Purgatory
Chapter 9 - Escape
"He what …?!" Rathburn hissed out at the man in front of him, the menace in his voice matched by the rage in his eyes.
"Escaped, sir," the burly man cringed, taking a slight step back from his boss who sat behind an office style desk, leaning forward, his hands turning white from their vice-like grasp on its edge.
"How?" his voice was quieter, dripping with contempt.
The man swallowed hard past his adam's apple, sweat breaking out on his brow. Hooking a finger in his collar he tugged at it nervously. "The cell door latch wasn't completely locked," he croaked.
"Who?" Rathburn's gaze was white-hot on the man.
"Ah …," the man paused and looked at the floor, swallowed hard again before looking back up at his boss.
"I think it was me sir," he shuffled his feet back and forth. He continued, nervously, "After I gave him his food one of the guys yelled that a car was coming up the driveway. I ran upstairs to check it out. The people in the car had the wrong address. I think when I left I didn't double check the latch."
"You think!?" Rathburn spat back at the man.
"I'm sorry boss. It won't happen again, I swear!"
Rathburn turned away from the man, staring down, deep in thought. After a few moments his shoulders relaxed, he released is grip on the desk and placed his hands in his lap. He looked back at the nervous man, the hint of a smile on face.
As he spoke his voice was soft and precise, lacking the menace it held just a few seconds before, "I'm sure you're sorry. I know it won't happen again."
The burly man heaved a sigh of relief, raising his hand to wipe his brow.
Rathburn reached under his desktop and quickly jerked his hand back up grasping a Beretta nine millimeter pistol and snapped off a shot. The bullet entered the man's skull through his left eye. His lifeless body collapsed to the concrete floor before his hand had the chance to drop from his forehead.
"Darrow!" Rathburn shouted. Another heavily muscled man stepped inside from the hallway.
"Yeah, boss," he said, nodding at Rathburn, then grimacing at the body on the floor.
"Get someone to clean this up."
"Right away, sir."
"And Darrow …"
"Yes sir?"
"Take Williams and go find Gibbs. He can't have gone far – he's not in any condition to run." Rathburn looked thoughtful for a moment and continued, "Be fast and be discrete! We don't want the satellite images to show a lot of movement. You got that?"
"Yes sir, I'm on it," Darrow said turning to leave and carryout his orders.
Pain seared up through Gibbs' side and into his chest with each shuddering breath, making sure he did not forget his broken rib. With each torturous step he gulped for air and fought the nausea burning its way up his throat. His vision blurred with spikes of stabbing pain behind his forehead causing him to feel light-headed. His pulse pounded in his ears making it hard to hear anything other than his labored breathing. Still, he pushed forward through the forest, every few steps grabbing onto a tree or bush to support his weight and to rest for the briefest of moments. He feared he might pass-out any time, so he struggled to put as much distance between him and the house as he could.
A short time earlier when he had exited through his unlocked cell door he had been surprised at the absence of guards in the hallway. As he climbed the stairs into what he recognized as a kitchen he had heard the sound of men elsewhere in the house. Grabbing onto the kitchen counters for support he clawed his way over to a door opening outside to what must have been the back of the house. Making his way across a small field he had staggered into the tree line, disappearing into the forest bordering the several acres of fields surrounding the house.
His head pounded as he pushed himself forward, wanting to stop – to rest, but knowing that to do so meant certain death at the hands of Rathburn. His aching legs complained at the burden placed upon them, rebelling against him by refusing to lift his feet high enough to escape the grasp of a tree root here and a fallen limb there. With each stumble and fall he stifled a groan of pain as he struggled to regain his feet, each time taking longer to recover and move on. He knew at this pace he would not last long; that Rathburn's men would be on him soon. They must have discovered he had escaped and already started their search. He had to do something soon, but what?
He pushed past a huckleberry bush which mercilessly grabbed his ankle and tripped him. As he sprawled forward he broke through a line of undergrowth, rolling onto hard ground covered by smooth rocks of various sizes, most about the size of a silver dollar. Grimacing in pain for a few moments he slowly opened his eyes and looked around. Behind him was the forest he had just broken out of. In front of him was a long, wide body of water. The ground slopped downward to the water's edge about 40 feet in front of him and he caught the familiar smell of salt water and the bitter tang of exposed seaweed on the larger rocks by the water's edge. The fog in his mind cleared slightly and his surprise muted his pain. He was on a beach. This was salt water and the tide was out.
He looked up and out onto the body of water and stared in disbelief at the sight in front of him. Thinking he must be hallucinating from the pain and lack of sleep he shook his head hard, hoping to force any specter out of his mind and allow him to see clearly.
