Hunter's Moon by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online

third made of aluminum and plastic.
    I pictured myself swinging a paddle like a broadsword. Attach a burning flare and I had . . . nothing. They’d shoot me the moment I was in range.
    I had flashlights that might be useful. Not the Maglite junk commonly carried. Some guys buy expensive golf clubs. I buy serious flashlights, and the best lab equipment I can afford. It’s a reaction to dealing with hurricanes and small wars.
    I had three, palm-sized LEDs. One, a high-tech marvel made by Blackhawk, was powerful enough to cause retina damage. It also had a strobe that caused blinding dizziness, according to the literature. Useful, if true.
    I thought about how to work it: Come up from behind with a paddle, then with my unusual flashlight, and then . . . ? Well . . . hope my survival instincts kicked in.
    There was that word again.
    I paddled through pockets of sulfur-warm air, then bubbles of cooler air, the density of mist varying with each advection exchange. For a few minutes, it seemed as if the fog might be lifting. Then, abruptly, three strong strokes sent the canoe gliding into a cloud so thick that I couldn’t see beyond my knees.
    Disorienting. I drifted, expecting visibility to improve. It didn’t.
    There was no visual reference. I took a couple of experimental strokes and it felt as if the canoe veered wildly to the left. I used the paddle as a brake, applying back pressure, but it only magnified the sensation. I tried to touch bottom, couldn’t.
    I sat motionless for a moment, yet it still felt as if the canoe was rotating at the same cauldroning speed as the fog. With a couple of sweep strokes, I attempted to compensate but made it worse. I became more confused.
    I couldn’t see the island; didn’t know its direction. If I’d been flying an airplane, I would have panicked. Instead, I was just peeved at my incompetence. The only choice was to sit patiently until visibility improved.
    I placed the paddle across my knees and reached into the pack for another look at the GPS. That’s when I heard it: the springratchet clatter of someone trying to start a motor. A pull starter with a rope. I heard it again . . . then again.
    A lawn mower makes a similar sound when it’s out of fuel: spark plugs firing into dry cylinders. But this was no lawn mower. It was an outboard . . . probably the outboard motor on the assault team’s rubber boat.
    I couldn’t see the inflatable, but it was no more than a few dozen yards away. The starter cord was being pulled with enough force to create small waves that reached me seconds after the ratcheting sound. I fought the urge to escape blindly into the fog. Instead, I sat immobile. I touched one hand to a paddle . . . then began to search inside my bag with the other, feeling for a flashlight. I found one, put it in my jacket pocket. Found another, then found the lighter, too.
    As I drifted, water molecules moved inside my inner ear, bursting as if carbonated. The silence amplified a nearby exchange: men whispering, strident, frustrated. The language was unfamiliar. Complicated syllabics, vowels harsh, rhythmic. There was a momentary silence . . . then, much closer, I heard the outboard’s starter gear clatter four times in quick succession.
    The motor wouldn’t start.
    I felt a balmy gust of wind. Fog stirred. My canoe pivoted as if under sail. I drifted in silence for several seconds, removed my glasses and cleaned them as I waited. I thought I was staring in the direction of the inflatable when, from behind, I felt something bump the canoe . . . something elastic, springy, no sensation of weight.
    I turned, expecting to discover I’d drifted into mangrove limbs. No. I’d collided with the rubber boat.
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    THE MOON WAS HIGH, SILVER AS AN ARCTIC SUN. ENOUGH light to cast shadows but not enough to reveal detail. I couldn’t see facial expressions but the men in the inflatable had to be stunned. We stared at