Left on Paradise (55 page)

“Do you mean torture them?” the woman asked.

“I didn’t say that,” John growled. “We need to question them—to elicit information from them. We especially need to find out how many bullets they really have left. We can count shots and make them waste ammunition with hit and run attacks. Hurried shots miss more often.”

“You’re talking about another war.”

“Do we have a choice?”

“We need to keep our word,” Dr. Erikson said.

“We all know it’s a trap,” John said. “Why walk into it?”

“How do we really know it?”

“Sally told us.”

“How could she know? Did they tell someone who hates them?”

“She endangered her own child to warn us.”

“It’s all spying and sneaking and I don’t trust her.”

“It’s like the Cold War,” Doctor Graves now spoke. “You have to expect even your enemy to be rational.”

“We trusted the Soviets,” Viet said, “only as far as our tanks in Germany could shoot and our spies could report.”

“You were a Cold Warrior?”

“I was,” Viet said, “still in college when the Berlin Wall fell.”

“You sound like Ronald Reagan.”

“Then Reagan,” Viet said, “had more sense than I gave him credit for. I’m not going to allow these people to kill us one by one with subterfuge and traps. We have to rescue our hostages immediately. If we move quick, we’ll hit them completely unprepared. Probably stoned and celebrating.”

“You’re not going to make war,” Dr. Graves turned red as he spoke, “on your own authority. It’s illegal. We’ve made our peace with the north. Now we must let it stand. Every day we can go without fighting creates momentum to end this crisis.”

“We’re gullible fools,” Viet said to John, “letting the enemy bide his time to crush us. Your name is on their list too. Get these people to listen.”

“So that’s what this is all about,” Dr. Erikson said, “your own fears and phobias.”

“Damned right,” Viet said, “I’m afraid of those people. They’re evil.”

“There’s no reason to use pejorative terms ...”

“Tell it to the Marines. I haven’t got the time.”

Dr. Erikson looked perplexed, but before she could ask Viet what he meant, a shriek sounded across the camp—the pained scream of a woman.

Viet and John raced to the noise as the others followed at their heels. When they arrived at the center of the makeshift refugee camp, they found an eastern guard lying on his back, gasping for breath as blood seeped from the corners of his mouth and a gaping wound on his shirtless chest spewed blood just below the ribs. He had been stabbed in a lung.

Several yards away, Bryan Murphy was slumped over from the tree to which he was tied, blood seeping from the severed aorta where his throat was cut. His opened eyes didn’t blink as they stared ahead at nothing in particular. Sally kicked in the mud, not far from the dead hostage: her face bloodless, her lips blue, and her eyes yellow. Blood and bile flowed from her lower back—behind a kidney. Viet unfastened buttons and bindings as she turned the woman on her stomach while Dr. Graves tore strips from his shirt and stuffed them into the wound.

As the injured woman stopped thrashing, Viet stroked her hair and otherwise spoke to Sally with soothing words.

“Sally, what happened?” Viet asked.

Sally’s legs quivered and her eyes were wild from pain as she choked out her reply through terrible anguish. “Save my daughter.”

“What happened?”

“Swear it.”

“What happened?”

“Swear.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Viet said, “I promise.”

“Take her ... to my sister ... in Michigan.”

Viet said he would try.

“God have mercy ... on my little girl,” Sally whispered with a hoarse and weak voice, “and forgive us ... this foolishness.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“The woman ... I warned you about ... told your guard ... she had to use the latrine ... so he untied her ... but she had a knife ... She cut him down ... told us shut up ... or die.”

Sally paused to take a breath. Her eyes started to roll to the back of her head before she snapped her head and awakened herself.

“She cut Jake free,” Sally said. “When she stabbed Bryan ... I screamed ... I tried to roll away ... but Bryan never had a chance ... He was tied up ... They ran ... when they heard ... you coming.”

Sally choked from pain and Viet wiped her cheeks and looked to Dr. Graves—who gave a grim shake of the head to answer the unspoken question.

Viet whispered a few final words into Sally’s ear before calling several men to follow him to a gully beyond earshot while Kit and others comforted the dying woman with promises and prayers.

At the gully, Viet explained there was a time for war and a time for peace as he tucked a knife into his belt, slipped a lighter in his pocket, and picked up a long-handled ax. After giving instructions to his wife and kissing his daughters, Viet spoke privately with John, strapped on the gunner’s helmet found on Roanoke Island, and marched into the woods. Early evening shadows already were long as dusk descended to cover the mud and blood of a terrible day.

