Moreland's eyes were furious. "Tom."

"Bill. Hi, Moreland fille. Doctor-and-Robin."

Insinuating himself into the middle of our group, he tightened the knot of his tie. "Pretty nifty, personal aerial escort and all that."

"Not much choice if they want us there," said Moreland.

"Well," said Creedman, "we could swim. You're a strong swimmer, Pam. I saw you today, taking those waves on the North End with Chief Laurent."

Moreland blinked hard and snapped his head toward the water.

"Maybe I should try it one day," said Pam. "What is it, a few knots? Do you swim, Tom?"

"Not if I can avoid it." Creedman chuckled, fished a wood-tipped cigarillo out of his jacket, and lit it with a chrome lighter. Sucking in deeply, he examined the lagoon with a flinty stare and blew smoke through his nose. Foreign correspondent on assignment. I waited for theme music.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said. "After all the enforced segregation, they decide it's party time- at least for the white folk. I see Ben and Dennis weren't included. What do you think, Bill? Is brown skin a disqualifying factor?"

Moreland didn't answer.

Creedman turned to Robin and me. "Maybe it's in your honor. Any Navy connections, Alex?"

"I played with a toy boat in the bathtub when I was five."

"Ha," said Creedman. "Good line."

Pam said, "You don't swim, you don't sun. What do you do all day, Mr. Creedman?"

"Live the good life, work on my book."

"What exactly is it about?"

Creedman tapped his cigarillo and gave a Groucho leer. "If I told you, it would kill the suspense."

"Do you have a publisher?"

His smile flickered. "The best."

"When's it coming out?"

He drew a finger across his lips.

Pam smiled. "That's top secret, too?"

"Has to be," said Creedman, too quickly. The cigarillo tilted and he pulled it out. "The publishing business is vulnerable to leaks. Information superhighway; the commodity is… ephemeral."

"Meaning everyone's out to steal ideas?"

"Meaning billions are invested in the buying and selling of concepts and everyone's looking for the golden idea."

"And you've found it on Aruk?"

Creedman smiled and smoked.

"It's not like that in medicine," she said. "Discover something important, you've got a moral obligation to publicize it."

"How noble," said Creedman. "Then again, you doctors chose your field because you're noble."

Moreland said, "I think it's coming." His finger was up but he was still facing the ocean.

I heard nothing but the waves and bird chirps. Moreland nodded. "Yes, definitely."

Seconds later, a deep tom-tom rumble sounded from the east, growing steadily louder.

A big, dark helicopter appeared over the bluffs, sighted directly over us, hovered, then lowered itself on the road like a giant locust.

Double rotors, bloated body. Sand sprayed and we dropped our heads and cupped our hands over our mouths.

The rotors slowed but didn't stop. A door opened and a drop-ladder snapped down.

Hands beckoned.

We trotted to the craft, eating sand, ears bursting, and climbed into a cabin walled with canvas and plastic and reeking of fuel. Moreland, Pam, and Creedman took the first passenger row and Robin and I settled behind them. Piles of gear and packed parachutes filled the rear storage area. A pair of Navy men sat up front. Half-drawn pleated curtains allowed us a partial view of the backs of their heads and a strip of green-lit panel.

The second officer looked back at us for a moment, then straight ahead. He pointed. The pilot did something and the copter shuddered and rose.

We headed out to sea, hooking southeast and following the coastline. High enough for me to make out the bladelike shape of the island. South Beach was the point of the dagger, our destination the hilt.

The blockade was no more than a paper cut from this height. The mountaintops were a black leather belt, the banyans obscured by burgeoning darkness and the ring of mountains. The copter veered sharply and the east end of the island slid into view.

Concrete shore and choppy water, no trees or sand or reefs. The windward harbor was a generous soupspoon indentation. Natural port. Ships large enough to look significant from these heights were moored there. Some of them moved. Strong waves- I could see the froth, piling up against a massive seawall.

We turned north toward the base: empty stretches of black veined with gray, toy-block assemblages that had to be barracks, some larger buildings.

The copter descended and we touched down perfectly, the trip as brief as an amusement park ride, the blockade's cruel efficiency clearer than ever. The pilot cut the engine and exited without a word. The second officer waited till the rotors had quieted before releasing our door.

We got out and were hit by a blast of humid air, stale and chemically tainted.

"The windward side," said Moreland. "Nothing grows here."

A sailor in a contraption that resembled an oversize golf cart drove us through a sentry post and past the barracks, storehouses, hangars, empty airstrips. Concrete fields crowded with planes and copters and disassembled craft made me think of Harry Amalfi's aerial junkyard. Some of the planes were antiques, others looked new. One sleek passenger jet, in particular, would have done a CEO proud.

The harbor was blocked from view by the seawall, a monstrous thing of the same raw construction as the blockade. Above it, an American flag whipped and snapped like a locker-room towel. I could hear the ocean charging angrily, hitting the concrete with the roar of a gladiator audience.

Looking toward the base's western border, I saw the area where Picker must have gone down. At least half a mile away. Twenty-foot chain-link fencing completed the banyans' prison. Creedman had said the base was run by a skeleton crew, and there were very few sailors on the ground- maybe two dozen, walking, watching.

The golf cart veered across a nearly empty parking lot, through a small drab garden, up to a colonial building, three stories high, white board and brick, green shutters.

HEADQUARTERS

CAPT. ELVIN S. EWING

Next door was a one-story building of the same design. The Officers' Club.

Inside the club was a long walnut hallway- deep red wool carpeting patterned with crossed sabers, brass fixtures. The paneling was lined with roiling seascapes and model ships in glass cases.

Another sailor took us to a waiting room decorated with photo blowups of fighter jets and club chairs. A sailor in dress uniform stood behind a host's lectern. Glass doors opened to a dining room: soft lighting, empty tables, the smell of canned vegetable soup and melted cheese.

The sailors saluted one another, and the first one left without breaking step.

"This way," said the one behind the lectern. Young, with clipped hair and a soft face full of pimples. He took us to an unmarked door. A sign hanging from the knob said Captain Ewing had reserved the room.

Inside were one long table under a hammered-copper chandelier and twenty bright blue chairs. A portrait of the President wearing an uneasy smile greeted us from behind the head chair. Three walls of wood, one blocked by blue drapes.

A new sailor came and took our cocktail order. Two different men brought the drinks.

Creedman sipped his martini and licked his lips. "Nice and dry. Why can't we get vermouth like this in the village, Bill?"

Moreland stared at his tomato juice and shrugged.

"I asked the Trading Post to get me something dry and Italian," said Creedman. "Took a month and what I ended up with was some swill from Malaysia."