Marine 3: Island of Dreams (Agent of Time)

by Tanya Allan

  I parked the bike and went to my study. I dropped the paper into the Professor on the way, and then picked up my post.

  The semester was over for me, so I was just tying up loose ends. I sat at my desk and opened my post. It contained the usual crap, so I filed them all in the bin. Then I remembered the note from the mysterious Whiteman fellow, and dug it out of my case.

  I called the number, and a pleasant sounding English voice answered.

  “Hello, Russell Whiteman.”

  “Hello, this is Gillian MacLeish. You left a note for me at my flat, last night.”

  “Ah, Doctor MacLeish. Thanks for calling, and I do apologise about leaving a note, it was late when I called, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I was up until about two, working on a paper,” I explained.

  “Oh, silly me, I should have called then. Anyway, what do you think?”

  “I would like to know more,” I said.

  “Well, we are flying out in three days or so. First stop Miami, and then down to the Keyes. I have chartered a boat, and I have arranged for the team and equipment to go by boat to the island. I have even arranged for a US Marine to come along as a jungle survival specialist.”

  “Three days! That is a bit sudden,” I said, aware that most expeditions were often months or years in the planning.

  “Oh. I should have thought you had other things planned. I am sorry to trouble you.”

  “No, wait! I have nothing planned, it is just a bit sudden, that’s all,” I said.

  “So you are interested?”

  “How long are you going for?”

  “Ah, that’s difficult. It depends on what we find, but I should think, probably for more than four weeks, but less than eight. We shall just have to see. Look, why don’t we meet and we can discuss it? How about the Tilted Wig at lunch time?” he asked.

  “Fine, I’ll be there at 12.30,” I said, hanging up.

  I tidied my study, finished everything I had to do and took the bike to the pub.

  After parking the bike outside, I carried my helmet into the pub. There were a dozen people inside, but none of them looked as if they were Russell Whiteman.

  I ordered a half of lager and sat down to wait.

  Twenty minutes later, the archetypal university professor entered the pub, squinting around the establishment through very dirty glasses.

  He was only a couple of inches taller than me, and thin, wearing a brown corduroy jacket with leather pads on the elbows. His hair was ginger and trying to escape, and I think it was succeeding. He looked as if he needed a good meal, but could never be bothered.

  He looked round the bar, his eyes resting on me briefly, but then moving on. I sighed, stood up, and went over to him.

  “Doctor Whiteman?” I said,

  “Ah, yes. Doctor MacLeish?” he said. I had to smile, as his reaction to my appearance was as expected.

  He held out his hand and we shook. His handshake was rather like shaking a recently killed trout.

  He joined me at my table, immediately opening an elderly brown leather briefcase.

  “Do you not want a drink, Doctor?” I asked.

  “Hmm, no thank you, not at the moment, maybe later,” he said.

  He produced a large map of the outline of an island, with a satellite photograph of the same island.

  “The island is called Sainte Mateus, and the local people never go anywhere near it. They say that if you land on the island, you are never seen again,” he told me.

  “That’s a helpful start,” I said.

  “Which is why we have a US Marine coming with us, to protect us.”

  “What, just one?”

  “They tell me he’s very experienced, an expert at most types of warfare, particularly jungle survival. There’s also the cost implication. There are only six of us. You, me, Roger Daventry the doctor, Simon Cassells, who is the anthropologist; a photographer, whose name I forget, and the Marine. The ship’s owner is another ex US Marine, and he will be on the end of a two way radio. I don’t anticipate any problems,” he said.

  We chatted over the aims and objectives of the expedition, and it seemed pretty clear. There was no guide, as no one was available with any personal experience of the island or the inhabitants.

  “Do we know anything about the inhabitants?” I asked.

  “Only that they are of obviously African descent, but not much else is known. A light aircraft was forced to land there because of a tropical storm, and as they repaired their aircraft the pilot and his friend saw about twenty men approaching through the trees. They were on a clearing on one of the two small hills on the island, but the natives never approached too close during the day.

