Counterforce

Chapter Four

Approximately 3,400 miles to the southeast of the Siberian city of Petropavlovsk is the Hawaiian island of Oahu. Like the Soviet city, Oahu gained its primary importance by being home to a huge naval complex.

The installation at Pearl Harbor was home port to not only dozens of American surface ships, but also served as headquarters for the Third Fleet’s Pacificbased submarines. It was to this spot that the attack sub Triton was called to after completing its patrol in the North Pacific.

The morning dawned hot and clear as Captain Michael Cooksey left his command and climbed into the passenger seat of a waiting jeep, parked at the end of the gangplank. Though the Triton had arrived there almost twenty-four hours ago, this was the first time that Cooksey had been topside. Invigorated by the fresh, tropical air, he greeted his driver, then sat back for the short ride to Admiral Miller’s office.

Cooksey was surprised when the orders inviting him to see the admiral had been received aboard the Triton the previous evening. Usually his superiors waited for his final report to be filed before debriefing him. So far, he had only released his preliminary observations of the patrol just completed. Not knowing what was in store, he yawned and took in the passing scenery.

The port area was alive with activity as they crossed its width and began their way up the long, winding roadway that led to the headquarters complex.

Thankful for the driver’s silence, Cooksey used this time to put the events of the last few days into proper perspective.

Except for the failure to catch up with the suspected Soviet attack sub, the patrol had been a great success.

There were no significant equipment difficulties to speak of. Even their interception of the carrier task force had gone as planned.

On a personal level, all that Cooksey could complain about was his continuing problem in getting some decent shut-eye. Since arriving from Midway, Cooksey doubted he had slept more than an hour or two. As usual, when he tried he just lay stiffly in his bunk, his mind going a mile a minute. He knew that he couldn’t begin to count the cups of coffee that he had consumed on the way in.

Any irritability on his part was apparently not noticeable to the crew.

His conversations with them were brief and to the point, and focused entirely on their immediate duty. As it worked out, the officer he usually had the closest contact with was consumed by worries of his own. For the last few days, his XO had been a bundle of raw nerves.

Concerned with the health of his wife, who was due to deliver their first child any moment now, Richard Craig had but one thing on his mind. Fortunately, for the safety of all of them, the exec had been able to sufficiently carry out his varied duties. Of course, he had been the first one off the Triton, having learned that Susan had been shuttled off to the base hospital that morning.

Covering up another yawn, Cooksey looked on as they passed through a dual column of majestic coconut palms. The sun felt good on his face, and gradually his inner tension dissipated. His eyes were even beginning to nod shut, when the jeep abruptly braked to a halt. Cooksey fumbled for his I.D. card, so that the alert marine guard would allow them into the command complex that he stood before. The captain’s name was noted on a log, and only then were they allowed to proceed.

Headquarters for the Third Fleet was located in a large, three-story, white-brick building. Situated on the summit of a lofty hillside, this location allowed for an excellent view of the port facilities below. As they approached the structure’s entrance, Cooksey noticed a wide assortment of differently shaped antennas jutting forth from the tiled roof. Interspersed between these aerials were a pair of massive satellite dishes.

Since communications are the eyes and ears of command, Cooksey was aware of the importance of these amazingly accurate and powerful relay systems. The jeep came to a halt behind a shiny black limousine, with plates identifying it as belonging to the Defense Department. Politely, the driver informed Cooksey that he would be waiting to convey the captain back to his sub. Cooksey thanked the lad, exited the jeep, and made his way inside.

The office of Admiral Broderick Miller was located on the third floor. Although Cooksey had only been called there a handful of times, he didn’t need to ask directions to get to the proper door. Taking a second to straighten his uniform, the blonde-haired captain sucked in a deep, calming breath, exhaled slowly and entered.

A good-looking Hawaiian sat behind the reception desk, deeply immersed in the letter she had been typing. Cooksey remembered her from his last visit.

The young woman was so wrapped up in her work that he had to clear his throat loudly to get her attention.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted with a start.

“Captain Cooksey, I’m afraid you caught me in memo land I’m Lisa, and you’re certainly right on time. Can I get you some coffee before you go in to see The Boss?”

