Session Island

Short Story
3927 Words

Session Island

Darnell, in a low calm voice, whispered to Sam "The one regret I have, Sam, is never landing my DC-3…sober."

Sam didn't give a damn if the pilot was sober or drunk as a Mexican on pay day, she just wanted off this piece-of-junk airplane.

She wanted to go home. The old DC-3 moaned loudly, its wings bent by the blue air, its radial engines spitting oil and slinging silver-dollar size chunks of something out into the ocean. The landing gear was not working, and the pilot was cussing louder than his pet monkey was screaming.

"Get that damn monkey out of the cockpit, Sam, the friggin’ thing is distracting me, and get me another beer. My nerves are shot."

"Your monkey stinks; I ain’t touching it, and get your own goddamn beer. You have had way too many. That's why your nerves are shot, asshole! Are we going to crash? Oh GOD! WHY ME? Nothing ever goes right for me. My life is a mess! Now I am going to die with a drunk pilot and a stinking monkey in a piece-of-shit airplane!"

"I got the landing gear down! Sammy gal, that happens. I think we are going to make the runway. Just in case we don't, go back and get three life vests, and put one on Kennedy. He hates to swim, gets damn pissed off around water." Sam shuffled back into the old DC-3 and scratched around frantically for the life vests. She thought if she could only find two vests, she would wear one and the monkey the other.

The old DC-3 was now shaking violently; flames were shooting out of the port engine,
and Kennedy was screaming like a raped ape. Sam put on her life vest, threw one at the monkey, and shoved one in Darnell’s face. Then she sat in the co-pilot’s seat with her legs pressed hard against her breast and started to pray the prayers she used to pray before she became a heathen.
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"If we have to ditch this crate in the ocean it should float for a few minutes, and besides it’s only four feet deep. We can almost walk to the island. Kennedy won’t like it, but screw him, he needs a bath."

The landing field was over a mile away when the pilot retracted the landing gear. The old DC-3 was not going to make land. The drunken pilot extended the flaps and slowed the old bird down to 90 kph. The port engine then exploded and peppered the fuselage with bits and pieces of the old radial’s carcass. At ten feet altitude, the pilot flared and the old DC-3 fell like a piano into the warm Caribbean Sea. She skimmed and bounced on her belly in almost a straight line for over a thousand feet, then swerved left to a sudden stop.

Both engines violently boiled the salt water, cooking the sea life unlucky enough to be swimming about the vicinity. The steam was so intense it rose five hundred feet into the clear sky. The old 9-cylinder radial engines did not give up there. They cracked and then spat flaming oil, threw more parts in all directions, cracked some more, then gargled more salt water, pinged then banged, shuddered one last time and ended their chorus in a perfectly choreographed simultaneous massive iron tone hiss.
Kennedy was ripping up his life vest, chewing its black straps like they were beef jerky. Sam opened her eyes, wondering if she was alive. The pilot popped open another beer,
guzzled it, and popped open another and did the same with it.
"Get up, Babycakes, we got to hustle. This beast is going to sink fast. We got to get the life raft and the pelican case in it fast."
The landing field was about a mile away on an island that was about two feet above sea level. It was almost impossible to see it from the floating airplane, but you could see the heat waves from its surface quite well.
It took thirty minutes to blow up the inflatable, find the Honda outboard, and load the monkey and the pelican case and some survival gear.

