by T L Yeager
A pause.
“Yeah, you’re right. They won’t have a choice.”
A pause.
“Okay, Bill. See you in a bit.” He hung up and slid the phone into the pocket of his suit jacket.
Ten anxious minutes of bouncing and entertaining Charlotte passed. Maddie kept hearing the question. “Terrorism?”
The family was called up and slowed for just a minute before the agent let them pass with a wave of recognition.
As they made their way to the desk, Maddie studied the immigration man. If he was ever going to be distracted, today was the day. He looked like he’d only been shaving a couple of years. Maddie decided on a chummy approach.
“Good morning. Tough day?” Maddie waited for a response but the agent remained blank. “Sorry, but there was so much commotion back there with this mess. Somehow, I lost my immigration form. Can I get another?” The spiteful look she was thrown felt premature.
The agent rolled to the side in his chair, checking to see how many were in line behind Maddie. When he saw there were none, he rolled his eyes and offered up a new form.
“Passports?” Maddie was just about to put pen to paper when the agent asked.
She extracted them from her purse and offered them up.
“That one there is hot off the presses.” She flopped them on the counter and rubbed Charlotte on the head. She leaned into Maddie as she watched the man swipe them with one hand and click at the keyboard with the other.
Maddie scribbled her name, date of birth and country.
“I need those back to complete part of the form,” Maddie said.
The man nodded without looking up. “Just finish the rest.”
When she arrived at the ‘Address in Aruba’ section, Maddie tapped the pen on the counter and felt a sweat break out. She couldn’t remember Kavita’s last name and didn’t know the address. The name was really Geert’s last name. Kavita and Geert… It was a son-of-a-bitch Dutch name. She thought about checking on her phone but remembered the sign that said, ‘No Cell Phone Use in This Area.’
She wrote, ‘Kavita Café.’
Behind her, Maddie could feel more people queuing up in the waiting area. She didn’t look back, just bore down on the form. Address and occupation. Number of visits—she checked ‘6-9.’ Type of accommodation? Visiting friends & family. She handed the form down to the agent and ran her fingers through Charlotte’s strawberry hair.
When you hit a golf ball in the sweet spot you can literally feel the stroke connect. The contact and spring from the club is so natural your spirit lifts off with the shot. This was not one of those times. Maddie had shanked it with ‘Kavita Café’. The agent was studying the form way too closely. She shouldn’t have waited and been last in line. She should have filled out a new form ahead of time. It would have given her time to look up the name. Every letter of the fucking form was being scrutinized.
“Friends and Family this time?” the agent asked. “That seems odd with a husband and daughter at the Surfside Resort?” He paused, pecking at the down arrow on his computer. “Six visits. Six stays at the Surfside. But not this time?” He established contact from the corner of his eye then squared up and straightened in his chair, zeroing in for Maddie’s explanation.
Maddie laughed and nodded. “I can see how it looks strange,” she said, the lie still taking shape. “Me and my husband had a falling out. Forgot the passport for the little one here.” Maddie rumpled Charlotte’s hair again. “It was my fault. Next thing you know we’re arguing. I was going to stay home but then we got the passport and decided to come down. I called Kavita and explained about the argument. She offered up her spare room. Kavita’s daughter looks after my kids when we’re down here. They’re like family.”
“Like family? Close enough to know their last name?” asked the man. He looked back down, closed their passports and pushed them to the side. “Please wait over there. Under the immigration sign. A manager will need to speak with you further.”
Fucker. Fucker. Fucker, Maddie thought. She sucked as a saleswoman.
Backed into a corner, there was no way out but to fess up. A return to honesty was the best policy when you’re caught in a lie with an immigration official.
As she waited, debating her limited options, the Aruba Triangle returned to her mind. If Ross had made it to pick them up, he might be right around the corner. But if he was here waiting, he would have called or texted. It only took a hint of intuition to know that shit was hitting the fan and being chopped into more pieces than the island could handle. The immigration and customs agents weren’t going to care that her husband and daughter were at the resort with the black smoke. At best, she’d be sent back with the other tourist and kept here or forced to fly back home. At worst, they would lock her up for lying.
She was told to wait under a sign that was just outside of the immigration agent’s peripheral vision. The customs scanner with the disinterested operator was right around the corner. The family, led by Pinstripe Suit, had pulled off to the side while a pair of the Vineyard Vines kids took a potty break.
After immigration, everyone not caught lying turned hard left into baggage claim. Once you retrieved your bags you walked by the scanner and found out if customs was in the mood to question you or scan your gear. Maddie hadn’t checked anything. Ross had brought it all, leaving her with just the diaper bag.
The customs agent manning the scanner was biting at a hangnail when Pinstripe Suit emerged from baggage claim. He was towing a pair of burgundy suitcases.
Maddie watched him pass in front and form up with his family. He offered the handle of one of the bags to his oldest son just as the two on potty break reappeared from the restrooms.
As they gathered their belongings, the idea hit Maddie.
What the fuck are you thinking? You can’t just walk out. They have your passports. They catch you walking out and you’re libel to end up in a prison where the heat melts years off your life.
