They frog-marched him past what felt like the entire crew of the sub, all staring like they were at the zoo. Take a picture, you rotten jerks. It'll last longer! Which… was probably true, actually. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, resolutely not looking back at them, and feverishly wondering if God would be nitpicky about little things like lax church attendance when, after all, the nearest church was all the way back in Honolulu. He thought that was a pretty ironclad excuse, but there were all those Sunday School stories about people fouling up and being smited in retribution. Wait... smited? Was that right? Should that have been 'smitten'? Or 'smote'? There was that one awful story about the kids making fun of Elijah for being bald, and they had all been ripped to pieces by bears. Did taking the mickey out of somebody for being fat fall into the same 'watch out for bears' category? Did being shot count as modern-day smiting? Was this all some sort of divine retribution?
He reined in that train of thought before it could move past 'gibbering nonsense' into 'full-blown hysteria' territory, and reminded himself that he was being calm and brave. He had to be calm and brave; he was representing the Navy, here. He was representing America. He was representing freedom and democracy and Mom's apple pie. He was representing all sorts of nifty things that weren't ten minutes away from having some very definitive ventilation installed in their collective soft bits, and besides, none of those things were here and he was all alone and no one was going to care if he was brave or not, and he was suddenly glad they hadn't fed him in a while, because he had the feeling he'd have spewed it up all over their very well-scrubbed deck and/or their shiny jackboots, and at the rate things were going they'd probably have made him clean it up before they got back to the business of giving him a personal demonstration of Soviet marksmanship.
And that was heading right back towards full-blown hysteria again. No. He clenched his teeth. I'm real Navy, Skipper, just like you taught me. I'll make you proud. He would not beg. He would not cry.
The Commandant stopped. Gilligan, still concentrating very hard on how brave he was being, didn't, and ran straight into his back.
"Oof!" the Commandant grunted.
"Whoops. Beg pardon," Gilligan said politely, then mentally smacked himself in the forehead. That wasn't really begging. It didn't count, right? Right?
"Of course," the Commandant said dryly, and rolled his eyes. "In boat. Now!"
Wait, what? He looked up, and sure enough, there was a dinghy all ready to be lowered into the water. Borya was already in the stern seat, examining the outboard motor. He had a pistol holstered at his side. Presumably they were going to shoot him out at sea where he couldn't make a mess on their nice clean decks after all.
That… was actually an improvement. He nodded minutely; at least he'd get a few more minutes on the water, and would not die cooped up in this tin can. There would be sunlight and waves and salt air, and maybe even a seagull to watch. Yes. This was much better. He climbed in, taking the bow seat. The Commandant got in last, and sat amidships. Borya barked something in Russian to Alexei, who saluted, and began to lower the boat. He met Gilligan's eyes once, with a hint of something that might have almost been an apology, then looked quickly away.
The boat hit the water with a splash, and Borya started the motor. The three of them sped away from the sub and into the unknown.
OoOoOoO
222 was gutting fish on the beach and telling himself that there were worse ways to spend a morning when the boat appeared on the horizon. Dropping the fish—and retaining the knife he was using—he darted away, hiding himself in the underbrush. He didn't know who might be in the boat, or why they were there, or what they might want. (And actually, from some of the offhand comments his fellow castaways had made, they did seem to get quite a lot of company, none of it congenial. Himself, emphatically, included.) But no matter who, or what, was in the boat, he could safely assume that it wouldn't be good for him. If they were Americans, he would be arrested as a spy. If they were Soviets, he would be arrested as a traitor. If they were mad scientists, gangsters, or headhunters, or whatever else washed up on the shores of this tropical lunatic asylum, he would be killed for entirely nonpolitical reasons, which would not be especially comforting. Rock and a hard place…
OoOoOoO
The boat was still skipping across the water and he was still alive. He was a bit confused by both of those things. He wasn't complaining, but he was definitely confused. Where the heck were they going? What was the game plan here? What was happening?
Wait… was that an island in the distance? Was that… no, no, it couldn't possibly be… could it?
OoOoOoO
It was.
Carefully, expertly, the Soviet steered the boat into the lagoon and beached it. From sheer force of habit, Gilligan grabbed the painter, hopped nimbly to the shore. Borya, startled by the sudden movement, drew his gun, and Gilligan immediately dropped the line.