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"Good-bye for now, old gal. You and me have been through a lot of shit. I will come back for ya! I swear!"
As the Honda started and propelled the inflatable towards land, the old DC-3 groaned and bubbled, and gracefully sank—well, almost sank. She had landed in six feet of water, so it was not a full sinking, just a partial sinking.
"A horrible sight, Sam old gal. Dammit, I forgot my rum!"
"Screw the rum, jerk! You almost killed me! That plane is a piece of shit!"
"That piece of shit flew in WW2 baby. Don't give me no crap about my old DC-3. If it was another plane we might be dead. Count yourself lucky you was in such a fine aircraft."
"Well, why did it blow up if it was so fine?"
"Bad fuel, baby. Them damn Bahamians sold me some crappy fuel I will get them bastards for that."
The water was calm, and so clear Sam could see starfish and conch on the colorful sea bed. The inflatable made the sun-bleached sharp coral shore in about half an hour. The Honda outboard chugged as the pilot looked for a soft spot to land his air-filled boat.
"There's a spot! Wow, look at the beach, its pink! Why is the sand pink, genius?"
Sammy knew Darnel told her once why the beaches here were pink, but she could not remember why he told her such things.
"Pink, 'cause they ain't white, Babycakes."
Kennedy started to scream and wave his arms about madly. The water-hating monkey threw his life vest in the water and started to howl.
"What's wrong with your stupid friend, Darnell?"
"He probably wants a beer. Don't give him one. I only got a few cases left."
"Something is moving on the beach. What is it Darnell?"
"Iguanas."

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"WHAT? Big lizards? Do they bite?"
"Not if you don't bite them first!"
The pilot was thrown into a throaty laughter that ended in a loud belch. After guzzling another warm beer, he resumed his insidious laughter. Kennedy perched on Darnell’s shoulder, waiting for his sip of the last of the beer. Darnell always saved a mouthful of beer for his pet. Kennedy would not drink water.
The small boat made shore. The beach sand was a light shade of pink, caused by centuries of conch shells that were broken up by the surf and re-deposited on the beach, a vicious cycle.
The iguanas backed off and regrouped with the largest one on the front line and the others according to size behind him in perfect military-like order. All were thrusting out their forked tongues and sucking them back into their snouts so fast they appeared animated.
Kennedy was the first to jump to shore. He promptly started tormenting the reptiles. Darnell ordered Sam off the boat. She needed a little encouragement, so he told her the sharks were more dangerous than the lizards. She reluctantly left the boat, clutching an oar in case the lizards attacked her.
Darnell pulled the inflatable onto the pink beach, pulled out his Glock 9mm, and shot the big iguana in the head. It promptly thrashed about, and then remained still. His platoon scattered in all directions.
"Why did you shoot it? You said they were not dangerous! Poor thing, what did it ever do to you?"
"I shot it because I am hungry. You know how to skin an iguana?"
"Ugh! That's disgusting! You eat lizards?"
"They taste like chicken, and besides we ain’t got nothin’ else to eat. I forgot to pack a lunch."
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"Well I will not eat a lizard! I’ll just go to a restaurant and get some civilized food, like a cheeseburger."
Both Darnell and Kennedy thought that statement was hilarious.
"What's so funny, you cretin?"
"Cheeseburgers here are very expensive, Sammy gal."
"I got a hundred bucks, sucker; if a cheeseburger and fries is more than that I WILL eat your stupid lizard!"
"No cheeseburger here, Miss Sammy."
"Well, what do they have here?"
"Nuttin, ‘cause this here island is uninhabited, except for them stupid lizards and a few crocodiles in the pond."
"Crocodiles? You mean there are no people here, Darnell? What if I was hurt in the crash? There are no hospitals! No doctors! You asshole!"
"That's what uninhabited is, Babycakes. Calm down old gal, you wasn't hurt, so slow down!"
Darnell cut the tail off the dead iguana and skinned it and put it in the cooler with some sea water. Then he pitched the carcass into the ocean. In two seconds six small sharks were having a feast. He pitched the tent away from the coconut trees and Sam crawled in, cussing.
The plane-less pilot took the inflatable back out to his old DC-3 to get his rum and a few other supplies. He found his cook pack. Inside was some Cajun blackening seasoning he had picked up in Haiti last week, great for lizard tail. He motored back to shore and soon had the well-seasoned iguana tail roasting over a fire.
"Ahh, that is the best! Blackened iguana tail and beer. Don't get any better than this, Sammy gal. Here is some fish I caught for you, too—it’s snapper."
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The afternoon thunderstorms started to move in, and it rained for hours. Lightning and thunder made Kennedy bundle up in a ball and quiver in one corner of the leaking tent. Every time a drop of water touched him, he let out a whimper.
"How are we going to get the hell out of here, Darnell? I don't want to die here; the lizards might eat me."
"Relax, Babycakes. When we don't show up in Jared, Tommy will come looking for us. You know he wants his goods. Besides, planes land here all the time, at least once a week or so."
"Once a damn WEEK? I want a friggin’ cheeseburger! Get me out of here, Darnell!"