“Why, thanks. Lisa, that would be great,” Cooksey responded.

“Black is just fine.”

As she rose, he couldn’t help but appreciate her tall, thin figure, and waist-long flowing black hair. It had been much too long since he had seen a woman like this … much too long.

When Lisa turned with his coffee in hand, she caught the captain’s stare of inspection and smiled.

Shyly, Cooksey diverted his glance while taking the enamel mug from her steady hand.

“The Admiral said to show you in as soon as you arrived. Captain. Make the most of the good mood you’ll be finding him in. Seems he shot the best round of golf in his life yesterday.”

Aware that she could only coax the barest of smiles from the handsome captain’s face. Lisa beckoned him to follow her. Efficiently, she approached a pair of polished walnut doors set in the far wall. After knocking on the right side, she turned the handle and signaled Cooksey to enter.

The admiral was on the phone as Cooksey stepped inside. Motioning Cooksey to take a seat, the commanding officer of the Third Fleet continued with his conversation, oblivious to the presence of his newly arrived guest. Two high-backed leather chairs faced the admiral’s desk; and Cooksey chose the one on the left. After seating himself, he examined the office’s interior, while the admiral scribbled a long list of coordinates on a legal pad.

Solid, dark-stained wood furniture and plush red leather predominated.

One wall was covered by a massive bookshelf crammed with thousands of various volumes. A map rack stood beside it. Cooksey was surprised to find that an intricate map of Midway Island was pulled down and clearly visible. A red grease pencil had been used to circle various locations that lay in the waters to the north of the island. On the wall next to the map rack were over a dozen framed photos, which Cooksey knew were the various ships that the admiral had served aboard. Represented here were vessels ranging from fleet oilers to a destroyer, several World War II-style diesel submarines, and a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.

The room’s only window was a massive affair, set immediately behind the desk. This afforded the admiral an excellent view of the port. A shiny brass telescope sat on a tripod beside it. It was said that Miller often used this scope to watch the sailors down below. It was rumored that many a shirker had been reported from this unlikely vantage point. A golf putting machine, complete with balls, a putter and a spongy green, rubberized skirt completed the furnishings.

Cooksey took a sip of his coffee and looked at the man who sat before him. Well into his sixties now, Admiral Broderick Miller still glowed with an abundance of robust energy. Even though his hair had long turned to pure white, this only gave him an additional degree of distinction. With his skin tanned a golden brown, and blue eyes sparkling, the man seemed a perfect picture of health.

It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had been carried off the flaming deck of the carrier Yorktown. For it was during the battle of Midway that the young officer, fresh from the Naval Academy, gained the attention of his superiors. Under the expert guidance of Admiral Spruance, Miller rose quickly in the ranks. Distinguishing himself as a brilliant tactician and competent administrator, he was placed on a variety of ships to accumulate vital experience. This wide range of knowledge served him well in his current post. The admiral’s imploring stare caught that of Michael Cooksey as he silently begged the young officer to have patience. Firmly, he talked into the telephone.

“I understand our time perimeters, Martin, but Friday will be here before we know it. I think it would be best to have all the contingencies thought out well beforehand. A single emergency could have consequences of a most dire nature. Get me that list of the various agencies involved by lunchtime, and by all means get me a copy of that flight plan. I’ve got to know exactly where that plane is the second it takes off from Petropavlovsk. Thanks for all your help with this, Martin.

I’ll be talking with you again shortly.”

With a sigh of relief, the admiral hung up the receiver, shook his head and addressed his visitor.

“Sorry about that, Michael. You know how much I enjoy inter-agency squabbling. That was Martin Lawrence over at State. Unbelievable as it may seem, they want the Third to help monitor the advance of Rodin’s plane when it takes off for L.A. on Friday. As if that’s all we’ve got to do.”

Pushing his chair back, he swiveled around to take a look outside, while stretching out his cramped, long limbs. This movement seemed to lighten his mood considerably.

“By the way Captain, welcome back home.”

“Thanks, Admiral. Is this summit really as serious as it sounds? We just learned of it while we were pulling in yesterday.”

“That’s right, you were out to sea when President Palmer issued the invitation. You wouldn’t believe how quickly this whole thing came down. Sure not like the old days.”

