[b]Day 1, sunrise:[/b]

Peter Conway sat with his back against a coconut tree, staring southward at the vast ocean from a slight rise above the beach. He was far to the west of where most of the survivors were busy constructing the temporary camp and dealing with the dead. Just to his right was the first evidence of the C-130's [i]arrival[/i] at the island, the tops of the trees that had made contact with the port side wing as the first step of the plane coming down and beginning its disassembling.

To his left and spread out over the next few hundred yards was the more conspicuous evidence of the crash: a portion of said wing, portions of the fuselage in various states of destruction, the beginnings of the trail of cargo, and a still burning trail of fuel and oil that was fouling the otherwise wondrous scent of a tropical ocean beach.

Just after the wreck, Peter had been assigned to the [i]cargo recovery team[/i], as someone had referred to it. He worked the first couple of hours with others, pulling the heavier crates and cases away from the pounding surf and up the sand to the tree line. Eventually, though, he found himself working alone, which was more to his liking for two reasons.

The first reason for preferring some [i]alone[/i] time was that he was [i]seriously[/i] sick and tired of all the moaning and groaning about their situation. Yeah, sure, they were [i]plane-wrecked[/i] on what might turn out to be a deserted isle. Yeah, sure, they might all die in the weeks or months to come from starvation, dehydration, disease, whatever. But the [i]complaining![/i] 

The second reason for wanting to work alone came to Peter with his discovery of a hardshell case filled with morphine and other valuable medications. He sat there in the sand with the container for several minutes, contemplating the implications of such a find. No one else knew he had it; it was still dark out, the other [i]scavengers[/i] were dozens of yards away and working hard, and no one would know if he, you know, just sort of carried up into the forest and tucked it away for safe keeping.

Peter did just that. And returning to the beach, he [i]rescued[/i] and tucked away several more packages that might come in handy in the near future. Oh sure, this might turn out to be a waste of time; rescue could very well happen later today, with rescue planes and ships taking them away to Aukland or Honolulu or Suva before the sun fell again.

On the other hand, though, they might be stuck here for days, weeks, even months to come. It happened, of course. People got stranded on the high seas or on unoccupied islands all the time. Of course, those people usually perished and were never heard from again, but Peter was sure that wouldn't happen here ... at least not to [i]him![/i]

By the time the sun had risen, he'd hidden more than two dozen containers, from the meds to food to sanitary and hygiene products. (Even Peter liked to keep himself clean and fresh.) In between stashing stuff in the forest, he'd let the other [i]scroungers[/i] see him pulling stuff to safety, even joining forces with them a few times to get larger containers away from the threatening sea. 

Now, he sat back against the trunk of a coconut tree, munching an energy bar and sucking on a bottle of spring water, contemplating his future. He would have preferred to be back in Aukland tomorrow night after the two-day, one-night visit to Tongalo, but -- now [i]rich[/i] in things that would ease his life -- Peter was content with spending a few days on a sandy beach accumulating [i]hazard pay[/i] that would be waiting for him when he, when [i]they[/i], got back to New Zealand.