As Winston and the skipper removed their sneakers—they didn’t want to swim in them—they heard Patty row the dinghy alongside. The skipper handed down both pairs of sneakers, climbed down into the dinghy and rowed Patty back to shore. Normally he would have let Winston do this, but at that moment the dinghy was their most precious possession and Winston was only twelve years old.
The skipper put Patty ashore, whispered, “Atta girl, see you soon,” and rowed quickly back to the Louise, where Winston was showing the port and starboard lights to guide him. Once the skipper was aboard, Winston extinguished the navigation lights. The skipper poured the four cans of white paint, the white spirit and the paraffin over the deck; he doused the deck with the remains of the five gallons of gasoline and five gallons of oil. That should be enough to set fire to an aircraft carrier.
Winston scrambled down into the dinghy, stowed the empty jerry cans and climbed back to the sticky deck.
With lights doused, the skipper started the engine. Obediently, the Louise chugged north, toward the invisible tip of the Paradise Bay peninsula. The skipper reckoned that guards would undoubtedly have been posted there. Just before they passed the tip he said, “Winston, get into the cabin and lie on the floor until I tell you to come up again.”
Obediently Winston squelched over the deck and went below, his black splayed feet covered in white paint.
On the bridge, the skipper lit one of the paraffin-powered navigation lights.
Nothing happened.
The boat chugged slowly on, rocking from side to side in a soothing, lullaby rhythm.
The skipper heard a whistle, immediately followed by an explosion, which hurt his ears. At last the lookout had noticed them.
The skipper immediately extinguished the light and headed out to sea at full speed. Now they’d be wondering whether they’d really seen anything, they’d be straining their ears to hear the engines. But he didn’t want to go too far from the shore, because he’d be picked up on a radar screen, or maybe even crash into the side of some troop carrier, so he cut the engine.
“Winston, get into the dinghy. Prepare to untie the painter, fast.”
The skipper carefully handed the six Perrier bottles down to the boy. He pulled out his mini-flare pack, unclipped the flare gun, screwed it into a flare and withdrew it, cocked the flare gun, pointed the gun at the deck of the Louise, pressed the trigger, then flung himself overboard and into the dinghy as fast as he could.
Quickly, Winston rowed farther out to sea, to a position where the Louise was between the dinghy and the shore. Above the gunwale of the Louise, which was about twenty-five feet distant, the skipper could see a faint glow. Thank God for that, he thought. He wouldn’t have liked to go back and do it again.
“Okay, Winston, ship the oars and get into the bow. And keep your head down.”
The skipper unscrewed the first glass bottle, hurled it toward the deck of the cruiser and crouched low in the dinghy.
The bottle fell short, landing harmlessly in the sea.
The skipper unscrewed the second bottle, hurled with greater strength than before, then quickly ducked.
The bottle hit the side of the Louise, then fell into the sea.
“Take her closer, Winston.”
The third bottle fell onto the deck, but the skipper didn’t hear the glass break. Was the bottle rolling around the deck? Had he remembered to unscrew the top?
The skipper unscrewed the fourth bottle and stood up to throw it, but before he could do so the cruiser disintegrated in a spectacular manner. Flames leaped up into the sky, and debris flew over the dinghy.
Another explosion followed fast upon the first one. The black night was lit with yellow flames.
As the Louise seemed to explode in his face, the skipper lost his balance and stumbled backward. As Winston scrambled toward his boss, the dinghy capsized and they were both hurled into the water.
When the skipper surfaced, he could clearly see the black shape of the upturned dinghy silhouetted against the yellow flames. He swam up to it, heaved himself on top and fumbled for the understrap that stretched beneath the dinghy.
He stood up and immediately lost his footing on the slippery, rubberized fabric. He fell back into the water.
Once again, he heaved himself on top of the upturned dinghy. This time he moved more carefully.
He hitched one foot beneath the understrap and leaned forward. With both hands, he grabbed the other end of the strap and leaned backwards, pulling with all his weight away from the dinghy.
