The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  In a rustic cabin on the northern tip of Susquehannock Forest, Cam poured a glass of bourbon and stared through the kitchen window into an endless abyss of towering pines, littered with groupings of red cherry trees. The sign above the adjacent wet bar was artistically hand-carved and etched with an inscription—The Huntsmen’s Club.

  The cabin was their lair, a place they could never be traced to, where cellphones were never turned on, and, more importantly, a place where they could escape the stresses of their daily lives.

  Trip and Michael were getting riled up in the living room over a game of blackjack that incorporated regular shots of rum into the rulebook. It was the calm before the storm, Cam thought. Each year they would convene at The Huntsmen’s Club and run through possible options for their upcoming hunt. And for the rest of the week—in between skeet-shooting tournaments and fishing—they would identify the pros and cons of the multiple heists that had been put on the table. Their final target wouldn’t officially be chosen for weeks, but this was the place where the wheels were set in motion.

  Cam’s deep stare into the wilderness was interrupted by the sound of a shot glass shattering against the stone fireplace and the roar of Michael’s victory cry.

  It was their cue—time to get down to business.

  With an outburst of laughter and some unsportsmanlike ribbing, Michael and Trip made their way to the kitchen table.

  “Alright, ladies, let’s get to work,” Cam finally announced. “Who’s first?”

  “The floor is yours, big brother,” replied Michael.

  With a subdued grin, Cam pulled three dossiers from a nearby backpack and handed them out.

  “Alright, I’ve been debating this for months, but here it goes,” he began. “My choice for our next target is Pacifico Logistics Partners. They are the financial backer for over a dozen new pipelines set to run through national parks, wetlands and native American burial grounds.”

  “So, you want to do battle with Big Oil?” Trip interrupted. “You’ll never be able to stop the pipelines, Cam. It’s a pipe dream, no pun intended.”

  “If we can cripple these guys where it counts, it might slow things down long enough—”

  “Long enough for what?” Michael shot back. “We could steal a billion dollars from them and there’ll just be another corporation with two billion more dollars to step in and keep it going.”

  “Understood,” Cam conceded. “But, if we hit them in the wallet it just might offset the project costs enough to scare off other investors. Victory lies in forcing them to move these things off protected grounds, not kill it altogether.”

  “Alright, alright,” Michael said with his hands spread out over the table. “While I like the idea of stealing from oil conglomerates, The Huntsmen’s Club deals in millions, not billions. We wouldn’t even put a dent in a four-billion-dollar pipeline project. And what’s the take on an espionage mission? Nothing, that’s what.”

  Cam waved off his stubborn brother. “Well, like it or not, that’s my submission. Pacifico Logistics Partners. How we hit ’em and what we come home with is totally up for debate, but that’s what I got.”

  “Months of theorizing right down the toilet, huh?” Trip teased. “Michael you’re up. Whatcha got?”

  Michael cleared his throat and leaned in. “I have a trifecta in mind this year.” He pulled out a folder and opened it on the table.

  “I like this already,” his big brother noted, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

  “We all know Iran is supplying arms to terrorist organizations in Syria,” he began. “I wanna intercept their next big shipment, sell it all at a deep discount to Nigerian freedom fighters currently outgunned by the jihadist militants Boko Haram. We then take the cash and deliver our standard ninety percent to a charity of our choosing. In the end, we steal from a foreign enemy, we help Nigerian citizens fend off terrorists, and we continue to flood money into charities right here at home. It’s a multi-pronged hunt that has more positive effects than our last two combined. Besides, it’s time we take this club international.”

  “I like it,” Trip agreed. “Besides, we’d be in Cam’s element pulling off a military-style mission. You got my vote.”

  “Hold on here!” proclaimed Cam. “What do you mean he has your vote? We haven’t even heard your bright idea, Einstein!”

  “That’s because I don’t have one,” Trip fired back. “I knew you two boneheads would each put good stuff on the table. I mean, sure, I’d love to hack SVR mainframes and expose Russian intel officers around the world but that’s a dangerous game, no need to get tangled up in international counterintelligence. So, I got nothin’.” He folded his arms like a petulant child and leaned back in his chair.

  “Lazy punk,” Cam muttered under his breath.

  His insult was met with drunken laughter.

  “Alright!” Michael exclaimed. “We got two solid picks: Pacifico Logistics or a shipment of Iranian arms. I love our options.”

  Michael then placed three shot glasses on the table and filled them with one sloppy, sweeping pour from a one-gallon whiskey jug. They each snatched up a shot glass soaked in liquor and raised them high.

  “To the next hunt!”

  Later that night, Michael and Cam sat quietly on the tattered couch in the living room as Trip slept off his stupor on the floor at their feet, still clutching an empty beer can.

  “Is this what we’ve become, Cam?” asked Michael through a slurred tongue.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You spent all those years fighting faceless enemies, all in the name of American capitalism and freedom.” Michael drew a deep sigh from his belly. “I, on the other hand, have been all over the world, jumping off cliffs and racing through rapids just so rich dentists and CEOs can feel alive. Yet here we are—stealing from the very people you kept safe, the same assholes I make a living off of.”

