Chapter 1
It was a warm afternoon, not a cloud in the great blue sky as Lady Karma drifted just a few hundred feet from the shores of the archipelago, Jacutan. The sea lapped up against the hull, creating a soothing, calming sound. There were gulls that squawked high above, and a gentle breeze that whispered through the foliage.
“This is perfect, Mr. Carver! My editor wasn’t joking about this place!”
Jack looked out his dirty windshield through semi-squinted eyes and heavy brows, his broad features set in a blank mask of apathy. His eyes were a dark earthy brown to match his equally dark hair that he kept trimmed layered to just a few inches’ length. His skin was bronzed and leathery from the many days out in the tropical sun, chartering tourists to and from points of interests. He looked at his only passenger, Valarie Cortez, who was actively taking photos of the beached aircraft carrier from WWII. Already on edge, he replied, “Whatever. Look, I’ll swing around to the east so that you can get more shots of the wreck, but this is as close as we get.” He made sure to sound firm.
Valerie looked up and over from her camera with a tender, knowing smile. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Peugh, here we go.”
Valerie walked her way around the wheel house as she spoke, her beige button up shirt open, revealing a crop-top tank top underneath, allowing her chiseled abdominals to show above her green cargo pants. “Back in port, you said something about ‘old world war two gun emplacements.’”
“I also said something about reefs,” Jack countered with a raised brow. As Valerie put a hand on her left hip, he nailed his point further. “As in, I just bought this tub, and I don’t wanna have to fix the hull again.”
A cheeky grin made its way across her sleek face, her short brown hair swept to the side. “What, didn’t the Navy teach you how to navigate through shallow waters?”
“No,” Jack promptly answered, “They just taught me how to protect my investments.” He paused. “And to never trust a court-appointed lawyer.”
“Look, I need to get in closer.” She said, a faint whine in her voice.
Jack was unphased, unmoved. He wasn’t risking his new life on a sketchy journalist wannabe any more than he was. If not for her generous bribe back in Pohnpei she wouldn’t even be getting these photos.
Valerie looked over her shoulder to the back of the boat. “So, if I wanted to rent that little water scooter of yours, how much would that cost?”
Jack eyed his red Sea-Doo and immediately thought about the liability of letting her use it. “That’s not a good idea.”
“What’s the matter, Jack, afraid my cheque won’t clear?” She teased, shifting her weight.
Jack waved his hands lightly, beginning to protest her persistent badgering. “Ms. Cortez—”
He didn’t have a chance to counter as Valerie had reached into her back pocket and pulled out a folded wad of banded cash—odd, Jack thought. She tossed it over to the countertops. “Here’s 200.”
Jack slid his left hand over to it, quickly flipped his thumb through the stack, then slid it into his pocket.
“Call it a bonus for safely getting me back to Pohnpei.”
Everything had a price. He looked out to the right as the two of them walked to the back of the boat and spoke in a placid tone. “The bonus will be if I make it back with all my shit intact.”
“I’ve got it covered.” She assured, brushing her bangs to the side once more. She then hopped onto the jet ski after having unlatched it from the boat, then with a firm push from her foot the jetski slid off the ramp and softly landed into the clear blue. She turned the key and the motor purred to life. “I’ll be back in two hours.”
The engine roared as Valerie took off around the bend, spraying water up and sprinkling Jack, who just tutted to himself as he watched her leave.
“Well, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s killin’ time.”
He felt the wad of cash in his pocket again. If she gets hurt, that’s on her.
With nothing left to do but wait, Jack walked over to one of the side built-in cushioned benches and hopped on, laying down with his hands behind his head. It didn’t take long for the laps of the waves against the hull and the warmth of the sun to send him drifting to sleep.
Thumping. Loud thumping.
Jack jolted awake, looked about, then rubbed his eyes.
“Eugh, what time is it?” He wondered aloud as he dropped his feet to the wooden deck.
“Cortez?” He called, noticing his red jet ski was still missing. The thumping persisted, pounding against his eardrums.
He walked to the port side and looked over towards the bow—a hovering blackhawk helicopter met his gaze, mere meters from the bow of his boat, causing his heart to sink. It hovered over the waters dangerously close, causing a circular pattern of ripples.
“Ah, fuck.” His first thought was the local authorities from Pohnpei, but that didn’t make sense: they didn’t own UH-60’s. Who else could be out here?
Whoever they were, they were here, and more than likely meant trouble for Jack.
Waving his arms out and putting on a tense smile, Jack spoke as loudly as he could, despite knowing they couldn’t hear him. “Hey yeah—yeah, there’s no problem here! I got a fishing per—” His words were cut short as the UH-60 turned, revealing a mounted machine gun, operator at the ready, and aiming at him.
Oh, shit.
