Dead Reckoning Page 6

  I looked at my watch and it read 11:15 am, arrival time. I stood in the shade of a lone palm tree and leaned against its trunk to wait.

  I monitored my watch as it advanced through 11:30 and 11:45, and the crowd grew increasingly restless. At noon I sat down and leaned back against the tree. At 12:10, a breathless young guy announced to the crowd that his friend in the control tower told him that Continental wasn’t even on radar yet and they hadn’t been able to raise them on radio. The crowd began to trickle away.

  At 12:30 a man began to sob loudly. By that time, the crowd had halved. I leaned back against the palm and closed my eyes. Continental never came.

  6

  5 A.M., WEDNESDAY MAY 30TH, BASE HOUSING, KWAJALEIN

  I had not spoken to Kate in three days, I didn’t know if they were all right, and I had no way to find out. A plague was sweeping the planet. Our country may have been attacked. We couldn’t communicate with the outside world, I couldn’t leave, and I had no idea what to do.

  I tossed and turned for hours as my subconscious worked noisily on the problem. In that fog between sleep and wakefulness, where the mind attempts to access the stream, wisps of thought float by like leaves in a breeze. It moves rapidly from one to another, constantly evaluating, landing on some, but bypassing most, like a honey bee across a field of flowers. Most of the time, we can sleep through the effort, but great problems, apparently, require our presence.

  Suddenly, my mind landed on a promising thought and summoned me. I just stared at it at first, like a person you know but can’t quite recognize. Finally, consciousness stepped forward and lunged at the answer and took hold of it before it could slip by. Once in my grasp it felt heavy, but I recognized it as obvious—I don’t know what took me so long to think of it.

  I snapped fully awake and sat up. I had to see Jeff.

  . . .

  I peddled furiously down the well-lit streets, and, not surprisingly given the time of morning, found them empty. A heavy, moisture-laden, head wind whipped down the street, probably in advance of some rain. It resisted my progress, made me pedal harder than I would have liked, and, despite the comfortable night-time temperature, caused me to perspire lightly. I found that annoying.

  I pulled up to Jeff’s quarters, and after several failed attempts at deploying the kickstand, I cursed at the inanimate bicycle and threw it over onto its side as if to teach it a lesson. I looked around to see if anyone had seen.

  I started for the front door when I was startled by the sound of someone coming through the bushes.

  “Oh! I almost slipped,” the person grunted to no one in particular.

  It was Randy, Jeff’s neighbor, and easily the most obnoxious person I had ever known.

  I hurried up the sidewalk in an effort to avoid catching his attention. Randy was what we called “fluff” or an unemployed spouse on Kwaj. There was a lot of fluff on the island, but since most were women raising children, no one looked down on them. But a man who lived off the labors of his wife, especially an older, childless one like Randy, was widely disliked. This fact, however, had little to do with why no one liked Randy.

  Dressed in a shiny, new jogging suit that was at least one size too small, he ran over and intercepted me on my way to the door.

  “Did you see that? I almost slipped,” Randy said.

  “Technically, you did slip,” I said, as Randy straightened his hair.

  “What?”

  He frowned and threw me a puzzled look. Even in the dark, his mustache looked fake, and his facelifts were noticeable. That’s what happens when an aging man tries to hold onto the only asset he had ever possessed—looks—even though it drained away naturally decades prior.

  “Didn’t you actually slip on those wet leaves?” I pressed.

  “Yeah,” he smirked.

  “Then you didn’t almost slip. You did slip. What you almost did was fall.”

  “Whatever!” Randy said, which was how he put an end to any conversation he didn’t understand—the percentage of which was likely large.

  “I’m in a hurry,” I continued.

  “At this hour?”

  “I’ll see you later, Randy.”

  Ever the pest, Randy took a step with me and put out his hand to block my way. “Hey, one more thing. Have you heard anything about the weather lately? I’m going fishing tomorrow.”

  I could have ignored him and forced my way past, but Randy would just follow, and the last person I wanted around when I talked with Jeff was Randy.

  “Randy, I don’t hear about the weather.”

  “So what is it supposed to do?” he continued.

  I didn’t even try to mask my annoyance any more.

  “The weather is not supposed to do any….” I trailed off. “Look, I don’t want to talk about the weather. It will most likely do tomorrow what it does every day out here. How long have you lived here?”

  “Well?” he bellered. “Aren’t you a weatherman?”

  “I am a me-te-or-ol-o-gist…” I said, pronouncing each syllable slowly for his benefit, “…not a weather-man!”

  “I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  “It’s going to be mostly sunny with a chance of showers tomorrow,” I bluffed. “Now, do you mind?”

  “Whatever,” he said as he turned and jogged off.

  I banged on Jeff’s door, but he didn’t answer. I tried the knob, and it was unlocked. Few people locked their doors on Kwaj. I check his quarters, and he wasn’t there. His bed hadn’t even been slept in.

  I rode past his office, which was dark, and then I searched the EOC and failed to find him. As a last resort, I thought I’d try the only other place I ever saw him: his boathouse.

