The Sea Hunt. (standard:action, 5234 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 27 2020	Views/Reads: 1445/1012	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young couple accidentally stumble onto a secret government project. Discovered, they have to run for their lives.

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At first they don't see us.  When they do, they act surprised.  Mary
smiles and waves -- but we get no waving arms in return.  The sailors 
only stand like statues, looking at us while one of them hurries back 
into the jungle. 

Kind of odd, I think.  The three of us continue walking into the edge of
the village, still seeing no other living thing. 

"Stranger and stranger," Thomas voices our thoughts.  It isn't until
Mary walks into the open doorway of a shop advertising souvenirs that 
we see the first bodies.  A native couple lie sprawled on the dirt 
floor. 

Being an army vet, I can tell they're dead.  It's the disjointed way
they lie, like boneless lumps of flesh.  With their eyes open and 
covered with flies, there is no doubt in my mind.  It brings back a 
brief memory of a Vietnamese village my platoon once visited a day or 
so after the Viet-Cong left. 

As we leave the hut, several American sailors approach. They're in a
space between two other huts at the farther end of the village.  
Without warning, one raises a rifle and fires at us, splintering the 
plank doorway of the building we've just left. 

"Halt, stop right there,"  the other one orders, raising his own weapon.
The three of us look at each other. 

"Screw this,"  I say. "Let's get the hell out of here.  They ain't
playing around."  I know full well that a normal approach wouldn't be 
trying to kill us on sight.  Somethings wrong, here. 

The three of us turn and run like hell back toward our boat.  I lead and
for some reason, maybe old battle instinct, lead us in a wide detour 
into the jungle rather than directly to the harbor.  We take a 
circuitous route back to the dock.  Mary and I throw off the lines 
while Thomas starts the engine and away we go. 

Now, knowing the US government, I don't trust the situation.  They
hadn't warned us before firing, as I know regulations call for and 
there certainly shouldn't have been dead bodies lying around that long. 
 Not to mention those sailors hefting shovels.  Something stinks about 
the whole thing.  It certainly implies more than two dead people around 
there.  At least to me it does. 

As we leave, in somewhat of a hurry, I can see activity on the boats,
sailors running around the decks.  A few minutes later, we're again 
fired on from the shore, this time by a number of seamen. 

Bullets "thrack" against our hull and superstructure, causing Mary and I
to grovel on the deck.  As the firing peters off, I notice what had 
been a light fog getting thicker.  I also notice our boat becoming 
erratic in its course, jerking one way and the next. 

We find Thomas dead at the controls, the wheel itself spinning wildly. 

Then comes the thud of artillery.  At least one of the naval vessels is
firing something heavier at us.  My ex-military mind notes the fog and 
figures they might see us on their radar.  There's a lot of metal on 
this boat.  Maybe the wooden lifeboat won't show on its screen?  As is, 
we're sitting ducks in a metallic target. 

"Hurry, Mary.  Grab what supplies you can and fill the lifeboat," I cry.
"We have  to get off this thing." 

She's sitting in silence, staring back at where the island must be, eyes
still wide in shock.  I have to shake her violently to get her moving, 
still in silence. 

We take about ten minutes, with an occasional shell landing near us, to
grab a few five-gallon cans of water and other survival articles. 

The  wooden lifeboat already contains a little water and food packaged
in a supposedly sealed waterproof locker aboard it.  Who knows how much 
or how long it's been there?  Better to make certain.  We may have a 
long hot trip ahead of us.  I have no idea where to find help.  We sure 
as hell can't radio the navy for assistance. 

It's only a few minutes after we cast off, the pleasure craft already
lost in the fog, that I hear heavier artillery -- maybe a 40mm? -- 
spitting lead.  A flash of mixed white and orange flames lightens the 
fog.  I can only think it must be their finding our abandoned 
motorboat. 

*** 

Now lost, with frequent rests and thick fog, we've only made a couple of
miles offshore in the last five hours, that wasted effort since we've 
gone in circles, back to that WWII wreck. 

“Let's stop there, Tom,”  Mary suggests, nodding at the old hulk, now
clearly visible. 

“I don't think it's a good idea, honey.  They're probably out looking
for us.  They're sure to search it.” 

“But I'll bet they already passed through here.  We've been out here
five hours and it's one of the first places they'd have searched. When 
the fog lifts we'll be easy to spot on open water,” she insists. “We 
can maybe hide the boat and wait for them to give up?” 

Against my better judgment and maybe because I'm worn out, I agree. 
“All right, we'll stay here awhile.  I'll see if I can find someplace 
to hide the boat.” 

