by Tony Bulmer
Karyn attempted to swing her gun, so she could make a shot. But her assailant was already too close. Pressing her backwards in her chair, he used his bodyweight to block the movement of her gun arm. Karyn struggled to break free, but her opponent was tenacious and desperate, fighting with the intensity of a man with nothing left to lose.
His thin, sun-‐bronzed face was up close now, his eyes burning into her, “I can’t let you ruin things,” he hissed. The words came ugly, with the accompaniment of balling spittle. Karyn felt it settle against her face, as a surging dizziness pulsed through her. This vicious little bastard knew his trade, five more seconds and she would be unconscious. He was shaking her now, trying to get more leverage, so he could finally choke her out.
Arching back in her seat, trapped by the power and ferocity of the attack, Karyn saw the balled fist rising against the sun. He was looking to land a hammer blow right in the middle of her face. If he struck home, she was finished. He would daze her with the blow then squeeze down on her carotid artery until her blood-‐starved brain gave
out. The end would come quick after that, perilously quick.
But in his haste hit her in the face, Mālama had misjudged badly. He had shifted his body mass away from her gun arm, and left himself vulnerable. Karyn swung fast, hitting him hard on the bridge of his nose with the butt of her gun. Mālama squealed with agony and staggered backwards, his hands rising instinctively towards his injured face. Karyn took a breath, she felt the blood rushing back into her brain and the power of righteous anger rising within her. Gently massaging her neck, she raised her gun once more and drew a bead on Mālama. He backed slowly away, blood pouring from his splintered nose. He grasped the back of the reel chair with unsteady fingers. Then, he started laughing, it was sick, unpleasant laughter. Karyn raised her gun, pointed it at his head, fighting back the temptation to finish him.
Mālama edged backwards, the laughter ebbing away. Finally he said, “You are finished Kane, even if you murder me, your career will be ruined. My friends in the movement will make sure of that.”
Karyn looked down the barrel of her gun and said, “You have forgotten two vital pieces of information Mālama.”
He opened his guppy mouth then, working over some comment he couldn’t quite manage. Karyn said, “Firstly, I don’t have any kind of career to give a damn about, and second I didn’t murder you, you died in a tragic fishing accident.”
“But I am not dead,” stammered Mālama. Karyn smiled. “Not yet,” she said.
60
The Pacific Kellerman had dark misgivings. They had taken so many crazy chances already, too many for one day. But now, with the plan to swim over to the Wonsungi, they would be taking another. But this gambit was crazier than the rest. It was a play so breathtakingly insane, that her head was reeling with the implications.
The Wonsungi was long tethered to the Nautilus. The two ships were floating in tandem, riding the ocean currents on a southwestly heading. Although neither ship was under power, the currents were pulling them forwards at a rapid clip. It would be hard enough to make the hundred-‐yard swim on the surface, in the calmest of conditions. But with the ocean swell riding higher by the minute and the powerful currents propelling both ships forwards, the swim would be near
impossible.
“If we miss out target, we will be floating free in the open ocean without life jackets, you know that right, Buchanan?”
“What’s the matter with you? You are on the high seas now. You got to act like it. Anyone would think you’ve never taken a swim the way you talk.”
“This isn’t just a swim though is it?” “No it isn’t sweetheart. It is an investment in your future. Think about that. Let it incentivize you. Because if you’re not incentivized, you are not
going to make it and you can kiss your future good bye.”
“I think I will stay here, wait things out,” said Kellerman, clutching the slimy rudder tightly.
“If we stay here, we are shark bait. Don’t you see that? Those snappers are circling already. They haven’t sniffed us out yet, but they will soon and when they do, it is going to be chow time, with us as the main course.”
“Hey, screw you expert. Why don’t you paddle over to the Wonsungi by yourself and flip me the wave when you get there. If everything is copacetic I will paddle over too, just as soon as I get my breath.”
“That idea is a non starter.”
“How so genius?”
“Because I’m not going anywhere without you. So pull up your big girl pants and let’s go.”
Kellerman reddened, suddenly aware that she was treading water in nothing more than her underwear.
“I don’t know if I can make it, ” she said.
“Of course you can make it. I promise. You’ve got more balls than any woman I have ever known.”
Kellerman sucked a breath, felt her face scrunching up. There was a time she would have bawled him out for a line like that. Not now, instead she said, “You are just trying to be nice right?”
Buchanan sluiced saltwater out between his teeth and grinned, “Suck it up Kellerman, this as nice as nice gets in this part of the ocean. Now, are you coming or not? Because I sure as hell ain’t leaving you behind.”