It was a cool night on the island, the trade winds blew a steady twelve knots. The iguanas kept away, but not far away. Kennedy got over his rain trauma with a beer he stole in the middle of the night when Darnell was passed out. The monkey had learned years ago how to pop open a can of Beck's. Darnell never missed the beer; he never remembered how many Beck's he had drunk that day or that night.
The sun rises early when you camp out on an island two feet above sea level.
"Oh my head! That damn sun! Shut it off, it hurts my eyes! Throw me a beer, Kennedy."
The monkey knew the drill: master wakes up, throw him a beer.
"God! Why do you have to drink beer so early?"
"Because we don't have any vodka and orange juice, that's why, smart ass."
"I'm hungry, Darnell. What do we have to eat?"
"Coconuts, and maybe some sea-grapes if I can find some."
Darnell guzzled two more beers, hunted for his machete, and then went foraging. There were green coconuts still attached to the coconut trees and some brown ones on the Short Story: Session Island

ground. Brown coconuts are sweeter than green coconuts, but Darnell preferred the green ones. Their water mixed great with his Barbados MT Gay rum.
Kennedy was a great pet and a cheap drunk. One beer and he entertained you for hours, chasing imaginary butterflies, swinging from whatever he could climb up on and swing and jump from. He liked to climb up coconut trees and throw down two or three nuts, asking only for a paltry reward of a few sips of warm Beck’s beer. Hell of a pet.
Darnell was surprised Sam didn't complain about her breakfast. She gnawed at the coconut meat, drank the coconut water, and popped a few sea-grapes without a word.

Session Island is in the middle of nowhere. The nearest land is over one hundred miles away. The landing field was built during WW ll by the Sea-Bees. The Navy had used it for a re-fueling station and secret anti-sub operations base. At the end of the war a German sub ran aground here to surrender. Its crew, six naval cadets all under the age of 16, had shot the captain and first mate because they had orders to basically commit suicide by attacking a naval gunboat without any torpedoes.
In the 1970s, the US Coast Guard repaired the runway and used the island as an anti-drug smuggling base until the early 1990s. It was abandoned and is now used as a practice landing field. It is a challenge to judge your altitude because of the bright white terrain and reflection of the surrounding sea.
And Darnell was wrong. The island was not uninhabited.
"Let’s go do a little recon, Babycakes, it’s getting boring here. The sun is getting to me. There are a few old Quonset huts at the other end of the runway. We can wait there till the sun goes down."
"Why don't you use your radio to call for help? Doesn't it work?"

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"Yeah, it works, but it’s a handheld. On the ground it only has a range of ten miles. Don't worry, like I said someone will land here soon. I was stuck here for a few days last year when the old DC-3 blew a cylinder. Two planes landed in two days. This island is well known. Let’s get."
The trio packed some water and lots of Beck's and headed for the other side of Session Island. In this part of the world the trade winds blow steadily all day and most of the night. The temperature is steady, and tolerable if you stay out of the sun.
The hike to the runway took ten minutes. Once Darnell saw the sun-baked concrete surface, he knew he was wrong. The runway is over a mile long, approximately 7900 feet. At the far end he could see two airplanes, one small and black, the other commercial jet size and ocean-camouflaged blue, white, and green.
"This ain’t good, Sammy Gal. I don't like the looks of this."
"Look of what? There are airplanes here! We are saved! Let’s go! Run! We’re saved!"
"Come on, we gotta get off this tarmac. We can walk on the shore to the other end. They won’t be able to see us from there, and we can see what they are up to."
"They? Up to? What the hell are you talking about, Darnell? Who are they?"
"Not sure Babycakes, but if it is who I think it might be, you might wish you was killed in a plane crash."

