Free Omnibus.The.Sea.Witch.2012 by Stephen Coonts Page B

wasn’t small. Trying to recall, I estimated it was eight or nine miles long and a mile wide at the widest part. Probably volcanic in origin, the center of the thing reached up a couple hundred feet or so in elevation, if my memory was correct. I remembered the little hump that I flew toward when we were down low against the sea.
    The creeks running down from that rocky spine contained good water, so we wouldn’t die of thirst. There was food in the sea, if we could figure out a way to get it. There were things to eat—birds and snakes and such—in the jungle, if we could catch them. All in all, I figured we could make out.
    If there weren’t any Japs on this island.
    That was our immediate concern, so we hiked along, taking our time, looking and listening.
    On the eastern end of the island the jungle petered out into an area of low scrub and sand dunes. It was getting along toward the middle of the day, so we sat to rest. After all I had been through, I could feel my own weakness, and I was sure the others could also. But sittingwasn’t getting us anyplace, so we dusted our fannies and walked on.
    The squall line was almost upon us when we found the first skid mark on the top of a dune.
    “Darn if that furrow doesn’t look like it was made by the keel of a seaplane,” Hoffman said.
    I took a really good look, and I had to agree.
    I took out my pistol and worked the action, jacked a shell into my hand. The gun was gritty, full of sand and sea salt.
    “Going to rain soon,” Pottinger said, looking at the sky.
    “Let’s see if we can find a dry place and sit it out,” I said, looking around. I spotted a clump of brush under a small stand of palms, and headed for it. The others were in no hurry, although the gray wall of rain from the storm was nearly upon us.
    “Maybe it’s Joe Snyder’s crew, where he went down in
Charity’s Sake.”
    “Maybe,” I admitted.
    “Let’s go look.” If Hoffman had had a tail, he would have wagged it.
    “Later.”
    “Hell, no matter where we hide, we’re going to get wet. If it’s them, they’ve got food, survival gear, all of that.”
    “Could be Japs, you know.”
    He was sure the Japanese didn’t leave a seaplane mark.
    The first gust of rain splattered us.
    “I’m going to sit this one out,” I said, and turnedback toward the brush I had picked out. Pottinger was right behind.
    Hoffman ran up beside me. “Please, sir. Let me go on ahead for a look.”
    I looked at Pottinger. He was a lieutenant (junior grade), senior to me, but since I was the deputy plane commander, he hadn’t attempted to exert an ounce of authority. Nor did I think he wanted to.
    “No,” I told Hoffman. “The risk is too great. The Japs won’t want to feed us if they get their hands on us.”
    “They won’t get me.”
    “No.”
    “You’re just worried I’ll tell ‘em you’re here.”
    “If they catch you, kid, it won’t matter what you tell ‘em. They’ll come looking for us.”
    “Mr. Pottinger.” Hoffman turned to face the jay-gee. “I appeal to you. All our gear is out in the lagoon. You know the guys in
Charity’s Sake
as well as I do.”
    Pottinger looked at me and he looked at Hoffman and he looked at the squall line racing toward us. He was tired and hungry and had never made a life-or-death decision in his life.
    “Snyder could have made it this far,” he said to me.
    “There’s a chance,” I admitted.
    He bit his lip and made his decision. “Yes,” he told the kid. “But be careful, for Christ’s sake.”
    Hoffman grinned at Pottinger and scampered away just as the rain hit. I jogged over to the brush I had seen and crawled in. It wasn’t much shelter. Pottinger joined me.
    “It’s probably Snyder,” he said, more to himself than to me.
    “Could be anybody.”
    There was a little washout under the logs. We huddled there.
    “Hoffman’s right about one thing,” I told Pottinger. “We won’t be much drier here than if we had stayed out in