by T L Yeager
A pause.
Maddie continued, “I’m concerned they’ll keep me here. The baby and I. We’ll be stuck. Would you come and get us?” she asked.
Behind her, the policewoman was talking again. Something about the group forming a line and following her. She turned and took up a position at the back of the line. On the phone, she could hear Kavita talking to Geert, their voices volleying back and forth.
“He’s leaving now, Maddie. Look for his white work truck. Fifteen minutes.”
25
Surfside Resort, Aruba: Security Room
Anas had literally jumped to his feet when the first RPG round exploded. He’d cringed at the second and third, scared they were under attack and he’d be captured. It wasn’t until after Fahd told him they’d taken out a police car that Anas had started to settle down.
Since then, sporadic rifle reports had been thumping at the walls of the information technology suite. The RPG explosions sounded like fireworks going off right outside his door. The rifle shots were softer. His headphones could almost drown them out. Almost. He tried to ignore the ones he heard but he couldn’t help thinking that they sounded like the pounding of fists begging for freedom. The pit of his stomach churned with each one. They picked at him like nagging taps on the shoulder. Each shot carried, not just the potential for another dead hostage, but also a psychosomatic hit of hormone-borne anxiety that increased the chance he’d make a mistake.
Through the door, Fazul’s voice barked commands and requested updates. Hostages on the lower floors had acted exactly as Fazul had expected. They tied blankets together and tried to climb down. Some simply jumped and one enterprising individual pushed out a mattress to soften the landing.
Anas had talked about this several times. In this situation Fazul was to order his men out into view to stop the escape attempts. Instead he’d kept them back undercover and had them pick off the escapees one at a time. Anas was happy to hear that the escape attempts were dwindling now. The crumpled bodies lining the perimeter served to dissuade the others.
Earlier in the morning, Anas had watched with Fahd from the security room. The cameras captured images of the bodies dropping awkwardly to the ground, the report of the AKM whomping through the room a fraction of a second later.
Seven billion people walk the earth, he remembered being told. Where was the harm in five hundred or a thousand lost for the cause?
Mega corporations kill millions each year, infecting them, condemning them to a gradual death at the hands of capitalism. Better to be transparent than to hide the truth. It didn’t erase the foul taste in his mouth, though—a metallic funk reminiscent of the iron-like flavor of a papercut sucked clean. He wished he’d packed gum or mouthwash.
Anas leaned in toward his main computer. Automating the processes ahead of time had been the single most helpful point of preparation. He didn’t have to think, which was good, because his mind felt clouded by a physical pressure that bore down from just inside his skull.
He watched the final steps in the propaganda distribution program stream by. Command subtitles embedded in the code flashed across the screen. The names of international news media outlets popped up followed by the same two words: ‘email sent.’ Twitter feeds were updated. Social media posts entered. Then the script slowed as it reached the final steps. ‘Enable website hosts.’ The words hung on the screen for two seconds then country names flew by with the suffix, ‘website online.’ Argentina, Romania, Ireland, Finland. The list continued. Information on the happenings at the Surfside Resort in Aruba was flying around the world at the speed of light. Every corner of the globe would be given an opportunity to partake in the horror of this real-world show. Each tick of the clock brought human civilization closer to a new, more gruesome reality. And it all started here in this compact room, cast to the world as long lines of ones and zeros.
A bell chimed. The computer on Anas’s right was sending out an alert ping. Drone number three was picking up heat signatures.
Four drones were deployed at any given time. Each was programed to patrol one side of the resort. They’d been in operation for less than an hour.
The cameras hanging on the drones recorded both visible and infrared wavelengths simultaneously. Anas had coded a screen reading application that scanned the displays from the thermal imaging cameras. Reds, oranges and yellows indicated warmer temperatures—more heat and infrared radiation being emitted.
Blood-orange oblongs on the screen attracted Anas’s attention. He toggled the display from infrared to image view. Anas paused the drone, stopping its movement along a pre-programmed course.
It was over the Palm Beach Plaza Mall. Skirting along the outside boundary of the open-air mall, it had detected a team of men dressed in black tactical gear. They were making their way along the edge of the interior wall closest to L.G. Smith Boulevard.
“Fazul! We have a problem,” Anas yelled.
Fazul was through the door and above Anas in seconds. Anas’s finger pointed to the screen. He zoomed the camera, tightening down on the team of six.
“Where is this?” asked Fazul.
Anas panned out. “L.G. Smith is here.” He ran his finger along the line and over the two damaged police cars still blocking the road. “This is the road running between us and the mall.” Anas traced a line running perpendicular to the main road. “The movie theater is here.” Anas pointed to the rounded dome that marked the entrance. “We are here. Off the screen.”
“Attention.” Fazul had activated his headset. “We have a tactical team assembling in the mall to our south. Building Four rooftop, focus your sights on the movie theater and walkways on either side. Reserve team one, form up at the base of building four, ocean side. Reserve team two, take the island side of building four. We may have a fight on our hands.”
