Sea of Crises (35 page)

They’d had no reasonable expectation there would be more. Still, it was a let down. None of them said anything, though. No point. Instead, they went about the task of organizing the supplies.

It was in the early 1980’s they’d first hit pay dirt. After opening the re-supply bundle, they’d found a sports page from a Honolulu newspaper wedged between two of the water bags. Two years later, an advertising brochure from an electronics store had somehow made its way into the bundle. The real gem, however, had come in late 1999. A tattered copy of Newsweek, the decade in review, covering the 1990’s. The men had devoured it, practically memorizing every word. Unfortunately, over the past dozen years, there had been nothing more.

The world, they knew, still apparently functioned, because their supplies kept coming. Beyond that, however, they had no clue what was happening.

Perhaps it was because it was Drop Day, and they’d just been shut out once again, but, as he trudged up the path carrying two of the water bags, Cartwright found himself sliding into what had become, of late, a familiar funk, wracked by the insidious questions that had recently bedeviled him. Chief among them was whether, had he known they’d still be here thirty-six years later, would he have just packed it in from the get go? Spared himself the long, quiet agony? Despite himself, he thought he might.

And, if so, why keep going now?

Of course, the fact that he and Kruchinkin had even made it back to Earth was a miracle. By all rights, they should have died a long time ago, drifting in the void of space.

But Dayton, God bless him, had set his thrusters perfectly. Instead of a course out of the way of the approaching lunar module, he’d plugged in a sequence that would draw the command vessel straight up from the moon’s surface, and he did it in such perfect synch with the module that, after several thousand feet, he was able to bring the smaller ship into a flawless rendezvous. Cartwright doubted that there were many, if any, other pilots alive who would have been able to pull off such a maneuver.

What, though, had Dayton’s heroics bought them?

After a silent transit back from the moon, they’d managed to re-establish contact with Mission Control. Just before separation of the capsule from the service module in preparation for re-entry, the same man who’d been handling Capcom duties from Alamogordo had given them instructions for a supplemental burn to adjust their re-entry point, explaining that the original landing site was subject to high winds and dangerous swells. The three of them had debated whether or not to follow the instructions. Cartwright had demanded that he speak with Rick Delahousse, but was told in no uncertain terms that Delahousse could not be put on because he’d experienced a family emergency. Stu Overholdt was likewise unavailable. All of Cartwright’s instincts told him he couldn’t trust the instructions he was receiving. But, when all was said and done, his training and his military discipline overrode his gut feelings. It was, he feared to this day, a tragic mistake on his part.

He knew there was something amiss just after splashdown. They hadn’t even had the chance to reach for the hatch when it popped on its own, obviously accessed from outside. From the narrow opening, two objects had been hurled into the capsule. The last thing he remembered before blackness overtook him was the mist of fog that suddenly filled the small enclosure.

He’d awakened to discover that his world had suddenly shrunk to a couple acres of land, perched high on a craggy piece of rock jutting up out of the ocean, nothing around but water as far as the eye could see. By taking celestial bearings, he’d been able to fix their location as somewhere in the Pacific, likely well to the northwest of Hawaii. Many years before, Cartwright had stopped for refueling at the Naval Air Station on Midway Island. At the time, he’d considered that place a lonely and forlorn outpost. Ironically, it now most likely represented the nearest civilization.

Their home, which they’d dubbed the Rock, had been, as far as they could tell, a military installation at one time, probably dating back to the second world war. Whether it was built by the Americans or the Japanese, however, was anyone’s guess. Whoever had claimed the pitiful piece of land had blasted the tip off and constructed a small bunker with wide slits on each of the four sides at about eye level. They provided fine views of the absolute nothingness that surrounded them. At one time, perhaps, this particular patch of earth might have been considered strategic, but that had long ago ceased to be the case.

For years, the three men had diligently monitored the ocean in all directions, hoping to spot a passing ship they could signal, but they’d long since given up any hope that would happen. Occasionally, aircraft would fly over, but much too high to be signaled. Other than the C-130 that dropped their supplies every three months, they’d had absolutely no contact with the outside world.