  Boat owners on Kwaj were allowed to have boathouses near the marina, which theoretically served as shops in which to work on their boats. What they turned into in practice, however, were private lagoon-side villas.

  The Riggins’ boathouse was a veritable tropical paradise. It had a prime view, and rows of palm trees on the north and south sides provided ample shade from the intense afternoon sun. The primary structure was an old, white trailer, but the numerous additions that had been built over the years made the parent structure hardly discernible. Attached on the lagoon side was a sitting porch made almost entirely of driftwood and adorned with a variety of tropical-themed elements. A pair of flip flops, the quintessential footwear of the Marshall Islands, had been nailed over the entrance. Strings of little pineapple lights that crisscrossed the sitting area provided just enough light to function at night while not disrupting the starry views. A fan with blades in the shape of palm fronds rattled continuously overhead as it probably had since its installation. No one ever turned off anything with moving parts in such a corrosive environment; otherwise, the humid, salty air would quickly ruin the device. The work area of the boathouse was on the upwind side, which provided the added benefit of a cool breeze by which to work.

  Jeff did not hear me approach over the whine of metal grinding on metal. The wire knotted wheel attached to his drill scattered small bits of debris to the wind. Fragments of castoff stuck to his hair and grimy clothing, and sparks flickered through the dark and went out. As I dismounted my bike, he stepped back and lifted his face mask to inspect his work. Half the small propeller gleamed as if brand new. Jeff touched the fresh metal with a finger and then quickly withdrew it and stuck it in his mouth to cool. Seeing movement on his periphery, he turned and looked toward me.

  Knowing he couldn’t see me through the dark, I announced myself.

  “Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked.

  “Nope. What are you doing?”

  Jeff looked at all the parts on the workbench then to me and then away again.

  “Oh, nothing. Just blowing off some steam…cleaning out the parts bin.”

  “So, what’s up with you?” he asked nervously.

  I suddenly had no idea what to say. I thought it would be easy. I was sure Jeff would be thinking the same
thing as me, but I hadn’t thought it through at all.

  “I, uh, just had something to ask you.”

  “What is it?”

  I suddenly felt uneasy with what I was about to ask him. He had family in the states too, so he was in the same boat as me. I settled on just coming straight out with it.

  “I need to get off this island. No, we need to get off this island.”

  Jeff turned and with a furrowed brow, looked me square in the eye. His expression—a mixture of concern, skepticism, and perhaps even a bit of relief—spoke volumes. His face softened, and he sighed as he turned back to his work.

  “I know,” he muttered under his breath.

  I paused to let the obvious sink in as I moved in closer.

  “Jeff, we need to get to the states. Your sailboat is the only way.”

  He blinked and pinched off a tear that rolled half-way down his cheek. My emotions remained raw, and with the appearance of that tear, I felt myself nearing the point of no return. I desperately hoped he would hold it together because I knew if he melted down, so would I. He wiped his eyes with his dirty arm, leaving a gray smudge across his face. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, he cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and spoke without any hint of sorrow in his voice.

  “I know. You’re right,” he said.

  “So what do we need to do?” I asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for days,” he said. “I didn’t want to admit to myself that things are really this bad, but there really is no other way.”

  “I just can’t sit here while God knows what is happening to Kate and the kids.” I said, sensing the opportunity to seal the deal. “It’s driving me crazy.”

  “This won’t be easy,” he said, his voice unsteady again. “There is no guarantee we’ll even make it. Crossing the Pacific is a hard trip under optimal circumstances with all the right gear. People spend months outfitting and training for this.”

  “I don’t care.” I replied. “I would try to row across the ocean if I had to.”

  “Me too.” Jeff squeaked.

  We knew that things might fix themselves the second we left. We’d have felt awfully stupid if they had. But we both sensed that things were not right and not just because of the stuff we knew about. Sure, the plague was bad. But not being able to communicate at all, the bits of information Jeff’s friends in comms had been able to gather, Continental not arriving; it all added up to a deep sense of dread. We held out hope that once we got back to the closest point of civilization, we could just hop a plane from there, or at least call our families.

  Jeff and I spent the next hour hashing out a plan to cross the ocean on his sailboat. We talked about fuel, gear, food, and the weather. We worried what would happen if we got caught. We planned a route and decided no one should know about it unless it was absolutely necessary. But we realized that we couldn’t do it alone, and we agreed to ask Sonny to come with us. We trusted no one more.

  Jeff had one last thing on his mind.

  “You know Bill pretty well, right?”

  I nodded recognizing the rhetorical question.

  “Do you trust him?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s the only one with access to guns, and we need one,” Jeff said. “I mean, chances are we won’t see a soul all the way to the CONUS, but we can’t take a chance. There will surely be pirates out. As soon as anything goes wrong those types come out. And God knows what we will find when we get there.”

  I agreed, obviously. But I would be taking a real chance asking Bill to get me a gun.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I said, tentatively.