All that the local authorities knew at this point was that one of their patrol cars had been obliterated in front of the resort. Two others had taken damage from an RPG round fired from the top of the buildings. They had moved into action faster than Fazul had expected. Deploying their meager tactical team this early in the engagement was a contingency Fazul had considered, but had not deemed likely.
Fazul produced a laminated map and spread it out on the desk beside Anas. He ran his finger over it. “We can flank them here,” he said. “The trees here will provide cover of their advance.”
The area between the Surfside and the mall was cordoned into two separate spaces. On the island side, closest to L.G. Smith Boulevard, there was the concrete skeleton of an unfinished high-rise. As his finger moved toward the ocean, Anas could see the service access road that led from the mall down to the Surfside. On the opposite side of the road was a stand of trees masking a parking lot and a series of tennis courts for the neighboring Holiday Inn.
“We can run a team up along these trees and into the mall here.” Fazul pointed to an open spot in the exterior row of stores that provided pedestrian access to the internal courtyard. “As they come around the corner here, they’ll have a line of sight and the element of surprise. An element we lose if we wait for them to approach.”
Anas wasn’t comfortable with jumping into attack mode so quickly. “Fazul, the websites are operational. As we speak, the information is being read. It will not be long before the island officials are made aware of the repercussions of a tactical assault. They will call it off.” As Anas spoke he was bringing up one of the many websites now active on the internet. “Look here.” Anas pointed to the top of the screen. A description explained that the Surfside had been taken over. A bulleted list detailing the rules of engagement followed. Bullet number one read, “Any action on the part of island authorities or other nations to infiltrate and take back the resort will be repelled. Punishment for such actions will be the public execution of hostages. The number executed will be determined by the scale of the attempt.”
Fazul slapped the back of Anas’s head. “Why must you insist on being soft?” Anas looked up,
anger etched in his face.
Fazul pounded his fist on the map. “And what is your plan when they make it to the construction site?” He leaned closer, repelling Anas’s anger with his stare. “What then? What then… if they are not pulled back?” The question was rhetorical, the pause momentary. He pointed to the unfinished building on the map. “This is our weakness. This is their target. Occupying this building would be a victory for them.” Fazul traced a line from the theater to the unfinished building. “Their eyes will be here. Our men will be here.” His finger slid to the opening in the internal courtyard. “They will not see the attack coming.”
Fazul activated his comm. “I’m on my way out to brief the reserve teams on our plan to eliminate this threat. Five minutes.”
“Look at me, Anas.” Fazul again leaned down, having regained his composure. “We cannot merely hope they are called off and watch them take the building. The fight must be taken to the enemy.”
26
US Consulate’s Office, Curacao
Margaret Baker leaned on the mahogany desk. She tapped her pen on the Brazilian wood grains and stared at a painting of Franklin Delano Roosevelt that hung on the opposite wall. The Consulate General for the Caribbean Netherlands, it was a post she’d been appointed to only seven months prior. Her mission presided over diplomatic relations with Curacao, St. Maarten, Bonaire, Saba, Aruba and St. Eustatius.
Reports had started rolling in from Aruba an hour earlier. The first had come from a deputy police commissioner Margaret had worked with on a rape case. Irma Peterson had been the Head of Aruba’s Criminal Investigation Unit for ten years. The woman who had been raped was a US citizen; the assailant, an Aruban national. Margaret was wise enough to keep personal tabs on the progress of the case. The perpetrator had been brought to justice quickly. Margaret and Irma became fast friends.
“We’re going to need some help here,” Irma had said when she called.
The two highest-ranking members of the Aruba police hierarchy had been murdered. Executed outside their homes, the Chief Minister of Justice and the Chief Police Commissioner were found with bullet wounds in their foreheads. Without its leaders, the Aruban police force was struggling to regain its balance. Each departmental silo approached the issue in Palm Beach from their own perspective.
Irma downloaded what she knew of the day’s events. Shortly after four in the morning, a patrol car had spotted light coming from the base of a cellular tower. The fire department was summoned but the flames had run their course by the time they arrived. Those on the scene reported to have found wires and a partially melted cell phone stuck to the wall above the hole. Cellular service was offline in the Noord District.
Later that morning, vehicles began arriving at the Noord District Police Station. They reported having seen men clad in military uniforms with assault rifles. One had seen men with weapons on the roof of the Surfside resort.
A patrol car was dispatched to the scene. The officers placed a single panicked radio call before contact with them was lost. They screamed about explosions and then went offline. Their car was found ablaze. A loose perimeter was established by lieutenants nearing the end of their overnight shifts. Everyone waited for the leadership of the Chief Commissioners: leadership that would not come.
“I wanted to let you know. There’ll be someone reaching out through channels soon, I would think. They’re not real big on going it alone,” said Irma. She was on the sidelines. Her role in criminal investigation meant she didn’t command active units. That hadn’t kept her from seeing how quickly the seams were separating within the department.
1.5 million tourists visited Aruba each year. 60% of them are Americans. The Surfside was owned by an American company. Sure, there was a cross-section of other nationalities, but the mess was quickly falling into the lap of the United States.
