Ten minutes of painful walking later, David got his answer.
He arrived at the beach adjacent to the base on this side of the island. It was there, two hundred yards from where the buildings and docks were, that he saw the boats. Someone had pulled them up away from the beach, out of reach of the waves, just like David had suspected. There were two boats, each with a single outboard engine. He was wrong about there not being anyone outside, though. He saw one person.
Tom Connolly. Unbelievable. What was he doing out here?
Tom sat in the sand no more than twenty yards from the boats, staring out at the waves. His knees were up near his chest, and he was taking occasional sips from a steel flask. David stayed twenty feet inside of the tree line. That way he was pretty well concealed from view, but still able to keep his eye on Tom as he walked toward his position. David wanted to approach from behind if he was going to have any chance of pulling this off. Pull what off, exactly? What was his plan, now that there was someone he would have to deal with? David had no weapons. Could he take someone’s life with his bare hands? Hell, could he even take someone’s life? He pushed the thought away. Now was not the time for pondering. Now was the time for execution.
The closer David got, the more nervous he was that Tom would see him.
David stepped through the wet jungle. He was now 180 degrees from where Tom was looking. Directly behind his line of sight. As David approached, another band of rain began pouring from the sky. David worried that Tom would get up, wanting to get out of the downpour. But he just tilted his head back, letting the rain fall against his closed eyes. What the hell was he doing?
The bleeding on David’s arm had slowed, although the wound still hurt badly. He looked on the ground for a weapon. A stick, a coconut — anything would do. He was desperate. And a desperate man needed very little in a fight. And a desperate man could kill, if he had to, right? Finally, he came upon a large rock, about the size of an orange.
David crept out of the jungle and toward where Tom sat. He looked to the left, toward the concrete structures. They were about fifty yards away, and slightly obscured by the heavy rainfall. He looked over toward the buildings to make sure no one was watching. The structures looked very similar to the Communications building. They had small slits in the top of their tall concrete walls. A dim blue light illuminated them from inside. But there was no sign of anyone outside. Was it possible that all of those people he had seen on the other side of the island had somehow come from here? Were there people still remaining in these buildings that would be able to see what was happening? David didn’t see any windows that looked like they had a view of the beach. It didn’t matter. This was his only chance.
David took another step towards Tom. He gripped the rock in his sweaty palm. He decided the best way to do it would be to deliver a deathblow with the first strike. No talking. No second-guessing of Tom’s level of guilt. Just one decisive blow to the head. Any doubt over this intended course of action was silenced by David’s anger. Anger that Tom had taken him from his home and from his wife and family. Anger that Tom had betrayed his country. He thought about asking him why he did it. But even that seemed pointless. No — not pointless — wasteful. David had a mission to complete. Any deviation from the most efficient path of getting himself and Henry safely off the island was a possible detriment to the mission.
David stepped closer. He was about twenty paces away from Tom now. Tom was still facing the sea. Loud waves masked David’s footsteps. Tom took another swig from his flask. David got a whiff of something. Rum. He was probably drunk, David realized.
He needed to strike Tom’s skull with this large, hard rock. He needed to swing his good right arm as hard as he could, in one violent motion. That rock needed to crush through Tom’s bone and into his brain and kill or incapacitate him. Only then could he begin to move the heavy motorboat through the sand, hoping that no Chinese military men came out from the buildings with machine guns.
David had to force all of the excess noise out of his head. His sister, the Navy pilot, called it compartmentalizing. Could he really kill this man? Would he be able to pull this heavy boat? Would he ever see his wife again? Was Henry even going to be there if he could get the boat to him, or would the Chinese be waiting? All of the questions. All of the emotion. David pushed it into a box and locked the thoughts away.
Ten paces away.
Each step was painfully slow. David’s heart pounded as he lifted the rock up above his head. He could feel the shells and sand crunching beneath his feet. Tom faced forward now. David came from directly behind where Tom was looking. What was he doing just sitting here drinking in the midst of all of this?
Five paces away.
Tom sat there, hugging his knees, looking straight ahead. Every few seconds, he took another quick swig from his flask.
Two more steps.
Tom shook the flask like he was trying to see how much was left.
In one quick, sloppy motion, Tom let his head fall backwards, into the sand. His eyes were open this time, and he stared upward.
Their eyes met.
David was frozen six feet away, holding the rock above his head. Tom stumbled up and twisted around to face him. The rain was falling hard enough that they both were squinting. They stared at each other, both in a defensive posture, the magnificent white surf pounding the dark sand behind them.
