by Ben Bova
“I know what you want,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “but you can’t make me do it. I’m a man, not one of your bloody trained dogs.”
Very deliberately, he turned his back to the hospital and threaded his way past the trees, through the buildings, across the main street and through the clustered buildings on the other side. The ocean side. It took only a few minutes to span the width of the island and stand on the ocean beach.
The surf boomed closer here. The sea stretched out under gleaming skies. Beyond the scudding clouds the aurorae flickered and laughed at him.
I know what you are, and what’s causing you, Cavendish said silently to the dancing lights. That’s enough. I won’t get to meet you in person, but that’s all right. I’ve had enough for one lifetime.
The ocean surged at his feet, alive, breathing.
Cavendish smiled sadly into the dark waters. “Sophocles long ago heard it,” he quoted. “And it brought into his mind the turbid ebb and flow of human misery.”
There were strong currents in that remorseless ocean, currents that would sweep a man away from land, currents that harbored the planet’s most efficient carnivores.
Cavendish stood at the water’s edge for only a moment. No thought of his past life paraded through his mind. He thought only of the future, a bleak, grim future of pain and slavery to unknown, unknowable masters.
With a crooked smile he muttered, “But while I have the strength, I can end all that.”
He waded into the sea, into the warm engulfing amniotic fluid that would erase his pain forever. Straight into the waves he walked, up to his knees, up to his hips, his shoulders, oblivious to what waited out there hungrily, oblivious to the lights in the sky that made the night brilliant with eerie glowing fire. Sure enough, the current seized him and soon he disappeared from the land.
* * *
AIR/SEA UNIT 504
Even through his acoustically insulated helmet, the pilot was getting a headache from the helicopter’s rattling, roaring engine. Below him was nothing but empty gray ocean. At his side, the crewman scanned the choppy sea with binoculars.
“How th’ fuck they expect us to find a guy in th’ fuckin’ water without a fuckin’ dye marker?” the pilot hollered over the chopper’s cacophony.
The crewman put the binoculars in his lap and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Orders,” he yelled back.
“Fuck! The dumb sonofabitch went out swimmin’ at night and got pulled under. He’s fuckin’ shark food by now.”
“I know that,” the crewman hollered, “and you know that, and even the commander knows that. But the regs say we gotta put out a search.”
“Fuckin’ regulations. Waste of fuckin’ time.”
But when the precise second came for his radio check-in, the pilot’s harsh voice changed to a smoothly professional, “J-five-oh-four to Kwajalein control. Position six-niner-alpha. No joy.”
He clicked off the radio and resumed, “Another three fuckin’ hours we gotta spend fuckin’ around up here! Fuckin’ dumb Englishman.”
* * *
CHAPTER 34
Stoner sat stiffly in the uncomfortable wooden chair in Tuttle’s small office. Every part of his body ached horribly. His head buzzed from the hours of questioning. And the rattling drone of the air conditioner in the lieutenant commander’s one window was giving Stoner a headache.
Two other officers sat facing Stoner, while Tuttle leaned back in his swivel chair, behind his metal desk. The other two were from Base Security: a young black lieutenant junior grade and a grizzled, ruddy-faced guy who looked much too old to be merely a full lieutenant.
“But why did he attack you?” the j.g. asked for the hundredth time.
Stoner started to shake his head, but the pain made him wince instead. “I told you before,” he replied, “I don’t know.”
“He said something about it being your fault,” the older officer chimed in. “What was he talking about?”
Around the same bush again, Stoner thought, giving them the same answers he had given dozens of times already: I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.
But in his mind he saw again Schmidt’s crazed face, felt the insane inhuman strength of the man, the total mindlessness of his attack. And Stoner realized, It wasn’t an accident. It couldn’t have been just blind chance. He was out to get me. He wanted to kill me.
“Where could he have gotten the drugs?” asked the lieutenant.
His black junior said, “We got the report on what he was on: PCP. Angel dust. Enough to stoke a regiment.”
“Where could he have gotten that?” Tuttle asked, his round face a picture of concern.
Stoner laughed. “You guys aren’t serious, are you? This island’s a floating junk paradise. Take a walk down the street any night, there’s enough pot in the air to fly you home.”
“Angel dust is a lot more serious than marijuana,” the older lieutenant said sternly.
“There’s a lot of pill popping going on around here,” Stoner said. “You guys must be aware of that.”
“But not angel dust,” the black lieutenant said.
Stoner shrugged and lapsed into silence.
“What reason would Schmidt have for attacking you?” Tuttle asked.
“None that I know of,” said Stoner.
“You’d never argued over anything before?”
“We’d hardly ever talked to each other before,” Stoner said.
Their questions continued and Stoner continued to fend them off with ignorance, but inwardly he began to realize: Schmidt came after me for a reason, and not just because he was bombed out of his skull. He wanted me. He wanted to put me out of the way. Why? Because somebody told him that’s the surest way to end this project and get everybody sent home again.
Tuttle called in an aide and had sandwiches brought in. The questioning continued as they ate.
