by Bob Neir
“Floray checked himself, his teeth chattering. He’d been banged up in the face and leg. He felt like he’d been punched in the side of the head. “I damn near got trapped in there. Where are we?”
Wolak spoke up, “Tatoosh. I recognize the beach. Better make for it before we get trapped in those rocks.”
Zeke interceded, “Let’s wait for Kapur and the raft.”
Floray said, “Let’s just get ashore, my ying-yang’s freezing.”
Zeke ordered, “No. Wait, he’s got it.”
They climbed aboard the raft and pushed off.
Zeke said, “Start paddling, Floray. It’ll warm you up.”
“Look, there she goes.” Fox 2 nosed up, then tilted nose down and slipped beneath the surface.
Wolak said, “I guess that drops us out of the chase, eh Zeke? I wonder where that bastard Trent went too.”
Zeke shouted, “Just paddle. If we survive, you can read about it in the newspapers. Now paddle, damn it.” The raft staggered and lurched until its bottom caught loose stones as the men leaped and stumbled ashore. All about them broke freak waves as they dragged themselves onto flat sand and higher ground. They stood shaking themselves off and stamping their feet. Accounting anxiously for their ‘copter mates, they sought a safer location.
Zeke Zediker shivered as the coldness sapped his strength said, “This place has been abandoned, cut-off from civilization, a god-forsaken place to be stranded.” Den Mother better come looking and not too soon for him, he wished. Tatoosh didn’t welcome tourists, never did. A boarded-up lighthouse and keeper’s station stood at the top, their hope for warmth and shelter and await rescue.
* * *
Simons closed up behind Operations Specialist Ona. Staring at the rotating wand made him dizzy; yet, he found himself mesmerized by the green-eyed machine. With time to think, he put himself in Trent’s shoes, his next move. He munched on potato chips and swilled caffeinated soda pop. Ona stayed glued to the screen, tracking every movement, alert for a sign, a signal, a misstep; but none came - Rabbit lay silent.
Ona offered, “Maybe Rabbit did put down for good.”
Trent heard the Operations Specialist utterance, “He needs to be flushed?” Ona replied harshly, “If you’re wrong about the ships, no and he’s dead meat: If you’re right, he’ll make for Bandera or Hestia before they get out of range.”
“How will Rabbit know when to move?” Simons asked.
“A radar device or a signal of some sort.”
“Where would the signal come from?”
“Someone might be on lookout.”
“On a night like this?”
“Could come from one of the ships?”
“How?” Simons sat up straight.
“From someone on board.”
“Someone on all of them?”
“Unlikely, I see the point,” Ona said.
“How about an automatic signal?”
“Sure, you could pick the ship you wanted, put one aboard and activate the signal from a distance. Rabbit could fly the beam right to the target. They wouldn’t even have to see the ship, except at the last minute.”
“And bad weather?” Simons asked.
“Shouldn’t make any difference?” Ona shrugged. “Rabbit has radar. Bet she could pin-point a goose egg on a beach.”
“Den Mother, this is Seattle Center, do you have you all your foxes? We picked up an IFF off of Tatoosh; he was yours, but we lost him. Is everything O.K.?” Ona turned, “Lieutenant, Fox 2 dropped off the screen. He could have landed on Tatoosh, but we’ve had no contact for ten minutes.”
“Try the radio.”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Fox 1 is low on fuel,” Lt. Elston looked at the printout. “Have Navy 1 go in. Hold Fox 3 in reserve.”
“Aye. Sir.”
Yonkers sung out, “Sir, position reports in from SurfaceOps. Bandera and Hestia have been re-positioned and Vada removed from the tracking table. SurfaceOps says our cutters are out of position to intercept either ship.” “They could, if they wanted to,” Lt. Elston cursed under his breath as he stared at the table. “Yacona is close enough and at flank speed fifteen knots, she has a good chance.” He suddenly felt irritated, disbelieving of SurfaceOps reluctance to commit the cutters. “They report strong headwinds; a nasty weather front has moved in. Waves are topping twelve feet. Bandera has crossed the 100-mile marker; Hestia just cleared the Cape. She’s way behind schedule.”
“Which one will Rabbit make for?”