He was that sort of guy, a real prick on wheels and stubborn with it. The real sucky thing about the whole deal though was he was right. They had to strike out for danger, or they would never be safe again. Kellerman told herself the swim was the right thing to do, the only way out, from a situation that sure as hell wasn’t going to get any better, no matter how long they hung around hoping it would.
“I will see you over there,” she said. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said
Buchanan. He took three long deep breaths and disappeared under the water.
She watched him go, disappearing beneath the waves like he had never existed. She gave it a five count, then followed after him.
There was something different about this swim. The involuntary leap into the ocean had been an escape from danger, but this was a conscious journey into the unknown, and whilst she kept telling herself everything would be alright, her subconscious mind screamed out in protest, throwing out a barrage of doubt and fear that churned through her so hard she almost wanted to puke.
Kellerman swam down and out, moving quickly away from the boat. Rather than swimming straight, she struck out at an acute angle, aiming just beyond the Wonsungi’s bow, knowing that she had to allow for the flow of the fast moving currents. If she headed straight for the stern, she would sure as hell miss it, and if she missed, she would be left floating alone in the shark-‐infested ocean, with nothing but the rapidly disappearing wake of the ship as company.
As Kellerman swam downwards, the brackish saltwater pressed in upon her, stinging her eyes strange fish danced quickly through the gloom, their bodies flashing silver before they disappeare
d into the darkness. She felt the pull of the ocean currents now, moving stronger by the minute. She swam faster, concentrating hard on her form, making sure that every stroke counted. How much farther could it be? She had pulled a hundred strokes at least and there was still no sign of the Wonsungi. She paddled harder, striking out in desperation now, knowing that if she came up short the lookouts on the Nautilus would spot her and carve her up with their machine guns as she floundered in the open water. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to swim on. If she came up short she would let Buchanan down; let Captain Álvares down, and all her imprisoned crewmates too—she had to come through this, or no one would help them, they would be doomed, lost to the vengeance of their captors.
Finally, with her lungs growing tighter, Kellerman felt her arms and legs slow. The inevitable burn of her exertions squeezing down upon her, as the precious oxygen in her lungs ran out—still no sight of the Wonsungi and no idea if she would ever see it. All at once, Kellerman felt more alone than she had ever felt. The doubts of her subconscious mind ramped higher, into a howling tirade. She knew now that she had to break the surface, no matter what the
consequences. She let her body rise, her face breaking slowly through the waves. What she saw shocked her. The Wonsungi was even farther away than it had ever been, her swim had been wildly
misjudged and now both the Nautilus and the pirate ship were disappearing to the south, at an ever-‐greater rate. Her wildest fears had come to pass—she was alone in the ocean, treading water in the wake of fast departing salvation.
Kellerman swore aloud. She struck out on the surface now, swimming just as fast and hard as she could. She had nothing left to lose. If the gunmen on the rail of the Nautilus saw her, then so be it. Her fate would be finally sealed. She would die alone in the ocean a thousand miles from the nearest land.
She no longer cared about style now. She struck out with crazed abandon, towards the low-‐ rising net-‐deck of the Wonsungi. But she was two hundred yards out at least, and with each stroke she made, the ship seemed to grow farther away. The waves were growing bigger too and as she traversed over and through them, her sight of the disappearing ship became obscured by the encroaching ocean. Kellerman didn’t give up. She kept swimming hard, forcing her way through the water with growing desperation.
Then, overhead she saw them, popping through the sky—burning bright, with a sun-‐like intensity—parachute flares—a whole string of them, drifting slowly through the sky. It was such an awe-‐inspiring sight. Kellerman almost stopped swimming. Then, the thought hit her—if she was looking at the flares, those gun-‐toting maniacs aboard the Nautilus would be too, this was it, a chance from heaven. Maybe she could make it after all? She redoubled her efforts, striking out towards the stern of the Wonsungi as hard as she could swim.
The sudden clatter of gunfire filled the air.
Buchanan—it had to be Buchanan. He must have
reached safety, and now he was laying down
covering fire, that crazy bastard. Couldn’t he have
waited until she had gotten clear of the water? As Kellerman’s adrenaline amped upwards,
she heard another noise now, the sound of
helicopters, and not just any old helicopter either,
this was the heavy chopping thrum of the SH-‐60F
Ocean Hawk. That could only mean one thing this
far out at sea—The Navy was coming—the goddamn
Navy. Her spirits soared, as the power of fear was
replaced by a wild new euphoria. Salvation was at
hand.
