Left on Paradise (59 page)

The following day, the Marines rose at dawn and by midmorning several refugees had been returned to the island as village representatives to identify the dead while the Marines secured bodies in bags: the process taking the better part of the day. After a Sea King transport helicopter was used to airlift the dead to the carrier group for transport to Hawaii, refugees were returned to shipboard quarters and Marines to the tropical island—where Captain Bradford declared the island secure and gave permission for a cookout.

That evening, Marines feasted on fried fish and baked clams and drank palm wine, expensive champagne, and Russian vodka—drawing from food reserves discovered on the island. Some set rifles aside to scrimmage in the sand with a hollowed coconut while others found discarded fishing tackle and tried their luck in the sea. Officers mostly talked among themselves—though several eyed the enlisted men with noticeable envy since they themselves weren’t permitted to fraternize with their subordinates or participate in the games. One particularly gung-ho squad of Marines even stripped to their shorts and jogged the perimeter of the island (though carrying loaded weapons per the orders of Captain Bradford). Meanwhile, officers discussed the terrible battles of the Pacific during which some of their own grandfathers suffered grisly combat and malaria-ridden campaigns on long-forgotten islands. Long past dark, Marines lounged on the beach, enjoying tropical fruit and talking about girlfriends, families, cars, bars, dogs, drink, and even a few churches.

Not one Marine failed to enjoy his (or her) night off ship since everyone, enlisted and commissioned alike, understood that a few pleasant hours in the South Pacific enjoyed at government expense wouldn’t come again and soon they’d return to the close quarters of their troop carrier to continue a tedious voyage to Egypt for several grueling weeks of live-fire exercises planned in the desert for mid-September. Most insisted the gruesome task of digging up the dead was worth a couple days on a tropical paradise. Many younger men thought the island as close to paradise as a man might find in this world—though several sergeants insisted the island wasn’t worth much to them without their wives and children.

Captain Bradford stirred a cup of hot coffee as he tried to remember the events of the sleepless days he’d endured. It was difficult to sort out the fragments of memory and momentary glimpses of information as his eyes burned and thoughts drifted. He was still stirring his coffee and his memory when a soft-bellied naval officer with a star on his shoulder and a square-shouldered Marine with an eagle on his collar entered the briefing room. Each man was accompanied by an executive officer.

It was the admiral who told Bradford to begin.

“This is the down and dirty, sir,” Captain Bradford explained. “Nothing prepared.”

The admiral nodded.

“We’ve interrogated the refugees,” Captain Bradford said. “I’ve had civil affairs and intelligence teams debrief them. What seems to have taken place, as best we can piece it together, is the island experienced civil unrest starting a couple weeks ago, possibly from a lack of food. It broke into civil war after they battled a tribe of cannibals who inflicted heavy casualties on the liberals ... I mean, citizens of Paradise. The north villagers claim they killed a dozen or so natives in open combat while others say some of the killing was done in cold blood. We exhumed the bodies and found a number of wounds consistent with the murder of prisoners. What a mess that was. There was one body that ...”

The admiral frowned.

“Captain,” the senior officer said, “you can skip the gory details. Just put them in the report.”

“Yes, sir,” Bradford continued. “Anyway, the day after the battle with the cannibals, Captain Strong came to help, but was murdered—along with his family. Probably by some of the northerners. It was then that a full-scale civil war began: the northerners against everyone else. When the outlaws captured Strong’s pistol, they gained the advantage.”

Captain Bradford sipped his coffee.

“As best we can tell,” the captain said, “an exile at what they call Roanoke Island escaped the fighting and a few refugees unwilling to accept a truce escaped to the western motu fearing ... what’s his name again? Oh, Father Donovan. Sorry, sir, I’m so tired I can’t think straight.”

“Donovan?” the admiral raised his hand. “Wasn’t he the crazy with the gun?”

Bradford said he was.

“Who was that first prisoner?”

“Ryan Godson.”

“The actor?”

“The same.”

The admiral looked perplexed. “I thought,” he said, “Godson was the guy on the motu with Kit Fairchild. They said she was rescued with her husband and some children.”

“Godson,” Captain Bradford said as he shook his head, “left her for another woman, so she divorced him and married John Smith.”

“Where’s Godson’s new wife? Dead or alive?”

“On the ship. No thanks to her husband.”

The admiral leaned back and waited for an explanation.

“Her name is Maria,” Captain Bradford said, “and she was taken hostage. The only thing that saved her was Donovan’s ill will; her throat was too pretty to cut.”

“Say no more.”

“Don’t worry, sir. She escaped before he could touch her, but she loathes Godson now. She’s upset he never came to save her.”

“He abandoned his own wife?”

“It’s even worse than that—she’s pregnant.”

“Remember,” the admiral said as he shook his head from disgust, “the accounts of Tutsi men deserting pregnant wives during the Rwanda massacres?”

“We’re not,” Captain Bradford said with a grimace, “supposed to judge others, sir.”

“To hell with political correctness if you can’t judge a coward by the yellow of his belly.”

Everyone in the room laughed.

“Anyway,” Captain Bradford continued, “when the refugees surrendered, the northsmen slaughtered them, except those who fled to the woods. They tracked down a few of them, but luckily we landed before they could find them all. We were briefed one hundred and two Americans came to this island and we found forty-eight survivors—with fourteen of them being natives. That includes those taken on the motu and the exile to Roanoke Island. Including Captain Strong and his family, we have sixty-five former Americans confirmed dead and seven still missing. We’re told one woman sailed to Roanoke Island, but never arrived. We sent helicopters to search for her, but she’s nowhere close—if she’s still alive. Two of the missing were ordered to leave the fortified camp after they refused to fight and disappeared. No one has any idea what happened to them. There’s also a toddler who probably wandered into the forest after his parents were killed during the battle with the natives; he hasn’t been seen for more than a week.”