Watching the family approach, she knew the train had left the station. Her better judgment had lost out to gut instinct.
As they passed, she fell in with them. She crossed to the right so she’d be opposite the customs agent. She pulled up uncomfortably tight with the family, practically tip-toeing to avoid their attention. The scanner passed to the left and Maddie looked up to check on the agent. He was busy with the hangnail.
Once they emerged into the main hallway, Maddie peeled off quickly. Still balancing Charlotte on one arm, she hustled out the door.
A surge of wind-driven Aruban heat blasted them. Maddie scanned left, then right, looking for a waving husband or a white pickup. She saw neither.
Not sure what to do next, she turned right and started walking. She wanted to get away from the main doors and following the path vehicles took on their way into the terminal seemed reasonable.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Maddie pulled it out. Chuckles was calling. She silenced it.
As she cleared the end of the terminal building, they crossed into sunlight. A layer of dampness that had formed in the shade now broke into a full body sweat. Twenty seconds after, she ran out of sidewalk to follow as Geert’s white pickup careened through the circle and into the airport entrance.
28
Holiday Inn, Aruba
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen. This is Kyle King reporting from the Holiday Inn on the island of Aruba.” He spoke quietly in a hushed tone. “The footage is a bit grainy because all I have is a webcam, but this is breaking news. I believe those figures on your screen to be six terrorists. They’re making their way along a copse of trees across the parking lot from where I’m reporting.” On the video, six blurry figures moved from left to right. Cone-shaped pine trees behind them made their silhouettes easy to see.
Kyle had contacted his producer after the explosions earlier in the day. He’d made it to L.G. Smith Boulevard and taken cell phone videos of the burning car. He’d been the first to report that a rocket of some ki
nd had been fired from the rooftop of the Surfside Resort. The white streak of the RPG had been almost directly above him. He’d glanced up an instant before the explosion knocked him to the ground. What followed was the most terrifying three minutes of his life. He sprinted for the edge of the mall. The cars in the second video were clearly police. His courage lasted 48 seconds. With the footage secured on his phone, he retreated to his hotel room. He used the phone in the hotel room to call his producer at the Minneapolis news channel where he was a reporter.
His girlfriend would later report that they were on a week-long vacation and that she was in bed, scared by the explosions, when Kyle returned. Kyle hadn’t explained how dangerous the situation was. “Could be the best thing that’ll ever happen to my career,” he told her.
“Just to reiterate our situation here. Our day started early with two attacks that were directed at the Aruban police. I’ve reported seeing at least four armed men patrolling the roof tops of the Surfside resort. I am coming to you via Skype from the Holiday Inn on Aruba. We’re directly next door to the Surfside Resort, which we’ve just learned has been taken over by the New Jihad Front. I was out here on the balcony trying to capture a wi-fi signal from the Surfside when I spotted the team of men you’re watching now. This is a live shot, ladies and gentlemen.” At the time, Kyle had no way of knowing that his broadcast had gone international. The live feed was picked up by all the major networks.
“To my right, we’ve got an open-air mall. This is one of the primary shopping areas on the island. The cell phone video from earlier was taken just on the other side of the mall from where I am now.” After a short pause, Kyle says, “What else do we know?” He’d scratched keywords on a Holiday Inn note pad. “I failed to mention that we’ve got drone activity above us. They’re very hard to make out in the bright sky here but occasionally when the wind dies down, I can hear them. On several occasions, I’ve picked up their movement and was able to track them a short distance. I can hear one now. I can’t see it but there’s a buzz out there over what we’re watching. Twice this morning I’ve seen the drones coming and going from the center of the Surfside Resort. This would lead you to believe that they’re being operated by the terrorists. But of course, we have no confirmation of that.”
In the video, the string of fuzzy gray soldiers bunched up into one distorted blob. Kyle cleared his throat. “They appear to be preparing to cross the road into the mall.”
“Oh no. We’ve got some spectators who’ve come out looking. There were police warding people off earlier, but they’ve been gone for some time.”
“There they go. They’re crossing the road now.” Kyle hadn’t realized that holding the camera was giving viewers motion sickness and preventing it from focusing completely. Once he set it down on the railing, the lines cleared and hundreds of millions of live viewers watched as the terrorists crossed the road.
The five curious onlookers Kyle had mentioned were visible to those watching. As the assault team reached the middle of the road, they raised their weapons. The onlookers dropped, one at a time, in rapid succession.
“Jesus Christ. They just executed them,” Kyle whispered. “This is unbelievable.”
With the picture now crisp, Kyle and the rest of the world watched as the team formed a line along a storefront. An ice cream parlor sign hung above them.
“The opening you’re seeing there to the right of the men leads to the interior courtyard of the mall – several popular restaurants, more shops, a fountain where a nightly light show is performed.”
“There they go, folks.” Seconds of silence followed after the team disappeared from view.