Righting the inflatable wasn’t as easy as it is supposed to be; the skipper had to struggle for some time before he was successful.
Success hurled him back into the black, heaving water—but the dinghy had been righted. No chance now of getting the outboard started, the prolonged immersion would have finished off those spark plugs he’d been meaning to replace. He’d better ditch the outboard.
Quickly he heaved himself up over the side of the dinghy. In a hoarse whisper he called, “Winston, Winston.” As he called, the skipper patted the inside of the inflatable to check that the oars were still clipped into place. Yes, they were.
Was it his imagination, or was the hull less taut?
“Winston, where the hell are you?” he called softly.
“Boss! Boss!” The cry came from astern.
Swiftly, the skipper unclipped the oars and started to row, softly calling, “Winston?”
In the dark they had only their voices to guide them to each other. The skipper was worried, because they should have been well clear of this area by now. He must have been rowing for three minutes.
He called again, “Winston?”
“Here, boss.” In the blackness, the voice seemed astern and a little to port.
There was a slight bump, then a scratching on the hull and some splashing.
“You hit me, boss.”
Thankfully, the skipper shipped the oars. Kneeling, he felt carefully over the side, along the inflated curve of the hull. Yes, she was definitely wrinkling, which meant that she was leaking somewhere. Something from the explosion had holed her. What filthy luck, he thought.
His fingers touched cold wet flesh, and the skipper grasped Winston’s hand. “Gotcha! Good boy, Winston. Give me your other hand and I’ll pull you in.”
There was a shrill scream from the water and the small wet hand was torn from his grasp. Another agonizing scream ended abruptly in a gurgle.
In the dark, the waves slapped softly against the smooth hull of the dinghy.
8
Patty was down on the beach with a flashlight, somewhere near the pile of stores, but the rest of the women had scrambled up the steep incline and were hiding in the secondary jungle at the top. The solid green wall of vegetation that surrounded them was so thick that they had great difficulty burrowing into it; you might be a yard away from a terrorist, and neither of you would know. The women hadn’t been able to endure sitting down, because of the ants and the spiders, so they squatted, shivering in spite of the hot night. In the dark, Carey sniffed the damp, sour stink of rotting vegetation—an unmistakable smell, and one that she’d been told by Ed was ineradicable. He could never get the smell of the jungle off his clothes when he returned from a tropical field trip.
At the thought of Ed, Carey put her hands over her mouth to stifle a sob, but she couldn’t stop the tears welling from her eyes. She had heard snuffles and gulps from all the others, although not one of the women had yet spoken of the massacre on the beach.
Carey said, “I wish I could have just one cigarette.”
“Well, you can’t, because someone might smell the smoke,” Suzy said. “Here, try this.” She had brought a bottle of vodka from the boat.
Down on the dark beach, Patty too was shivering. It was all right for the rest of them, they were together up there, but she was alone down here, and she was sure she’d heard a heavy gun fired, about twenty minutes ago.
Without warning, the sky to
Patty’s right lightened momentarily over the peninsula; the noise of an explosion quickly followed.
They’d done it!
Good for the skipper! They were now all officially dead. Patty imagined Carey’s flowered bikini floating on the black surface of the bay, then she started to calculate how long it would take the skipper to get back to shore in the dinghy. Patty didn’t want to waste the flashlight battery, and she didn’t want to risk being seen. She’d count to twenty minutes, then start to flash the light. If you said “hippopotamus,” that took one second. Hippopotamus one, hippopotamus two, hippopotamus three …
Patty felt very sleepy. Counting hippopotami obviously had the same effect as counting sheep. Maybe she’d sit down. If the light was a couple of feet lower, it wouldn’t make any difference. She felt exhausted….
* * *
The skipper had managed to get the nine-foot, slowly deflating dinghy around the point of the peninsula, but it was still half a mile to the beach. He shipped his oars again and felt for the string attached to the bailer. Now the bitch was leaking as well as deflating fast.
