them? That would require some planning.
After gathering driftwood and constructing a rudimentary shelter, Sloan curled up and managed to sleep in spite of the insects that continually bit him. When morning came, he rose, enjoyed a cup of instant coffee, and wondered why he hadnât been smart enough to buy toothpaste. The day passed slowly, and he gave thanks for the ever-present clouds. The heat would have been unbearable without them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, evening came and it was time for his much-anticipated dinner. Once his stomach was full, Sloan put the fire out and dragged the kayak down to the water.
Thus began what would be a pattern for days to come. Paddle at night and sleep during the day. During that time, Sloan mastered the art of stealing food from fishing camps, looting crab pots, and night fishing. And so it went for nineteen days. During that time, Sloan became stronger and leaner. He still had a couple of pellets in his back. But the wounds had healed, and there were no signs of infection. And that was all he could ask for.
As the twentieth night began, Sloan felt a rising sense of anticipation, knowing that if he hadnât entered US waters, he would soon. Moonlight filtered down through broken clouds to frost the surface of the gently heaving sea. He was enjoying the beauty of that when he heard a distant rumble and felt a stab of fear.
It wasnât the first engine heâd heard. Two days earlier, the steady thump, thump, thump of a diesel engine had announced the presence of a dimly lit fishing boat that passed within a hundred feet of the kayak. But
this
sound was different. The throaty roar belonged to a cigarette boat or something similar. Not the sort of craft a fisherman would use.
So Sloan had reason to be afraid as the noise passed him on the right and sent a succession of waves his way. That made it necessary for him to turn into the other boatâs wake or risk being swamped. But the danger had passed, or so it seemed, until a powerful spotlight split the night. Had someone seen something as the boat passed him? Thatâs the way it seemed as the blob of light swung left, right, and nailed him. The voice was amplified.
âLevante sus manosây mantenerlos allÃ!â
(âRaise your handsâand keep them there!â)
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Sloan dug his paddle into the water in an attempt to escape the light. But it followed him, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. White geysers shot up all around him, and there was a thump as one of the bullets punched a hole in the hull. Cold liquid squirted into the cockpit and Sloan struggled to get out. Then the boat was there, looming above him, as a silhouette leaned over to look down at him.
âTirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.â
(âPull the fish in. Letâs see what we have.â) The journey was over.
CHAPTER 3
And the platoon is the truly characteristic component of an army; it is the lowest unit habitually commanded by a commissioned officer; it is the real and essential fighting unit, whose action conditions that of the other arms and formations; it is a little world in which the relations between the led and the leader, the men and their commander, are immediate, actual, continuous, and entirely real.
âMAJOR M. K. WARDLE
NEAR YAKIMA, WASHINGTON
Mac was familiar with the dream by then and knew she was dreaming it but couldnât escape. For what might have been the twentieth time, she stood in the hatch and stared upwards as hundreds of tons of rock slid down the side of the mountain to obliterate the second platoon and half of the buses. One moment, they were there, and the next moment, they werenât. At least a thousand lives had been lost in the blink of an eye. But Lieutenant Robin Macintyre and her platoon were spared.
Why?
Because, thatâs why.
Mac awoke as she always did, with a scream trapped in her throat and her heart pounding. How long
After gathering driftwood and constructing a rudimentary shelter, Sloan curled up and managed to sleep in spite of the insects that continually bit him. When morning came, he rose, enjoyed a cup of instant coffee, and wondered why he hadnât been smart enough to buy toothpaste. The day passed slowly, and he gave thanks for the ever-present clouds. The heat would have been unbearable without them. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, evening came and it was time for his much-anticipated dinner. Once his stomach was full, Sloan put the fire out and dragged the kayak down to the water.
Thus began what would be a pattern for days to come. Paddle at night and sleep during the day. During that time, Sloan mastered the art of stealing food from fishing camps, looting crab pots, and night fishing. And so it went for nineteen days. During that time, Sloan became stronger and leaner. He still had a couple of pellets in his back. But the wounds had healed, and there were no signs of infection. And that was all he could ask for.
As the twentieth night began, Sloan felt a rising sense of anticipation, knowing that if he hadnât entered US waters, he would soon. Moonlight filtered down through broken clouds to frost the surface of the gently heaving sea. He was enjoying the beauty of that when he heard a distant rumble and felt a stab of fear.
It wasnât the first engine heâd heard. Two days earlier, the steady thump, thump, thump of a diesel engine had announced the presence of a dimly lit fishing boat that passed within a hundred feet of the kayak. But
this
sound was different. The throaty roar belonged to a cigarette boat or something similar. Not the sort of craft a fisherman would use.
So Sloan had reason to be afraid as the noise passed him on the right and sent a succession of waves his way. That made it necessary for him to turn into the other boatâs wake or risk being swamped. But the danger had passed, or so it seemed, until a powerful spotlight split the night. Had someone seen something as the boat passed him? Thatâs the way it seemed as the blob of light swung left, right, and nailed him. The voice was amplified.
âLevante sus manosây mantenerlos allÃ!â
(âRaise your handsâand keep them there!â)
Shit! Shit! Shit!
Sloan dug his paddle into the water in an attempt to escape the light. But it followed him, and Sloan heard a burst of gunfire. White geysers shot up all around him, and there was a thump as one of the bullets punched a hole in the hull. Cold liquid squirted into the cockpit and Sloan struggled to get out. Then the boat was there, looming above him, as a silhouette leaned over to look down at him.
âTirar los peces en. Vamos a ver lo que tenemos.â
(âPull the fish in. Letâs see what we have.â) The journey was over.
CHAPTER 3
And the platoon is the truly characteristic component of an army; it is the lowest unit habitually commanded by a commissioned officer; it is the real and essential fighting unit, whose action conditions that of the other arms and formations; it is a little world in which the relations between the led and the leader, the men and their commander, are immediate, actual, continuous, and entirely real.
âMAJOR M. K. WARDLE
NEAR YAKIMA, WASHINGTON
Mac was familiar with the dream by then and knew she was dreaming it but couldnât escape. For what might have been the twentieth time, she stood in the hatch and stared upwards as hundreds of tons of rock slid down the side of the mountain to obliterate the second platoon and half of the buses. One moment, they were there, and the next moment, they werenât. At least a thousand lives had been lost in the blink of an eye. But Lieutenant Robin Macintyre and her platoon were spared.
Why?
Because, thatâs why.
Mac awoke as she always did, with a scream trapped in her throat and her heart pounding. How long
Similar Books