  “But at night, as the pilot repaired the landing gear his friend kept watch, the natives approached. They were apparently carrying short spears. The man had a rifle, so he fired one shot over their heads, and they all ran away.

  “They took off early the next morning, but there was no sign of them. As you can see from the satellite picture, there is no sign of any village or settlement from above,” he said.

  I examined the photograph closely.

  “Do you happen to have a magnifying glass?” I asked.

  He produced one from his case.

  I peered at the image, and thought I could discern what appeared to be a path running between two groups of trees just to the south of a bend in a river.

  My interest was definitely drawn to the project, and I heard myself agree to accompany the expedition.

  “Capital, then we will all meet at Heathrow on Wednesday. You will need to have some injections though,” he said.

  I smiled sweetly, as I hated injections. However, as I was a frequent traveller to West Africa, I was up to date with all my shots. He joined me for a drink, and we went our separate ways. I had a lot to do, as it was Friday already.

  On Wednesday morning, I was at Heathrow for the early BA flight to Miami. I had stayed the night at a hotel nearby, and hardly slept because of the noise from the motorway.

  I met up with the other members of the party, except our leader, Russell Whiteman, who was late. This, I discovered, was to be a common feature of the expedition. Poor Russell was simply crap at time-keeping.

  I was dressed in my usual jeans and boots, with a tee shirt and pullover. I left the leather jacket behind, not really jungle wear. Besides, it was June 1st and too warm for leather.

  Finally, with only minutes to spare, Russell arrived looking harassed and disorganised. He made the introductions, and we went through to the gate room. They had already called the flight, so we immediately boarded the plane.

  The flight was full, and due to being late checking in, the party was split up all over the cabin. I was in an aisle seat next to an elderly couple heading off to America to visit their daughter and her family.

  “We haven’t met the grandchildren yet,” she told me.

  “How old are they?”

  “Nearly a year old; twins, you see,” she said, showing me a photo of two identical babies.

  Babies, yup.

  I smiled.

  “Very nice. Boys or girls?”

  “Boys,” she said.

  Oh my word, babies, and two at the same time. I shuddered inside. I could never imagine the time when I’d actually like the thought of babies, particularly two!

  I was very tired, having come down by train the day before, and having not slept the previous night. I managed to sleep for most of the journey. I don’t eat airline food, so asked them not to wake me.

  The photographer, whose name was Craig Stevens, fancied himself as a ladies’ man. As I was the only female on the trip, he immediately attempted to charm his way into my affections.

  He got short shrift from me, so sulked for the rest of the day. We arrived at Miami and suffered the indignities of an abrupt immigration officer. We collected the baggage and equipment, and loaded our gear onto a large, rented bus. The drive down to the Keyes took a few hour
s, so I dozed in air-conditioned comfort all the way.

  We arrived in the Keyes at about 6pm, where the weather was delightful. Russell had arranged for us to stay in a little hotel with a bar underneath called the Flying Fish.

  We parked the bus in the parking lot, as Russell went in search of Captain Flynn. I giggled as I immediately thought of Errol Flynn, the Hollywood film star of the 1940s.

  I sat on the wooden barrier overlooking the sea, feeling strangely at peace. It was nice here, so I let the others all fuss about the equipment and the van.

  I became aware of someone standing next to me. I hadn’t heard anyone, so I was a little surprised. I turned my head, to see a very tall, broad shouldered man wearing a check shirt, blue jeans and boots just like mine. He was drinking from a beer bottle.

  “It is kinda peaceful here, right enough,” he said. He had a deep drawl, with a very husky overtone, as if he had shouted too much over the years.

  “Aye, ‘tis that,” I agreed. It was strange, he was a very big man, and yet I did not find him threatening in any way. Normally, I found big men made me feel very vulnerable, and as most of them saw me as a potential sexual conquest, I was wary of them. I instinctively felt that he was different. He looked at the sea, as it was if I just didn’t enter his consciousness as anything other than a fellow human.