Though he wasn’t a man normally given to despair, there were limits to everything, and Cartwright had experienced his fair share of struggles with the demons. Before his most recent bout of questioning, the worst had come shortly after they’d found themselves deposited here, abandoned in the middle of nowhere like so much detritus. When it had become apparent that their circumstance wasn’t temporary, all three of them had battled serious depression.

Ironically, it had been Kruchinkin who’d rallied them. The young man - Cartwright smiled inwardly at that - though still weak and recovering from his gunshot wound, had pointed out that, even if escape from their predicament did not seem imminent, eventually an opportunity would present itself, and they would feel foolish if they weren’t prepared to seize it. Of course, that had been a long time ago. A very long time.

Still, it had helped keep them from just giving in. They’d adopted a regular exercise routine and adhered to it religiously. The food that came in the aerial drops was fairly bland, but it was reasonably nutritious. In the early days, Dayton had rigged a net, crude compared to the one they now used, but still effective enough to enable them to catch fish from the schools that teemed in the water surrounding them. To his own surprise, Cartwright had discovered a hidden talent for cooking, and he had become quite adept at devising recipes combining elements of the food provided them by their captors with the different varieties of fish they managed to catch.

As a result, the men were fit, more so, Cartwright guessed, than most men their age. More importantly, and against the odds, they had managed to avoid serious illness and injury. The lone exception had occurred three years earlier, when Dayton had come down with some kind of malady that they couldn’t identify. They had plied him with the few antibiotics on hand and had experienced a fretful two weeks before the man’s fever broke.

Naturally, they’d spent quite a bit of time trying to devise a scheme to escape their captivity. At the outset, they’d begun collecting the bags in which their water came with the intent of fashioning a raft. To their dismay, however, they discovered that the material was biodegradable, and it broke down after a few months, quicker if exposed to salt water. Other than those containers, they had no access to anything that would float. With the exception of a few hardy lichens that clung to the leeward side of the island, there was no vegetation on the Rock. And, though they kept their eyes out for flotsam, they’d never spotted anything of value. They didn’t even have a beach on which it could wash up.

They’d tried signals to the men who flew the resupply missions. “Help us,” they’d spelled out with parachute canvas on the small Parade Ground. If the aircrew had noticed, however, they’d not responded. After a while, they’d given that up.

At the top of the path, Cartwright deposited the water bags near the entrance to the bunker. He took a deep breath, turned, and started back down. Dayton, he saw, had stopped halfway up and set the bundle of food he was carrying in the mesh container on the ground beside him. He had his head cocked slightly.

“What is it?” Cartwright asked.

“Do you hear that?”

Cartwright gave him a look.

“Oh, yeah,” Dayton said. Then he raised a finger and turned to the northeast.

After a few seconds, Cartwright detected a new sound. The resupply plane coming back around, perhaps?

Kruchinkin reached them and set down his load. “What is that?”

Cartwright was just beginning to shake his head when two aircraft suddenly materialized, as if from nowhere, and screamed over the Rock, accompanied by a huge clap of sound that shook the ground beneath them. It took Cartwright a second to realize that the clap was a pair of sonic booms.

“Jesus,” Dayton exclaimed. “What the hell was that?”

In the instant he’d had to observe, Cartwright had seen that they were twin engine jets, with U.S. Air Force markings. But he’d never seen this type of aircraft before. From below, the fuselage and wings on each seemed to have almost a diamond shape.

“Wow,” was all he could say.

Though Cartwright could no longer hear the things, apparently Dayton could, as he moved his head, obviously following them. From where Dayton was looking, Cartwright guessed they might be circling back. His heart began beating faster.

“You think they saw us?” Kruchinkin asked.

“Maybe,” Dayton said.

Excitement flashed through Cartwright. “Back to the Parade Ground. Sasha, you light the signal fire. Steve, you and I work the flag.”

The men scrambled down the path. At the bottom, Kruchinkin turned left and headed for the edge of the clearing, where a mound of material lay beneath a line they’d strung between two rock outcroppings. They’d draped over it a parachute canvas tarp in pup tent fashion. Cartwright prayed that the tinder was still dry after all the rain they’d had recently. He and Dayton made for the spot where they kept the flag anchored by four large rocks. They kicked the rocks aside, bent down and each grabbed two corners.