“Do you think that it’s going to make a difference?” Cooksey asked carefully.

The admiral looked him straight in the eye.

“Not as long as they’ve got vessels like that Alfa pulling hotshot stunts — like the one that you chanced upon at Point Luck. Damned if that kind of thing doesn’t get me infuriated!”

“Well, you should have been there watching it all come down,” Cooksey said.

“The scary thing about it is that they could have done pretty much whatever they wanted with our surface ships, or, for that matter, with the Triton.”

Broderick Miller’s response flowed gravely.

“I’ve read your preliminary, Michael. I can imagine how frustrating it must have been not even having a weapons system capable of running down the bastard.

By the way, we’ve got a definite on that particular bogey. Big Bird had a clean shot of Petropavlovsk when she came waltzing in with a Delta III on her tail. SOS US confirms that this Alfa and the vessel you went after are the same.”

“I can’t believe that the President is even bothering to waste his breath with the Soviets,” Cooksey said.

“Doesn’t he know what’s going on out there?”

“Well, we certainly send him the reports. Of course, you never know who reads them. I’m still of the opinion that if you’ve got a chance to open up a dialogue between two new leaders, you’ve got to do so.

Who knows? They might just hit upon something to stop this foolishness. In the meantime, we’re going to keep on doing our jobs the best we know how. That was a mighty fine intercept on the carrier task force, Michael. Before that Alfa showed up, our ships didn’t have any idea that you were even out there.”

Cooksey blushed a bit at the unexpected compliment.

“Thanks, Admiral. I’m working with one hell of a fine crew, and our equipment sure can’t be faulted.”

Broderick Miller stirred anxiously.

“Speaking of equipment — how would you like a torpedo that would give the Triton an ASW range of 300 miles?”

“That would depend on which science-fiction book I was reading,” Cooksey said with obvious disbelief.

“That was my exact response when I first heard of the weapon this spring. I didn’t believe the lab people until I read a report of the successful testing of just such a system four weeks ago.

“It’s called ASW/SOW, for Anti-Sub Warfare Stand-Off Weapon. Basically, it’s a Tomahawk-family cruise missile that can be fired from a torpedo tube.

With a range of up to 300 miles, the missile would then drop a Remotely-Guided Autonomous Lightweight torpedo, or REGAL, by parachute.

When REGAL hits the water, an acoustic array containing a small computer and a sonar transmitter separates and sinks to a pre-set depth. Meanwhile, the torpedo begins propelling itself in a slow search pattern, awaiting a signal from the sonar array to trigger its advanced-capability motor and run the target through.”

Cooksey shook his head in admiration.

“I’d say that such a system sounds too good to be true.”

The admiral beamed.

“Well, believe it or not, two of the prototype ASW/SOW units will be loaded into the Triton tomorrow morning. Though still officially an experimental system, I’d say that the Alfa, or whatever else the Soviets may throw at us, has finally met its match.”

Expecting a bit more emotion from Cooksey, the admiral watched him stifle a wide yawn.

“Are you all right, Michael? You look a bit tired.”

Fighting to restimulate himself, Cooksey silently cursed the admiral’s awareness.

“I’m feeling fine, Admiral. Guess I could have allowed myself a couple of additional hours of shut-eye last night.”

“It’s more than that,” added the hawk-eyed sailor.

“You seem tense. Not at all like the old Michael Cooksey I used to know. What are your plans for your two-week leave coming up?”

Cooksey shrugged his shoulders.

“I really didn’t have anything set. Just thought I’d hang out around Honolulu.”

“If I remember right, you were quite a golfer in your college days.

When’s the last time you took some time out to hit the old ball around?”

Cooksey had to think a minute before answering.

“I don’t know, I guess it’s been around five years.”

“Five years! No wonder you look a bit peaked. Old Doc Miller here has the perfect prescription for charging up that sagging system of yours.

Betty and I keep a little place near Princeville, on the northern shore of Kauai. Next door, there’s one of the prettiest 36-hole courses that you ever set eyes on. It my memory serves me right, the place is vacant at the moment. You’re most welcome to make it your home for the next two weeks.”