Then, rising out of the water around her
dark figures appeared, their faces black and
demonic. Kellerman felt a scream rising within her,
but a gloved hand closed over her mouth. Up close
now the faces came into focus, not monsters at all,
but men in military style re-‐breathers, the kind of
diving mask that creates no tell tale air bubbles.
The diver directly in front of her raised a finger to
his lips. She opened her mouth, a question hanging
on her lips, but the diver behind her inserted an
oxygen mouthpiece roughly between her lips and
they sank down beneath the water. As she sank
down, the water closing over her Kellerman closed
her eyes. The last thing she saw before she
disappeared below the waves was the flintlock and
trident badge of the U.S Navy SEALS. The good guys
were here—and they were here in force.
61
Hawaiian costal waters Donald Mālama’s eyes shone with hate. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his arm and cursed Karyn to hell. She held her gun high, every instinct telling her to shoot, but she held back. Mālama saw her restraint as a sign of weakness and he reached quickly for a sharp pointed boat hook. He turned the hook quickly in his hands,
brandishing it like a spear. He gave her a bloody grin. And made a quick thrust towards her.
Karyn sidestepped and said, “So much for the Aloha welcome Mālama, you try that move again and I am gonna make you wish you hadn‘t.”
Mālama didn’t hear her. His crazed eyes grew wider and he rushed towards her with a wild, anguished cry of pure hatred.
Karyn stepped back fast against the control consul and slammed her elbow hard against the throttle. The Fortune surged forwards like an unleashed demon, but with no hand to guide the wheel, the rudder sent the boat in to a fast-‐turning circle. Donald Mālama staggered backwards, impacting the stern of the boat so hard, his knees buckled and he was catapulted over the rail into the boiling wake behind the boat. He disappeared from view, lost in the whitewater vortex. Karyn leaned hard on the wheel and took the boat around in a series of concentric turns.
As the boat slowed and last the final fizzing bubbles dissipated, the black ocean swell reached up greedily to receive further tribute. Karyn turned
the boat into the current and looked down into the water.
There was no sign of Donald Mālama. He had disappeared into the swirling deep, as though he had never existed.
Karyn circled the boat forwards on low power, expecting a blood stained hand to come reaching out of the dark waters at any minute. Mālama was gone, but his presence was resonating. Karyn knew now she had underestimated him. She had been arrogant enough to assume he wouldn’t be a threat. She had been dumb enough to think she could turn him, get him to spill the ugly truth about Deng Tao and his Humanistian friends. She had been wrong, she knew that now, so wrong it had very nearly cost her life. She should have put a bullet in Mālama the moment she had seen him— she had been swayed against the necessary action by those pictures on his office wall, the pictures of his wife and children, loving dependents waiting for their father and husband to return home from a hard day at the office. Trouble was
daddy wasn’t just another office worker. He was a crooked cop in league with dangerous people, a bad man with a blind spot for injustice who had been turning his back so long he could justify just about any sort of crime, up to and including murder.
Karyn looked into the dark swirling waters and told her self things were better this way. Mālama’s death would be seen as an accident. His family would get a Police Department payout and an insurance bounty too. The trouble was Mālama had taken with him, all knowledge of the Tao Corporations doings on the Big Island.
I can’t let you ruin things… my friends in the movement will make sure of that…
The sound of Donald Mālama’s threats echoed in her head. Mālama knew something that was for sure. He knew Deng Tao and his friends in the Humanistian movement were up to something big, something he believed in so fanatically he was prepared to sacrifice everything, including his own life to defend it. Karyn eased the throttle forward, and the Fortune surged powerfully through the waves. She was heading to the Big Island, a primordial world of fire and water, watched over by the dark gods of old. In a few short hours from now, Deng Tao’s new geothermal power station would go online. Many had died so that this most philanthropical project might live. But Karyn had dark and ugly misgivings, the crazed conspiracy theories of Brad Verner, predicted some villainous attempt to destroy the world, but such
overwrought ramblings plainly had no substance. Then there were the oily words of Tao and his crazy-‐bitch wife, not to mention the ambitions of that chain-‐smoking old socialite Calista Johnston. The whole ugly scene amounted to a cultish wack-‐ ball convention of the highest order, but their blatherings didn’t amount to a hill of beans when it came to facilitating any kind of real change. Extremists of all persuasions had been trying without success to overthrow the United States Government for years. They would never succeed of course the American way of life was too firmly rooted in the soil of righteousness for that to happen.