Finally Stoner stood up. “Look…we’ve been over the same ground now dozens of times. I’ve told you everything I know—which isn’t much, I admit. But I’ve got work to do and I don’t see any point in going on with these questions.”
Tuttle said, “This is a serious matter, you know.”
Feeling every muscle in his body groaning, Stoner answered, “I know. I’m the guy that got jumped on. But if you people put some effort into finding out where Schmidt got the drugs, you might get somewhere. I’ve told you everything I know.”
He turned and went to the door. No one stopped him, so he left the office, went outside into the painfully bright sunlight and walked toward the building that housed the Swamp.
Then he remembered that his office had been moved to the computer building. Head still buzzing, his insides churning, Stoner went to his new office.
He was sliding cardboard boxes full of photographs into the empty bookshelves of the new office when Markov rapped once on the open door and came into the room, grinning, hands behind his back.
“You are coming up in the world, Comrade Stoner. Congratulations.”
Wiping sweat from his forehead, Stoner said, “Thanks. It is more luxurious than the Swamp.”
“Do you think this new office is a reward for your intellectual abilities,” Markov asked, “or for your prowess as a fighter?”
Stoner’s insides went cold. “That’s not funny, Kirill. I might have killed that kid.”
“Yes, I know.” Markov’s own face was somber. “But I am glad that it’s him in the hospital today, and not you.”
“How is he? Have you heard…?”
“He’ll be all right. He is young and healthy. His bones will knit quickly.”
Stoner dropped down into his desk chair. “They woke me up at eight this morning and brought me down to Tuttle’s office. I’ve been answering questions all goddamned day.”
Markov remained standing, hands still behind his back, nodding sympathetically.
“What’re you hiding behind your back?” Stoner finally asked.
“Oh.” Markov su
ddenly looked almost embarrassed. “It’s nothing. A gift of sorts. For your new office.”
“A gift?”
“A symbol, really. Emblematic of the problem that has brought us together and led to our friendship. A symbol that is truly representative of where we are and what we are faced with.”
“What are you talking about?” Stoner asked, intrigued despite himself.
Markov was warming up, more like his cheerful self. “I had thought of bringing you champagne and caviar, to celebrate your new office. But what good are they? Merely food for the belly. I bring you a lasting gift for the mind. Besides, I couldn’t afford to buy champagne and caviar.”
Stoner sat up straighter and placed both his hands on the polished surface of his broad, empty desk. “Okay, I’m bracing myself for this terrific symbol.”
With a flourish, Markov produced from behind his back a large, brown, shaggy coconut.
Stoner stared, then laughed.
“No, no, no!” Markov said, his face almost serious. “It is truly a symbol, as I said. It is symbolic of this island, isn’t it? And if you try to open it, you’ll find that—and this is an American idiom, I believe—it is a tough nut to crack!”
Stoner raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re right, friend. When you’re right, you’re right.”
“A tautology,” Markov replied. “Another thing about this symbol: it is a world traveler. The coconut can float across the entire Pacific Ocean, I am told, and germinate on shores far from its place of origin.”
“Like our visitor,” Stoner realized, his grin dissolving.
“Exactly.”
“You’re a deep thinker,” Stoner said. He took the coconut from Markov’s hands and placed it on his bare desktop, next to the telephone. “I’ll keep it here, to remind me of what we’re up against.”
“Good. One more symbolism: Once you have cracked open a coconut, it contains milk and meat to sustain life.”
“But the trick is to crack it open.”
“Not easy.”
“Unless you have the proper tools…and the skill.”
Markov nodded.
“Thanks, Kirill,” Stoner said. “You’ve cheered me up. It’s been a pretty somber day.”
“Yes. They still haven’t found Cavendish, you know.”
“Cavendish?” Stoner tensed.
Blinking, Markov asked, “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Dr. Cavendish has disappeared. They presume he has drowned. There is no trace of him on the island, and the Navy has sent out search patrols…”
Stoner sagged back in his chair. As if to reinforce Markov’s revelation, a helicopter thundered by; the building vibrated to the roar of its engines.
“Cavendish,” Stoner repeated. “My god…”
Markov tugged at his beard. “Are you all right? Your face has gone white.”
Looking up at the Russian, Stoner said, “Cavendish was an agent…a spy…”
“No,” Markov said.
“He told me himself. A double agent. He worked for your side, the KGB—but he really was working for British Intelligence.”
Markov’s mouth dropped open in a silent gasp of amazement.
“He told me himself,” Stoner repeated. “Both sides were leaning on him.”
“And now he’s disappeared,” Markov whispered. “Dead, no doubt.”
Stoner mused aloud, “Schmidt tries to kill me last night, and Cavendish disappears. The same night.” He looked up at Markov. “Kirill, what does it add up to?”
The Russian just stared back at him, wordlessly.
“Do you think your people are out to prevent me from making the rendezvous flight?”
“I…” Markov hesitated. “I think perhaps that might be true,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“Jesus Christ.”
Markov shook himself, like a man trying to throw off a bad dream. “Let me check into it. Let me see what I can learn.” He got to his feet.