“It sounds inviting. Admiral,” Cooksey said cautiously.

“But if the Triton is going to be fitted with a new weapons system, I’d better be around for the installation.”

“Let your exec handle it,” retorted Miller.

“I’m afraid that I couldn’t ask that of my XO at the moment, sir. As it looks now. Lieutenant Commander Craig is going to be spending the week in the maternity ward.”

The admiral thought a few seconds before responding.

“Is Chief Bartkowski still aboard the Triton?”

Catching Cooksey’s affirmative nod, he continued.

“With all of that man’s experience, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about. Captain. Old Bartkowski can Handle those new missiles just fine.”

Still conscious of Cooksey’s blase demeanor, Broderick Miller knew that the young officer needed a break to refresh himself. Standing, he decided to play his trump card.

“I wasn’t supposed to be letting this out so soon, Michael, but chances are excellent that the Triton will be getting its second consecutive battle-efficiency award. You’re earned a rest, son, now take it.”

Pleasantly surprised by this revelation, Cooksey broke into a warm, satisfied grin. Such awards were all that he and his crew worked for.

Their first citation was reason enough for celebration. For them to get two in a row was incredible. Relieved that a lifetime’s goal had been more than achieved, he decided that he deserved to give himself a real vacation.

Standing, he accepted the admiral’s invitation with a smile and a handshake. Who knew — perhaps he’d even be able to get some proper sleep once again.

Twenty-four hours later, Cooksey found himself landing at Kauai’s Lihue Airport. Following Admiral Miller’s advice, he rented a jeep and was soon barreling along Highway 56 toward the northern edge of the island.

Happy to be behind the wheel again, he steered cautiously up the narrow roadway.

The scenery was magnificent, with the crashing Pacific on his right and endless acres of verdant tropical growth to his left. Though the sun had been out in all its glory at Lihue, as he passed through Kilauea the sky clouded up. Minutes later, he was in the midst of a torrential downpour. Just as he thought that he may have to pull off onto the shoulder to let this storm vent itself, the rain stopped, the clouds parted, and blue skies again prevailed. Such cloudbursts were to be expected, for less than ten miles inland was Mount Kawaikini, the wettest known spot on earth.

The jeep’s windshield was barely dry by the time he reached the Princeville exit. It didn’t take him long to spot the condo in which he would be staying. It was set high on top of a green volcanic bluff, beside the eastern edge of Hanalei Bay. Again he followed the admiral’s directions and found the signs that pointed towards the Princeville golf course. Directly opposite the entrance to the club was a private asphalt road, protected by a closed steel barricade.

Utilizing his heavy-plastic card key, Cooksey opened the security gate and began his way up the mountainside.

The condo development was comprised of two dozen individual units. Each was two stories high, designed simply from dark-stained native wood.

The Millers’ place occupied the northern edge of the grounds. This gave him a spectacular view of Hanalei Bay in the front, and a panoramic landscape of lush, tropical mountains behind them. As he parked the jeep, Cooksey could just make out one of the golf course fairways visible down below; a single cart could be seen innocently crossing its length. Anxiously, he switched off the ignition and unloaded his two bags.

The first thing that Cooksey noticed as he proceeded inside was the utter quiet. The second was the moist, heavy floral scent that totally permeated the air.

The interior of the unit was decorated almost completely with rattan furniture. Huge picture windows dominated the walla, producing a light, airy atmosphere. All he would need now were groceries, and he could pass the two weeks quite comfortably.

A set of golf clubs sat in the hall closet as promised.

Since it was still early, Cooksey could think of no better way to spend this first day on leave than to check out this course that the admiral constantly bragged about.

Noon found him at the club’s pro shop, signing up for his first round of golf in five years. The metallic clatter of his spikes brought back many pleasant memories, for this was a sport he had enjoyed since childhood. Known as a promising amateur, he had won dozens of trophies during his junior high and high school years. College brought his game to a new plateau when he was named captain of the Citadel’s excellent golf team. Always one who thrived on competition, there was even a time when he had toyed with the idea of turning professional, until his naval obligation diverted his talents elsewhere.