Tom looked at the rock and then up at David. He slurred his words as he spoke. “You gonna hit me with that?” He laughed. His eyes were red and unfocused. Tom swayed slightly as he stood. He let the flask drop to the ground and held up his fists like he was ready to box.
David didn’t let go of the rock, but he stood in a similar fighter’s stance. He said, “Why’d you do it?”
Tom scoffed. “Goddammit, I’m getting tired of that question. What’s it matter?”
David’s eyes darted over to the buildings and then back to Tom.
David said, “How could you betray your country?”
Tom snorted and said, “Don’t get all high and mighty on me. You haven’t walked in my shoes. If you had, you’d have done the same.” He looked around, toward the jungle. “How the hell did you get over here, on this side?”
David took a step toward him. He didn’t seem to notice.
Tom said, “You think your country is loyal to you? There’s no loyalty. Not with companies. Not with countries. Not with wives. Not with people. There’s money and there’s power and there’s you and that’s it. You want to know—”
David’s first blow went into Tom’s stomach. He drove the rock into him with an uppercut. Tom doubled over, but David drew the rock back up and then down again into Tom’s temple. He felt it connect. It was a good, solid impact of stone and skull. There was some give, like the hard bone shield had been dented and caved in slightly. Tom went down and there was a lot of blood oozing from his forehead.
David dropped the rock and picked Tom up with both hands. The walk to the water’s edge took about twenty seconds. The gashes on David’s arm opened and bled more, but he didn’t care. Expedience was more important than anything right now. David dragged Tom’s body towards the ocean. He was heavy and left a deep track behind them. But he didn’t make any noise or move. David thought he might be dead already until they got to the water.
When the first layer of seawater covered Tom’s face, he started fighting. He kicked and thrashed. Not unlike how David had kicked and thrashed when the men had taken him from outside his home.
Tom tried to get up, but he was weak and David had leverage. David pushed him under. Tom’s arms flailed wildly now, his face just below the surface. David could see his wide eyes looking up from below the waterline.
The ocean’s pull was incredibly strong. Even in just three feet of water, it took all of David’s strength and balance to hold Tom under without falling down. David’s legs and back muscles rippled. Blood flowed from the gash on his left arm. He could feel himself sinking as the rush of water eroded the sand around his feet.
David looked into Tom’s eyes as the struggle ended. There was a distinct moment when Tom couldn’t hold his breath anymore, and the ocean started pouring into his lungs. And then it was over. Tom’s eyes fluttered up into the back of his head and he stopped fighting. David kept pushing him down for a few more seconds, just to be sure. He didn’t want to take any chances. He counted to ten and couldn’t feel any resistance in Tom’s body. Just a limp, wet sack of traitor’s blood and skin and bones.
It was strange. David didn’t feel any remorse. He let go of the corpse and let the sea take it away. Then he turned and ran back up to the boats.
There were wheels underneath the boats. They were on a rig that allowed it to be towed. Probably meant to be hooked up to a machine. David hoped he would be strong enough to do it on his own. Thank God there were wheels. He moved as fast as he could go. There were chocks on all sides of the wheels, meant to keep them from slipping. David ran around each one, pulling out the chocks, and then pushed the boat into the ocean. Every few moments, he peered over his shoulder towards the buildings, but no one ever came out.
Tom’s body was being tossed by the waves. It was already fifty feet down the beach.
When the boat reached the water, bow first, it floated off the rollers. David pushed hard as soon as that happened, careful to keep the bow pointed straight into the oncoming waves.
David knew boats. He had grown up on them and sailed up and down the East Coast of the United States for four years as part of the Naval Academy sailing team. Thankfully, the surf on this part of the beach wasn’t as bad as the waves David had thrown himself into on the other side of the island. Here the waves were breaking much farther out — about a hundred yards out. There must be a reef. He was able to hold the boat steady as he pushed it deeper and deeper into the surf.
He got the vessel a good fifty feet out before he was chest-deep and decided to jump in. David pulled himself up and threw one leg over. He shimmied and squirmed his way over the large inflatable tube that served as a rim to the hard-shell hull. It was a small boat. Maybe fifteen or twenty feet long. If the waves were really twenty feet high out at sea — like Major Combs had told them during the weather report — then he and Henry would get tossed around like rag dolls.
Henry. He needed to hurry. The sky was starting to dim.
As soon as David climbed in, he hustled over to the outboard motor and manually put it into the ocean, then locked it into place and primed the pump. He prayed that it would start without any trouble. He pulled the T-handle and cord, and after a few lawnmower-like sounds, the engine chortled to life. He took hold of the steering wheel and slowly moved the power control lever forward, careful not to go too fast into the oncoming waves.