Peleliu
Mike Stokey lay flat on the sand of Honeymoon Beach, letting a rising tide wash over him while he tried to catch his breath and work a few knots out of his hamstrings. It had been a hell of a long time since he’d had to swim a mile in open sea. The mask and fins Chopper Watkins provided were helpful but the jury-rigged waterproof bags for his sat-phone, field glasses, shotgun and ammo had added tiresome drag to his swim from the Flying Fish, now lying blacked-out just over the horizon.
When his legs felt like they could stand the strain, he low-crawled across the sand to a clump of palmetto and took inventory. His binocs, phone and a borrowed Brunton hiking compass looked dry and functional. A press-check on the phone showed full charge, so he’d be OK for his first sitrep in less