The flag was composed of several pieces of parachute cloth that they’d sewn together using needles fashioned from the tines of dinner forks. It was about four feet by eight feet, and they had used dye extracted from octopi they’d netted to spell out “SOS” in large letters on the thing.

Cartwright and Dayton took up positions in the center of the Parade Ground, holding the flag between them. Cartwright looked anxiously back to the spot where Kruchinkin had pulled aside the tarp and was hunched over the signal fire, working the two rocks they used to generate sparks. He returned his attention to Dayton, who had his head up, moving it side to side.

“Where are they?” Cartwright asked.

Dayton squinted his eyes. “I think they split up. Maybe,” he hesitated, then nodded in the direction over Cartwright’s shoulder, “there.” They rotated quickly, aligning the flag and holding it up to face in the indicated direction. Cartwright looked back again and saw that Kruchinkin had gotten the fire to light. A small wisp of smoke began to rise from the bottom of the pile as the cardboard caught. When it was hot enough, it would light the strips of parachute cloth, and that, in turn, would begin melting the plastic webbing material, giving off a putrid, but nevertheless visible line of smoke.

Kruchinkin rose and joined them in the middle of the clearing, holding the tarp, ready to wave it.

“Here it comes,” announced Dayton.

Cartwright looked in the same direction, and he could, again, hear the whine of the jet engines. This time a single aircraft came streaking over them at a much higher altitude.

They knew they couldn’t be heard, but each of the men instinctively called out. Cartwright and Dayton shook the sides of the flag in large motions, hoping to draw the attention of the pilot. Next to them, Kruchinkin jumped up and down, frantically waving the parachute cloth.

A tremendous explosion shook the Rock and a huge geyser of water appeared along the north face of the island, rising a good hundred feet above them. The concussion threw each of the men to the ground, and Cartwright lay still for a moment, stunned, as sea water crashed down around him. He glanced over at Dayton, who returned his look with a shocked one of his own.

“Holy shit,” Dayton managed after a second.

“They’re dropping bombs,” Cartwright exclaimed. He looked at Kruchinkin who had pulled himself up onto his hands and knees and had a bewildered expression on his face.

Cartwright’s instincts took hold. “To the bunker,” he yelled, pushing himself up and grabbing Kruchinkin’s arm to help him.

The three of them began running toward the path. Before they’d reached it, Cartwright heard Dayton call out from behind. His blood went cold.

“Oh, shit,” Dayton blurted, “here they come again.”

17

Lieutenant Colonel Willis “Bud” Budnarsky banked his F-22 Raptor slightly as he approached the small island. Then, having seen what he needed, he leveled his wings and raised his nose. He eased forward on the throttles, and the two Pratt & Whitney F119-PW-100 jet engines rocketed him skyward as he scanned the heads up display in front of him, looking for threats. There were none.

“I concur,” he announced. To himself, he asked, What the hell?

Seconds before, his wingman, Lieutenant Scott Timmons, had made what Budnarsky had thought at the moment was a preposterous statement: “There are people down there.” It had come shortly after Timmons had pulled away from his targeting run, his bomb falling short of the tiny rock, an extraordinarily uncharacteristic miss, both for the weapons system and Timmons. Now Budnarsky understood why.

The two pilots were on a live-fire training mission out of Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska. Three days before, they’d received orders to target this tiny chunk of land and essentially blow it out of the water, a simple proposition for the 1,000 pound bombs he and Timmons carried in their respective weapons bays. In fact, though each had two of the devices, a strike by just one would be enough to pulverize the little rock.

Their bombs were fitted with the Joint Direct Attack Munition, a guidance kit converting “dumb bombs,” into all-weather “smart” munitions capable of being guided to their targets. As a result, their assignment could easily have been carried out from high altitude. For that matter, it could have been done at any time over the prior three days, notwithstanding the terrible weather that had been pounding this part of the Pacific Ocean. Budnarsky, however, had decided to turn this into a close attack exercise and give Timmons, one of his younger pilots, an opportunity to practice precise delivery of the weapon. He’d held off until this morning, wanting to conduct the practice in clear weather and observe Timmons.