Date: Fri, 28 Jul 2017 17:55:00 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Shark Reef 12

Please see original story
(www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/shark-reef/) for warnings and
copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex
between adult men. Go away if any of that is against your local
rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but
flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

NOTE: In this chapter, I use some real names in an utterly-fictional
way. The Gov-Gen and Prime Minister of the Solomon Islands and a couple of
famous actors DO NOT (as far as I know) have anything to do with ANY gay
porn story, and certainly not this one.

*****

I smiled slyly. "I hope this sounds as good in my head tomorrow when the
hash wears off, but I just had a very interesting idea about that." We
cuddled and cooed together without actual sex until we both drifted off.

*****

Shark Reef 12: Happily Ever Aftering

By Bear Pup

*****

It was perhaps two hours after full-dark when we were jolted awake by a
bullhorn: THIS IS THE RSIPV LATA CALLING MISTERS CANTRELL AND DOYLE. IF YOU
CAN HEAR THIS MESSAGE, TURN THE CONTACT RADIO TO CHANNEL SIX. REPEAT: TURN
THE CONTACT RADIO TO CHANNEL SIX.

Since they'd scared us half to death, we had a spot of trouble getting our
fingers to work the radio. They had started again before we got it right:
THIS IS THE RSIPV LATA CALLING MISTERS... We finally found Channel
6. "--oyl. We pause ten seconds for you to reply. Over."

"Hello! Hello! This is Cantrell and Doyle! Hello?" The bullhorn fell
abruptly silent.

The voice was calm and had an accent that was exotic and friendly, "So glad
to hear your voice. I am Captain [aye-KAY-oh] of the RSIPV Lata. Is this Mr
Cantrell or Mr Doyle? Over."

"Cantrell. Mr Doyle is here next to me."

"Excellent. Mr Doyle, please say your name so we can be sure you are
alright. Over."

"Ian Doyle here, sir!"

"Quite excellent. As you may have guessed, we are your rescue party. Now, I
understand from our dispatchers that you two feel it is safe to await
morning? If not, we can attempt to send a launch immediately. Over."

"It's too dangerous and we're fine for now. Repeat, we're fine for now. Um,
Over?"

There was a friendly chuckle. "That is very good of you, Mr
Cantrell. Nothing in the weather should bother you, no rain to speak of and
enough of a breeze to keep the midges at bay. Leave the radio on and tuned
to this frequency so we can contact you if anything changes. We'll also let
you know when we send out the launch. We will likely wait until full
light. If you need anything at all, please press send and say 'LATA' loud
and clear, then wait ten seconds. Over."

"Understood. We will say 'LATA' if we need you and you'll tell us if
anything changes. Over. Oh, um, not over." Ian and I smiled at each other
and screamed in unison, "GOD BLESS YOU! Now, um, over."

We could actually hear the laughter over the lapping waves. We snuggled
down and cuddled more than anything else for the next five or six hours,
neither of us able to sleep but nor were we interested in losing skin
contact between us. When the sky began to lighten, we scrambled through the
clothes for the least-hideous options for each of us and slathered on the
sunscreen from the first aid kit. The faint blush of dawn let us see our
rescuers for the first time. The view was... uninspiring.

The grey hulk was perhaps fifty yards offshore and rose above the light
waves about the height of a tall man. Honestly, I think I'd seen bigger
tugboats. A massive, stenciled '03' on the bow took up the whole area from
wave to rail and a blue-and-white checkered band reading POLICE circled the
part that stuck up in the middle of the boat. All that mattered, though,
was a guy with binoculars waving at us. We waved back like high-school
cheerleaders at The Big Game, hooting and hollering. Soon, the deck was
manned by about twenty guys in bright white shirts and deep black faces
smiling and waving.

Ian had thought to bring the radio and it squawked to life. I could see an
impressive and rather portly man with a microphone. "Well, Misters Cantrell
and Doyle. Early risers I see. Almost as if you are all packed and ready to
leave your private tropical vacation! Over."

"Of course we--" Ian slapped my hand off the switch before I could finish,
''--'re ready you fucking idiot!" Apparently, the guy with the binoculars
had a damned good guess. I could see the Captain and half the crew
belly-laughing.

