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.
Henry hid in the last grouping of tropical shrubbery before the jungle ended and the runway cutout began. He looked at his watch. Almost 6 p.m. It had been a full hour since David had left for the other side of the island. The rain had stopped. If the soldiers were looking for them, how long would it take before they came this way?
After David had left, Henry had run through the barracks building. He’d grabbed two pillowcases and filled them up with anything he could find that might be valuable: water bottles, fruit, and snacks that he found in people’s rooms. Someone had brought a whole box of granola bars back from the cafeteria. Henry grabbed it, feeling like he had won the lottery. He tried to think of what else they would need. He took someone’s alarm clock and smashed it into the bathroom mirror, then took a piece of the mirror. Maybe they could use it as a reflector to signal for help. He couldn’t find any sunblock but he did find black shoe polish. He figured they would use that to coat their exposed skin. It was an impulse grab. He had no idea if it would work.
As he waited in the jungle, he decided that covering his face with the black shoe polish might make him harder to see. He would be camouflaged, like a commando. Like Rambo — except that Rambo never looked scared shitless.
He still carried the HF radio and had tried transmitting several times on all of the frequencies he thought might be used. Nothing. He had the volume down almost all the way, but the antenna was sprawled out flat on the ground. Not ideal. He decided to grab a piece of the duct tape and attach it as high as he could reach on one of the many palm trees.
Henry looked up the hilly path he had followed to get here. No sign of anyone. Then he looked to his right, down the runway. It was empty for a good mile, except for the three helicopters that were shut down on the taxiway. Their rotors wobbled in the heavy winds.
It was 6:10 p.m., according to his watch. He really hoped David would get here soon. If he didn’t make it, Henry didn’t want to know what would happen if he turned himself back in to the Chinese.
Henry was on one of the MARS frequencies. He tried one more time. David would be here soon… he hoped.
“Any MARS station, any MARS station, this is Hotel Golf, how do you copy, over?”
Henry put his ear to the receiver, listening to the static. Nothing. He sighed.
“… over… Hotel Golf, this is MARS radio transmitter seven-three, I say again, I read you… and garbled… over…”
Henry’s heart leapt. He held down the transmit button and said, “MARS seven-three, this is Hotel Golf, request immediate connection to the following US phone number… break… area code…”
These days, Henry just didn’t need to memorize phone numbers. And it wasn’t every day that you needed to connect with someone via an HF radio enthusiast in order to save your life and stop an invasion. He thought about just telling the radio operator what was going on, but he would probably think it was some type of prank. No, he had to call someone he knew. Henry sighed as he realized who it would be. Henry gave him the only phone number he knew. His first ex-wife’s. Henry spoke the number and listened as the radio operator repeated it back, then told him to wait.
Henry told himself that she would come through for him. They had shared a special bond, after all. Henry still thought of Jan fondly. He imagined that she remembered him the same way. They had been young, after all. And she probably wasn’t sore about the details of the divorce at this point. Or that he’d dated two of her girlfriends in the year after they’d split. Hell, they’d had great times together. Henry thought so. Jan was a smart, reasonable woman. She would hear how important this was and act accordingly.
Henry heard the static change to a ringing sound and to a brief conversation between a woman he hadn’t spoken with in fifteen years and the pubescent-sounding HAM radio operator from who knows where.
“Ma’am, my name is Ron Jacobson, and I am a MARS radio operator. I have been asked to connect you with—”
Henry didn’t have time for radio etiquette. He couldn’t wait for this young guy to explain the rules about saying “over” after every sentence. Henry said, “Jan, it’s Henry.” He hesitated. “Henry Glickstein. Look, I need a favor. I know I haven’t talked to you in a while, but I need you to call—”