Margaret’s phone rang. “Have you seen it?” She’d only met the Secretary of State in person on two occasions. Ray Ladenburg was an attractive man with well-coiffed hair that was silver above the ears. He’d skipped the Ambassador to the Netherlands, Margaret’s boss, and had gone directly to the source.
“Good morning, Ray. I just finished reading it. Do we have any intel on this group? Hard to believe they’re in it for the money.”
The webpage was up on the computer monitor in front of her. The heading read, “Engagement Aruba.” It was a simple single page that listed the rules of engagement in four bullet points. Across the bottom were two videos with the words ‘Live Stream,’ beneath them.
The one on the left showed a wall of sandbags and a nasty-looking assault rifle with a belt of ammunition running down the side to a can. The bottom of a chair was visible, along with a pair of legs covered in gray camouflaged printed pants and desert-style military boots. Buildings were visible in the distance, beyond the sandbags. It was bright and elevated like it was coming from a roof.
The video on the right was of the pool area. A waterfall cascaded over rocks above a pool in the background. In the foreground, four blindfolded hostages were sitting Indian-style on the ground with a masked guard standing sentry above them. Most of his uniform looked military—a solid gray top bore camouflage on the arms that matched the pattern on his pants. What was different was the mask.
He was wearing a skeleton mask that someone might wear on Halloween if they really wanted to scare the hell out of the kids coming to the door. It had bony cheeks and a void where the nose wasn’t. The Stars and Stripes overlay it all. The flag of the United States was painted on the mask.
“They certainly wanted us to know it’s our issue,” said Margaret.
“Agreed.” Ray seemed to be reading. Margaret heard the click of a mouse. “Money and the eyes of the world,” Ray said. “Listen, the fuel is going to hit this fire quickly. Defense will want to preposition special ops and a negotiation team is being assembled as we speak. The intelligence machine is cranking so I expect we’ll have more information shortly. I’ll be coming directly to you on this, Margaret. You’ll be leading the show on the ground for now. Let’s keep our words to a minimum until we have a complete picture. The president is clearing his schedule, and I’m headed over to join him for briefings. We’ll be in touch.”
Margaret hung up the phone. She read through the rules of engagement again. Bullet number one read, “Any action on the part of island authorities or other nations to infiltrate and take back the resort will be repelled. Punishment for such actions will be the public execution of hostages. The number executed will be determined by the scale of the attempt.”
Bullet number two: “Severing of electricity or internet service will be seen as an attack of the greatest magnitude. Many will die as a result.”
Bullet number three: “The four buildings in this complex are rigged with plastic explosives set deep within the concrete pillars. In the unlikely event that our defenses are overwhelmed, the buildings will be brought down, and those that initiated the attack will suffer the consequences.”
Bullet number four: “Expect ransom demands and a deadline to be posted shortly. Our goal is to kill and injure as few as possible. Convince your leaders and politicians to pay for its people to end this ordeal. Then implore them to remove your soldiers from our countries. Once that goal is reached, events like this can stop.”
It ended with, “We make good on our threats. Let's work together for a more peaceful world.”
27
Queen Beatrix International Airport, Aruba
Maddie could sense the string of lies, a series of bad decisions in front of her that weren’t optional. Her gut was in charge and there was no doubt what it was telling her.
By the time they made it to the hallway, Charlotte was squirming her way out of the carrier. Maddie pulled her from it and held her under the butt. She sat high, her head level with Maddie’s as she looked around taking in the scenery. They made their way through the snaking stanchions leading up to the immigration window. Locals from another flight were waiting w
hen their line caught up.
Only one of the kiosks was open. A single immigration official worked the line. Beyond him, at the customs checkpoint, another lone official waved people by the free-standing scanner. He nodded the passengers along without so much as a word, disinterested in inspecting the bags of locals.
The airport resources had been spread out across the terminal to contain the tourists. Maddie wondered if the air traffic control tower had tried to divert them while they were in the holding pattern. They would have been low on fuel, but Bonaire and Curacao were close by.
They’d been allowed to land and now airport and police authorities had a new problem on their hands. Long-term crowd control was a difficult predicament to solve. A horde of disgruntled vacationers bottled up in the terminal might rival the violence they were dealing with up-island.
Maddie eyeballed the man in front of her, scanning his well-pressed digs from head to toe. He was talking on his cell phone and wearing a suit. It felt sacrilegious to travel the Caribbean in a suit. The wife and four children felt like charlatan additions to the Italian pinstripes. With diaper bag slung over her shoulder and Charlotte testing her biceps, Maddie wondered where the family sat in the island pecking order.
Maybe a hotel or oil refinery executive, she thought.
The word, “Terrorism,” caught Maddie’s attention. It was framed as a question. She stepped up and turned her ear to the man’s conversation.
“Let’s hope not. If it’s terror, it’ll shut the island down for years.”
A pause.
“Both of them?”
A pause.
“The police were a mess without having to deal with that.” He had a European accent.
A pause.
“Yeah they’re holding the tourists up here at the airport. Not letting them go. Going to have a riot on their hands if they’re not careful.”