"I think we'll put the launch ashore in about an hour when we have a higher
tide. We'll come into the narrow space about sixty metres south of
you. Kindly have your luggage and boarding passes ready! Over!"

Ian and I looked at each other and tried to think if there was anything we
wanted. The monocular and the multi-tool (which I vowed never again to be
without). I grabbed the giant bar of hashish and Ian cocked an
eyebrow. "This is priceless shit, Ian. I'd hate to leave it for the
crabs. I'll give it to the captain and it's his problem on whether to, you
know, throw away tens of thousands of dollars of joy." We both stared
wistfully at that tiny pipe.

We toted all the luggage, including Teeny Bop and Useless to near where Bra
Island narrowed to make retrieval easier. After that, we just sat and
jittered for a while. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity and the
captain spoke through the radio. "We are launching the craft that will come
ashore and retrieve you. Please stand well back, preferably in the
tree-line. Over."

Instead of responding I just waved and Ian and I stepped to the trees. The
launch gradually took shape. At first, it looked like a long, deep vee made
of seemingly-thin plastic, maybe like a postmodern canoe in eye-piercing
orange. At a signal, a man on each side pulled some handles and a boat
magically appeared as the sides ballooned with air, creating great,
grey-black tubes that came to blunted point in front. Five men clamored in,
two burdened with huge backpacks.

The launch moved back from the main craft and scooted over to a point
facing the beach. A man sitting in the middle called out comments that we
couldn't hear, obviously timing the wave. With a shout, all the men grabbed
the ropes on the sides of the boat and the driver slammed it into motion,
catching the crest of an incoming wave. We could hear a slight and very
brief grinding screech, apparently as it topped the highest point on the
reef, but no one looked alarmed or even surprised. The thing beached itself
and all but the driver leapt out and pulled it further onto the sand, one
man on each side then sprinted for the trees and secured lines.

The two with backpacks trotted off toward the end of the island where the
container was, giving us a cheery wave as they passed out of sight. The one
who tied off the rope closest to us smiled massively in his deep-black
face. He wasn't tall, just big with loads of muscle. "The ropes are just a
precaution. Come with me and I'll get you settled in the launch and you'll
be on the Lata in no time!" He was absolutely true to his word; Ian and I
were in ludicrously-huge life preservers and tied to the bench seat in
front of the driver securely before we really knew what happened.

Within moments, the men with the ropes came running and the driver said,
"Hold tight. They push us out now!" Both of the muscular, squat men hit the
balloon-bow like linebackers and the smooth orange hull slid across the
sand. They grabbed the ropes on the sides and kept pushing, keeping as much
of their momentum as possible, then suddenly vaulted over the sides,
slewing us left as they did so. Calm as anything, they strapped in, smiling
at us, as the driver caused the little boat to leap over an incoming wave
and fly toward the larger boat. I felt like I was being dribbled by a
Harlem Globetrotter.

The larger vessel began to move and we fell in behind like a ducking in its
mother's wake. Our ride suddenly became smooth as glass as we crept closer
and closer. One of the men on our little launch moved forward and threw a
tow-line that another sailor caught and affixed to a winch and we were
inexorably pulled up a sloped pair of rails. We were unswaddled and
chivvied aboard into the waiting arms of Captain Akao himself. "Welcome to
the Lata!" He laughed and patted us both on the shoulder, "and by
extension, the Solomon Islands. Do you have anything to declare?"

"Actually, Captain, can we step aside for a moment?" I left Ian
vociferously and profusely thanking anyone he could get to hold still long
enough as the men readied the launch and set off again. The Captain's huge
smile had gone off like a light switch. He stepped into a hatchway and
gestured me to follow. "Um, we found this in one of the pieces of
luggage. And yes, it's what it looks like." I handed him the thin,
tablet-sized brick and his eyes boggled. He opened the plastic, sniffed and
stepped back.

"Is this yours?"

"God, no! We found it going through the luggage looking for things to help
us survive. It was in a sort of strange pocket. I'm guessing it was some
drug dealer's sample wares?"

"And Mr Doyle? He knows about it?"

"Well, he saw it, but he's just a kid. I doubt he has any idea what it
is. I didn't know until I saw the little pipe thing," I lied smoothly.

"I'll take charge of it then. Please don't mention it to the men. If it's
what it looks like, it could crash the economy of the Solomon Islands! We'd
have to go on the Hashish Standard!"

