"Right. The first thing we've got to do is secure that boat," the Skipper said.
"The Commandant and his guard are still in pit trap," 222 said. "They could be valuable hostages, but it might be safer to simply leave them where they are."
The Skipper made a face. "I can't say I like either idea all that much. On the one hand, keeping them prisoner would be incredibly hard. And on the other, leaving men to starve to death in a hole in the ground is just plain ugly."
222 shrugged. "He will do far worse things to us if he is given the chance. And they will both be carrying firearms."
"And I don't think either of them would think twice about shooting us," Gilligan said. "That guard… the other one was at least a little bit nicer."
"We can decide that later," the Skipper said. "For now, the boat is the first priority. Everything else comes second, and those rotten goons are barely even on the list at all. Let's get moving."
"No. Wait a minute, Skipper," Gilligan said. "One other thing. I'm not going back with them. No matter what happens, I can't go back. Don't let them take me again, okay?"
The Skipper grimaced. The mere thought made him sick to his stomach. "Don't talk like that. Of course I'm not letting them take you anywhere! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
He started away, but Gilligan stopped him, spidery fingers gripping his arm like a metal vise. "I'm not kidding, Skipper," he said quietly. He nodded at the machete that still hung at his captain's belt. "I really mean it. Please. Don't let them take me again."
222 put his own hand on his counterpart's shoulder. "Do not fear, my friend. You will not be taken again. We will not allow it." He looked at the Skipper. "I will not allow it."
Gilligan looked at him, then back at the Skipper.
"We lost you once, little buddy," he said, finally. "I never want to go through that again… and I'm not going to let it happen again. That I can promise you."
Gilligan nodded slowly. "Thanks," he said simply.
OoOoOoOoO
The dinghy was right where they had left it; neatly tied to that same branch. The Skipper examined it disbelievingly, every inch and from every angle. "She's in perfect condition," he marveled. "The gas tank is nearly full and everything. We're saved, little buddy! We can go home!"
222 smiled weakly. He wasn't sure whether or not he was included in that 'we,' and even if he was, the United States government had some very definite opinions on the subject of Soviet spies.
The Skipper didn't notice, or didn't care, or both. He was beaming like the midday sun. "Come on, let's go give the others the good news! All the good news; better brace yourself, little buddy. I'll bet the girls are going to be so glad to see you home safe that they'll kiss you till you're weak in the knees. Oh, boy! We're going home! I can't believe it!"
It was Gilligan's turn to smile weakly at that; the Skipper, again, didn't seem to notice. He had, in the space of twenty minutes, been given everything he wanted, and his joy didn't leave much room for anything else, and that included interpreting facial expressions. 222 watched his double, noted the walled-off expression in the sea-blue eyes, and mused that, oddly enough, there was a very good chance that he was the only one who truly understood what turmoil was going on behind the subdued face that was the twin of his own. And, in all probability, vice versa.
OoOoOoOoO
That evening, at Gilligan's insistence, they visited the munitions pit, bringing a bucketful of fruit and a gourd of drinking water for their captives, who were not appreciably grateful.
"Whatever else we do or don't do, we have to bring them some dinner," Gilligan explained. "We can't just leave them hungry and thirsty down there. That's not very nice." And I didn't like it when they did it to me.
The Skipper set his jaw. "I'm not against feeding them, but I want their weapons safely out of their hands." He looked at the bucket in his hands, then dumped the fruit on the ground. "Hey, down there," he called. He stopped, turned to 222. "They speak English, right?"
"Commandant does. Guard, I do not know for sure," 222 said.
"Yeah, he does. A little bit, at least," Gilligan said. "He took notes during some of the interrogations, and he never had to ask me to repeat anything. I mean, I did repeat myself, a lot, but he never asked me to."
Both the Skipper and 222 winced, but there didn't seem to be much to say to that. Gilligan didn't sound concerned, or self-pitying; it was simply what had happened. Borya spoke, or at least understood, English.
The Skipper just cleared his throat and turned back to the pit. "Hey, you! You've got to be hungry down there. I'm gonna lower a bucket, okay? You put your guns into it— all your guns— and in exchange I'll lower you down some food and water. Otherwise you can just stay hungry for all I care. Is that a deal?"
The spate of Russian that wafted through the trap door did not sound especially friendly. He turned back to 222. "Well? What did he say?"
222 smirked. "He says that your mother—"
The Skipper scowled. "Yeah, I get the picture," he snapped, cutting him off. "Last chance, Red," he shouted. "You want to play ball, or do you want to rot down there? I'm fine with it either way."
There was a long silence. Then, finally, in English, the Commandant asked, "Gilligan is there, yes? And 222, he is there too?"
"Yeah, my little buddy's here. Who else do you think would have insisted that we feed you lousy Commies? It sure wasn't my idea. Are you going to surrender your weapons or not?"
"Very well. Send down bucket."
They all traded glances, deeply uncertain of the wisdom of this plan, then the Skipper took a deep breath and used a stick to prod the release trigger. The doors swung wide, and he deftly used the stick to prop them open. Some ten feet below them, two very irritated men, more than somewhat disheveled from an afternoon spent failing to set themselves free, glared upwards.