“What’s the chance he’s alive? Or the others?”

“Not on this island. If they’re alive, they aren’t approaching our men and they’ve remained undetected by our patrols. Given how thoroughly we’ve searched this island and posted lookouts, I just don’t see any more survivors being found. All of the missing should be presumed dead. Even the woman lost at sea.”

The Marine colonel whispered a few words to the admiral and the latter nodded in response.

“Tell me about Captain Strong,” the admiral asked. “Did you find his remains?”

“No, sir. The yacht was sunk in the lagoon, but not entirely submerged. Divers retrieved Commander Johnson’s remains from within, but Captain Strong is gone. We did find some bones washed ashore that may belong to him or one of his crew. There wasn’t much left after the crabs and birds took what the fish hadn’t eaten.”

“You’ve saved them for DNA testing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’ve confirmed both women are dead?”

“A shot,” Captain Bradford said, “was heard and there’s secondhand reporting from the north villagers—and no one saw either woman ashore.”

“How many dead cannibals?” the colonel asked.

“Half of those brought to the island,” Captain Bradford answered. “We found several others hunted down like animals and a couple eaten by their own tribe. But if we hadn’t come when we did, the whole lot of them would have died of colds. One of them with Dr. Morales was just about gone.”

“Why didn’t he treat her?”

“He’s not a real doctor,” Bradford said, “only a sociologist or something.”

“Did you get proper medical attention taken care of?”

“Yes, sir. A navy corpsman saw to them—and a baby with Kit Fairchild. He had the sniffles, but he’d never been exposed to any of our diseases before, so a corpsman put him on antibiotics and fluids.”

“What about the dead soldier?”

Bradford’s face went blank. “We didn’t lose anyone, sir.”

“I mean the sailor from the Second World War.”

“Sorry, sir. We couldn’t find a grave. We’re guessing he met an ugly end.”

“Any tags?”

“No, sir. Only a steel helmet.”

“I’m sure,” the colonel concluded, “the Pentagon will send a team to search for remains.”

“It was his bad luck,” Captain Bradford observed, “to end up in this area after being sunk. We guess he had blue eyes and left some progeny behind. Those who still survive, that is. The cannibals seem to confuse lineage with lunch. In any case, they thought the gods were sending more of his kind—which explains their willing reception of the liberals. They thought their prayers for food were being answered.”

“So what do you propose that we do, Captain Bradford?” the admiral asked.

“That’s above my pay grade, sir. I guess I’d call the Department of State.”

“I talked to Secretary Powell not an hour ago,” the admiral said, “and it seems we have an international incident on our hands. By landing U.S. troops on this island, its sovereignty returns to Russia: especially since the paperwork for transfer of possession and citizenship remains in process. This was still Russian territory. Technically, you conducted military operations on foreign soil. You killed a man on Russian territory.”

Captain Bradford turned white. “Oh shit,” he muttered before snapping to attention with an apology.

His superiors weren’t offended.

“I said a lot worse to General ... I mean Secretary Powell,” the admiral noted, a tight-lipped grin to his face.

“What do we do now?” the Marine colonel asked.

“We can’t gather trial evidence,” Captain Bradford said, “without further trespassing.”

“That’s a good catch,” the admiral said.

“And we can’t court martial them since we weren’t at war,” the Marine colonel added.

“Another good point.”

“We have to let them go?” Bradford’s words trailed off at the end of the last sentence, disappointment evident in his voice.

“What would you say if I told you a Russian trawler was headed this way to claim Russian rights?”

“I’d say we need to clear the island’s territorial water.”

“We’re going to make you a sailor yet,” the naval captain said while the Marine colonel faked a scowl.

“Oh,” Captain Bradford said suddenly. “I see. These people committed crimes on Russian soil.”

“That’s right. They’re not our problem. We don’t even have to waste fuel choppering them back to Hawaii.”

“Captain, your orders,” the Marine colonel now said with a tone that allowed no disagreement, “are to transfer anyone you suspect guilty of war crimes or treaty violations to Russian custody. It’s their jurisdiction, so they make the call.”

“Aren’t they U.S. citizens?” Captain Bradford asked.

“Not necessarily,” the colonel said, “most surrendered citizenship when they swore loyalty to this new country. State says they’ll tear up the paperwork on the guiltless, but process the forms of anyone we give to the Russians. These people aren’t worth an international incident.”

“When, sir?”

“We’ll send a launch to the trawler when it arrives. Hand over any prisoners and have civil affairs prepare a report to share with the Russians. We’ll need to let Washington take a look at it. Lawyers at State say they can interview witnesses back home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now tell me who we should send to the Russians,” the colonel said.

“The north villagers,” Captain Bradford answered, “we caught with weapons should be handed over and two of the northern women are suspected of torture. They had blood under their fingernails. I’d hand them over too. On the other hand, I think the draft dodger exiled to Roanoke Island was innocent enough and the clan we found on the motu were good people. Godson and his wife didn’t do anything wrong, nor did most of the others we picked up—at least not as far as we have good evidence.”

Both commanders accepted Bradford’s judgment and the next morning five handcuffed northerners were transferred to a Russian fishing boat. Captain Bradford spent an hour explaining the situation to a neatly dressed Russian sailor who spoke flawless English. Both the translator and his captain were pleased with American cooperation and expressed little interest in returning additional prisoners to Russia—deferring to Captain Bradford’s judgment regarding their innocence. The translator even permitted the U.S. Navy to return the native women to their own island, as long as they were given sufficient food to survive until their plight could be considered by international authorities.