The three brothers nodded. Jay still didn’t know which of them was which. He bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. This mission was costing Kosigin dearly; he didn’t want one single fuck-up.
“Hey, Hestler, you ever skippered a boat?”
“Some,” Hestler said. Hestler had done most things in his life, one reason why he was so useful.
“Okay,” Jay said, “you take the motorboat. You can take the three stooges with you. The rest of us will take the bigger boat.” He looked down on Creech, who was carrying a canister of fuel down the short metal ladder that led to both boats. “You’re in charge of the bigger boat, Mr. Creech.”
Creech managed to nod. “Er…” he said. But then he swallowed. He’d been about to ask about the hire fee, but looking into Jay’s eyes it suddenly didn’t matter anymore.
It was a terrible day to be in a boat. The Minch was notorious anyway, and this was the sort of day which merely added to its reputation. The two boats kept in radio contact, for though they were only thirty feet apart, there was no way a shout could be heard from one to the other, and even hand signals were difficult, since most of the men were holding on with both hands to stop from being pitched over the side.
“I think we should go back!” Jay had heard Hestler say more than once. He’d just shaken his head towards Hestler’s boat, not caring whether Hestler saw him or not. The Chicano whose name Jay had forgotten was puking over the side, his face close to green. Jiminez didn’t look too good either, but stared ahead, refusing to acknowledge he was having any problem. Watts and Schlecht had sailed before, “but never when we weren’t carrying dope.” Choa was staring at the sea like he could control it with his anger, the way he could control people. He was learning a very old lesson indeed.
“What happens if we capsize?” the Chicano squealed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What happens then?”
Jay said something the youth couldn’t make out. Jiminez repeated it for his friend.
“Fallback.”
“Fallback? What fallback?” The youth turned to spew again, and that ended the argument.
“The wind’s easing,” Creech said. He was pale in the face himself, but not from the weather. “Forecast said it would be better in the afternoon.”
“We should have waited,” growled Choa.
Jay stared at him, then looked at the sea again. It was the same shade of gray they painted navy ships, with great spumes of white where the waves clashed. Yes, he should have waited. This way, they would land on the island less than a hundred percent ready to do battle. He wondered if the Philosopher had worked that out…
Hestler wiped stinging water out of his eyes; he was thinking much the same as Jay.
Jiminez and his friend were staring at Jay, not sure what to think. “What the fuck is he doing?” Jiminez’s friend asked.
“He’s singing,” Jiminez told him. Jay was singing “Row, row, row your boat” at the top of his voice.
Nobody joined in.
“There!” Creech said eventually. “There’s the island.” He was as relieved as anybody, though he was filled with a certain dread, too. Hands tightened around guns; eyes peered at the coastline. “There’s only one real place for a landing, that wee bit of beach.”
The beach was a narrow strip of sand so dark it might have been coal dust. The land adjoining it had been worn away, so that there was little more than a steep step up from the beach onto earth and grass.
“What do I do?” Creech asked.
“Beach the boat.”
“She’s not built for that.”
“Then get us as close as you can and drop anchor. We’ll wade ashore. Boots off, everybody!”
Choa was studying the pocket-handkerchief beach. Jay asked him what he thought.
“He’s been here since last night,” Choa said. “He’ll be ready. If it were me, I’d pick us off as we go ashore.”
“I don’t see him.”
“Like I say, he’s had time to get ready.”
“You mean camouflage?” Jay accepted the point and brought his binoculars up to his eyes. He scanned the horizon slowly, carefully. “He’s not there,” he told Choa, handing him the binoculars. Choa peered through them.
“Maybe,” he said, “we should circle the island in the boats, see if we can spot anything. He could’ve booby-trapped the beach. No footprints, but with this wind and rain that’s no surprise. Any footprints would be erased in minutes.” Choa had a deep molasses voice, and looked like he knew his stuff; he came from a race of hunters and trappers, after all.
But Jay shook his head. “He won’t play it that way.”
He couldn’t say why he felt so sure.
They tied the motorboat to the larger vessel and dropped anchor. “You’re coming with us,” Jay told Creech. “Don’t want you buggering off and leaving us.” Creech seemed resigned.
With trousers rolled up, they waded ashore, boots tied around their necks, packs on their backs, the first men in the water keeping their guns aimed at the beach, the men to the rear carrying the three large cases.
The rain was blowing almost horizontally as Jay gathered his troops around. “Remember,” he said, “there are signs warning of anthrax. They’re a bluff, so don’t be surprised if you stumble across one, even if it’s been well hidden. Okay? Let’s get off the beach.” He looked around, his eyes finding the nameless Chicano. “Stay here with Creech. Don’t let him near the boats, understood?”
“Understood.”
The rest of them set off towards a narrow trail which snaked up from the beach. The trail divided into two, and Jay split his men into two units.
The Chicano waved his friend good-bye, and turned his gun on Creech. “This is horrible country.”
“You get used to it,” Creech said, heading for the shelter of the step. It formed a nice windbreak, so that if you crouched down you were completely protected. The Chicano didn’t sit beside him-he had to keep watch-but he didn’t stray too far either. He paced the beach, alternating between keeping a lookout for Reeve, and keeping an eye on Creech. He knew they’d finish off the man eventually, probably as soon as they got back to the mainland. The youth shivered and shrugged his shoulders. He was freezing, and he noticed that Creech’s jacket looked warm.
“Hey,” he said, “you don’t need that. Give it to me.” And he used his gun instead of “please.” Creech shrugged off the brown corduroy jacket. The Chicano had to put his gun down to put the jacket on. “Move and I kill you,” he told Creech, who held up his hands peaceably. The Chicano placed his gun on the sand and stood up.
As he stood, he saw something incredible. The earth at the top of the step opened up and a man sprang to life, for all the world like a zombie. The man sprang forward and leapt on the youth, knocking him backwards. The young man wrestled to get his pistol out of its holster, then stopped suddenly, intent on the hilt of a dagger which was protruding from his chest.
Creech leapt to his feet, mouth open in a silent scream.
Gordon Reeve stood up and looked down at the youth, whose hands were fluttering around the grip of the knife like moths around a flame. Reeve placed a foot on the dying man’s stomach and pulled out the dagger, blood spewing out of the slit. Creech turned away and threw up on the sand. The Chicano’s eyes were starting to close when Reeve wiped the knife clean on Creech’s jacket.
It had taken him some time to find the perfect spot, and then longer still to dig his foxhole. He’d used a collapsible spade, brought from his workshop, first scraping off a three-inch-deep layer of topsoil and grass. And when the hole was finished, and Reeve installed in it, he’d placed the section of turf back, convinced he was invisible.
He’d been in that hole the best part of ten hours, fearing trench foot as the water table rose and the rain kept coming down.
“One down,” he said now.
“Th-there are’t-ten altogether,” Creech stammered, wiping his lips.
“I know, I saw you arrive.” Reeve stared at him. “And I heard Jay talking about those signs we made.”