A radioman turned and reported, “I’m picking up a strange signal, sir. It’s not morse; no message, just a probe of some kind.” he closed his eyes and listened carefully. “I’m getting a constant signal back sir. It’s a homing beacon of some kind; like from a downed aircraft.”
Lt. Elston’s nostrils flared. “Get a directional fix on it from SurfaceOps.” The radioman turned back to his radio set.
The speaker crackled to life.
“Den Mother, Navy 1. We’ve been fired on.”
“Navy 1. Den Mother. Position report, please.”
“Den Mother, we spotted a ‘Pelican’ on Tatoosh on the other side away from the lighthouse. We turned floodlights on and prepared to land to assist Fox 2. Greeted by machine gun fire. Felt unwelcome. Doused lights and flew off. No damage. The numbers are Rabbit’s. They are fueling from jerry cans. No sign of Fox 2. Request instructions.”
The radioman reported, “Sir, SurfaceOps advises a fix on the homing beacon is the same as the coordinates for Bandera. They also advise dispatching Yacona, but will expect she will be unable to intercept Bandera. Are there any further orders, sir?”
“When I’m damned good and ready,” Lt. Elston shouted, pounding his fist on the tracking table. Simons stared at him in surprise. They were all a bit on edge, even his nerves were strumming like wires on a guitar.
Lt. Elston stuck out his jaw. He was tall and gaunt, youthful appearing under light hair plastered straight back. His face was stern and radiated great self-confidence for one so young. Yet, he displayed little-boy pique, curiously out of keeping with his command of events up to the moment. His cap lay on the table, beads of sweat formed across his brow. In truth, he did his best to shield his own failing confidence. He cursed Lt. Cmdr. Rath for taking leave. He realized events were getting out of hand, moving beyond his competency. He felt the crimson rush rising above his collar.
“Let’s go get them,” Conover bellowed, pouncing on the young Lieutenant’s dissolution.
Lt. Elston wheeled around on Conover. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. With a whiff of new found courage, he said firmly, “Commander, my authority extends to air search, rescue and interdiction. Mounting a land action is out of the question.”
“Rubbish!” Conover ploughed on determinedly, “I’ll fly in two squads of Marines and clean out the whole, bloody bunch. I have the authority.” Elston stared in shattered disbelief. Simons found his voice just before Elston had a chance aggravate the moment. He spoke up, “Conover, all of which takes time, very valuable time. I suspect Rabbit is about to take his final ‘hop’. Trent is not going to sit there and wait knowing we’re hot on his tail. Besides, he has a ship to catch.”
“What do you suggest, Chief?” Lt. Elston deferred, a whiff of courage bolstered his demeanor.
“Make do with the hand we’ve been dealt. Otherwise, the Rabbit will surely outwit the Foxes.”
“That’s a load of crap. What hand?” Conover shouted.
Simons responded, “The fleet of helicopters and the cutters under the control of the Lieutenant, of course. These are our tools; let’s use them.”
“How, Chief?” Frances blurted out, then demurred, thinking the better of it. “Let Rabbit take-off and proceed to her final destination,” Simons replied. Conover exploded; his thick voice filled the room, “That’s ridiculous. Why don’t we just give them free airline tickets and a police escort to the airport.”
Lt. Elston relaxed for the first time, a faint smile creas
ed his face. “If Rabbit lands safely on the Bandera, Trent has no reason to harm the pilots - assuming they can locate the Bandera. Fox 3 is fueled, and can stay with Rabbit, just in case. He’s good out to 300 miles.”
Conover frowned in defiance. “Fox 3 will never make it back. Rabbit can wait: she only has a one-way trip.”
Lt. Elston ordered, “Ona, have Fox 3 set down and tell Navy 1 to cover Tatoosh and report Rabbit’s departure. I want surveillance only. Advise Fox 3 to top off, if she can, and standby for further orders. Advise them what we have in mind. Tell her she is only to track Rabbit. Make sure Rabbit knows she is nearby. She is to make no effort to intercept her. Advise SurfaceOps to have Yacona proceed to intercept Fox 3. Have her clear her decks for an emergency landing.”
Simons jammed a cigar in his mouth and smiled.
“I still don’t see what good this gambit is going to do,” Conover grumbled. “Trent will get away and we are providing his escort.”
Elston replied, “Rabbit’s pilots are skilled. We know Trent is listening to Den Mother. Patience, Conover, we may get a break yet.”
