Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

  “But it did. I was there. I heard him tell you to switch over to something called an encrypted line. What the hell’s going on? Who needs your help?”

  JJ finishes his beer and stares at the empty bottle for a few seconds before responding. “They don’t need my help.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “They need ours.”

  People who make action-adventure movies control noise. They make things quiet for dialogue when needed, and then SCREAMING LOUD when desired.

  But real life is different. For instant, you can’t a get word in edgewise when a pair of Rolls Royce-Allison AE1107C turboshaft engines are climbing their way to takeoff RPM. Their combined 12,000 horsepower produces a high-pitched shriek that sounds a woman getting her throat cut.

  At least, that’s the thought drifting through Major Williston’s otherwise utterly empty mind as he stands there with his team, waiting for the Osprey crew chief’s signal to board the tilt-rotor.

  The Air Force special ops variant, CV-22B, may look the same on the outside like the “plain vanilla” Marine version used to transport troopers from point A to point B. But beneath the hood of this dark grey, low-slung, tiltrotor beats the heart of an entirely different animal—one with interesting “claws.”

  For starters, AN/APQ-174D Multi-Mode radar and a FLIR (Forward Looking Infra-Red) pod. With advanced avionics like these, darkness and bad weather are never an enemy, always a friend. Add to these bells and whistles, all sorts of defensive countermeasures; chaff/flare dispenser, radar warning, and to top things off, a GAU-17 minigun remotely operated belly turret.

  And lest we forget, two shrieking loud turboshaft engines—make that four, because two CV-22Bs are warming up on the flight line at MacDill AFB for the mission to rescue the hostages; one for CW’s Delta Team, and the other for Commander Goldstein’s MM&R (Mission-Monitoring and Reconnaissance) team who’ll set up operations on the Rock for the duration. After it’s completed, CW will head north with the rescued hostages via land-evac, while one of CV-22Bs returns to the Rock to airlift Goldstein and her team back to MacDill.

  “Over and out. Mission accomplished,” CW thinks to himself as he stands there, using it more as a mantra than a fact.

  While it’s true, he’s had piss-poor success climbing the Marine Corps ranks, he’s a rock star when it comes to getting the job done. Mostly because he’s so focus-driven that he never ever stops.

  At least that’s what most folks figure.

  But the real secret to his success—as far as General Richardson (“Clark Bar”) could ever determine, and why he green-lighted the hairbrained hostage rescue mission in the first place—is that CW lives in a quantum time zone all his own.

  Meaning...

  He travels both in mind and matter to a place along the space-time continuum where the task is “over and out, mission accomplished.” Then he lives and breathes there, until he decides to head off somewhere else.

  For example...

  One afternoon last August, while on the tenth green of MacDill’s golf course, in between putts, CW explains his oddball work-ethic to General Richardson.

  Clark Bar makes his putt, then says, “You mean to say you can be anywhere you want, anytime, anyplace?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Ask a question?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Officers’ Club. You just bought me another round because I beat the pants off your three-star ass, sir.”

  “But I’m already down five strokes on the back nine and way under par on the front.”

  CW taps his head and grins. “Want to bet?”

  He taps his head again...

  ...and BANG...

  He’s back on the flight line—quantum time travel over—fussing with his loadout gear. To make sure his highly personalized setup of carabiner clips, straps, ties, and pouches are in order, he does a rapid “pat-down” of each and every item.

  1. Ops-Core Ballistic half-helmet

  2. Night vision binocs (the lighter, brighter AN/PVS-31s that cost $14K a pop, but hey, CW and his boys are going to be scrambling through tunnels beneath a cathedral in Cancún.

  3. An armored plate carrier for his Harris PRCC 153 radio

  4. Frye Industries G4 combat tops and bottoms with Kevlar-reinforced kneepads.

  5. Glock 19 handgun with slide-ride red dot optics

  6. A Safariland ALS holster to hold the Glock.

  7. A plain vanilla M4 tactical rifle, with the SOPMOD 3 package, including all kinds of fancy bells and whistles, like an LA-5 infrared laser, EO Tech, and a M3X tactical light (for those dark tunnels to come).