Jack hit the deck quickly, just in time to avoid the entourage of bullets streaming past and destroying his boat’s deck and hull. The glass of the wheel house shattered and rained upon his back.
“Ah, nah, there’s no way!” He screamed. “Who the hell has helicopters out here?!”
The stream of bullets continued, punching through his gas tank and igniting the deck. The inferno spread and grew quickly, engulfing the Lady Karma, cornering Jack into the wheelhouse. It was stay and burn, or make a jump for it.
The choice was obvious.
WIth his primal urge to survive kicking in, he bolted around the wheel house, hopped the bench, and dove over the railing; his boat exploded just as he did, the wave tumbling him into a sloppy front flip before he hit the water. He had no time to think, only to swim.
With powerful strokes, Jack swam underneath the water, hoping and praying that one of the gods out there would grant him a chance to die another day.
He forced his eyes open to slits in an attempt to see where he was going. The seawater stung his eyes but he pushed on, ignoring the pain and focusing on his swimming; a hard task to do in pants and shoes.
Under the water he could hear the groans of his ship as it sank and hit the bottom of the coral reef. Above, he could hear the thumping of the UH-60’s propeller as it flew overhead, likely trying to get into a better position to fire at him.
He swam harder, faster, his lungs feeling red hot as he ran out of oxygen. He could just make out the aircraft carrier wreckage.
Fuck, come on!
He kept going, going, until his belly brushed against the sand. Immediately he surfaced, gulping in a large breath of air, but not taking a single moment to stop. He trudged through the shallow water, falling onto all fours every few steps, and bee-lined towards the wreckage which had a sizable hole in the hull.
Suddenly he heard the turret firing again, which made him double-time, wet shoes and sand be damned.
Just a few feet short, he plunged himself into the hole, then crawled on all fours into the darkness, bullets pinging off the rusted hull around him.
“Fuck!” He screamed the moment he heard the turret stop firing. “What the fuck!”
He was pissed. Mostly at himself, but at Valerie as well. He knew from the beginning the whole thing seemed fishy. A reporter wanting to get shots of WWII wrecks on a forbidden island? A reporter with enough cash to bribe him? One who wanted to risk her life for these photographs by buying two hours on a water scooter? And now an unknown force with UH-60’s firing on him?
No. It was all sorts of fucked, and he knew better than to have trusted some woman with heaps of cash. Then again, he needed the money, which wouldn’t do him much good if this is where he was to die.
Jack sat on the cold metal plating of the ship’s inner hallway, breathing out his adrenaline rush, trying to think of a way to get out of there. To survive. He figured he couldn’t wait around as someone would come looking for him. His boat was destroyed, he couldn’t leave the island. The only option now was to navigate through the wreckage and hope there was a safe place to hide in the jungle. He’d figure out the rest later.
Pulling him from his thoughts were loud thumps that echoed in the interior. Heavy footsteps slammed onto the top deck. He couldn’t sit and hide; he had to keep going.
Jack got up to his feet and reached into his pocket for his butterfly knife—he always carried it. Flipping it open in a graceful way, he wielded the knife in his right hand as the left guided him along the walls to a bulkhead; the door was open. Streams of light found their way through the deteriorating walls and floors, giving Jack the bare minimum he needed to see where he was going.
“Let’s move, move, move!” An unfamiliar voice boomed above, echoing through the ship. “Find him!”
Keeping as quiet as he could, Jack moved through the dingy rotted core of the ship, sopping wet shoes squishing with each footstep. Ahead was a collapsed deck with no way through, but above was another opened bulkhead.
Putting his knife away, he climbed the fallen deck and walked through the bulkhead cautiously, peaking out both ways before continuing onward. The thumping of the helicopter was still present and loud, signifying it was hovering above while presumably armed men scoured the ship for Jack.
He moved onward, down some more rusty halls and poorly lit rooms until he came across a long hallway with a bulkhead door at the end—he could see daylight.
Jack moved more quickly towards the light at the end of the tunnel, seeing a shallow pool of water below, and a small cliff covered in foliage and draped vines. It was a bay cut off from the ocean by the carrier. He looked down; he must have been thirty feet high. He then glanced up and around the sky; no chopper in sight.
With the advancing men on his tail and nowhere to hide, he had to take a leap of faith and plunge into the shallows, then swim to the cliffs.
“Dammit! I was just starting to get dry.”
Jack steeled himself, counted internally to three, then hopped out, free falling into the pool below, his feet grazing the sandy bottom.
He surfaced quickly, shook the water from his eyes, then looked up again; still no sight of the chopper, but it was close.
Arm over arm Jack began swimming towards the small cliffs, then trudged up the sand bar and to the rocky walls, reaching out to touch one of the many thick vines that lined the rocks. These’ll do.