“Why were they shooting at us, Tom?  We didn't do anything to them.” 

“With the military, who knows?  Maybe we've gotten involved with some
secret stuff.  Something that killed a lot of villagers.” 

“We're good Americans.  Why would they kill us?” 

“We'll worry about that later,” I tell her, edging through and around
the reef.  Our shallow rowboat can maneuver where larger vessels can't. 
 There are exposed rocks and even trees and bushes.  I manage to shove 
the boat among them, as close as I can to a large hole in the old ship. 
 Maybe six-by-eight-feet across, the wound is partially underwater, a 
large black opening. 

“Can we even get inside?”  Mary asks.  “They'd have a hard time finding
us in there.”  She stands, eyes on the opening while I stand up to my 
ass in water on the reef, shoving and nudging our rowboat closer to the 
wreck.  With sweat and effort, we manage to get the rowboat inside the 
dark chasm, hopefully screened by it's rusty mass and nearby bushes. 

Crawling into the hulk, we try to dry our feet, looking around what must
have been a storeroom of some kind.  It's empty, probably looted long 
ago by the natives.  Still, it is shelter of a sort. 

Tired and hungry, we break the seal of the provisions locker on our
lifeboat.  Among other vital supplies, it carries several blankets but 
no pillows.  There are also canned goods and a can-opener.  We wrap 
ourselves in dry blankets and eat a meal of cold canned corned beef and 
crackers.  After that, we clear space in the lifeboat to lie down and 
sleep, trusting to luck to remain hidden. Exploration can wait. 

*** 

I wake to find Mary gone.  That discovery causes me no end of worry,
wondering where she could have gotten off to, until I hear clanking 
inside the ship.   Before long, a dirty apparition comes toward the 
boat, a dim beam of light flashing ahead of her. 

“You were still asleep, so I went exploring,” Mary explains.  She's
covered from head to toe with orange rust, except for a large grease 
spot down one leg. “There were a couple of flashlights in the box.  All 
you have to do is wind them real fast and they work -- at least a 
little.” 

She shows me, by prying a small handle up on hers and winding like hell.
 As she does, the light brightens.  Just as well, because the sun has 
already set outside. 

*** 

Since it looks as though we'll be here for a few days, we spend time
exploring the old ship.  Besides, it's fun.  There isn't a whole lot to 
see, though.  It's been stripped of everything of value, leaving 
nothing but empty rooms covered with rust to meet our gaze.  I do find 
a marine K-bar combat knife under a shelf in one of the crew quarters.  
It was no doubt an illegal item traded from some marine during that 
war.  The knife had been taped under the shelf and fallen when the tape 
had deteriorated. 

We can see, in our dim flashlight beams, where even sections of steel
decking have been taken off.  The only really solid place seems to be 
the bridge, its armor still thick and solid.  The hull itself has many 
splits and holes, making it easy to see out at the ocean and sunlight 
to enter. 

We're surprised to find one stateroom, with several portholes, fixed up
like a cheap bedroom -- even a table and two mattresses -- and in 
pretty fair shape.  The walls have been painted over.  Probably native 
kids, I figure, since it contains comic books and toys, along with, 
thank god, a shelf of snacks.  Among them are boxes of crackers, a can 
of ham and others of lunch-meat. Mostly foodstuffs that a child would 
fancy. 

I can imagine native youngsters rowing out here, like to a secret cave. 
Since that room is considerably cleaner than the rest of the ship, we 
move some of our things in.  It's certainly better than sleeping in the 
lifeboat. 

From our stateroom portholes, we can see the island in the distance.  I
wish I had a pair of binoculars but you can't have everything.  A 
couple of larger ships have moved into the harbor during the fog, the 
PT boats gone or maybe out looking for us.  If I'm right and it is a 
secret project of some kind, they won't give up easily.  And, of 
course, they might think sinking our sailboat finished us off.  In the 
fog, they might not have noticed the wooden rowboat.  Mary might be 
right about them having already searched the WWII hulk and not 
interested in it any more. 

I even think briefly about rowing back to the island, but who knows how
many personnel have been left back from the sea search.  Of course they 
might have buried the dead bodies and gone back to those new ships. 

Apparently I was correct as, the next morning, even the two ships left. 
But did they take all their people with them?  Since we're relatively 
comfortable, we think its better to wait. 

We stay hidden for several days and nights without incident, until one
fateful afternoon when one of the ships returns.  Mary has been 
sunbathing on the bridge when she sees it coming. 

“Tom, they're back,” she tells me after running down to our cabin.
“There's a ship out there.” 