  He looked at me and smiled. His deeply tanned face was obviously the result of an outdoor lifestyle. This was no businessman on vacation.

  “Are you one of the party of professors headin’ out to Death Island?” he asked.

  “Death Island?” I said, a little concerned.

  He laughed, a deep rumble, a nice sound.

  “That’s what the fishermen call it. Sainte Mateus is its proper name,” he said.

  “Oh, then yes. I’m Gillian MacLeish, I’m a languages specialist,” I said.

  “That’s a beautiful accent you have there; Scots?”

  “Yes; been there?”

  “Once; I passed through on my way to Germany. I never stopped over, much to my regret.”

  He took another bottle of beer from his pocket; opening it with his teeth. He handed it to me. I thought he was unaware of my expression.

  “Have a beer Gillian. I’m Ed Ryan, US Marines. I’m coming along just to make sure no one gets hurt,” he said, holding out the beer in his left hand and his right for me to shake.

  I shook his hand. It was warm, dry and leathery. His clasp was firm, without crushing me. I took the beer and he laughed again.

  “I lost my real teeth in a fire fight in ‘Nam. These ceramic teeth are twice as hard as the old ones,” he said. “There are a few distinct advantages.” I became aware of just how astute he was at reading other people. He may be big and appear half asleep, but he was very switched-on indeed.

  “So what are you after exactly?” he asked.

  “I don’t know really, the chance to study the African language and to understand what has happened to them in the meantime,” I said.

  He nodded, taking a long pull from his beer. I stared out to sea, and became aware that he was scrutinising me closely.

  Without turning, I said, “And just what are you after?”

  He laughed again, “I am seeking answers to questions I haven’t yet asked,” he said.

  I turned and looked at him, this was very deep from a US Marine, I thought.

  “We are not all ignorant grunts,” he said, grinning. “Due to an injured leg, I’ve come to the end of a phase of my life, and I need to assess where I am and where I go next,” he said, finishing his beer. He tossed the empty bottle into a bin, and took another from his pocket.

  “Do you have an endless supply?” I asked.

  “No ma’am, just when you get as big as me, you get big pockets as well,” he said.

  I drank my beer, feeling curiously at home with this man.

  Russell came out and said, “Gillian, I have met Captain Flynn, and he says that we can store the equipment on the boat tonight, so we will do that now, and then return here for a meal. I have yet to meet the US Marine, who is supposed to be here somewhere.”

  “Russell, this is Ed Ryan, US Marines. Ed, this is Doctor Russell Whiteman. He is the organiser of this little trip,” I said, and the two men shook hands. I almost laughed at Ed’s expression as he encountered the damp trout.

  “Ah, fine. I am please to meet you. Do you mind if I call you Ed, or would you prefer something else?” Russell asked.

  “Ed’s my name, but if you like you can call me ‘First’,” Ed said, and I got the distinct impression the big man was teasing Russell.

  “First? What does that mean?”

  Ed grinned at Russell, who twigged that Ed was pulling his leg. Then the big American took a long pull at his beer.

  “I am First Sergeant Edward J. Ryan, United States Marine Corps. You can call me what the hell you like, but once we hit that island, just remember one thing, what I say goes, no ifs, no buts. The safety of the team comes first, regardless of whatever priceless information you think you might lose, is that clear?” Ed spoke very quietly, but with such authority that Russell paled visibly.

  Russell swallowed, trying to smile.

  “Quite, yes, that’s fine, I accept, Ed. I think you are perfectly clear about that issue, and I couldn’t agree more. Right, I will go and see to the equipment. I’ll see you later. Gillian, are you coming?”

  “I only have one bag. I will take it with me tomorrow,” I said. I watched as Russell hurried off. I was strangely reluctant to leave Ed alone.

