Dream Sky (17 page)

Of the two small women, Renee was the stronger. As she tugged Estella away from the edge, the rumble of the boat’s engine increased, and the ferry began to pull away from the dock.

“Let me go!” Estella screamed. “Let me go!”

But Renee didn’t heed Estella’s request until long after the boat had passed through the channel and into the open sea.

FIFTEEN THOUSAND FEET ABOVE THE CARIBBEAN SEA

THIRTY-SIX MILES EAST OF COSTA RICA

10:44 AM CST

T
HE PILOT OF
TR117, a Learjet 31A/ER Project Eden scout aircraft, checked the GPS and then tapped his radio switch. “Bogotá, TR117.”

“Go, TR117.”

“Commencing descent to five thousand feet. ETA Isabella Island eleven minutes.”

“Copy, TR117. Descending to five thousand feet. Eleven minutes out from Isabella Island.”

As the pilot signed off, the copilot looked back into the small cabin.

“Wake up, Freddy. Showtime.”

The technician—Freddy Marquez—opened his eyes and blinked a few times. “Already?”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“How much time?”

“Ten minutes.”

The technician stretched his arms above his head, bending them at the elbows so that he didn’t smash his hands against the ceiling like he’d done before. He then unbuckled his belt and moved over to the equipment that would allow them to get a close, detailed view of the ground from thousands of feet in the air.

Though he’d just used the system when they’d flown over Campeche, procedures dictated that he check everything again to make sure it was all working properly.

Once he’d done so, he said, “Good to go.”

ISABELLA ISLAND

10:46 AM CST

R
OBERT’S RETURN TO
consciousness started with a low groan. This was followed by a slow turning of his head, which stopped only when his right cheek came into contact with a hard surface. His eyelids fluttered before finally opening all the way.

In those first few seconds, he had no idea where he was. He lifted his arm to rub his head, but his hand bumped into something. He jerked in surprise before realizing he was lying right next to a wall.

As he inched away, pain radiated from the back of his head.

What the hell?

He gingerly felt the spot, half expecting to find it wet with blood. No blood, but a nice bump that stung even though he barely touched it.

Things started coming back to him. The resort. A woman shouting. A man, too. Bertrand. Aubrey.

Robert’s eyes widened.

The boat!

Doing his best to ignore the pain, he scrambled to his feet and raced into the stairwell. Down he flew, two, sometimes three steps at a time. When he reached the bottom, he shoved open the door and ran out onto the deck surrounding the bar.

The ferry was gone.

He scanned the bay and the channel and the sea on the other side, but saw no sign of it.

How long had he been out?

He turned quickly to check the clock behind the bar, but had to squeeze his eyes shut for several seconds as a combination of pain and dizziness hammered down on him. For a moment, he thought he was going to throw up, but soon the nausea and vertigo subsided enough so that he could open his eyes again.

According to the clock, it was nearly 10:50. He tried to remember when the boat was going to leave. Pax had given Robert a five-minute deadline. That had been when? Ten fifteen? Ten twenty?

The boat had been gone at least thirty minutes.

Panic began to build in his chest. He’d been left behind. He was going to die here. He had screwed up and had no one to blame but—

Relax
, a voice in his mind said. It had sounded very much like his own. Not the crazy, concussion-addled Robert who was on the brink of freaking out, but the calm, in-control Robert who had emerged over the last few weeks to lead the others in their struggle for survival.

Calm down.

After a few long, deep breaths, his panic diminished to a more controllable level.

Think
, the voice said.
The boat being gone is a good thing. The others are on their way to safety. But it doesn’t mean you’re stuck here.

More of the haze that had been clouding his mind began to part.

It would take the ferry no less than two hours to get back to Limón. That meant it still had somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half left to go. There were several boats on the island that could make the trip in less time. The other speedboat would get him to the mainland ahead of the ferry, and even one of the scuba boats, if he left soon, would get him there about the time the others reached the port.

He ran toward the stairs to the beach. As he reached them, he noticed someone sitting at one of the bar tables.

Bertrand. On the table in front of him was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a nearly empty glass.

The Frenchman sneered and raised his drink. “
Salut
. It looks like you and I are the only ones who will not die today. You should thank me.” He took a sip.

Though Robert was loath to talk to the man, he said, “Everyone else got on the ferry?”

“You are the only other person I have seen, so it would seem so.” He poured himself another drink. “Grab a glass and join me.”

“I don’t think so.”

Bertrand’s laughter followed Robert as he ran down the steps and across the beach.

The speedboat was tied to a buoy in the bay, about a hundred feet from shore.

Robert stripped off his shirt and kicked off his shoes, then ran into the warm water until it was deep enough for him to swim. It took only ten overhead strokes for his head to start spinning again. He quickly switched from freestyle to breaststroke. It didn’t completely quell the disorientation, but he was able to keep moving. Upon reaching the boat, he grabbed the railing and hung there for a moment, letting the spinning pass.

That’s when he heard a distant drone.

He looked around, thinking maybe the ferry had come back. But the sea was empty. Odd, because the noise was getting louder. It sounded like—

Oh, God
.

He looked up and scanned the sky.

There, almost due south, he spotted a small jet airplane.

Project Eden had returned, just like Pax had warned.

Robert watched as the aircraft approached the island. According to Pax, the Project would be checking for signs that the spraying had worked.

Thank God, the ferry had left. If it was still in the bay, crowded as it was with survivors, there was no telling what those evil bastards would do. Pax had said most likely this plane would be merely reconnaissance, but deadlier aircraft could be called in quickly if needed.

Robert hoped the
Albino Mer
had been able to get far enough away that it wouldn’t be noticed, or, if it hadn’t, that the watchers’ focus would be solely on the island, and they wouldn’t notice anything in the ocean around it.