We go on deck, staying hidden -- or so we think.  We watch from windows
on the bridge as the ship circles our reef.  I don't know if they see 
us or are only covering all the bases but we see a small boat being 
lowered, filled with sailors.  As they climb down to their craft, we 
can see rifles. 

“my God,” she says, “they're sure to find us.” 

While the boat's still loading, one of their deck guns begins shelling
our ship.  By the sound and rapid fire I think it's probably a 20mm. 

“Down.” I tell Mary, grabbing her by the arm.  We run to hide behind the
thickest armor, as we hear the steady thumping of the gun merging with 
detonations against our sheltering hulk.  Whether it's the light weapon 
or only rusty bulkheads, I'll never know -- but there's not much 
shaking of the craft.  It could be that many of the shells are going 
through before exploding. 

We lie there, in a cold sweat -- shivering in fear and clutching each
other for the longest time before the shelling ceases.  Since they're 
probably watching our wreck closely, we don't dare show our heads to 
look outside. 

“Do you think they know we're here?”  Mary whispers. 

“If they don't now, they will when they find the lifeboat,”  I tell her,
feeling the edge of my now-shiny combat knife.  It's not much but 
better than nothing.  I just hope my out of condition body is up to 
protecting us.  I've seen a lot of combat in Vietnam but that was a 
long time ago and certainly wasn't in this sort of environment.  And 
I've never killed another American soldier -- or sailor.  I don't know 
if I can. 

The cavernous metal of the ship amplifies sounds of searching men. 
Simply putting an ear to the deck lets us hear faraway voices.  Not 
enough to make out words but loud enough to discern tones.  It sounds 
as though they're enjoying themselves, no doubt not expecting any 
trouble from unarmed civilians. 

Being ex-military myself, I can imagine them searching systematically,
making it a game.  Hell, they probably figure we're already dead or are 
bleeding to death right now, solving their problem -- whatever that 
problem happens to be. 

On that assumption, I decide to bring the battle to them -- leaving Mary
out of it.  Knowing that if they're starting at the bottom like I would 
have, it'll take quite a while to get up to the bridge where we're 
hiding.  This is a large vessel. 

By this time, we know the old ship pretty well and it's getting dark
again.  Thinking they'll be in a hurry to return before the sun sets 
and the fun goes out of the search, I figure we might have a chance. 

“Take this knife and strip the wiring out of those controls,” I order
Mary, searching for any spools of cable or wires I can find in the 
surrounding rooms and lockers. 

After finding what we need, I begin setting booby traps: wires across
ladders, dead-falls at the heads of companionways, etc. 

A large box of nails found in a cabinet furnishes a good many dangerous
traps.  I find ways to prop them on end in the passageways, even 
jamming them into holes in the bulkheads, rusty points outward.  The 
bridge structure is several stories high and I take every advantage I 
can to try to make pursuers fall, trip, or puncture themselves.  By the 
time I'm through, it's pitch dark inside the ship and the moon has yet 
to rise. 

“Come on, Mary.  Remember that dumbwaiter to the galley?  By now I hope
they're at least halfway up the ship.  If we can get below them, we 
should be safer.” 

Using gloves we've found on the bridge, we slide down dumbwaiter cables
to the galley.  Another dumbwaiter lets us down to the lower-level 
laundry room.  Hopefully, the pursuers are far above us by now. 

At this level, we can't hear our pursuers.  The pounding of the ocean
blocks any talk from above.  The laundry room has a large, jagged, hole 
in one side where the ship had come to rest.  The hole is obvious by a 
lighter darkness, stars visible from outside. 

“Maybe we can get to our boat?”  Mary whispers, mouth against my right
ear. 

“Why not theirs?  Its got a motor,”  I answer with an unseen grin.  I
still have my K-bar and they will hardly be expecting an attack, 
especially from inside. “Stay behind me ... way behind.” 

Realizing we might be under observation with nightscopes, we stay low,
in the bushes as much as possible and alongside the ship itself.   I 
hope the ship's side, with its rusty color, will help hide us.  Of 
course, no matter what we do, infrared will make us stand out -- if 
they're using it.  It's a calculated risk but better than staying 
inside to die or be captured. After their past conduct, I don't have 
high hopes of simply capture and explanation. 

I hurry as fast as I can, hoping to get there before identified or
reported to the searchers, at least some of which will have radios on 
them.  It only takes a few minutes before I can see a brightly-lighted 
landing craft.  At first, I don't see anyone in the boat.  I do know 
that, with all that light in its cabin, any sailor will have trouble 
seeing us coming out of the dark.  Those men won't have their eyes 
adjusted to the dark like we have.  If we're lucky, it might be a 
deadly oversight in their training. 