  8. A SOCOM 886 Suppressor/silencer to keep things nice and quiet (they’ll be beneath a cathedral, remember? Don’t want to disturb the congregation, busy praising the Lord).

  Satisfied all is well, CW makes his way down the line of his strike team, his eyes missing nothing, and his mouth shut. He knows his guys better than he knows his two ex-wives and three kids (a boy from the first, twin girls from the second) and both wives living far enough apart not to scratch each other’s eyes out if they ever see each other, but close enough to lay waste to his bank account for child support each and every payday—without fail.

  The last guy in line, a newbie to his team but not to SOCOM’s clandestine operations is an Air Force Special Warfare SR (Special Reconnaissance) sergeant, fresh from a mission in Turkey so dark that not even his subconscious can access it (a SOCOM joke).

  He’s on his knees, going through a Pelican case the size of footlocker filled with brightly colored cloth.

  “All in order, Jamie?” Williston says.

  “You sure you wanted all of them XXL?”

  “Roger that. Let me see one.”

  Jamie pulls one from the stack and holds it up like a gaffed fish. This most definitely is not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill short-sleeve shirt. It is without a doubt the brightest ultramarine blue Hawaiian shirt you’ve ever seen in your life; complete with neon-yellow suns, bright red hibiscus flowers, lime-green palm trees on little islands—and that’s just for starters. To top it off, sailing upon bright ultramarine waves, classic WW2 battleships: the Arizona, Massachusetts, California, Missouri, and Montana.

  “Now, that is a goddamned shirt!” CW says. “The company that makes them—whaddya’ call it?”

  “HawaiiShirts.com.”

  “Get a good price?”

  “Wholesale when I told them how many we needed.”

  He examines the battleships on the back. “This is a thing of beauty.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Wear one of these and they’ll see you coming from a mile away.”

  “Exactly. We’re hiding in plain sight, my friend.”

  He hands it back and Jamie folds it up. “These things are like tents, sir.”

  “We need them that big to hide our toys and for the old timers to cover their big-ass beer bellies.”

  “Aha!” Jamie taps his half-helmet. “I didn’t think about that part. See, that’s why you’re the boss, sir, and I will forever be your loyal sidekick, ready, willing, and able to go deep behind enemy lines, whether it be from airborne, maritime, or land-based platforms—including but not limited to this silly-looking aircraft that some claim is the offspring of a C-130 Herc that gang-banged a Huey and nine months later, out popped an Osprey.”

  As if overhearing Jamie’s mocking comment—when of course, he can’t because of the howling turbines—the crew chief raises both arms straight in the air like it’s a stickup, then lowers them and starts pointing left and right; a dutiful traffic cop directing— make that ordering—the teams to board their respective aircraft.

  CW and his assault team; 16-men, and one woman (a USMC Scout Sniper) hustle up the Osprey’s boarding ramp, while Commander Goldstein and her team do the same on the other.

  Five minutes later, with everyone safely on-board and strapped in
for the flight, the engine howl grows even louder as the pilots change prop pitch, tilt the rotors slightly forward into taxi position and release brakes in preparation for takeoff.

  Like a hen fussing with her chicks, Major Williston leans forward slightly so he can take in the individual profiles of each team member seated on both sides of the fuselage. No one meets his glance. They know him better than he knows himself. But what they don’t know is where he now journeys in his quantum space/time world.

  In the time it takes for the CV-22 to power up, roll southwest down Runway 22, then claw upward through Florida’s warm, humid night air and gain altitude, CW and his Delta Team have already snatched away the hostages from Vargas and his goons, and back standing on MacDill’s golf course, once again about to putt—and by doing so—beating the pants off Clark Bar and enjoying drinks on the house.

  He team sees him smile. But they don’t know why.

