too high in the sky, totally unlike anything he had experienced in Alaska.
He could hear the sound of surf off to his left. Surf usually meant land
of some kind, so that was as good a direction as any. Besides, the fog
seemed to be marginally thinner that way.
Major Michael Francis Xavier Gilligan began paddling grimly toward the
sound of the waves.
Twenty-six: GILLIGAN’S ISLAND
Gilligan saw the land almost as soon as he broke out of the fog bank. One
minute he was paddling along surrounded by whiteness and the next he was
out under sunny skies with only an occasional puff of fleecy white clouds.
Behind him the fog looked like a wall.
Ahead of him he could see a shore fringed with trees, and hills behind.
Between him and that shore waves beat on a reef, making the noise that had
drawn him here.
Gilligan studied the situation as best he could sitting in his raft.
Fortunately the current wasn’t strong here and the tide was high. He
thought about trying to find a channel, but he decided that would cost him
more energy than he could afford. So he picked the best-looking spot and
paddled toward it.
It took perhaps an hour for Gilligan to negotiate the reef and another
forty-five minutes or so to cross the lagoon behind it. As he crossed the
lagoon, Gilligan had a chance to admire “his” island. It was worth
admiring, he had to admit. The black sand beach was smooth and unmarred.
The trees behind it were tall and tropic green. The place looked like a
travel poster.
A travel poster for a deserted island, he thought. There was no sign of
footprints, tire tracks, roads or trails. The detritus along the tide line
included not one beer can, plastic jug or bottle.
Reflexively he scanned the sky for contrails. There were very few places
in the world where you could not see jet tracks in the sky, but apparently
this was one of them. Except for the clouds and the fog on the water
behind him there was nothing in the sky but the bright tropical sun.
Wherever I am, with scenery like this there’s sure to be a Club Med or
something close by.
After pulling his raft up on the beach above the tide line, Gilligan
stripped off his life vest, arctic survival suit and G-suit, stowed his
gear, checked his radios again and started off down the beach. Either this
place was as deserted as it looked or it wasn’t and he stood a better
chance of finding either people or food if he stayed on the beach.
After almost an hour of walking he found nothing to show that the place
was or ever had been inhabited. He had stopped twice to empty the sand out
of his boots. Finally he tied the laces together and slung them around his
neck so he could walk barefoot through the fine black sand.
Crabs skittered across the beach, gulls wheeled over the water and an
occasional brightly colored bird flashed through the trees. But there was
not a single sign of human life.
Damn it, he thought, scanning the sky again. Places like this just don’t
exist anymore. He looked down the long, pristine stretch of beach. And if
they do, I want to retire here!
He had been walking perhaps half a mile barefoot when he found a place
where a boat had pulled up. Not a boat, he corrected, an amphibious
tractor. The signs were clear enough. The place where it had come out of
the water had been washed away by the tide, but he could clearly see where
it had pulled up above the tide line and then the tread marks where it had
churned over the soft sand and in among the trees between the tread marks
was a furrow as if the vehicle had not retracted its rudder. Following the
line he could even see where several branches had been broken off in its
passage.
Gilligan paused and considered. An amphtrack implied military. Even in
backwaters like this civilians didn’t own them. That meant there was an
element of risk in meeting the tractor and its crew. On the other hand,