Refocusing his gaze on the other shore it was still there – a huge, long, black submarine! Not just one submarine, but two submarines tied to a docking facility. And not just any submarines, he recognized these; Trident nuclear ballistic missile submarines. His sniper's skill provided an immediate estimate of the distance to the other side at about 2000 yards. His mind strained against the fatigue and pain as he processed the information. There was only one place on earth with a Trident nuclear sub base like this; the Bangor base on the Hood Canal in Washington State.
For a moment he forgot his pain as a smile formed on his cracked and bloodied lips. This was good. He knew where he was – although for the life of him he had no idea why Rathburn had brought him all the way to the other side country. But knowing his location was a vital piece of information and the more information he had the better his chance of getting out of this alive, albeit a slim chance. Maybe he wouldn't have to take his own life after all. His thoughts raced, calculating his next move.
The canal was too far across to swim - even if he had not been injured - and right now he wouldn't make it 50 yards. The base was too far away to yell for help and if he called out Rathburn's search party would descend on him quickly. He brought his attention from the submarine base back to his immediate situation. His Marine survival training took over now. He surveyed his surroundings, looking for anything he could use. Perhaps he could find a log that would support him like a life preserver as he paddled across the canal – but all the driftwood on the beach was too small. Perhaps he could find something to try and send some type of visual signal - but his searching eyes found nothing to help.
Then he caught a glimpse of something about 50 yards down the beach, at the edge of where the beach met the forest. It was an aluminum boat, about 10 feet long, with a small, black outboard motor on the back. Maybe that was his answer.
Covering the distance to the boat renewed the pain in every part of his body and he felt noticeably weaker than he had earlier. His time was running out and soon he would drop from exhaustion, ensuring his pursuers would eventually find him. As he approached the boat he heard voices calling out to each other back in the forest. They sounded familiar, probably some of the men charged with guarding him. Rathburn had definitely mounted a retrieval party and they were getting close, easily following his trail of crushed bushes and disturbed ground cover. He wouldn't be able to get the boat in the water and out of range of their weapons in time.
Stepping up to the boat his mind frantically searched for something, anything he could use to increase his chance of survival. He only had minutes left before the men followed his trail to the beach and found him. Looking down into the small boat he surveyed the contents. Life jacket, paddle, one fishing pole, one small tackle box, a coil of rope, a can of paint and a paint brush, and a gas can for the motor. The aluminum boat had wooden seats in it, like a canoe, and the back seat by the motor had a fresh coat of paint, obviously from the can of paint sitting on the boat's floor. He surmised that the boat probably belonged to someone who lived locally and this was their spot for the boat when they pulled it out of the water in between uses.
Voices wafted through the air, landing on his ears again. They sounded closer. He was almost out of time. He turned and looked back across the canal at the submarine base just a mile away, but it might as well have been a light year away for all the good it would do him.
Suddenly he snapped his head back around to the boat. His brows came together and the creases in his forehead grew deeper as he thought hard about the idea crystalizing in his brain. It might work. Yes, it might just work. It was a long-shot, but the only shot he had right now. He had to work fast.
He reached down and grabbed the can of paint and the small, stiff brush. He threw open the tackle box and found a small knife, using it to pry the top off the can. His movements were fast and focused, although somewhat uncoordinated due to his fatigue and pain, but he had to do this quickly. He dipped the brush into the can several times as he scrawled onto the center, wooden seat of the boat.
Finishing, he dropped the paint can on the rocks by his feet and walked around to the back of the boat by the motor and started to pull the small boat backwards over the rocks and down the beach toward the water's edge. Every muscle burned, every fiber of his body ached and his breathing was shallow and rasping as he struggled, inch by inch, to pull the boat to the shoreline. He almost passed out and had to stop momentarily to steady himself on the side of the boat and allow the dizziness to pass. He continued dragging the boat down the beach, gritting through the pain until, at last, the boat was in the water.
He pulled the boat out, walking into the water up to his waist. Pausing for a moment he listened and heard the men's voices. Only moments separated him from his pursuers. He tilted the outboard motor down into the water and reached to the side to push the gas primer pump button, once, twice, three times. Praying the motor would cooperate and start he pulled the starter rope. The engine sputtered and choked, but failed to kick-in. The effort had almost exhausted him. He wasn't sure he had another pull in him. Bracing himself he took one deep, painful breath and pulled the rope again. The engine coughed to life.
He quickly turned the motor so it would push the boat out across the canal on a vector just a little north of the submarine base. He knew the men must have heard the outboard motor by now and they would surely head straight toward the sound and find him on the beach. He sloshed back up onto the shore and collapsed on the rocks.
Pain and exhaustion pushed at his consciousness, encroaching upon it, trying to dissolve it and take it away. The two gloating faces looming over him were the last things he saw before the blackness overtook him.
###