Dr. Erikson stood in a light rain before every remaining member of the camp, except three teenagers posted as pickets. Her clothes were soaked and she stood before the citizens of Paradise with fallen hair and unshaven legs. Her shorts were ragged and her face gaunt. No fire was lit and most of her features were obscured in the gloom of a dark night. Only those standing near the psychologist saw her dirt and despair.

“Viet has gone to make war,” Dr. Erikson said, “and our truce will be broken. We’re all going to die for his sin if we don’t make peace now. We don’t have any more time. We need to figure out the root causes of this war and resolve them in a hurry. Before it’s too late.”

“It’s the natives,” a thin-faced easterner said, “and our refusal to admit the northerners might have been right about them all along.”’

“Right about war crimes?” John stood to protest, his voice angry and pained alike.

“Not war crimes,” the eastern man replied, his voice just as angry, “but war itself.”

“I was there,” John said. “We’re talking about rape and murder after the battle was over.”

“What could anyone do with such people?”

“We could have brought our people home and left the natives as they were.”

“That’s unrealistic.”

“And we could’ve distinguished the good from the bad.”

“They’re all bad.”

“Or at least separated their leaders from their followers.”

“This is going nowhere,” Dr. Erikson interrupted. “We’re talking in terms of good and evil, absolutes and universals. That’s not our way.”

Everyone quieted down as Dr. Erikson continued.

“The fact is,” the psychologist said, “they did what they thought expedient and we’ll do what we think best. It’s insane to talk of right and wrong or justice and injustice. I don’t know whether there are such things or not. But I do know this: we need to look at this situation logically and rationally before it destroys us all. We haven’t much time.”

Still, no one else spoke.

“Life is choices,” the psychologist continued, “and we need to choose now. There’s no use hashing out history when the future is imperiled. Agreed?”

Several voices assented.

“The northsmen,” Dr. Erikson said, “have their own choices to make and they’ll do as they want. What we have to do is present alternatives that secure our needs.”

Everyone waited to hear Dr. Erikson’s plan.

“Viet’s going to war,” the psychologist said, “and we can’t stop him. He’s already gone and will be an outlaw in the sight of Donovan. So we must choose whether to join him—and he could be dead already for all we know—or to break from him openly so we don’t go down with him.”

Murmurs sounded from the assembly.

“Personally,” Dr. Erikson continued, “I don’t like what’s been done to the natives, but none of us are under any obligation to die for some gods-forsaken cannibals. I’m not judging them or their lifestyle, but they’re not allowed to judge mine either. Cannibalism or vegetarianism are choices. So is war or peace. And charity or self-interest. I don’t want to sound heartless, but those people will have to defend themselves just as we’re fending for ourselves.”

Several women clapped.

“I’m fighting with Viet,” John declared.

“Then you’ll die with Viet.”

“At least we’ll die with honor.”

“There’s no honor here,” Dr. Erikson said. “That’s a quaint concept used to motivate draftees and subalterns.”

“If you make peace with them,” John said, “they’ll make you do things you’ll regret the rest of your life.”

“Not nearly as much as I’ll regret having my throat cut and having no life to despair. I don’t see much glory in Sally’s death, do you?”

“Maybe not,” John said, “but there’s certainly no honor in scurrying into the dark like a cockroach.”

Dr. Erikson dropped here eyes, but said nothing.

“You’ve all forgotten,” Ryan now spoke, “they have Maria and the others. Unless we can kill them in one raid, we can’t fight at all or four more of us die. We have to sue for peace and hope for the best.”

“I agree,” Dr. Erikson said, “but what about Viet?”

“We have to warn Donovan he’s on the march,” Ryan said with a low voice as he stared at the ground.

“That’s treachery,” John turned to Ryan, his face red with anger.

“Viet,” Ryan said with a subdued tone, “committed treason when he went to fight on his own authority.”

“After they killed three people by a ruse.”

“Who’s to say what happened?” Dr. Erikson shouted.

Now Linh broke into tears and ran from the meeting while John tried to rally the islanders to war.

“By a show of hands,” John cried out, “how many of you will fight? How many of you want to save yourselves?”

Only a few hands raised—all of them from the west village.