"You want to tie up yourself? Go ahead," he said.
"Nyet. Tie," the Commandant said, waving Borya to stand down. "We will retrieve pocket knife. We will retrieve Agent 222. We will retrieve other Americans. And then we will see what is to be seen, yes?"
No! His hands clenched into fists; the painter was still dangling limply in the water. His mind spun through possibilities—he could run, but he doubted he'd get so much as ten yards away before they shot him. Not good. He could shout and hope that one of the other castaways heard him, or at least that they'd hear the subsequent gunshot. Not a chance; they'd never think that it was a warning and hide. They'd come straight towards the sound on the off chance that it was rescue. Definitely not good. He could cooperate, and try to get them to leave the others alone once they had their nasty little pocket knife and their even nastier Agent 222. Because he'd had so much luck convincing the Commandant of anything. If his friends were counting on him to save them, he was about to let them all down, big time. So what else was new. Why couldn't 222 have just hit him a little harder in the first place and been done with it?
Numb, bitterly exhausted, and defeated, he bent down, retrieved the painter and looped it around a handy branch. Concentrating only on the knot he was tying, because it was about the only thing left in the world that didn't hurt to think about, he almost didn't notice the man hiding in the bush.
Emphasis on the almost.
"You!" He lunged through the bush, tackled 222. The knife went flying, and the two men tussled in the dirt, a blur of red. 222 was, by far, the more skillful fighter, and Gilligan—overwrought, half-healed, underslept, underfed—simply did not have the other man's physical strength. But 222 honestly did not want to kill his counterpart for a second time, and Gilligan was fueled by a rage he could barely contain. Which is to say that they were, to some degree, evenly matched, and the advantage shifted from one to the other so quickly and so often that neither of the onlookers could be certain which was which.
"STOP!" The Commandant's voice split the air; it was authoritative, it was threatening, and it was entirely ignored by both. He growled something under his breath, and gestured to Borya, who waded into the fight and settled it by grabbing one of the men by the collar and throwing him aside, then drawing his pistol. The click as he cocked it was very loud in the sudden silence.
"If I might interrupt this little reunion?" The Commandant sneered. "Now that I have your attention… is perhaps time we should discuss your futures. If I like the answers, one of you might have one."
Two silent men stared back at him, both streaked in dust, with identical sullen expressions.
"Now. One of you is my agent. One of you… is not. I think you both know which one I want, and which one is worthless to me."
222 knew, all right. He knew that the Americans had no secrets. He knew that there was nothing in the sailor's memory that Soviet intelligence could possibly want. He, 222, on the other hand, was still of some value.
Borya knew, as well. 222 was bound for, at best, a show trial and an ignominious death while 'trying to escape.' The American might be a double agent. He might not. But there was at least half a chance that some government would want him alive.
Gilligan just watched. Whoever the Commandant thought he wanted, it probably wasn't him. And it didn't matter, because whatever he thought he wanted from whichever one of them it was, he didn't have it to give, even if he'd wanted to. Fine. He'd already accepted that he was going to die today. All he wanted was two minutes with his double; he had to know if his friends were safe. He had to know. After that the Commandant could shoot whoever he liked.
222 gritted his teeth. It was foolish. It was no more sustainable a strategy now than it had been when this whole farce had begun. It was, at most, a gesture, a theatrical, useless attempt at an apology. But perhaps one last lie would pay for all. "Gosh, you must be nuts," he said in Gilligan's voice. And accent. "What's the big idea coming back here to make more trouble? Haven't you done enough?"
The Commandant looked narrowly at him. "You are Gilligan? You are sure?"
"Well, I'm sure not Elizabeth Taylor!"
The Commandant folded his arms, and turned to Gilligan. "Hmm. And you?"
He shrugged. He could try for the Russian voice again, but what good would that do in the long run? In his own voice, he replied, "Nope. I'm not Elizabeth Taylor either."
The Commandant sighed. "If neither of you are 222, I suspect neither of you are Gilligan, either. Why must you make things so difficult? Now I must bring both of you back to submarine. Well, 222, you will regret this day. It could have been so quick. So painless. Ah, well."
The two near-twins looked at each other, startled.
"Have either of you changed your mind? Are you perhaps Elizabeth Taylor after all?" The Commandant smiled. "Take a moment to think it over." He strode back to the boat, turning his back on them.