Feeling the need to fill the dead space, Kyle continued to talk from behind the camera. “Again, this is a live shot from Aruba. We’ve just witnessed six armed men moving toward the interior of the mall in an assault formation. They appeared to be stalking prey we’re not seeing. Again, we’ve got several drones in the sky here above the Holiday Inn. If they’re controlled by the terrorists, then they have a birds eye…”
Kyle went silent as pops of distant gunfire broke out. “I’ve lost sight…” were Kyle’s last words.
Analysis of the video would later reveal the moment when the sniper round cracked above the camera and laptop mounted microphone. The supersonic round entered just below Kyle’s left ear. It ruptured his windpipe and severed one of his carotid arteries before exiting out the lower right side of his neck.
Four seconds passed before there was any recognition by his girlfriend of what had happened. Kyle’s suffering came through as a gurgled choking on the video. Then there was a shriek. “He’s bleeding. Oh my God. Blood! Blood!” the girlfriend yelled.
With Kyle’s dying breaths as background, viewers watched as three of the six terrorists emerged. They exited the corridor they had entered less than a minute before. The third limped across the road, making it to the center before collapsing. He struggled back to his feet but was left behind by the two other survivors of the failed assault. The men sprinted away, exiting the screen to the viewers left.
The wounded man made it off the road. His limp was more pronounced after the fall. Slowly, he made his way across the screen and was about to exit left on the wide angle shot when the Aruban SWAT team fanned from the corridor. Their weapons were shouldered and they fired immediately, their rifles popping faintly in the video.
One of the first rounds landed. The wounded man pitched forward. He hit the ground and barrel-rolled down a small hill to his left. Using his legs, he spun around to face his enemy. Able to lift his head off the turf only slightly, puffs of white smoke marked the fire he returned from his lap.
An eruption of popping sound on the video was followed by a white haze around the SWAT team. Machine gun fire from the rooftop of the Surfside resort had been directed down by the terrorists. It chipped at the concrete sidewalks and store front facades, forcing the SWAT team to retreat.
29
Queen Beatrix International Airport, Aruba
Maddie, Charlotte and the diaper bag were inside the pickup before Geert had come to a complete stop.
“Holy Dutch fucker, am I glad to see you. Let’s get the hell out of here,” Maddie said.
Geert hesitated, reaching across to rub Charlotte’s head as Maddie plopped her on the bench seat between them.
“No carseat?”
“Ross has it, and I just ran out on Immigration. I need to get the hell out of here.”
Geert shifted the truck into gear. He checked his mirror then pulled away from the curb.
“Ran out?”
“Yeah they’re holding up tourists. Not letting them leave.” Regret and fear had replaced the certainty in her gut. Char-monster was now an illegal alien.
“I told them we were headed to Kavita’s Café. They’ve closed the tourist area. What the hell’s going on up there?” The question hadn’t left her lips when an agent ran from the automatic doors in front of the airport.
“Shit,” Maddie yelled. She slumped on top of Charlotte.
Geert laughed. “You really just left?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t worry. He didn’t see you.”
“Oh shit,” Maddie said, “What have I done?” She checked over her shoulder as Geert reentered the circle fronting the airport.
Geert looked over. “You some kind of lunatic?”
Maddie didn’t respond.
Geert turned back to the road. “Here in the last few minutes they’ve been talking on the radio about a website the terrorists put up. Sounds like they’ve taken over your resort and are looking for ransom.”
“So it is terrorists?” Maddie asked. “At the Surfside?” Everything was happening so fast.
“Nu kmot de aap uit de mouw,” replied Geert.
Maddie looked over at him, confused.
“Now the monkey comes out of the sleeve.”
“What the hell are you saying?” Maddie asked.
“It comes to the surface now. The monkey
was hiding but now he is out of the sleeve. We see that terror has come to Aruba.”
Maddie said nothing.
“When have you last spoken with your husband?” Geert asked.
“A text message in the middle of the night. Nothing since.”
“Reports are that they took out the cell phone towers so that the people could not call out. Our two highest-ranking police officials have been killed. They have planned this in advance. The Dutch Marines, usually stationed not far from my house, are gone for annual training in North Carolina. They chose their timing wisely.”
Charlotte was looking up at Geert with uncertainty. Her life of daily routine had been shattered the last few days. Maddie leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. She rubbed her head.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Char-monster,” she whispered to her.
Maddie looked up at Geert. “Thanks for coming to get us, Geert. Sorry you had to be a getaway driver. We won’t stay at your place for much time. They’ll be coming to look for us.”
Everything about the man was long. Geert’s elbows nearly touched his legs before the angle of the arm rose back to the wheel. Beneath it, his knees were peaks, like he’d been crammed in.
“We don’t mind helping,” Geert replied. “Your family was the first thing we thought of when they said this was happening at the Surfside.” Geert’s Dutch accent rode with his words. D’s were sometimes T’s and he turned ending S’s to F’s in a way that closed a word like the back half of a dog’s bark.
Remembering the call from Chuckles, Maddie pulled the phone from her pocket. Her friend had left a voicemail. Before she checked it, Maddie opened her text messages again. There was nothing new, but she re-read the last one Ross had sent. What she would give for a few words from him now. Maddie’s replies with updates on their progress had gone unanswered. She typed another anyway.