Two decades of service, and Cooksey could count the rounds of golf he had played during that time on one hand. He supposed this was due to the fact that his trusty clubs were packed up in his parents basement back in Richmond, Virginia. Yet, he knew that was a poor excuse. The cold truth was that he just didn’t allow himself any time for game-playing.

A long-absent surge of excitement possessed him as he introduced himself to the pro and paid his greens fee. As it turned out, there was another single waiting to go and, with Cooksey’s consent, a twosome was formed.

His partner was a likeable, bald-headed pediatrician from St. Louis, Missouri. Drawn to Kauai for his honeymoon, this afternoon’s game was his first venture away from his new bride. It did Cooksey good to talk with someone not in the service. Introductions were exchanged, their cart was loaded, and by the time the sun was straight overhead they had climbed onto the first tee.

With a bit of apprehension, Cooksey tightened his glove and pulled out the number one wood. The hole was a beauty. It was a par four and appeared extremely unforgiving. The drive would have to carry up a narrow fairway that was flanked by a lake on the right and a sheer, 400-foot drop-off on the left. The doctor hit first and promptly smacked a 200-yard-plus drive straight down the center. After attempting a few practice swings, Cooksey approached his ball.

Concentrating on an easy, smooth swing, he hit a sizzler that more than matched his opponent’s. A grin of selfsatisfaction painted his face as he climbed into the cart and began mentally preparing for the next shot.

Four-and-a-half hours later, the twosome was making a golf date for the next morning as they walked off the eighteenth green. Though his game could certainly use some sharpening, Cooksey had come within three strokes of matching the doctor’s par round. True to the admiral’s words, the course had been one of the most beautiful and challenging he had ever played.

Rolling hills, volcanic promontories, adjoining pineapple fields and thick forests of Cooke pine trees made it a visual paradise. For the first time in months, an entire afternoon had gone by without Cooksey being aware of the passing minutes. Concentration on his game allowed his ponderings to remain far distant from the Triton and his duties.

The doctor had a great sense of humor, and wasn’t a bit inquisitive as to what Cooksey did in the navy. Instead, he chronicled his honeymoon, told various golf tales and gave the captain a comprehensive lesson in the horrors of rising malpractice insurance.

Cooksey decided to drive into town and pick up some groceries before returning to the condo. A nice, thick T-bone steak sure sounded like it would do the trick for the evening. Happy to have a healthy appetite, he made a mental list of the supplies he would need. A walk after dinner would be nice, and then he could settle down with that Ed Beach novel he had been wanting to read for so long. And then — a sound night’s sleep. Grateful to have taken the admiral’s advice, Cooksey could already feel the tension draining from him. He’d be his old self in no time.

Throwing the jeep into second gear, he initiated the long, steep grade into Princeville.

Cooksey’s round the next morning was a nightmare.

It was at the third hole that his nasty slice reappeared.

Six holes later, he was forced to make his way over to the pro shop to replace the dozen balls he had already lost. By the time they reached the fifteenth tee his swing was back in control, but it was much too late to catch the doctor’s lead. Beaten by a whopping seventeen strokes, Cooksey humbly said farewell to his partner, who was returning to the mainland in the morning.

That same night, he was searching the condo for a spike wrench, when he chanced upon a full set of camping gear stashed in a closet. Stored in a blue nylon backpack, the equipment included a sleeping bag, propane stove, canteen, and a myriad of other utensils necessary for a comfortable overnight stay in the wilderness. Supposing that this gear belonged to the admiral’s son, Cooksey didn’t give it too much thought — until he uncovered a small booklet that lay beneath the toolbox. Entitled Hiking in Kauai, it described a variety of excellent hikes into the interior of the scenic island. In college, backpacking had been another of his favorite after-school activities. Weekend treks into the Appalachians were followed by excursions into the Ozarks and Colorado, and even included a week spent roughing it in the mountains north of Banff. Just as exciting as the trips themselves was the time spent preparing for them. This included many hours devoted to devouring guide books like the one he had just uncovered. On a whim, he took it into the kitchen and began reading it over dinner.

One particular hike looked most interesting. Coincidentally, it was the only trip of the dozen offered that was underscored in red by the manual’s owner.

