat thrashed toward shore. Vincent blacked out, floated on the broken bow fragments.
He regained consciousness early in the morning. Warm trades blew over his body. He coughed, opened his burning eyes. His ripped-up knees dug into the lagoon’s sandy bottom, pushed toward the beach. The sun’s rays stung his singed back, made him flinch. Couldn’t b
e dead. He touched his swollen lips, lifted his head. The reef—musta fallen asleep at the wheel.
Vincent’s hut weathered the storm, still stood on bamboo pillars. The weather-beaten door swung back and forth in the wind. His body felt sore, battered. Needed food, water. He dug his fingers into the sand, crawled toward the shack.
The steps looked like the Matterhorn. Too steep to scale. Vincent inched under the hut, spied two water barrels secured to a pillar. He turned a spigot, opened his cracked lips. The water flowed over his tongue, down his throat. He closed his eyes, lay back, let the water drip over his chin. After a long time, he turned off the water, wiped his face. The storm—Amelia lost—Jungle Wings. The day they’d met—like another world. Her beauty startled him. So inquisitive, so sad. She missed her dad. The warmth of her hand, her dark, liquid eyes.
Night passed. Vincent drank more water, packed wet leaves on his sunburn. Toward noon, he climbed the steps, staggered through the hut’s door. His legs quivered; he grabbed the table. Two cans of beans and a large jar of dried fruit fell off. He stuffed some dried mangoes into his mouth.
After satisfying his hunger, Vincent lowered onto a cot. AE’s picture still hung on the wall. She stood before the Electra dressed in her brown leather jacket, slacks, and high-topped boots. She grinned her determined look. He smiled back.
AE—Amelia, so alike, yet so different. Both gone. Vincent slammed a fist against the wall. He wanted—needed to see her again. Would it happen? How could it happen? Her picture seemed so alive — like she’d step right out. Mesmerized, he fell into a restless sleep... .
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