  * * *

  Ed.

  I was enjoying a beer sitting on my balcony above the wooden decking that surrounded the bar. A friend of Mickey’s owned the Flying Fish, so there were about ten rooms above. The whole party was staying, and it was a neat arrangement. I saw the van pull up, and all the pale-faced academics piled out. Their English clothes and accents were very pronounced.

  I smiled, as it was hard for me to re-adjust back to being Ed Ryan again. This was despite the full debrief and re-programming by the Agency. Somehow the memories of that last life seemed very real, and I felt a yearning for whom I had been. I shook my head, the shrink had been right. I just wasn’t happy to be back!

  I then saw the girl get out of the van. At first I thought she was American, as she was wearing boots rather like mine, and a pair of blue jeans, which looked better on her than mine did on me. Her whole demeanour and manner was confident and relaxed. Something about her struck a chord, and then I identified it. She wasn’t utilising any of the expected feminine posturing and ‘come hither’ mannerisms I was used to seeing in women.

  This surprised me, as she was very attractive, yet she seemed to be saying, ‘I’m not interested; just deal with me as a person, not as an object.’ I smiled. I could identify with her on that.

  She watched the others fuss about for a while. She had one bag, which she slung over her shoulder and went into the bar.

  She came out a short while later, having lost the bag. She walked round the deck. The view is pretty spectacular, so she walked right by my perch, without seeing me.

  I watched her for a few moments, and dropped down to the deck behind her. She was leaning on the rail, staring out to sea. She became aware of me, so we spoke a while. Then, this Professor Whiteman came out. He was one snotty kid. I liked the way Gillian put him in his place, and so I added my quarter worth.

  I watched the English professor scurry away. I didn’t like him very much. He was like so many civilians, no discipline.

  Gillian laughed as he left us. Now this girl I liked. There was definitely something about her that I warmed to. That didn’t happen very often.

  “Back home, I once caught a trout in the loch that shook hands better than him,” she said, and I laughed. She was right, as he had a terrible handshake. She drained a beer.

  “So, where is home for you?” I asked.

  She suddenly looked sad, as if I’d asked an embarrassing question. Her answer was
equally sad, but for some reason, I understood her completely.

  “Home is somewhere in the past. I could say Scotland, as that’s where I was brought up and where all my family still live, but I don’t think I’ve found my true home yet.”

  I nodded. I didn’t feel I had to say anything.

  “Any more in that pocket of yours?” she asked. I liked her Scottish accent. It wasn’t like many I’d heard, which had been coarse and almost unintelligible without a translator. Her accent was cultured, clear and educated, but not snotty, like some of the English accents.

  I shook my head, so she walked off.

  Once she had gone, I tried to analyse what it was that I liked about her. She had a trim figure, but wore ordinary clothes that didn’t flaunt it. She was very attractive, but went to pains to hide it with a severe haircut and no makeup at all. She wasn’t butch, but she wasn’t feminine either. It was almost as if she had decided not to play the game by anyone’s rules but her own, and was sitting it out to see what happened.

  She returned carrying four beers and gave me two.

  “Stick one in your pocket for later, Quick Draw, and don’t expect me to open it with my teeth,” she said, so I grinned.

  She clambered up onto the rail, and sat drinking beer. I leant against the rail with my elbows, as there didn’t seem any need to clutter the world with mindless chatter. I just liked her being there, and somehow I sensed that she felt the same way about me.

  “How long have you been a Marine?” she asked, eventually.

  “All my adult life. I joined at seventeen, and I’m thirty-nine in two weeks!”

  “Does leaving frighten you?” she asked.

  I looked at her, how could she know this?

  I nodded, “A little. It has given me so much security, that it is hard to step out into the unknown,” I admitted.

  She smiled, “So why leave?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t do the active service list anymore, so it means a desk job, and I don’t know if I could hack that,” I said.

  “Why can’t you do active service anymore?”