Gilligan tied a length of thin vine to the handle of the bucket. "Hi, Commandant," he said quietly. "Just so you know, this vine isn't strong enough to hold a person, so you can't use it to climb out of there. Put the guns in the bucket, and no one will hurt you, okay?" He looped the vine around his hand for security, then lowered the small pail into the cavern.
Borya, at a nod from his Commandant, and with a scowl fierce enough to take off a layer of skin, slowly removed his pistol from the holster at his waist, and placed it in the bucket. The Commandant drew his own handgun, and looked up at Gilligan's impassive face.
"I am trusting you when you say you will not hurt us," he said. "A very generous offer." He grasped the handle of the bucket as he carefully placed his weapon inside… then jerked the vine as hard as he could.
Gilligan, pulled off balance, fell into the pit with a yelp. Neither of the other two men were fast enough on the uptake to catch him.
The Commandant, quick as a striking snake, snatched back his gun and held it to his prisoner's head. "Now, Captain," he gloated. "You will fetch vine that is strong enough to hold a person, and we will climb out of pit. You will cooperate, or we will kill your man, da?"
The Skipper swallowed hard. "Don't hurt him! We'll get you out."
Stupid, stupid, stupid… what were we thinking? This place— these people— have gotten to me. Mercy has no place in operations such as these… 222 shot the Skipper one quick, anguished look.
The Skipper, looking suddenly old, jerked a length of vine from a nearby tree. "Maybe… maybe if we pull them up and give them back their boat they'll let him go," he mumbled aloud. I had him safe for, what? Two hours? Three? God, God, this isn't fair! Why are You doing this?
"They will not," 222 said bluntly, and grabbed for the vine. "Leave them in pit trap. Otherwise the Commandant will execute us all, merely for having seen his failure. He would have anyway; now he is shamed. Has nothing to lose. Gilligan is already as good as dead; the best you can hope for now is to save the rest of your unit."
"Go to Hell, 222. I promised him that they weren't going to get him a second time, and I meant it," the Skipper snapped. An idea struck him. "Hey, Red!" he shouted again. "I've got your man up here. We'll trade, okay?"
The Commandant laughed. "You mean 222? Keep him! I wish you better luck than I had! Rope! Now!"
The Skipper tied the vine to a convenient tree root and dropped the line into the pit; Borya scrambled up to the surface, and immediately pointed his gun directly at the Skipper, who slowly held up his hands in surrender.
The Commandant climbed up next, his weapon also at the ready. He peered back into the pit. "Up," he ordered Gilligan. "Do not make me shoot your friend."
Gilligan shinnied to the top easily enough, and stood at the edge of the trap, mute, passive, and numb with despair. He didn't even flinch as Borya grabbed him roughly by the shoulder.
222 glanced over. He is finished. He has nothing left to fight with. I must fight for both of us. Can I save these people? Will that atone for having brought this upon them in the first place?
"Now," the Commandant said, and gestured to Borya. "We will return to the submarine. Bring the other one as well."
Borya smirked, and grabbed 222 with his other hand. "Da, Commandant. What of the fat one?"
The Commandant shrugged. "Once these two are safely in the brig, we will capture the rest of them. But the boat will not carry more than four, and this man would take up the space of at least three. Bring these two back, and see to it that they do not escape. They have caused enough trouble; I want them safely under lock and key before anything else goes wrong. I will remain here until you return with reinforcements; I still need to find the pocket knife, and I'm certain that our friend will be helpful."
The Skipper just stood there, the Commandant's gun aimed unerringly between his shoulder blades, and watched as the guard dragged Gilligan—both Gilligans—away, and he almost wished that the Soviet would shoot him and have it over with.
OoOoOoOoO
Borya had not stopped grinning all the way to the beach. The situation spoke to his somewhat less than pleasant sense of humor, and an afternoon spent in a munitions pit had not left him with any feelings of especial warmth towards either of his companions.
"I'm still not sure which of you is which," he said conversationally, in Russian, as the boat left the lagoon. "Interrogating a pair of twins in two different languages is going to be quite difficult. I'm looking forward to the challenge."
222 rolled his eyes. "You needn't sound quite so excited at the prospect," he replied, also in Russian.
"Well, it will be interesting. A change from the usual routine."
"Don't get your hopes up too high. A rib breaking sounds the same in any language," 222 said grimly.
Gilligan ignored the incomprehensible dialogue in favor of taking in what would probably be his last view of the island. It was even more beautiful than ever before, he thought, and he was vaguely glad that he'd had this chance to say goodbye. He'd had the unexpected gift of a few more hours with the Skipper, in freedom, and he held the memories close to his heart, and deliberately refused to think any further than that.
"You always did think yourself the cleverest man in the room, 222," Borya sneered. "Well, now we know the truth, don't we?"
"You're that sure that I'm 222, then?" 222 snorted. "Anyhow, you wouldn't be the cleverest man in the room even if you were in there alone. You can beat me, you can torture me, you can kill me, and it still won't change the fact that I am an agent and you are a uniformed thug."
"You were an agent. What are you now?"
222 grinned, showing far too many teeth, and snatched Borya's pistol from its holster. "Armed!" he said.