The 10.8 mile trail from Kee Beech to Kalalau was said to be the most spectacular overnight excursion in all the Hawaiian Islands. The trail started where Kauai’s main road. Route 56, ended. That was only seven miles from Cooksey’s current location, outside the tiny village of Haena. Accessible only to backpackers, the Kalalau Trail offered verdant valleys, magnificent waterfalls, thick woods of mango, fern and guava, and vistas of the uninhabited north coast that were supposedly unequaled.

Certain that the Millers wouldn’t mind if he put this gear to use, Cooksey lugged it into the living room and began making a complete inventory. All that was lacking was a proper food supply. Aware that the store at Princeville had a complete line of lightweight, dehydrated and freeze-dried foods, he decided to visit them first thing in the morning and to bring the gear along with him.

That night, for the first time in months, he slept a sound eight hours.

Waking fresh and rested, he made himself a hearty breakfast, crammed enough clothing into the pack to last two days and took off to buy groceries. By 10:00 a.m. he was parked in the lot where Highway 56 ended. Per the recommendation of the guidebook, which he brought along, Cooksey left the jeep unlocked. Local thieves were known to smash a hiker’s windows just to check the contents of a closed glove compartment.

The weather was so mild that he stripped off his T-shirt, leaving himself dressed only in khaki shorts and Reebok sneakers. With barely a grunt, he loaded the thirty-five-pound pack onto his back and took off for Kee Beach. Since the trail here was well marked and easy to follow, he spent the first eighth of a mile adjusting his stride to the additional weight. Once that was accomplished, he was able to pick up some speed.

The rudiments of hiking, like golf, are not easily forgotten. Taking care to place his step firmly and not jeopardize his balance, Cooksey soon established a comfortable pace. He couldn’t help but feel the alien pressure on his legs and back as the footpath began sloping upward. He knew that he was facing a steep, one-mile climb. To avoid over exertion he decided to stop approximately every quarter mile to catch his breath and enjoy the scenery.

He took his first rest at a spot where the trail was shaded by a grove of large Kukui trees. Cooksey was able to identify the plant, as well as many other native species, by once again referring to the manual. It was in this manner that he learned that leis were made from Kukui nuts.

Its oil could also be burned for light, while its trunk could be hollowed out into an excellent canoe. In the same grove he also located a patch of yellow, lemon-sized sweet guava and the colorful purple plumes of the wild orchid.

A flock of white frigate birds soared up above, and Cooksey looked out to the surging Pacific. How different this view of the sea was from what he experienced six months out of every year. As an explorer of its depths, he almost felt as if the rippling surface belonged to another element altogether.

Happy to have his present, solid vantage point, he took one last look at Kee Beach and the Haena Reefs beyond, then turned and continued upward.

It took him a little over an hour to reach this portion of the trail’s summit. A thick band of sweat covered his forehead as he peered down into the lush valley that he would presently be penetrating. Here he spotted the plant called the hala. Jokingly referred to as the “tourist pineapple” because of its similar shape to the popular fruit, the hala had a value all its own.

Not only were its leaves used for weaving baskets, mats and hats, but its trunk served as an effective pipe to drain the taro fields.

Cooksey’s one-mile journey into the Hanakapiai Valley went much more quickly. It was several degrees cooler down there, as the trail snaked beside a tumbling stream resplendent with stately mango trees, guava and huge Hawaiian tree ferns. A crimson bodied apapane fluttered its jet-black feathers and lowered its curved, gray bill. Two white-tailed tropic birds sat serenely on a mango branch, their sixteen inch snowy tail feathers streaming in a gentle breeze.

Conscious of the surrounding paradise, Cooksey unloaded his pack.

Before grabbing something to eat, he took a dip in the nearby stream.

The water was clear and warm. Close by, a small waterfall cascaded down into a deep, blue pool. Here, for the first time during his hike, he saw another human being.

Floating on her back at the edge of the pool was a young woman.

Oblivious to the voyeur watching from above, she lay completely naked.

Cooksey could make out a tall, thin frame, bronzed by hours in the tropical sun. From her coloring and features he sensed that she was most likely a native Hawaiian. A wave of long absent longing rose in his loins and Cooksey guiltily backed away. He had decided long ago that it would be much safer to stay as far away from the female species as possible. He wasn’t about to break his promise now.