~ * * * ~
CHAPTER 32
Four men huddled, exhausted, cold and wet, on the small, narrow sandy beach where they had been cast. They found shelter under an overhanging, black threatening rock a safe distance from the surging surf. To no avail, they beat their chests and stomped their feet to ward off the cold.
Floray stuttered, “I’m freezing my ass off,” his teeth chattering.
“We need a fire,” Kapur whined.
“We better find shelter,” ‘Zeke’ Zediker said.
“I spotted a path over that way,” Co-pilot Wolak pointed up at the craggy rocks of Tatoosh Island. A treacherous pathway snaked skyward, clawing its way to the heavens, the path poked a hole in the white haze. The promise of warmth and shelter of a boarded-up lighthouse and keeper’s station drew them on.
“At least, let’s get off this damn beach.” Wolak declared, “And no shirking.” The men laughed at his weak attempt at a joke. They grabbed what gear they could carry and in single-file headed up the treacherous climb. Moss-covered and slippery, the path had been hewn into the face of a sheer rock cliff, most likely by the lighthouse keeper out of sheer boredom. Wolak swore as the turbulent wind smacked and battered him, he mumbled, “How could anybody live out here? Zeke, Craig, Raj, you guys close up,” he ordered. “No strays.”
“The sky is clear straight up. Stars, too,” Floray stopped short and pointed up.
“Den Mother is probably looking for us right now.”
“She’ll never find us under this stuff,” Zeke muttered.
“We’re up. It’s flattening out,” Wolak called back.
“Now which way?” Kapur winced as wind whipped rain lashed his face.
“Beats me. Can you see the lighthouse?”
“The path heads this way, most likely to the lighthouse,” Wolak said, stepping cautiously, twisting expertly past rocky outcroppings as the wind tore at his clothing. Out of the fog, the lighthouse loomed ghost-like, a weather-beaten monster dominating the moor. It’s creepy. It looks like Dracula’s castle. Sidestepping rickety steps, Wolak pushed at a door, rusty hinges creaked as the door swung open.
“Christ! A back door, it’s a kitchen,” Zeke exclaimed as he stepped inside. An iron cook stove tinged with salty rust sat against a wall, its mouth open oven door unhinged. Dry matches sealed in a mason jar were hurriedly used to start a fire. The men stripped and hung up their clothes to dry as the kitchen slowly warmed. Hovering over the stove, hands extended, Zeke said, “Floray. We need firewood. No thanks to the last tenant.”
“Aye, Sir.” He put on his wet jacket and quickly left.
“Jesus!” Floray returned out of breath. He banged the door shut and leaned his back against it. He whispered: “They’re here. On the Island.”
“Who’s here?”
“Rabbitt.”
“Christ! Where?”
“An eighth of a mile off.”
“What are they doing?”
“Refueling.”
“Did they see you?”
“Not so that I could tell.”
“Shit. We have no weapons.”
“Let’s go take a look,” Zeke ordered.
“I’m still wet.”
“Hell. It’s raining, anyway.”
Floray led, “There they are. The black guy is standing guard, but he doesn’t look worried. The big guy has been dumping in fuel from those jerry cans. From the looks of it, they must be nearly finished. The two pilots just climbed into the cockpit.”
“Keep your heads and voices down,” Zeke warned.
“What’s going on?”
“The big guy just leveled the black man.”
* * *
Out of corner of his eye, Harper barely caught Graves’ charge. “You got a gripe, Graves?” In one quick move, Graves snatched the M60 out of Harper’s hands, tuned it over and smashed the butt across Harper’s head. A sharp pain shot down Harper’s back as he heard his neck crack. He thudded to the turf like a brick. He rolled over and brought up his left arm, stiff-arming a descending gun barrel, the blow nearly rendered his arm useless.
“You son of a bitch,” Harper screamed in a hot agony.
“I’ll son of a bitch you, Harper,” Graves cried in a screaming rage, an animal possessed. “You’ve bugged me since the first day.” Harper ignored the grit and sharp stones scuffing his body as he rolled away dodging Graves’ heavy-booted foot. Graves, caught off balance, tumbled to the ground.