The ride back was long. The crew made us comfortable in a 'lounge' sort of
space, wrapping us in long sheet/blankets and providing an endless supply
of tea and 'biscuits'. Ya know, the Brits supposedly created the English
language. Why they can't tell the difference between cookies and biscuits
is beyond me. The crisp little things were good, though, and the tea was
strong and well-caffeinated. My body had forgotten the magic of caffeine
and reveled in the return of the Elixir of Life.

The Captain interviewed us each alone, then together, getting details that
his five-man team (boat driver and four others who stayed) could use. He
radioed them the location of Crab Man's body, and the fact that the pump
inside the container was a fresh water source. Other than that, there
really wasn't much else of value. Our individual stories of leaving the
plane were endlessly fascinating and he had us repeat many parts.

Ian, it turned out, had been on the other end of my row of four 'middle'
seats. I was on the aisle, Grandma Noses was in the left-middle, her best
friend Ethel in the right-middle and Ian on the other aisle. Ian recalled
seeing Ethel leafing through a book of patterns; I avoided looking at him
then since it was likely that Little Old Lady bag -- from whence came the
Ninja Knitting Needles -- were likely either Ethel's or Grandma Noses who
name I never even bothered to find out.

It's strange how quickly you can get accustomed to certain things, and how
standards change. A few hours earlier, I was wiping myself with a
philodendron leaf and delighted to have it; in the head on the Lata, I was
cursing the scratchy brand of toilet paper supplied by the Solomon Islands
Maritime Police.

Ian was a marvel, though. He positively bubbled and the crew ate it up. I
just smiled as I watched. Eventually, he faded to sleep and I followed
quickly; the thrum of the engines and the rhythm of the calm sea washed us
both to a dreamless and very deep sleep. It's not that we hadn't slept on
the Island. Far from it; we slept more than we did anything else. This was
different. It was the sleep of sudden safety after a week of working hard
not to die quite yet.

They woke us as we approached the harbor at Honiara and pulled into a slip
reserved for the RSIPV Lata. It was late afternoon, perhaps heading to
early evening. We were hustled ashore and into a waiting golf cart, then
whisked to a huge, cavernous warehouse. A team was waiting, four men in
various uniforms and perhaps a dozen miscellaneous workers milling
about. One man stepped forward. "Gentlemen, we need to verify your
identities before we announce the rescue. I'm very sorry, but there have
been hoaxes before."

"Um, before you do that, I have to insist on speaking with someone from the
British Foreign and Commonwealth Office." The man rocked back on his heels.

"As it happens, Solomon Islands is a Commonwealth nation. The
representative from the Governor-General's office happens to be an F&CO
officer. Mr Henries," he turned to a tall and older black gentleman who was
chatting with the captain, "Mr Cantrell needs a word?"

Everyone frowned at me, wondering what was happening, but then busied
themselves with Ian. I stepped out of earshot with Mr Henries. "Sir, this
is sensitive. I need to speak with someone in the F&CO who would have the
clearance to discuss what Noah Pearce, the Queen's Messenger, was carrying
in his diplomatic pouch." I would have gotten a less-shocked reaction if
I'd dropped my pants and danced a nekkid hula.

"I beg your pardon?"

I sighed deeply. "This has been a long and harrowing week. I don't want
there to be any... misunderstandings or to say the wrong thing in front of
*all these people* while I'm tired, cranky and unsettled. Do you have a
secure way to communicate with someone that has that level of clearance?"

He just blinked at me, slowly reddening. I had the patience of a toddler by
that point. "Fine. Let me put it another way. I am familiar with
*everything* Mr Pearce was carrying and where it is right now. I think
you'll find the F&CO to be extremely... displeased if I cannot report my
information to someone with the authority to discuss it. Jeeze. The fact
that I know who the hell Noah Pearce is should be enough!"

He was a career political type and thus allergic to surprises and
highly-sensitive to threats. We were in the back of a black micro-mini-van
thing in moments with the driver zipping through the crowded
streets. Perhaps five minutes later, still without a word, Mr Henries led
me into a boring looking building between a couple of banks. He led me past
some very curious-looking guards and secretaries to a small room.

"This was my assistant's office before the Government cut the position a
couple years ago. Have a seat just there, please, while I see with whom you
can 'discuss' things."  He sat in front of the large monitor and started
typing.