After picking out a packet of trail mix, he reloaded his gear and began the four-mile trek to Hanakoa.

Steep switchbacks dominated the route for a mile as he climbed out of the Hanakapiai Valley. Fortunately, the sun was still at his back and the cooling trade winds helped temper his exertions. The trail gradually narrowed and soon followed a most precipitous slope.

It was on such a path that he entered the thickly foliated Hoolulu Valley. Again the temperature dropped as he crossed through forests of fern, kukui, guava, koa and hala trees. Morning glories and mountain orchids splashed the scene with color as thick bushes of tithe plant out of which hula skirts were made, pushed up in every available open space.

The adjoining valley, the Waiahuakua, was a much broader one. Here he sampled a crisp, juicy mountain apple. Cooksey also sighted his first strawberry, coffee and ginger plants.

At the five-and-a-half-mile marker, he got his first view of the Hanakoa Valley. This broad, terraced depression would be his last reference point until he reached Kalalau Beach. Here he received his first soaking, as a quick-forming tropical downpour drenched him with several inches of cool rainwater in a matter of minutes. Refreshed, he initiated the strenuous, three-hour hike to his goal, 4.8 miles distant.

The character of the landscape changed drastically in the miles that followed. It was much drier, and as the path turned westward, a completely new assortment of vegetation was evident. Desertlike sisal and pink-blossomed lantana shared the banks of the barely trickling streams with dozens of foraging feral goats. The earth was reddish, as if scorched by the fiery sun itself.

There was the distant, muted sound of human voices, and Cooksey caught sight of its source. When he did so, he had to look twice, for approaching him on the trail was a family of backpackers — long-haired father, mother and a ten-year-old son. What caught Cooksey’s attention was the fact that each of them was completely naked! He tried not to look so obviously shocked as they passed him displaying broad grins and flashing V-shaped peace signs with their hands.

Not knowing what could possibly lay around the next corner, he continued on without complaint.

Twice he had to take long drafts from his canteen before the trail again turned toward the cooling ocean.

Here he was afforded a breathtaking view of Kauai’s ruggedly beautiful northwestern coastline. This sight alone was well worth his arduous journey. With the sun gradually falling toward the western horizon, the sharp cliffs and rounded valleys stretched out in a seemingly endless, misty procession. This was the type of scene that belonged on a master’s canvas, and Cooksey felt humbled in the presence of such raw, natural beauty.

There could be no denying the rapidly passing hour and the tightness gathering in the calves of his legs. It was time to reach his destination and begin setting up camp. Before long the trail began snaking its way down a narrow ridge and Cooksey got his first look at Kalalau. Nearly two miles wide and three miles long, the valley beckoned invitingly. A good-sized stream could be seen smashing its way toward an unspoiled, spotlessly white beach. Like a pilgrim called home from a decade of wandering, he pushed on to this final goal.

It was well into dusk by the time a proper campsite was set up. In order to deflect the incessant wind blowing off the ocean, he chose a site on the opposite side of the remnants of a solid, six-foot-square volcanic stone wall. He barely had time to unload his gear and begin work on dinner before the waning light gave way to total darkness.

Seated on the soft white sand, with his back propped up against the wall, Cooksey gobbled down a meal of chicken, carrots and rice that proved to be quite good for dehydrated food. With the pounding surf surging behind him, he topped off his repast with a dessert of fresh, ripe mango, picked from a nearby grove. With his hunger now temporarily appeased, he stretched out his sore limbs and contemplated the day’s activities.

The hike had progressed way beyond his expectations.

Bountiful vistas, unlike any he had ever dreamt of, seemingly lay around every corner. Added to this were rarely seen plants and animal life, which could be appreciated in a clean, fresh setting with hints of man few and far between.

Cooksey had forgotten how much his privacy meant to him. Being surrounded by his crewmates, twenty four hours a day for months on end, afforded him little time for personal contemplation. Though he had left Pearl only three days ago, it felt like weeks. So much new stimuli had been generated during this brief time that his past worries were but hazy shadows of a distant life.