  “Again, don’t say anything to anyone else,” Jeff said. “You haven’t talked with anyone about this, have you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Oh, and although it’s summer, I don’t have to tell you that the North Pacific is still quite cold. You’ve got a coat, right? Rain gear?”

  “Coat? I don’t have….” my statement trailed off.

  I felt like an idiot. Over my objection, Kate had brought winter clothes with us when we moved to Kwaj saying: “You never know when you’ll need this.”

  “Actually, I do have a coat,” I continued.

  “Good. Me too. Wives, huh?” Jeff said with a smile.

  Jeff ticked through a final list of things that needed to be accomplished and I wrote them down, divvying the list up between Jeff, Sonny, and I.

  Satisfied that we had a workable plan, Jeff turned back to his workbench.

  “It will probably take us until tomorrow night, to accumulate everything we need and be ready to go. I’ll talk to Sonny this morning. Let’s plan on bugging out middle of tomorrow night. If we slip away in the dark, nobody will see us.”

  . . .

  10 A.M., WEDNESDAY MAY 30TH, KWAJALEIN

  I only intended to stop by my quarters briefly on the way to see Bill, but I woke up on the couch two hours later. It was the best sleep I’d had in days. It’s funny how much of a relief it can be to simply make a decision.

  I checked my watch and decided that I would wait until lunch, since I knew exactly where Bill would be then. I chose instead to begin collecting the items I would need for the trip. Once I’d checked the essentials off my list, I rifled through drawers and cabinets in search of useful items that we hadn’t thought of. You could never have too many flashlights or batteries. Who knew when I might need that small pocket knife I found in a kitchen drawer? I emptied drawers on the floor and ripped out the contents of entire shelves in one pull, the way a burglar might have.

  By the time I had searched nearly everywhere, a multitude of things lay strewn across the floor. Suddenly it struck me how useless most of our possessions really were. My house contained so much expensive stuff that it likely came to many multiples of the average lifetime wage for most people on earth. But when it came right down to it, almost none of it mattered. It was all junk.

  I moved to the last closet and pulled out a box. I opened the lid and stopped cold. I sat back in amongst the garbage and opened the cover of a picture album. The first page held a photo of Kate, beaming from ear to ear, cuddling our newborn Elaine. After twenty-four hours of grueling labor, she still lit up the room. She only seemed more beautiful to me as time went on. On the next page was a picture of Charlie, on the brand new bike he got for his fourth birthday—the bike that freed him from the “baby trailer” that Kate pulled behind her bike—the bike that years later he refused to give up for a “big-boy-bike” despite its size and condition, because it was his first bike and he “loved it.”

  A lump formed in my throat as I closed the album and set it carefully back in the box. I got up and began to walk away, then stopped, then started, then stopped again. I finally raced back to the box and ripped it open. I tore the photos of Kate and the girls and Charlie and his bike from the album and stuffed them in my pocket.

  I checked my watch again. It was time. I moved toward the door, turned and took another look at all our stuff. The house was a disaster, but everything I really needed was in a single duffel bag in the middle of the floor—and in my pocket—and five thousand miles away. I stepped through the back door, and there sat Charlie’s little bike, rusting against a pole, lonely and waiting for him to return. If we never returned, I knew the fate of that little bike that Charlie loved. The humid, salty air would slowly melt it into the ground. I craned my neck to choke back some approaching tears and set off toward the chow hall.

  . . .

  Deputy police chief Bill Callaway looked nothing like what one might expect from someone in his position. His shoulder-length hair and beard were totally out of character for a cop and even more so on a military base. His imposing figure along with a badge and gun frightened most people. But after four years as his friend and teammate in league basketball, I knew him to be a nice, gentle person—off the court that was. On the court he was a beast, a whirlwind of flying elbows and knees, and I was convinced that he could have bo
xed out a Sherman tank for a rebound.

  I knew I would find him heading to the chow hall for lunch at eleven a.m. sharp. He liked to get there right at opening so he could beat the lines. It seemed lost on him that he probably could have walked right to the front of any line unchallenged. I just hoped his partner Tim wouldn’t be with him as he was about half the time. Tim was a nice guy, but a very straight-laced, military type. He sported a crew cut, spit-shined his boots, and always walked as if marching in formation. He was the opposite of Bill in many ways. I didn’t expect Tim to be sympathetic to my plight, and I definitely didn’t want him to know anything about our plan.

  When I rolled up to the police station at 10:58, Bill was just coming out, Tim right on his heels. I cursed under my breath. I could have just waited until later to get him alone, but I decided time was of the essence. I had to think fast.

  I caught Bill’s eye and nodded and he returned the gesture. He and Tim waited for me to park my bike and join them for the hundred yard walk to the chow hall.

  “Hey buddy!” Bill said, slapping me on the back as he always did—his form of a handshake. Tim nodded.

  “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

  “Thought I might buy you lunch.”

  Bill and Tim both laughed at my joke since chow on the island was free to all residents—just part of the perks.

  I scanned my brain for some way to get rid of Tim and quickly settled on the only thread that surfaced. Tim was not only a deputy in the police department, but the island locksmith.