“All right,” John conceded, “you win. I can’t fight without you. All I ask is we don’t disarm ourselves until we’ve got an agreement. When Donovan comes in the morning, I’ll talk to him and see what we can work out. If he’ll at least talk, I’ll do what I can to get our hostages back and make peace.”

“That’s reasonable,” Dr. Erikson said, “all any of us are saying is to give coexistence a chance.”

Ryan also agreed to delay offering reconciliation terms until morning and Dr. Graves suggested sworn affidavits be drafted regarding the legality of the killing at Roanoke Island—with Ryan and Donovan being authorized to draft a legal deposition that both preserved the integrity of allied villagers and secured the interests of the northsmen as much as possible. When John observed that they’d be forced to lie, Dr. Erikson argued truth was a relative concept and a far greater good would be served by progressive legal fictions than absolutist moral truths. She pointed out not only northsmen and islanders, but even the cannibals themselves might be spared additional casualties by a single lie.

Public opinion swung to her side and the majority voted that Ryan should draft a document that could be ratified by the entire community—a document that would protect everyone in case of legal repercussions. It was believed such a legal framework might allow the natives to be returned to their ancestral home and the exiles to the state of Paradise. Donovan was to be allowed to do as he wished with the bodies of the dead cannibals as long as he promised to stop the killing and free all hostages. The proposal was signed by everyone in the camp except western holdouts and underage children—and even Ryan voted to ratify it as the only way to save Maria’s life.

The rains ended with the meeting and Dr. Erikson immediately ventured into the forest waving a white flag and shouting for a northern picket. In time, a tall Asian girl emerged from the forest and received the offered terms. She was warned that Viet had left without legal authorization and might pose a threat to the northern village. When Dr. Erikson asked that Viet be spared for the sake of the day’s truce, the northern girl just cursed the psychologist and sprinted north.

43

Refugees and Republicans

As Kit dozed under open sky—covered with a wool blanket that she shared with the baby boy cradled against her side—a hand cupped her mouth and pressed so hard that Kit barely could breathe.

“Shhhh,” John whispered. “I’ve got the girl. In five minutes, bring the baby south. If he cries, say he has colic or something. Bring everything he needs. We aren’t coming back. Five minutes.”

Without waiting for a reply, John slipped past a dimming fire and hurried toward the south perimeter while Kit stared at the moon—which remained nearly full and whose reflected radiance would endure several hours more before vanishing into the light of day. Kit pulled back the wool army blanket and embraced the baby who slept beside her, an empty bottle of goat milk dangling from his lips. She stroked the dark hair of the cannibal’s son and he smiled through his sleep so that Kit saw his toothless gums. Afterwards, Kit counted to one hundred and sat up. The child was limp from exhaustion and hardly stirred as his adopted mother swaddled him in the blanket. Kit stepped into a nearby tent where she searched for one nearly empty and two full canisters of baby formula that she threw into a canvas bag along with her last bottle of goat milk, a spare baby bottle, and an extra pair of rubber pants—pressing the bag between breast and the blanket-wrapped baby as she stepped back into the night.

Kit walked south as she threaded through tents and bedrolls of sleeping refugees while holding the child to her bosom. One man opened his eyes and looked straight at her, but she put a finger to her lips and pointed to the baby. The man dropped his head back to earth as Kit feigned disinterest and pretended to be an exhausted mother fussing with an infant. She was an accomplished actress and the ruse succeeded.

A moment later, Kit reached the perimeter bunker where Linh waited to help her neighbor climb the wall—with Kit delivering the child to Linh when the latter was atop the berm. Both women slipped outside the perimeter and neither made much noise as Linh led Kit through a field of booby traps that guarded the camp: each hidden pit marked with a tall stick that Linh removed as soon as she passed the trap. Soon, the women followed a narrow streambed down the east side of Mt. Zion.

Only after several minutes did Kit dare whisper to her rescuer. “Who? What? Where?”

Linh placed a finger to her lips and they walked another five minutes until they came to others hidden at the base of a treeless crop of rock. John carried a full backpack and held an unsheathed ax as he watched for danger while Tiffany stood guard near the children—who shared wool blankets as they rested. Kit noticed for the first time that Linh carried a sharpened lance.

“We’re leaving the island,” Linh said. “It’s your choice.”

“Anywhere,” Kit said, “away from these savages.”

“Donovan or the cannibals?”

“Does it matter?”

Linh said that it didn’t and Kit agreed with her.