A beeping emerged and Mr Henries said, "Good morning, Peters."

"Good evening Henries. You're in late."

"I have what might be a situation. Do you have a few minutes to speak to a
Mr Cantrell who we believe was on Virgin Australia Flight 9? He said
something about a Mr Noah Pearson and a diplomatic pouch?"

There was a long, long silence. "Did he give you any other info?"

"That he knows what the man was carrying and that he needed to, uh, 'report
to someone in authority'. And he's here if you would like to speak with
him?"

"Yes. And if you would leave the room, please, and see that security is in
place?"

"Of course."

The tall, elegant black man bowed me into the chair he'd been sitting in. I
expected the 'black silhouette against an ominous background' kind of
thing, maybe with a spinning blue logo, all lines and angles. What I got
was a balding, middle-aged bureaucrat with teeth that can only come from
British dentistry sipping what had to be tea from a garishly-colored
teddy-bear mug. "Mr Cantrell? I'm Fredrick Peters. Please feel free to call
me Fred or Peters at your preference. How should I address you?"

"Um, JB would be fine, sir. Sorry to cause trouble. It's got to be early
where you are."

"Yes, it's barely light out. But I've always been an early riser. What can
'a person in authority' at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office -- that
would be me -- do for a presumed-dead American glass salesman from Salt
Lake City?"

Yikes. That was fast. Okay. "I found the briefcase that had probably been
handcuffed to a Mr Noah Pearson. I say probably because the entire handle
was ripped from the case, along with some other... damage. We were
survivors of the plane... by the way, I never asked. Was it a plane crash?"

He looked genuinely surprised. "Actually, no. The pilots were able to land
at Buka. Twenty-seven are still missing and presumed dead, including you
and Mr Doyle until we get confirmation. Sixteen others died of various
causes... including a certain Noah Pearson. I therefore have to politely
insist you get to the point, JB."

"Sorry. Sorry. It's been an pretty full week." I got a wry and very British
smile at that. "I was desperate and went through every piece of luggage
thoroughly, including the late Queen's Messenger's case. When I realized
what was in the diplomatic pouch--"

"You opened it?" His eyebrows shot upwards.

"I'm not an idiot; of course I opened it! It could have had a sat-phone in
there!" He sat back and pursed his lips. "As soon as I guessed what I was
seeing, I buried it."

"For God's sake, why?"

"Because I was pretty certain both the kid and I were going to be dead
soon," I snapped at him, "and I had a strange hunch you wouldn't want just
anybody finding it! I've been on an island surrounded by sharks for a week
and I itch like a motherfucker and want a shower and a bed. Can we stop
with the silly questions?" He nodded at me silently.

Deep, calming breath. "I will tell you where to find it whether or not you
agree to do me the favor I ask. In fact, it is seven paces, yards, metres,
whatever from the container. Use the logo like an arrow and it will point
right to it. It's about three or four feet down in the sand. Shouldn't you
be writing this down?"

"Everything is recorded and, as you say, why waste time with silly
questions? I assume that the favor is going to surprise me?"

I blushed so red I wasn't sure I could talk. "Yeah. Yeah, it sure surprised
me. I did a lot of soul-searching on that island and I'm not really excited
about JB Cantrell coming back from the dead." I said the last all in a
rush. I looked up and he didn't seem at all surprised.

"And?"

"What do you mean, AND? I want you to let JB Cantrell stay dead and me to,
um, be someone else."

The man stared at me for the longest time. "JB, I need more tea. This is
going to be a longer conversation that I expected. If you need anything,
stick your head out the door and ask whomever is nearest. Back in a mo."

I sat there blinking at the monitor. What the fuck just happened? A minute
or two later, the man came back with something I'd never seen outside a BBC
murder mystery. A kettle in a fucking tea-cozy. He poured himself some and
sipped gingerly, doing the 'hot coffee mouth dance'.

"Now, what did you have in mind? A penthouse with hot and cold running
maids and a lifetime supply of Guinness? What?"

I spluttered. "No! Just give me enough to get started and the paper trail
to be whoever you want. Nothing else."

"Nothing? I find that exceptionally difficult to believe."