  And never will.

  After parading around the Mexican Marine Corporal’s severed head for the camera and demanding the return of his brother Ernesto, Vargas changed shirts.

  But there’s still splattered blood on the orange jumpsuit of the prisoner now standing before him, wrists trapped by zip-tie cuffs and flanked by two guards.

  All four are squeezed inside Vargas’s small “office”—more like a walk-in-closet—just off the main tunnel complex, where the night shift is busily manufacturing the fentanyl/heroin. The distant “hiss” and “thump” of various machines used in the methodical process of converting and combining complex chemicals into a consumer-friendly product is a constant companion to the ears.

  One of the many devices used in the process is a machine that takes the drug-filled capsules six-at-a-time and snugs them into a plastic blister sheet with perforations for easy use.

  Vargas made sure his capsule design was as up front as Tylenol’s—with two differences, one, their capsules are orange and white, his are peacock blue and white. Second, their active drug is acetaminophen to ease the body’s minor aches and pains, while his cosmic fentanyl/heroin cocktail sends you on a rocket ride to paradise.

  No dark alleys and sleazy junkies for Vargas. Nossir.

  It was his bright idea to package the drugs much like those you get from your friendly pharmacist or over the counter. In this case, containing a white powder that takes away all your earthly cares and lifts you to euphoric, blissful, energetic, love-filled heights better than heaven, because you’re still on earth to savor every super-elongated second. What it doesn’t do is let you return to the same person you were, because now you’re addicted beyond human recall.

  Not Vargas, though.

  At least not to the deadly white stuff in the peacock blue and white capsules. No, he wants a feeling far different from the one you get from drug-addled euphoria, He craves the glow of having the power of life or death over another person. Never again, the terrified nine-year-old crouched in the porta-potty shitting his pants, while his parents and sister screamed for mercy that never came.

  Now, it’s others who scream and it’s Miguel Vargas who decides who lives or dies.

  Like this gringo DEA agent standing before him, head unbowed, looking him straight in the eye. The very nerve of his defiant gesture excites Vargas almost as much as the news of the man’s identity. Osito, his loyal executioner, first whispered it to him a half-hour ago: DEA Agent Christopher Jensen’s mother is Helena Jensen, who just so happens to be the vice president of the United States!

  At first, Vargas didn’t believe him. Just because your executioner can swing a machete with surgical precision doesn’t make him a genius in other departments. But a quick call to Iván to confirm or deny, and his return call ten minutes ago closed the deal: they’ve captured a prize hostage.

  Vargas holds up an ice-cold bottle of water. “You must be thirsty.”

  Jensen shakes his head while maintaining fierce eye-contact.

  “May I ask you a question?” his captor says, trying not to smile.

  Silence.

  “You know I am adopted, yes?”

  Silence.

  “Ernesto is my stepbrother. The Vargas family took me in, gave me shelter after the LosTigres cartel killed my family.”

  Silence.

  “They slaughtered my father, mother and sister in cold blood in the middle of a watermelon field, in the middle of a harvest, while I hid inside a Porta-Potty.”

  Silence.

  “They thought they were in the right field. They made a mistake. One field over, was the man they were sent to kill. These things happen, don’t they? Like you and the Cuerpo de Infantería de Marina capturing the wrong man this morning, and ending up here for your efforts, including poor Corporal Rodriguez, who was the first—but I promise you will not be the last—prisoner to die because of your stupidity.”

  “Fuck you,” Jensen says.

  “Ah, the great Sphinx speaks. Here...” Vargas uncaps the water and holds it out. “You need to stay hydrated. We can’t have our VIP prisoner dying of thirst before his time.”

  Jensen struggles to escape. His captors tighten their hold and force him back.

  “Tell me, Agent Jensen, what is it like to have a mother who is one step away from becoming la presidenta de los Estados Unidos?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “But you are her son.”

  He shakes his head. “Stepson.”