With that, he gripped them tight, then hoisted himself up, using his thighs to hold on as he ascended. It wasn’t a tough climb, nor a long one, he figured fifteen feet or so, but hoisting himself up and over the jagged cliff tops was another thing. The rocks scraped his chest and belly as he pulled himself up, then he swung his right leg around, rolled over the lip and immediately got back up, making haste towards the jungle with just a single glance back. There he saw the chopper on the far side, doing slow circles around the wreckage.
Jack hustled through the jungle, swatting leaves and bushes out of his way. Deeper and deeper he went into the lush foliage until finally the chopper’s engines sounded distant. He took a moment’s pause to catch his breath.
“God damnit!” He huffed, leaned against the trunk of a palm tree. “Who the fuck is out here?”
It was easy to count out the Pohnpeian local authorities and Micronesian army—neither owned any UH-60’s. But who else? This was a remote island that had once been occupied by the Japanese during the 40’s.
Militia? Maybe. But who? Why?
Pirates? Possibly. Micronesia had a few pirate gangs that operated out of smaller remote islands. Maybe they had commandeered a chopper and used Jacutan as a new outpost? He shook his head. That didn’t make any logical sense either. No ship routes came within a hundred miles of this place.
Behind him he could hear shouting and the distant rustling of underbrush.
“Ah, fuck.” He whispered.
Crouching, Jack moved onward as quickly and cautiously as he could, noticing along the way other men brandishing weapons walking along a sanded path—he made sure to stay as far from the path as possible while also following it. Where there’s a path, there will be transportation.
He kept moving, quickly and lowly. It didn’t help that he happened to be wearing his red Hawaiian shirt and tan pants today . . . he surely stuck out in the jungle, so keeping his distance was the only means of safety.
After a few long minutes of navigating the jungle, he came upon another small bluff. Down below he saw a man talking into the radio that sat on the wooden bench. Behind him was a newer-looking bamboo hut, complete with a dock and a motorized dinghy at the end.
Circling around the bluff and making his way gingerly and quietly down, Jack managed to sneak into the hut undetected.
Jack looked around and noticed it was surprisingly empty, with very little other than a cot, a rucksack, some lanterns, and—jackpot!—a sidearm. He walked over and picked it up. Classic Beretta M9, a relic from his Navy days. His fingers closed around the familiar grip as he confirmed the loaded chamber. Fifteen rounds; a deadly inventory he hoped would remain untouched.
“The fuck you doin’ in there!”
Jack looked up and out the window to see the man hustling towards him, barrelling through the door frame, weapon brandished.
Poor choice.
In the blink of an eye, Jack’s instincts kicked in and he drew the weapon and discharged three shots. The man crumpled, the report of the gun echoing through the small space and causing a ringing in his ears. The metallic tang of spent gunpowder lingered in the air, and Jack stood there, gun in hand, staring at the lifeless figure before him. The man’s eyes stared vacantly, frozen in a moment that would never see another heartbeat.
Looking over the young man, Jack saw no insignia, no flags, no military patches. PMC, he figured, a mercenary hired out by someone with money, but why?
Jack studied the body a little more closely. Judging by his looks and accent, he was American, maybe early to mid twenties. Jack rolled the body over, and checked the pockets of his pants, hoping to find something, anything that would give him a clue as to what these mercs were doing out here.
Nothing.
Disappointed, Jack rose to his feet, switching the pistol’s safety on before wedging it between his waistband and body. He looked about the hut once more, finding some auto binoculars and an earpiece on a shelf.
Still reeling from the adrenaline rush, Jack examined the small earpiece for a moment before placing it in his left ear. He hoped to listen in on conversations and figure out just who, or what, is out here.
“Hello? I’m talking to the individual who just had his boat destroyed. I know you can hear me. You have to get in the water immediately.”
Jack’s heart skipped a beat. “Who the fuck are you?” He then nervously looked over his shoulders and around the corners of the hut, thinking a camera was nearby.
“Later. There are gunships inbound. Napalm. Do you understand?”
The sudden fight-or-flight response kicked in again. “Shit.”
Swiping the binocs, Jack hustled out the door and began running down the dock towards the dinghy, his only means of getting away from the hut. The thumping of propeller blades came back, crescendoing until finally a large heatwave blasted its way onto Jack’s back, causing him to stumble and fall. He turned and saw the hut engulfed in flames, and the chopper circling around for another run.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!
On all fours Jack crawled towards the dingy but was tossed by the concussive wind from a missile that detonated at the start of the dock, throwing him over the dingy and into the water. The landing nearly took the wind out of his chest.
Underwater Jack stayed, forcing his eyes open again to look above. Oranges, reds, and yellows danced and pieces of the wooden dock floated atop the gentle waves, as did the dinghy—upside down.
Jack swam up and stayed under the dinghy for cover. He’d have to find another way off this island.