With only about ten-feet to go, a sailor steps into the light on the
other side of their boat.  His back toward us, he's obviously urinating 
over the side.  He then stretches and adjusts his clothing.  Still not 
looking our way, he sits down on the outer edge of his vessel, facing 
the wreck, seemingly waiting for the others to return. 

A loud scream from somewhere inside the hulk shows me that at least one
of my traps has worked.  As he hears it, the guard stands and looks up 
at the bridge, shielding his eyes as he tries to see what's happening 
inside. 

The guard is still in that position as I grab him from behind, laying
the recently sharpened combat knife lightly across his throat.  I'm 
still leery of killing another American. 

“Freeze, asshole.  Make one move and I'll slit your throat,”  I growl
into his ear.  While waiting, I push in, drawing it an inch or so 
across his neck.  I want him to smell his own blood, or at least feel 
I'm not joking. 

While he stands in shock and pain I relieve him of a 9mm pistol from a
belt holster. 

At my signal, Mary joins us. 

“Now, get this thing started,” I order the captive while shoving him
into a small cabin containing controls.  He hurries to do just that.  
When he tries to speak, I press his own pistol against his back.  At 
the moment, I'm not in a mood to listen. 

Looking around while we move out, I see a half-dozen satchel charges
lying in the rear of the motorboat. 

Picking one up, I see it's a model I've been trained to use -- twelve
years before.  They each contain fifteen-pounds of plastic explosive.  
All you have to do is place the magnetic side against metal and set a 
tiny built-in clock.  After that, you pull out a safety-pin and it's 
ready to go.  Seeing them, I start thinking.  Why the hell not finish 
our attack, or go out in a bang? 

“Go to the island,” Mary orders him. 

“No.  To your ship as fast as this thing will go,”  I tell him, getting
a confused look from my wife. 

While we zip through the water, I spend the time in setting timers.  I
can imagine what the officers on that ship are thinking as we head back 
toward them without orders.  At first, the ships officers must be 
confused, wondering what went wrong with the search.  I don't know if 
they saw us taking over the smaller boat or not and don't give a damn. 

They must be suspicious or in communication with the hulk, because It's
almost too late when a 20mm cannon barrel swings toward us, even as a 
.50cal machine gun fires.  Actually, all they get off is a few rounds 
before we're too close and under the protection of their own concave 
hull. 

“Slow down and pull around the stern,” I order, getting my charges
ready.  The sailor, obviously not a very brave type, doesn't give me 
any trouble.  I order him to slow almost to a stop at the back edge of 
the curve, then crawl our boat across the length of his ship.  As we 
proceed, I slap magnetic satchel charges along the side of the ship.  
These charges not being waterproof, I place them just above the 
waterline.  Eventually, as we pull rapidly away, we begin taking small 
arms fire from the deck. It seems the 20mm can't fire in that 
direction. 

“Now head for the island and, for Christ sake, zigzag a little.  If they
hit us you're as dead as we are,” I remind him. 

Then the charges begin going off.  I don't dare look back but hear my
wife gasp.  I hope I sink the bastards but realize it'll probably only 
tear a few holes in the craft.  Those charges might well have busted up 
the older ship pretty badly, since it's a rusty old cargo craft.   But 
I've just tried to sink a modern warship.  At least it'll take their 
minds off us for a long while. 

The motorboat, being of shallow draft, hurries us to the far side of the
island before landing.  I take the sailor ashore with us.  I want 
answers. 

*** 

We've returned to the village and found it empty.  There aren't any
signs of bodies, or even the stink that should have accompanied them by 
this time.  We're in a local home, relaxing from our recent activities. 


It doesn't take long to get my answers, at least as much as a common
sailor knows.  It turns out our captive is named Mike.  He's only a 
seaman and boat driver, at least according to him.  I see no reason to 
doubt his story, almost given willingly.  Mike, as it turns out, is not 
a very brave or intelligent fellow.  Which is why they left him to 
guard the boat. 

“We'd barely finished offloading at Subic Bay, in the Philippines,” he
tells us over a glass of warm beer,  “when we were ordered back on 
board without any shore leave to set sail for this island.  Our mission 
was to escort a group of empty cargo ships.  Now, you realize I'm not 
an officer or even a noncom.  All I know is what I've seen and heard.”  
He takes another gulp of beer, looking around before continuing. 