Gazing up into the crystal clear, blue-black heavens, he issued a brief prayer of thanks. With practiced ease, he identified the great box of Pegasus and followed the tail of Pisces to Aquarius’s urn. A shooting star shot through Capricorn and triggered Cooksey’s imagination.

What had been the prayers of the ancient mariners who had landed on this island thousands of years ago? What had their thoughts been as they looked up into the nighttime heavens to contemplate the wonders of the universe?

The hiker’s guidebook had mentioned that Kalalau Beach was one of the first inhabited sites in Hawaii.

Here the original Polynesians had built a massive heiau, or temple, where they worshipped the magical menehunes. For all Michael knew, the wall that he was presently leaning against could be a remnant of such a structure.

A sharp “wolf whistle” pierced the darkness, and Cooksey stirred to the cry of the elepaio bird. Its alien, raspy call was soon swallowed by the hypnotizing sound of the pounding surf. Lulled by this song, he slipped into his double-wide sleeping bag and drifted off into a deep slumber.

Sometime before dawn, Cooksey was possessed by a vision whose source balanced on the thin line between dream and reality. It began with the sound of crackling underbrush waking him. He directed his weary eyes to locate the creature responsible for the disturbance.

Softly lit by the glow of the stars, he saw a tall, thin, familiar figure break from the stand of coconut palms. Only when this wraithlike vision calmly entered his campsite did he identify it as the girl he had seen floating in the jungle pool that afternoon. She was still completely naked. He couldn’t help admiring her long, silky black hair, pert, dark-nippled breasts, flat stomach and slender legs.

His loins ached, and this time he didn’t look away as she smiled and continued on toward him.

With his heart beating wildly, Cooksey reached out and guided his phantom lover into the sleeping bag.

Afterward, he would never forget the hot, smooth feel of her skin and the sweet, floral scent that permeated her every pore. The only greeting was a silent communication that emanated from her almond-shaped eyes as she expertly peeled off Cooksey’s sciwies and positioned herself on top of him. Without a word, he responded to her urgent touch. Her soft lips merged with his as he penetrated her hot depths.

Time came to a standstill. The only thing that mattered was prolonging the pleasure that her touch induced. Thrusting his manhood into her with short, quick strokes, he felt like the hull of a ship plunging through a surging sea.

Nor did it matter when he realized that an unknown number of tiny, dark-skinned figures had totally surrounded them. Again it proved to be the light of the stars that illuminated these wild-eyed miniature humans dressed in shiny grass skirts. Fear and shame were far from Cooksey’s mind, for these Lilliputian visitors seemed to sanctify his frantic coupling.

The hint of rising seed increased the rhythm of his thrusts. Unable to hold himself back, he succumbed to a heart-stopping climax. Sleep again clouded his mind, and the last thing he remembered was his lover covering him with a lei of purple orchids. As the first hint of dawn colored the eastern sky, he slipped off into a dreamless slumber, his lips sealed in a satisfied smile.

He awoke to the warming rays of the morning sun.

The night’s vibrant vision still painted his consciousness with pleasure, but soon the images began to fade.

Groggily, he sat up and desperately attempted to hold on to the blissful recollections. Try as he could, his attempts failed. Unable to recall the dream’s exact progression, he only remembered that something about it was all too real. It was only then that he turned and laid eyes on the volcanic stone wall that formed his camp’s northern perimeter. Etched on this surface were a number of intricate petroglyphs, recognizable now by the light of the sun. The tiny, grass-skirted natives represented in this ancient drawing filled him with a familiar warmth. Looking down to the base of the wall, he spotted a pile of fresh orchid petals, painting a vibrant purple swatch on the pale white sand. Upon seeing this, a vision rose in his mind’s eye.

The tall, thin, brownskinned native had come to him in the night with a single message. The events of the last few days made this lesson obvious. He had been taking his career much too seriously. In the process, he had failed to take the time to rediscover his real self.

Above all, he had to learn to trust his instincts. There was certainly nothing shameful in experiencing self-pleasure. Life without it would be cold and dry. Revisualizing the exotic ghost who had brought him the key to this secret, Cooksey rose to take a swim and then continue his day’s explorations in earnest.