Session Island has nice beaches for a deserted island. From the beach, Darnell had a good view of the other end of the runway, and his hunch was right.
"Who are they? Look, one looks like that crazy loon on TV, that guy from Iran. Why are they wearing long pants and jackets? It’s hot as hell. Who are they, Darnell?"
"Slavers, Babycakes. To be more specific, white slavers. These guys make Tommy look like a pussycat."

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"What's a slaver?"
"Come on, let’s get out of here. We got to get back to camp before they spot it or us. There will probably be a few more aircraft in and out of here today. I wonder if they spotted my old plane when they landed. They must have landed in the dark before we woke up, ‘cause I didn't hear any traffic in the night."
"You were so passed out last night you wouldn't have known if they dropped a nuclear bomb on your head."
"Okay Miss Smart Ass, did you hear them landing last night? And besides, if they dropped a bomb on my head I would be dead and so would you!"
"No, I am a heavy sleeper, you know that. What's a slaver?"
"For a smart ass you sure are a dumb ass, Sammy old gal. Ask Kennedy."
"Ha, ha. Dammit, Darnell, I told you to never call me old gal no more! Tell me what a slaver is!" Darnell knew Sam wasn't that bright, but he liked his girlfriends like that.
"Slave? Slaver? What part of slave don't you understand?" Sam stopped walking and looked at Darnell in total disbelief.
"Slavery is outlawed. What about the Civil War, dummy?"
Darnell rolled his eyes, looked Kennedy in the eyes, popped open a warm beer, and guzzled most of it, gave the rest to his monkey, and then belched to clear his brain of Sam's logic.
"You see Old Glory flapping in the wind around here, Babycakes? These people don't give a damn about American laws, or international laws, for that matter. These guys spit on laws; these people make their own laws up as they go."
Darnell stopped walking, guzzled another Beck's, and then resumed the hike and Sam's education.

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"Just get to the point, genius!"
“Ever wonder where all them missing people go off to?"
"What missing people?" Darnell was about to give up when he heard an approaching jet.
"Quick! Come on and duck under the bushes, another plane is landing. It sounds like a Falcon."
Tommy made a 100-foot-high pass of the airfield, saw the two planes on the field, recognized them, and decided not to land. Not enough fire power for that lot, Tommy reasoned.
Darnell caught a glimpse of Tommy’s Falcon and called him on his handheld. Tommy and his people had their own illegal VHF channel that they were supposed to monitor during operations.
"Fox-Trot Niner Juliet, this is Whisky Delta Five. We are down and wet one mile south of 27, on Session, have pelican. Slavers--I guess you saw them."

"Why didn’t you call me on the sat phone?"
"Batteries went dead, boss."
"More like you forgot your charger again. Dammit, Darnell. You two okay? I spotted your plane. Looks intact. You’re lucky."
"Not so lucky now, boss. The slavers have been here all day."
"Yeah, I spotted them. We ain’t got enough fire power to deal with them now. I will have to go back to Jarte and get some backup. You two disappear into the bushes, and no fires! We will be back in 24 hours. They probably will be gone by then, but I ain’t taking any chances. I want that pelican case! Bury it and make a cross out of conch shells nearby so I can find it in case you two get whacked by the slavers."

"What’s he mean get whacked? Are those slavers bad guys, Darnell?" Sam asked.
"Come on, Babycakes. We gotta scoot back to the tent. Yeah, they real bad guys Sammy gal."