Reacting to the immediate threat, Trent clambered aboard the helicopter and jammed his gun to the back of the pilot’s head. Madden threw a gas can aside and rushed to Harper’s defense. Graves spun to face him. “And this is for you, Madden.” Madden rushed him, deflecting the barrel from his stomach. Graves reeled at Madden s quickness. Shaking it off, he growled with rage, re-cocked the gun barrel and whipped it club-wise. Madden closed up to block the blow. Graves shifted the barrel, slashing him across the jaw. Madden stumbled backwards, tripped and fell on his back. Madden did not rise. Graves turned back to Harper. “You get off here, Harper. This is the end of the line for you.” He raised the weapon and slammed home a shell.
Harper screamed, “You dirty bastard. Cheat me of my share, will you.”
“Yeah! No pretty dollies and tanks full of booze. I can put the dough to better use.” Graves’ laugh shattered the air.
“You planned this all along,” Harper blasted.
“Thirty-million splits better three ways,” Graves laughed.
“You’ll have to kill me first,” Harper’s voice filled with helpless, impotent rage…
“I got that idea ahead of you.” Graves rammed the nozzle viciously into Harper’s chest. Harper fended off the barrel, grimaced in pain and rolled over. He braced himself on his bad arm; he could move it, he felt no pain. Harper reached back, and in a blurred, half-seen movement, his good arm surged forward. A shiny object flew from his hand and sliced into Graves. Graves grabbed for his gut and howled with pain. His eyes were fearful. With his other hand, he raised the M60 to pull the trigger. A solid object caught him on the side of his head. Graves went down in a heap. Madden stepped over Graves’ prostrate body and yanked out the knife. Unsteadily, Madden rubbed at his aching jaw.
“Lucky you, Graves. The blade went clear in to the hilt; but looks like you’ll live. Too bad, it missed your vitals. You might get to spend some of the money, after all.” Madden said, “What you did was stupid. Who was to be next? Me? Trent? There is enough for all of us, you greedy idiot.” He picked up Graves’ weapon and kicked him in the ribs. “Get your ass in the ‘copter?”
“You mean you ain’t goin’ at leave me here?”
“Don’t tempt me. You’d bleed to death before anybody found you. Christ! We’ve got the Coast Guard, Navy and the Police breathing down our necks. We don’t need you to muck things up worse. You’re deadweight, Graves.”
“Madden.” Trent fought to keep his temper in check.
“Graves is hurt, but he’ll live.”
“We’re pulling out. There’s a bad weather front moving in and that means butting headwinds. No time left, let’s go. Toss him in,” ordered Trent. Madden hesitated, and then he turned angrily toward Graves. “Hear that, get your butt in.” Graves held his stomach, grumbled, then stumbled to the cargo hatch. He fell in letting his bulk roll onto the ‘copter floor. Harper kicked him in the head as Madden slammed the cargo door shut.
“What the hell is that?” Trent exclaimed. Thudding objects pounded the sides of the ‘copter.
“Rocks. Someone’s throwing rocks.”
Trent squinted out the cockpit window, but couldn’t see the source. Madden slid open the cargo door and sprayed, firing wildly. He shouted, “They’re trying for the engine inlet and windshield.” Madden fastened on a safety strap, then leaned out the door and fired again. The crisp `rasp of the M60 sounded like the tearing of heavy cloth. The throwing stopped. The cold air of the slipstream of the blades bathed his face as the blades whipped faster and faster. The ‘copter lifted, dipped its nose and accelerated sharply off.
“What the hell was all that?” Trent shouted.
“Two men, I’d swear they were Coast Guardsmen.” Madden said. “I caught one of them in the shoulder. He clutched his arm and keeled over. They must have landed somewhere nearby. That Navy ‘copter, that dropped in earlier, must have ferried them over.”
Trent said, “But, rocks. Why rocks?”
Suddenly they heard, “Rabbit, this is Den Mother. We have you on our scope.”
“I copy,” Rabbit’s pilot replied. Trent relented; their location was no longer a mystery. Trent clicked on the inter-phone. “Den mother. This is Rabbit. We’re underway.”
“I copy,” Den Mother replied, “Thank you. Fox 3, Rabbit is heading 270 out of Tatoosh. Pursue. Watch for weather front. Winds to 70 knots from the Southwest.”
“This is Rabbit. You might check. Some of your boys dropped in for lunch at the lighthouse. They didn’t get to finish their meal.”