The nearest shore seemed to be a mangrove swamp, or that’s what it smelled like; he could faintly hear water sucking at the mangrove roots, making a sloppy, chuckling noise. If he went ashore into that, God knows how he’d get back to the beach.
Arms aching, he threw down the bailer, picked up the oars and started to row as hard as he could. His shoulder joints felt as if they were being wrenched out of their sockets. The dinghy seemed to sigh; with his backside, he felt that she was getting lower in the water. She was definitely going under, he could feel her slack beneath him. He tensed his buttock muscles, willing the dinghy to keep afloat but, once again, the wooden stern dipped. He relived what had happened to poor Winston, and put his aching back into his rowing. He willed himself not to think of sharks. God knows what would happen to those poor cows if he didn’t make it to the beach.
Just before he’d rounded the peninsula, he’d seen a patrol boat approach the wreckage. Well, he hadn’t actually seen it, the vessel had played her searchlights over the wreckage-strewn water. Thank God she’d hove to—presumably to retrieve wreckage. She had then cruised around the bay, probably looking for survivors. She’d also shone her searchlights over the shoreline. Thin, white fingers of light had probed the pale line of beach and the black trees beyond.
Water started to flood over the stern. He’d already cut the line that attached the oars to the inflatable. Now he moved forward as fast as he could. He sat with a leg on either side of the hull and used one oar like a canoe paddle, dipping it into the sea, first on one side and then on the other, trying not to think about the fact that this bay wasn’t protected by a shark net.
It was no good. The water was sucking at the dinghy—not that he could call her that now, she felt like a kid’s swimming ring, once you’d pulled the plug out. She just wasn’t moving forward anymore.
No use letting the bloody thing sink under him. He’d just have to swim ashore, pushing an oar in front of him, and longing for a third hand to protect him down below.
Trying to make as little splash as possible, he slid into the black water and hoped he was swimming in the right direction.
When he finally scrambled out of the water, still hanging on to the oar because it would be a giveaway, there was no sign of a light. Was this the right beach? Maybe he’d gone too far down the coast. No, that wasn’t possible. Maybe those idiot women had had some brilliant idea of their own. Or maybe they’d already been picked up by terrorists…. They had to be terrorists. Decent soldiers didn’t behave like that.
Creeping cautiously along the beach, he crashed over a warm lump. He thought at first that he’d fallen over an animal, then it swore at him.
“Why the hell weren’t you flashing the light for me?”
“Sorry,” Patty said. “I fell asleep.”
“Keep your voice down! Where are the rest?”
“Hiding at the top of the cliff,” she whispered. “Shall we start loading the dinghy? Where’s Winston?”
“Winston won’t be back. The dinghy sank.”
“But how can we escape without the dinghy? How can we get the equipment down the coast? How can … What do you mean, Winston won’t be back?”
“Keep quiet! Why don’t you think of something for a change. I’m bushed.” He collapsed on the sand, and immediately felt the sand flies attack. This woman must have the skin of a rhinoceros to be able to sleep on the beach. Or else she was really whacked.
“What happened to Winston?” Patty persisted.
“Shark, poor little bugger.”
Patty started to cry.
The skipper said, “I feel the same way.”
They were both silent, then the skipper said in a tired voice, “We’ll hide out now, and decide what to do in the morning. I’ll steal a boat from a native village or something.”
“Where are we going to hide?”
“I don’t bloody know. If those soldiers weren’t Filipino mercenaries, then they’re from Paui—local lads. They’ll ferret us out in five minutes if they find any trace of us tomorrow.”
Patty said hesitantly, “What about hiding in that cave? The cave that Winston found under the waterfall? We saw some caves in Australia where bushrangers hid out for months.”
The skipper considered this suggestion. “Waterfall Bay’s about fifteen miles away. It’s just turned midnight. We’d have to travel over two miles an hour, along the shore path, or we wouldn’t get there before daylight. That ain’t impossible.” Strolling along a country walk you’d cover three miles an hour, and there was nothing like fear to make you walk faster. “Why not?” he said.