Which begged the question, how would they react when it appeared no one was on the island?

Wait
, he thought.
Not no one.
Bertrand was sitting on the deck looking very much alive.

He eyed the shore, wondering if he could get there in time and at least lie on the sand and pretend to be dead, but there was no way he could make it in time. His best bet was to keep the boat between him and the plane.

And hope he wasn’t spotted.

FIVE THOUSAND FEET ABOVE ISABELLA ISLAND

10:55 AM CST

M
ARQUEZ MONITORED THE
camera feeds on three separate screens. On the center screen was the view of the island via a high-resolution video camera. Video could go only so far, though. That’s why on the screens to either side were feeds from ultra-high-res digital cameras similar to those used in satellites orbiting the planet. From a paltry five thousand feet up, they could zoom in tight enough to discern the pattern of a butterfly’s wing.

The system was fully automated, so the technician’s job became one of merely looking for anything out of the ordinary. The system was also programmed to note discrepancies, so Marquez took it as a point of pride to try to discover things before the computer did. Since they’d started doing flybys a week earlier, the results had been forty-sixty in the computer’s favor. Given the sophistication of the code, Marquez took that as a win.

“There,” he said, pointing at the center screen a half second before the computer
donged
, indicating it had also made the discovery. He turned on his mic. “We’ve got a breather.”

“How many?” the pilot asked.

“Only one so far.”

“Bodies?”

Marquez made a quick check of all three screens. “None yet.”

As soon as the plane passed over the rest of the island, he quickly ran through the captured footage again. It was a pretty damn nice resort on a beautiful bay, with a few boats anchored just offshore. It didn’t take an expert to see the boats were all empty so he didn’t bother zooming in on them. Instead, he did so with the man sitting at the table on the hotel deck. The guy did Marquez the favor of looking up at the right moment.

Caucasian. Late twenties. Brown hair and a couple days’ growth of beard. On the table was a square bottle. Looked like a Jack Daniel’s bottle to Marquez, a guess reinforced by the glass in the guy’s hand filled with brown liquid.

The guy didn’t look sick, but he was very much alone.

“Tally?” the pilot asked.

“Just the one breather and no bodies.”

They all knew what that meant. Anytime no bodies were spotted, a second flyover was required to make sure survivors hadn’t decided to hide during the first pass.

“Hang on,” the pilot said, as he began to bring the plane around.

ISABELLA ISLAND

10:57 AM CST

T
HE MOMENT THE
plane moved beyond the hotel and became hidden behind the palm trees edging the bay, Robert pulled himself into the boat.

He checked the fuel gauge and saw it was sitting a hair below a quarter tank. Better than nothing, but he would have to add to it.

The fuel supply line was over by the dock, so Robert untied the boat from the buoy, started the engine, and raced over. After lashing a line around one of the posts, he jumped up on the dock and retrieved the end of the hose. He hooked it up to the speedboat and flipped the pump switch, hoping there was enough still in the reserve tank so he wouldn’t have to go around siphoning fuel from the scuba boats.

The moment he heard the jet’s engine again, he knew he was screwed. Sure, there was always the chance the people in the plane wouldn’t notice a boat that had been anchored by itself minutes before was now tied to the dock, but really, how would they miss that?

The only thing that might make it worse was if they saw him on the dock, he thought. The boat with no one around? A head scratcher. The boat with him standing beside it? A problem.

He jumped into the water and swam between the hull and the pier. From there, he watched the plane fly overhead once more.

FIVE THOUSAND FEET ABOVE ISABELLA ISLAND

11:03 AM CST

A
S THE CAMERAS
started snapping away again, Marquez focused all his attention on the hotel. He figured if people were still around, that’s where they’d be, and given that this was the plane’s second flyby, someone might get curious enough to peek out a window or stick a head out a door. But the only person he saw was the man sitting at the table, his glass still in his hand.

“Anything?” the pilot asked.

“No. Looks like we’re clean.”

“Copy that. What’s next on the list?”

The question was for the copilot, so Marquez took off his headset and put his equipment back in sleep mode. Hopefully, there would be enough time for a little longer nap than the one he’d just had.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It wouldn’t be until he landed back at the base again and was reviewing the footage in preparation for writing his report that he would notice the boat in the bay had moved between passes. He would zoom in on the hi-res image and carefully look for signs of anyone else. He would find none, but would discover that the boat was tied to the dock during the second flyby.

For several minutes he would sit staring at the screen as he contemplated the possibility they had missed something. That
he
had missed something.

But it was only one small boat, he would tell himself. And after checking the photos again for any changes in the footprints on the beach, he would note there was no evidence of more people moving around.

Despite the fact it would have taken impossibly fast currents to get the vessel around to the far side of the dock, Marquez would convince himself this was exactly what happened, and that the man on the deck had gone down to tie it up before returning to his drink. In his gut, Marquez would know this was a lie, but a minor one. Better this than to admit his mistake and be punished, maybe even with exile.

ISABELLA ISLAND

11:19 AM CST

R
OBERT DIDN’T WANT
to get fooled again, so he remained in the water for a full fifteen minutes after the plane had flown by the second time. Even then, he worried the plane would fly by a third time and catch him out in the open, but he knew he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. His speed advantage over the ferry was quickly dwindling.

He pulled himself up onto the dock and removed the hose from the fuel tank. At some point during the flyover, the pump had automatically shut off. He hoped it was because it had filled the boat’s tank to the brim, but a check of the gauge showed it was only sixty percent full. That had to mean the reserves were gone. Still, as long as he didn’t go full out the whole way, he probably had enough to get to Limón.