A short time later, the children were roused from sleep and John led the small party further down Mount Zion. After a while, they came upon an overgrown trail and followed it east. No lantern was lit, no flashlight was carried—not even a match was struck as they moved along the dark trail, communicating via whispers to keep their column close. Kit carried the baby and Linh shepherded Brittany while each of Linh’s daughters took a twin by the hand and Lisa helped Tiffany stumble through the dark. The column of refugees spent hours descending the hill, taking a break only when the baby finally fussed.

“We’re safe here for a few minutes,” John said.

After Kit prepared a bottle of goat milk, John sat beside her to watch while she gently nudged the bottle into the child’s mouth until the baby began to suck on the rubber nipple.

“Good job with the baby,” John said. “I didn’t hear a peep.”

“He slept.”

“I was afraid to bring him, but ashamed to leave him behind.”

“Where’s Viet?”

“He’s making preparations.”

“What’s the plan?”

“We’ll take the LCVP and a boatload of supplies to Roanoke Island. Jose has an emergency transmitter and batteries to signal for help. We’ll try to extend the antenna range and fix the broken radios, if we can.”

“You were the picket up there?”

“Yeah,” John said. “I volunteered.”

“Then we left the others defenseless?”

“For a while,” John said. “It’s Viet’s job to confirm the northerners stay in their beds tonight. When we get to the boat, we’ll raise the alarm. I was off duty a few minutes ago and set a clock to awaken my replacement. He should be on duty by now. Probably cursing me as a deserter.”

“They’ll be,” Kit said as she dropped her eyes, “completely at the mercy of the northsmen.”

“That’s what they wanted,” John said. “Besides, their best hope is that Donovan will realize he can’t reach us, so getting rid of witnesses won’t help him. It’ll just make his guilt greater.”

“Where’s Ryan?” Kit asked as she sat up, her eyes wide and mouth open.

“We couldn’t find him.”

“He’s not in camp?”

“They said he left after dark.”

“Where?”

“I suppose to get Maria.”

“We should’ve waited for him.”

“Linh spent hours searching.”

“I can’t leave him,” Kit said. “He was my husband.”

“Don’t worry,” John told her. “I left a note in his sleeping bag. If he wants to leave, I’ve given him a rendezvous point and a signal. I’ll return tomorrow night to get him.”

“That’s good,” Kit said as she wiped her eyes.

“I told him to bring Maria.”

“If they release her.”

“Yeah,” John nodded, “if they release her.”

As the baby stopped feeding, Kit set him over her shoulder—patting his back until he burped. Even in the dark, she could see his head bob and eyes roll in a determined effort to stay awake. The child failed to do so and soon was nestled in a sling that pulled him to the underside of Kit’s breasts.

A few minutes later, John returned to his place at the head of the column and led the band of escapees through the forest.

Viet half-carried and half-dragged four large jugs of fresh water across the beach. Several crates of food and two containers of medical supplies sat near the LCVP and two goats with snouts tied fast and bells removed were tied to the handle of the largest crate. Three shovels, two full-size axes, three hand-axes, a machete, three tins of matches, two large tents, a stack of wool blankets, several steel pots, a fishing net, fishing tackle, folded visqueen, spare clothing, and even a small sailboat were collected nearby. Viet lined up the water jugs and dropped a backpack beside them before jogging up the beach—reaching his destination a few minutes later.

When he reached New Plymouth, Viet turned on a flashlight and entered a supply tent where he collected three broken radios, four spare batteries, an emergency transmitter, two lanterns, spare flashlights, a large antenna, a coil of wire, and an electronics tool kit. The equipment was secured in a waterproof bag and placed in a canvas sack before Viet switched off his flashlight and left the tent. His hair now soaked with sweat and his neck sore and stiff, Viet removed the steel helmet that protected his head—dropping it along the trail as he hurried for the main beach.

At the beach, he collected two five-gallon cans of diesel fuel, carrying one in each hand after slinging the canvas bag across his back and dragging his load past a charred hut, a burned-out shed, and litter scattered across the main trail. Discarded goods marked the path to the flagpole that once denoted Paradise—a pole now toppled and obstructing the road to New Plymouth. Viet saw the charred remnants of the flag of Paradise (burned out in the center and singed along its frayed edges), but made no effort to walk around it as he passed. Rather, he trampled the flag into the mud as he carried one five-gallon can of diesel to top off the LCV and a second as a spare.