“Can’t we leave the equipment here?”
“No. If them terrorists don’t spot it, then the local natives will. If we don’t take the equipment, we’ll never see it again.” Wearily, he stood up. “The sooner we go the better, so let’s find the others.”
* * *
He sniffed disapprovingly. “Have you ladies been drinking?”
Carey said, “Suzy brought some vodka off the boat. Want some?”
“Give it here. Last thing I need is a bunch of tipsy women, and the last thing you need to survive in the jungle is liquor.”
“To hell with you,” Suzy said.
“Honest, liquor ain’t a good idea. Even on Arctic survival trips, they don’t take liquor. Forget those stories about St. Bernard dogs with little barrels of brandy strung around their necks. Alcohol gives you a false sense of warmth and a false sense of security—and it dulls your wits. If I’m to get you out of here, I want you in full working order and obeying my instructions. Is that clear? That bottle will be thrown away, or I’m leaving.”
Reluctantly, Suzy handed over the bottle. The skipper pulled off the cap and emptied it onto the grass. “Let’s not waste any more time,” he said. “Get down to the beach, and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”
* * *
Only the skipper knew what their walk would entail, because only he knew the coastline. It was mostly sandy beaches, with rocky headland between them. They would have to cut behind the muddy estuaries, which was where the estuarine crocs were—some of them up to twenty feet long.
They would also have to avoid the poorly drained, saline swamps, where the gnarled mangroves clustered. The trees were often over a hundred feet high; their twisting, thick roots were tough enough to withstand the battering of the wind and the daily rise and fall of the tide. The only way to make progress through the mangroves was at low tide, when you could climb over the gnarled entanglement, taking care not to step on a scuttling crab in the mud, or the mangrove’s breathing roots, which stuck up like twisted nails and could tear through light shoes.
The skipper decided to divide their equipment into six packs; they’d try to carry them on the ladder, used as a stretcher, with the canvas awning of the wheelhouse on top of it. Both those items were very heavy. If they couldn’t manage th
e stretcher, then they’d dump the ladder and awning and each carry a load.
He slipped into the jungle and returned with some lengths of what looked like brownish-greenish, thin rope. “It’s rattan,” he told the women. “Grows everywhere in the jungle. Tarzan swung on vines, but he could have swung across them gorges on rattan.”
The moon had risen, which made it easier to assemble their load. The skipper made three sacks from the three mosquito nets, threading rattan around the perimeter and then pulling it taut. They loaded what they could into these net bags and everything else went into the two picnic baskets and the plastic garbage pail, all of which were carefully tied on the stretcher.
The skipper picked up the rifle, the flares, the matches and the machete. He stuck three fishknives in his belt and two handfuls of fish hooks in the pockets of his shirt and pushed the underwater flashlight down his shirtfront, where the charts were drying out against his skin. He was carrying the most valuable items, including the navigational instruments, and they would be the last things to be dumped.
He said, “Let’s go. Anyone who can’t keep up will have to be left behind. Understand? There ain’t no alternative.”
The skipper led the way. Behind him, the women took turns carrying the stretcher. The first part of their journey lay along the track that led south from the hotel. By following this track through the jungle, they would avoid walking around another peninsula. The skipper didn’t want to risk being seen on the open beach so near Paradise Bay.
As they trudged along the narrow, leaf-covered track, the skipper mentally assessed the strengths and weaknesses of the women he was leading. They were clearly all soft, pampered, used to being looked after, like children. The skipper reckoned that Carey was going to be most help to him; she was a big, strong girl, and she’d fought that shark, calmly and bravely, for hours. She obviously had a lot of stamina and determination, qualities that might just get them out of this mess.
Patty, too, appeared self-disciplined and physically strong; she was also a first-rate swimmer. But there was something about Patty—a nervous tautness, a neurotic overanxiousness—that made the skipper feel uneasy. She was the sort that seemed dependable but might crack when you were least expecting it—and could least afford it.