“Being a boatswain, I used my boat to help with loading the other
vessels.  It took about a week of ferrying piles of rusty cylinders 
strapped to wooden pallets.  I didn't see any writing on them.  All the 
pallets were covered by canvas -- dirty rotting canvas.  I wouldn't 
even know that much if the ends weren't showing, obviously large 
cylinders like propane or oxygen for welding -- that kind,”  he tells 
us. 

“Then, well,  the last day,  there was a lot of activity ashore.  Armed
marines everywhere.  I don't know where they came from -- except not 
from our ship.  Our marines were still aboard.”  He shudders in silence 
for a moment, looking around with slightly bugged eyes, then continues 
in almost a whisper, obviously frightened. 

“Then came the bodies.”  Mike seems nervous. “Load after endless load of
them.  No way to disguise body bags.  There were so many of them that I 
had to take a load of used bags, empty of course, back to the island to 
be filled again.  They must have packed the cargo ships, since even our 
ship had to empty our freezers and walk-in refrigerators to store them 
all.” 

“Probably all the natives on the island,"  Mary interjects.  We haven't
found the graves we were expecting, only several empty elongated 
trenches in the ground. 

“Since we and poor Thomas saw bodies and shovels they probably decided
to dump them at sea or bury them somewhere else,”  I tell the others, 
“with less chance of being found or connected to this island later.” 

Mike's ship is gone in the morning, either sunk or -- more likely -- it
had to leave for repairs.  I still don't think those charges would sink 
a modern warship.  I have seen them used in Vietnam and they simply 
aren't that powerful.  Warships are always armored, aren't they?  The 
old stranded wreck was gone though, probably blown in place to hide 
evidence of our visit.  Mike says it was why they had those shaped 
charges aboard.  The marines he brought over told him they had 
instructions to make sure we were there and dead and then to blow the 
old hulk up. 

“Anyway,” Mike continues, “a few nights ago we were ordered to search
the area for a small boat or people in the water.  My ship fired at 
something.  Scuttlebutt says it was a cabin cruiser of some type and 
that we sunk it.  Then we spent days searching, along with the others, 
for survivors. 

“Yesterday, the cargo ships went on their way, the rest of the task
force escorting them and we came back alone to search that old WWII 
boat.  Guess they were leaving it to last or something.”  Mike 
finishes, “You know the rest.  I was ordered to take those marines to 
the old ship.  They wanted me to help look but I told them it wasn't my 
job.  I'm only a driver, not a fighter.” 

Since we still have plenty of sunlight left, we search the rest of the
island, finding disturbed soil at one point.  Deep truck tracks lead up 
to one area, a clearing in the jungle.  The other end of the clear 
space has been leveled with bulldozers or something, a raw scar of 
earth that will no doubt be overgrown with jungle in a month or so.  In 
that hot weather and humidity, it doesn't take long for the jungle to 
grow back. 

We find an empty metal hut for the three of us to live in, hoping for
rescue. 

“Why don't we take Mike's boat and find another island?”  Mary asks. 

“You know which direction, lady?”  Mike answers. “I sure as hell don't. 
I'd hate to go the wrong way and run out of gas in the middle of the 
Pacific.” 

“And we can't use the radio or they might find us,” I add. “If we do
find another island with that boat we'll probably be arrested for 
stealing government property.  It might be what they expect us to do.” 

The next morning Mike is gone, along with his boat, so it's a moot
point.  He conned us with friendliness and cooperation.  We didn't 
think he would take his boat and go. 

Mary and I can only settle down to wait, questions still unanswered. 

There's plenty of food around in the village and a small but empty US
installation nearby.  We wait for several months before a tramp sailing 
vessel stops to trade.  Even then, we have to wait until they loot the 
village of anything valuable before being being taken to their next 
port of call.  Eventually we make it back to the US of A. 

*** 

A visit to a San Francisco newspaper gets us access to an article about
a South Pacific island being evacuated to make way for a new US base. 

And, no, they aren't interested in our story. 

“Look, people,” an editor tells us, “we got two choices, both bad.  One,
if true, the government will stomp on the story -- and it's not 
important enough to risk official anger.  Secondly, we have no way to 
research it.  The government could sue the hell out of us if we don't 
have proof, only your word for it.  And you don't even know the name of 
the place or how to locate it." 

The nearest I can figure is that, somehow, one or more of those
mysterious cylinders had sprung a leak, killing everyone on the island 
and the military wants to cover it up.  When we showed up unexpectedly 
they'd gone ape and tried to kill us. 

We have to reconcile ourselves that the Navy probably didn't know who we
were either -- with our sailboat sunk.  We're nervous and careful for 
the next year or so, maybe expecting a knock on our door by men dressed 
in black.  But nothing has happened yet and that was a long time ago. 

The End.


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