  “Ah, I see, we have more in common than I thought. Where we were born is not where we grew up. Are you close?”

  He nods fractionally.

  “I was too. De mi madre—my mothers, both real and adopted—loved me and I loved them. Isn’t it funny how life works out sometimes? The two of us, I mean.”

  “You just killed a man. Nothing ‘funny’ about that.”

  “Your country needed proof of my intentions. If they do not return my brother safe and sound, I will do so again...and again.”

  Jensen licks his cracked lips. “The United States does not negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Me, a terrorist?”

  “You murdered a man in cold blood.”

  “Osito swung the machete. I merely gave the order.”

  Jensen’s silence is answer enough.

  “You are correct, of course. Your country does not negotiate. I knew that from the start.”

  Vargas takes a long swig of water, smacks his lips, then caps the bottle.

  “But mothers do.”

  Nothing keeps Jack Riley from sleeping if he wants to. Which is why he has no problem drinking strong, black, caffeine-packed coffee from a Navy-issue white ceramic mug in the enlisted mess hall at 0300 hours.

  He leans over the galley prep counter to watch Chef Jay Curcio magically crack four eggs at a time, two in each hand, and plop them into a stainless-steel mixing bowl as big as a washtub.

  “What made you want to do this for a living?” Jack says.

  Curcio delivers four more eggs into the glutinous ocean of what must be fifty eggs by now. “Got bored sitting on my ass.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Database administrator. Wrote code all day. Dreamt about it at night.”

  “Languages?”

  “Python, Java, C-plus-plus—your usual suspects.”

  “I know them well. So then...?”

  He stops cracking eggs, grabs a balloon whisk the size of a football helmet and starts beating the eggs to death.

  “A buddy of mine, Nate Ruben, died in a car accident…same age as me…mid-thirties at the time. He had all these dreams he kept talking about... then, poof, he was gone—hang on.” He speeds up the whisking. “Need to get some air into this.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Scrambled eggs—but not like any these guys ever ate.”

  “What’s in them?”

  “What isn’t?”

  Curcio slides the bowl to one side, snatches up a small forest of scallions and proceeds mincing them into a zillion tiny pieces, talking while he works. �
��One of Nate’s dreams was to own his own food truck. Had about half the money saved up when he died.”

  “Serving what?”

  Curcio stops whisking and laughs. “You might think it’s weird.”

  “Try me.”

  “Certified Kosher Brisket Sandwiches and Fried Matzo Ball Bites.”

  “Not weird at all. Wild is more like it.”

  “Exactly…but not for where he was going to operate it... Providence, Rhode Island... east side... he did a full location analysis, demographics, traffic patterns—the works. I helped him feed the data into one of the programs I was working on at the time and then crunched the numbers for him.”

  “And?”

  “A gold mine. Guaranteed foot traffic. Scalable too. Projected a nationwide fleet of food trucks. Open it to franchise in five years. Not just Kosher stuff either. A full range of ethnic foods eventually.”

  “All it needed was Nate.”

  Curcio nods as he scoops up the scallions and slides them into the egg mixture.

  “Porcini mushrooms next!”

  As he preps them, he continues. “Nate had plans. I didn’t. At least, not until after he died. Then one day...”

  “Let me guess; you walked away from coding and headed into the kitchen.”

  “And I’m still here—but not forever. The catering business is going great. I’ve grown it to where I want, and my partner wants to buy me out. I’m seriously thinking about it.”

  Sliced to perfection, the mushrooms wait in a pile, while Curcio gets a skillet going on the burner and plops in a chunk of butter and a heavy swirl of olive oil. In less than a minute, the mountain of mushrooms is cooking down.

  “Smells great,” Jack says.

  “Guys are gonna’ love this—with a little heat to give it an edge.”

  He uncaps a bottle of Sriracha sauce and squirts in a generous amount.

  “So?” Jack says.

  “So, what?”

  “You going to tell me your plans—after you sell your share in the catering company?”

  “Oh, that. Well...”