Gilligan looked at 222, and his eyes burned. "Are my friends okay?"
"They are all fine," 222 promised. "They are good people."
"You bet they are," Gilligan agreed, a weight lifting from his shoulders. "The best ever."
222 smiled bitterly. Yes. Good people who did not deserve what the Commandant would do to them. He sighed. Once again it seemed he had misread and bungled the situation. What was it about this island? His life had been so straightforward, so clear, before he'd landed here. No longer. He didn't know anymore what was left for him to try, or who he needed to be.
"Psst. We're going to have to run for it," Gilligan hissed. "When I say 'now,' make a hard left, okay? A really, really hard left. And until then, play along!"
"What are you doing?"
"No time!" He cleared his throat. "Commandant!" he shouted, with Borya's thick accent. Turnabout, he thought, was fair play. "Commandant, over here! Prisoners are escaping!"
"Durak! Are you mad?"
"Trust me! Run—and make some noise doing it! Make him follow us!" He dropped back into the lower register. "Commandant, help me! After them!"
Suiting the action to the word, Gilligan spun on his heel and ran, crashing through the underbrush, 222 hot on his heels. The spy had no idea what was going on, except that Gilligan seemed to have a plan. It would probably end with both of them getting shot, but by this stage of the game, that was beginning to seem normal.
The Commandant lumbered after the pair of them, fury increasing with each step and Borya a pace behind him. What had happened to the spy he had trained? This was not merely 222's failure; this reflected even more on the Commandant, and he was not about to let his career be ruined by a turncoat. Siberia was too good for him. Oh, Gilligan would pay; the Americans would pay; 222 would pay most of all, for this black mark on an otherwise spotless record—
"NOW!" Gilligan veered to the right; 222 to the left. Their pursuers went straight down as the ground gave way beneath them, and closed itself overhead. Muffled Russian phrases that didn't sound even the least bit friendly wafted upwards.
"Chto eto? Chto proiskhodit?" 222, stunned, could not quite recall any English for a moment.
"D'zat mean… what happened?... Japanese munitions pit. With… trap door on a spring… Left over from the war," Gilligan explained, leaning on a tree to catch his breath as the adrenaline ebbed. Weeks of sitting very still in a very small room, on short rations and with essentially no sleep, didn't exactly improve one's stamina. "Probably… won't hold them for long, but, well, now we've got a little time to figure out what to do next."
222 whistled. "I am impressed," he said. "Nu ti dajosh."
Gilligan scratched his head. "Huh. Your friend said that a few times. Usually right around the time he'd deck me. What's it mean?"
One corner of 222's mouth quirked upwards. "It means you should have been Russian, comrade. You have guts."
"Thanks… I think," Gilligan said. "Come on, we've got to make tracks out of here." He jerked his chin in the vague direction of camp. "Let's go!"
"Why are you helping me?" 222 asked, not budging from the spot.
"Because it wasn't fair," Gilligan said, not even pretending to misunderstand. "They sent you out to look for something that wasn't there. Then they got mad because you didn't find it. It's not fair."
"I would not have done that in your place," 222 admitted.
"Well, nobody wants to believe it, but I'm not you," Gilligan said. He gave the spy a sardonic, sidelong glance. "Besides, it wasn't right how they were going to throw you under the bus just to save their own hides. I'd sure hate it if someone did that to me."
222's head snapped back as the irony struck him, and he laughed, incredulous. "I am beginning to like you, tovarisch!"
Gilligan rolled his eyes. "I'm touched," he said dryly. "Come on; we've really got to get out of here."
"And go where?"
"We'll find my friends. They'll help us figure something out," Gilligan said, leading the way. "We'll all just have to get used to there being two of us, that's all. Maybe you can part your hair on the other side or something so they can tell us apart."
"You are not seriously suggesting that I stay on island with you?" 222 had thought he was past being surprised by this skinny little bundle of contradictions; he found he was wrong. "After all this?"
"You think you're gonna get any better offers?"
222 was a professional, with years of experience at managing his expression, which is why his jaw didn't hit his sternum. "…No, comrade, I do not," he said weakly.
OoOoOoO
* Chto eto?—What is this?
* Chto proiskhodit?—What is going on?
* Nu ti dajosh – You've got nerve. Depending on tone and context, this can be either complimentary or not. In this case, I rather think it was.