But Stoner put out a restraining hand. “Maybe you ought to stay out of it, Kirill. You could get yourself into real trouble if you put yourself in the middle of this.”
“I am already in the middle of this,” Markov said with iron in his voice. “They have tried to kill my friend.”
“And they’ve already killed Cavendish.”
“Perhaps so.”
Stoner stood up and came around the desk. “Stay out of it, Kirill. Don’t get yourself in trouble.”
Markov laughed. “We are all in trouble, my friend. Every last one of us.”
Into the hot afternoon sunshine Markov strode, unblinking, unseeing. Down the main street, his back to the radio telescope antennas, past squat blockhouse office buildings, past the BOQ, the hotel, the trailer park. He turned into the area where the bungalows stood and marched straight to his own house.
“Maria Kirtchatovska!” he bellowed as he slammed the front door shut behind him.
She came out of the kitchen, a sizzling saucepan in one hand. “What are you doing home?”
“Put that down and come here,” Markov said, pointing to the sofa.
She scowled at him, but went back into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later, wiping her hands on a towel.
“I was making dinner for us,” she said.
“Sit down.”
“I haven’t told anyone about your temper tantrum last night…”
“Dr. Cavendish is dead,” Markov snapped, feeling fury racing along his veins. “Drowned, most likely.”
She sat heavily on the sofa. “Drowned?”
Still standing, Markov added, “And young Schmidt went berserk with a drug overdose last night and tried to kill Stoner. Do you see any connection between these two events?”
Maria looked away from him without answering.
Looming over her, Markov said, “That…machine you were using last night. It had something to do with Cavendish, didn’t it? Or was it Schmidt?”
“Kir, we agreed long ago that there are certain parts of my work that we would never discuss.”
He was tempted to raise his hand and slap her. “That agreement is finished. I should have ended it when you ruined that young student’s life. Now you’ve murdered Cavendish, haven’t you?”
“No!”
“Don’t lie to me, Maria Kirtchatovska! The man was a KGB informant and now he is dead. You killed him, with that infernal machine.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “The device was a communications system, a sort of radio…”
“Nonsense! You communicate with Moscow by those silly letters you send each week in the supply plane. I know that much. Somehow your machine killed Cavendish.”
“It couldn’t have…”
“I saw the look on your face when I caught you at it! You weren’t communicating anything except pain and death! Don’t try to deny it.”
“Kirill, I…” Maria ran a hand through her short-cropped hair, suddenly agitated, tearful. “What could I do? I have to follow my orders. What else could I do?”
“Murder. Torture. You’ve been involved in it all along, haven’t you? All these years.”
She was crying, tears leaking down her broad cheeks. “No. Not until now. And I didn’t want to. I had to. It was the only way to survive…”
“And all these years I closed my eyes to it. I knew that all the whispered stories were true, but I kept telling myself, ‘Not my Maria. She wouldn’t do such things. She’s only in the cryptographic section. She’s not involved in arrests and interrogations and assassinations…’”
“I’m not!” she wailed. “Not until this…this…thing came upon us.”
“You never had anyone arrested? You were never involved in interrogations? Murders?”
“No! Not directly.”
He threw up his hands and paced across the room. “Pah! Not directly. Your hands are clean—almost. Disgusting. Disgusting! To think that I’ve lived with you all these years and kept my eyes closed.�
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Her chin went up. “I’ve kept my eyes closed to your adventures. If you…”
“My adventures!” He wheeled around to face her. “I was making love, woman! I was seeking beauty and kindness and joy! I wasn’t giving electric shock treatments to some poor wretch in the basement of a prison hospital.”
“I never…” Maria’s voice faded away into sobs.
“It’s over,” Markov said sternly. “Do you hear me? It’s ended. Finished. I won’t share my life with a torturer and murderess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Either you leave the KGB or you leave me. Take your choice.”
Her eyes went wide. “I can’t resign! They don’t allow it.”
“Retire, resign, transfer to another job. Otherwise I’ll never live with you again. Never! I couldn’t!”
“But, Kir, if you try to leave me there’ll be questions, an investigation…”
“Tell them you’ve thrown me out because of my escapades. They’ll believe that.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “I don’t want you to leave me.”
“Then you must quit your job.”
“I can’t…”
He went to the sofa and sat beside her. She had stopped crying, but the tears had left fat streaks down her face.
“Is it true that you didn’t want to do what you did? That they forced you into it?”
“They ordered me and I obeyed,” she said. “I had no choice.”
“They ordered you to do what? To kill Stoner?”
She gave a little gasp of surprise. “Not…they want to prevent Stoner from flying the rendezvous mission. They want him stopped—any way possible.”
“But our government is co-operating with the Americans on this!” Markov said. “Zworkin, Academician Bulacheff, the General Secretary himself…”
Maria shook her head stubbornly. “I only know what my orders are. They want Stoner stopped.”
Markov sighed. “Maria…how can I live with someone who…who follows such orders? It’s impossible!”
“It’s as much your fault as mine,” she said. “I never wanted to get involved in all this.”