After fueling the landing craft, the western scout sat down, having decided not to drop the gate until the others arrived. The loud reverberation of the door might alert northern patrols to the escape attempt and Viet wanted to give no more notice than absolutely necessary. When he last spied on the northern camp, the northsmen were still partying and there’d been no torchlight on the hill since that time. Still, it wouldn’t do to be careless with the lives of family and friends staked on his every move. Viet opened a water jug and drank straight from the canister, careful not to spill any. If the boat sailed off course, they might need every drop to survive. After quenching his thirst, he jogged back to the base camp where he found four additional five-gallon jugs, filled them from a nearby stream, and lined them near the other supplies.

Now Viet was prepared to escape.

It wasn’t long before Viet heard sounds coming from the forest. Slipping a long knife into his belt and picking up a sharpened machete, he crept toward the noise. When he reached the trail, he crouched into the shadows and began to crawl forward, closing the distance in a matter of moments.

After a few seconds, Viet sighed from relief and showed himself.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

Both of his daughters raced from the column of refugees. The dark was ending and the girls recognized their father even through the murky dawn.

”Not so loud, girls,” Viet said. “It’s not safe yet.”

John stepped forward and greeted Viet with a handshake. “Everything ready?”

“Everything’s here,” Viet said. “I’ve got Molotov cocktails and arrows soaked with kerosene inside the boat. We can fight them off.”

“I’d rather not. Let’s just get out of here. You got lanterns?”

“Both oil and battery—and three working flashlights.”

John nodded his approval before signaling the others to move closer and pay attention. “We’re going to load the ship, then we can ...”

Crack.

John froze mid-sentence as every head spun toward Mount Zion. The unmistakable sound of a gunshot had echoed from the summit. A second shot was fired, then a third as John spun toward Viet, fear in his face.

“We don’t have much time,” John cried out. “Fire it up.”

The deep echo of a conch shell sounded from Mount Zion even as John herded the refugees toward the supplies and Viet ran toward the landing craft. It took both men a minute to get into position. While they moved, sporadic gunfire continued atop Mount Zion—though it wasn’t clear whether a battle was being fought or prisoners massacred. In either event, everyone hurried to the boat.

“Nuts,” Viet said after he jumped into the driver’s seat and turned the key to no effect. After a second unsuccessful attempt, he lit a match and looked under the panel—only to see that every wire had been cut.

“God help us,” Viet shouted, “they’ve cut the wires.”

“You said you checked them,” John said, his tone exasperated and confused. “You said they were good.”

“They were fine yesterday, but now they’re spaghetti. Donovan must’ve cut them when he raised the ramp. The ramp was dropped too, but you can see that someone lifted it back up.”

John looked up the hill and saw that several lanterns had started down the slope. “We’ve got to leave,” he said out loud.

“This boat’s not going anywhere,” Viet shouted.

“We can’t fight them here.”             

“We can’t stay.”

“What about the motu?” Kit asked, fear evident in her voice. “Can we get to one of them?”

“That’ll work,” Viet said. “It has to work. It buys some time.”

“They’ll come after us,” John said.

“We can fight them on the beaches. At least we’ll have a chance.”

Now Viet dashed for the large rope that anchored the LCVP to a wide palm tree standing perhaps thirty yards inland. With a single swing of his machete, he severed the rope, then ran toward the water.

“Get the sailboats,” Viet shouted. “Load what you can. One boat for the children and the other for supplies.”

John did as told and Kit followed his lead while Lisa kept the children huddled together and Linh ran to help her husband. Together, the couple tried to push the LCVP into deeper water, their backs straining against the boat and their legs pushing hard against shifting sand. The craft moved just a few inches with every push and pull of the waves until it spun to one side after several minutes—its ramp finally positioned over waist deep water. Only then did Viet order Linh to stand aside as he climbed into the hold. A moment later, the steel door crashed before the waves and the hold flooded as Viet stumbled out of the boat and waded to the shore.

Meanwhile, John and Kit dragged two sailboats (including the craft near the supplies) to shallow water and began to fill the larger one—with Lisa’s help—with previously stacked supplies. After Viet reached the sailboats, he insured that the most critical items were packed on one boat while Linh helped Kit load the children aboard the other. Already, twenty minutes had passed since the last gunshot was heard and the bobbing of lights down the slopes of Mount Zion was closer.

“They’re half-way down the mountain,” John said. “This is packed the best we can. Everything else can be replaced or picked up later.”