"Listen, buster. I just handed a brick of black-tar hash to a Solomon
Islands cop that's probably worth more than I make in a year and just told
you, gratis, where to find your spy shit. I really don't need you
telling--"

"Calm, please. I am simply surprised. As it happens, I have a very
interesting proposition..."

BBC WORLD SERVICE NEWS FLASH: Two Survivors of Air Disaster Found Two men
ejected from Virgin Australia Flight 9, commonly referred to by the flight
designation NZ-9, were found alive and in reasonable health, authorities
tell us, on a small atoll north of the Solomon Islands. Details have not
been released, and neither have the identities of the two men pending
notification of loved ones.

BBC WORLD SERVICE NEWS FLASH: NZ-9 Survivors Named as Story Unfolds
     Officials of the Royal Solomon Islands Police Force who effected the
rescue, flanked by Governor-General Frank Kabui and Prime Minister Manasseh
Sogavare, announced today that Mr Ian Doyle of Limerick in the Republic of
Ireland and Mr Noah Pearce of Twickenham, London, England survived NZ-9.
     Their harrowing story is only beginning to come to light, but both
were ejected mid-air and lived to tell the tale. Another 25 who were also
ejected are presumed dead, along with 16 who died when or shortly after the
plane explosively-decompressed but were still physically in the plane when
it made its miraculous landing on the tiny field at Baku Town, Papua New
Guinea.
     The accounts of the pilots (see original stories, here and here and
here) confirm that the plane was low and slow enough that survival was
possible, but the odds were astronomically-small. Few believed even the
bodies would ever be recovered. The plane's post-event flight path,
adjusted to match the place where the two men were found, passes over no
other spot of land. Mr Doyle, a student in university, and Mr Pearson, a
retired civil servant, survived on what they could glean from luggage that
washed ashore and what they could catch with...

THE TIMES 'Virgin Flight Nine, a Love Story' Tops Best Seller List The
harrowing and emotional tale of Mr Ian Doyle (as told to the celebrated
ghost-writer Sheldon Miles) is part adventure, part farce and all love
story. It tells a story of survival after the infamous mid-air failure of
Virgin Australia's Flight 9 by a young student and an older man and the
unlikely love that kindled on a tiny Pacific atoll.

ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY 'Shark Reef' Starts Filming The whirlwind fame of
air-disaster survivor Ian Doyle is being rushed to the big screen. The
book, 'Virgin Flight Nine, a Love Story' spent a mere three weeks on NYT's
List but it resonated with a young, hip crowd. We can now confirm the
rumors that Devon Murray (Seamus in the Harry Potter franchise) will play
the hero. Alan Van Sprang (Reign, Shadowhunters) will play the older Noah
Pearce, the hard-boiled and worldly-wise man that Ian tames into a
tender-hearted lover.

"You know, you're a hell of a lot cuter than Seamus Whatshisname from the
wizard movie." I snuggled into Ian a little tighter as he read to me from
the printout his (I guess 'our') agent sent of the article that would run
in next week's EW. The rippling light from the huge fish tank -- all the
fish were technically sharks, of course, though a lot less intimidating
that the ones when we'd first met -- made the pages swim and washed across
Ian's cream-smooth skin.

"Then again, the King Henry guy is a hell of a lot hotter than me, so I
guess it balances out." I nuzzled into Ian's neck and he purred.

"No one is hotter than you and you know it. And I had a serious hardon for
Devon Murray."

"Whoa! You like old guys like me OOF--"

"He was cute and his patronus was a fox. Just. Like. You." I lost myself in
the kiss for a minute, then let my hand wander into Ian's pants, teasing
his hole. He moaned and wriggled onto my finger. "But yeah, I'll probably
like him better when he's, you know, old like you..."

"Careful there, tiger, or the, um," I reached over him for the printout
with the hand not fingering my young love's ass, "hard-boiled and
worldly-wise Noah Pearce will tan your fanny."

"Promise?"

_T_H_E___E_N_D_

I offer a heartfelt and sincere note of thanks to those who wrote me about
Shark Reef and grew attached to the unlikely story of Ian and JB. That tale
is now at its end, but I assure you that good and sexy stories are
not. Please check out some of my other work at
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#bearpup. Love & Kisses, Bear Pup.

If you want to get mail notifying you of new postings or give me ANY
feedback that could make me a better author, e-mail me at
orson.cadell@gmail.com

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