Tommy employed a dozen Gerka mercenaries. They are very expensive compared to other mercenaries, but they will fight to the death. Tommy liked that.
Darnell knocked down camp as fast as he could. Inland about 500 yards from their camp was a canopy of banyan trees that offered great cover. They moved their camp and the inflatable there. Darnell covered both with an extra layer of cut branches and driftwood.
"How long do we have to spend here? When will they be back? I am hungry. Go catch some fish, Darnell. Are those oranges over there okay to eat? Go fetch me a few."
"Them ain't real oranges, they sour oranges, but we can use them to cook the fish."
"Sometimes I wonder about you, Darnell. Oranges, even sour oranges don’t burn! What a dummy."
Darnell now knew he could not take this old gal any more. When they got back to Florida, she was history. He caught several small snapper, filleted them, juiced a dozen oranges into the cooler, and marinated the fish.
"Wow, you learn something new every day. I never knew sour oranges would cook fish! Darnell, you think those slavers would kill me if they found us?" Sam asked.
"They would kill me for sure. I don’t know what they would do to an old gal like you. It might not be pleasant either way. They only want the young and healthy."
"Hey! I’m healthy! You can be so insensitive sometimes, Darnell! I’m only 36. Why wouldn’t they want a catch like me?"
Darnell thought, 36? When? Twenty years ago? He decided to calm her down. "I was kidding, Babycakes. They would sell you for high dollars, probably to an Arab sheik. You, his other wives, and his goats would sleep in a big tent--until he desired one of you."

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"Other wives? Goats? I ain't sleepin’ with no goats!"
"The goats don’t mind, Babycakes, it’s the other wives you will have trouble with."
"How much do you think he might pay for me? I think I’m worth…let’s see…say around a million bucks! You think I’m worth a million bucks Darnell? DON’T YOU?" Darnell knew if he had a million bucks he might give it to the slavers to take her off his hands.
"Sure, Babycakes, you worth TWO million bucks in my mind." That seemed to satisfy her for a few seconds.
"How much do they sell people for, Darnell? I mean, do they take credit cards or cash only?"
Darnell guzzled three beers real fast, so fast Kennedy started to whimper because his master drank each can dry.
"I don’t know how much exactly what they sell them for. It depends."
"Sounds horrible, Darnell. Where do they get them? I mean, now I wouldn’t want to be a slave. Sounded good at first."
"Sammy gal, were did I find you? What rock have you lived under all your life? They are kidnapped from around the Americas, mostly the USA, then sold to the Hammer Heads, who smuggle them out of the country to places like this. The Hammer Heads sell them to the Yabbadabbadoos, who then fly them in that big jet you saw at the other end of the runway to Darfur to the slave markets and auction them off. That’s where they come from, old gal. Not a pretty picture, is it?"
"How do you know all this? Sounds creepy."
Darnell was a pilot for the Hammer Heads. He had been lured in by the false premise that he would be delivering medical patients from around the Caribbean to the USA. Then he figured out that once 'in,' the only way the Hammer Heads let you out was 'feet first.’ He managed to escape and wasn’t going to tell Sam.

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"Darnell, what’s in the pelican case?"
"What does it matter, Babycakes?"
"Well, if you think about it, all this wouldn’t have happened if we weren’t taking that case to Tommy."
"His trophy."
"What, like a trophy made of gold and diamonds?"
"No Babycakes. His college football trophy."
"A stupid football trophy! You guys are all idiots!"
The next day the slavers left around sunrise. Tommy and his Gerka army arrived a few hours later looking for a fight. The Gerkas were disappointed, so they flew off to Belize City to get drunk and blow off steam for a few days.
As Tommy flew the castaways in his Falcon back to Jarte he remarked, "When we get back to Jarte, we will organize a salvage operation and float that old DC-3 of yours, Darnell. That ought to cover what I owe you for delivering my trophy to me. After we get it airworthy I have another job for you…"


The End


copyright 2010 by j Frederick M