  “Don’t overthink it, bro.”

  “Easy to say. But one day we’ll be on our deathbeds, and we’ll have to face judgment. Not from some god but from ourselves. What will I tell myself?”

  “The world isn’t so black and white,” Cam offered. “Times change. People change. The rules change. Regrets are real but even those change. So who knows, by then you might not give a shit.”

  Michael pulled a shot glass to his lips, then reconsidered with a look of disdain and placed it back on the end table at his side.

  “But what about the demons that eventually come out? We’ve all got ’em, Cam. What are yours?”

  Demons were something Cam rarely considered, so instead, he found a tiny smile as he thought of his girls. “All I want is a better world for Lindsay and Abigail. And I hope that I’ve done enough in my lifetime to make that happen. I’d give anything and everything to make sure they see a world that’s more compassionate and pragmatic than this one. And I’m willing to die for it.”

  “Captain America,” Michael scoffed as he brushed the wavy brown hair from his face.

  “Yeah,” Cam replied with a grin. “Captain fuckin’ America.”

  “When I blew out my knee senior year, I thought my life was over,” Michael confessed. “I lost my scholarship and friends. I cried that night in the hospital, ya know. Not because of the physical pain. It was the first time I actually felt something. The first time something happened that put the rest of my life in jeopardy. I was scared.”

  Michael snatched the shot glass and poured it down his throat, wincing in disgust.

  “Your life wasn’t over, it was only beginning.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Michael agreed. “As soon as I healed, I booked the first one-way flight to Euro
pe. I just wanted to run. But I’ll tell ya something, that year with nothing more than a backpack and a few dollars somehow reinvented me. It made me whole again. And now this—being able to give so much to people who have so little. It’s done something to me. Something good. I can’t thank you enough, Cam.”

  “Thank me? You’re shitfaced out of your mind. You two morons begged me for months to bring you in. Don’t thank me, you brought this on yourself.”

  Michael’s mind drifted back to three years ago, when Cam got very drunk and confessed to his little brother and Trip how it was his life’s mission to put together a small team of bandits to steal, as he put it, from the greedy and corrupt and give to the tired and weak. It was a silly ambition. But the more Cam went into detail about military strike tactics and the extreme vulnerabilities of casinos, banks, network security and infrastructure, the more Michael and Trip’s eyes widened. They wanted in. And they got it. A year later, they were launching a cyberattack on a multi-billion-dollar corporation. A year after that they were rushing the main cage at Wynn casino with machine guns and masks. The rest was history—a meticulously woven trail of choices and circumstances that led to now.

  Michael brought himself back to the moment—drunk on the couch with his brother.

  “Trip and I are too stupid to understand the risks we take every year,” he finally confessed. “I’m just here for the free coffee and adrenaline rushes. Trip, though, I don’t know why he’s here. I guess some time in prison will lower your ambitions.”

  The brothers shared a smile, remembering Trip’s stint in Leavenworth for downloading classified documents from State Department servers.

  “He’s too smart for his own good,” Michael joked. “We all are. One day, it’ll get us killed.”

  “That’s not funny,” Cam quietly snapped.

  “You’ve killed a bunch of people. What’s that like?”

  Cam snorted at the question and leaned his head back against the couch. “Why do you always ask me that?”

  “I’ve never really meant it. I never expected an answer. But, now seems like a good time.”

  Cam paused, thoughtfully choosing his words. “I took an oath to serve my country. And in order to follow through on that, to be good at what you do, sometimes you’re forced to pull the trigger. But killing another man isn’t what stings. What stings is not being able to save your guys—your friends, your family. Guys like Trip’s brother.”

  “I didn’t mean to bring up Mark,” Michael said with a touch of remorse.

  “It’s okay. A lot of good men put their lives in my hands, and I failed some of them.”

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  “You never talk about what happened,” Michael said.

  “And I never will.” Cam leaned over and looked down at Trip, still asleep on the floor. “They were close. He talked about Trip all the time. About what a fuck-up he was and how much he loved him for it. They lost both their parents. I wish I could have brought Mark home—for Trip.” Cam took a moment to gather his emotions. “And now I’m putting him in the same danger I put Mark in. What the hell is wrong with me?”

  “You’re not Trip’s protector and you can’t carry that around all the time,” Michael said with an air of wisdom. “Look, how many guys did you train while you were in San Diego? Guys whose lives were determined by how well you prepared them?”

  “Hundreds. I have no idea how many saw combat. Or how many never came home.”

  “And are you at fault for the guys that didn’t?” Michael asked.

  “No. I guess not. We gave them the tools to survive. How well that served them—who knows. But sometimes skill isn’t enough, being a good frogman isn’t enough. IEDs and snipers don’t give a shit how talented of an operator you are. Sometimes circumstance alone is enough to get you killed.”

  “Just know that for every guy that never comes home—for every Mark—there are hundreds that owe their lives to men like you. All you can do is take comfort in that and let the Universe sort out the rest.”

  “Sounds about right,” confirmed Cam.

  Michael could barely keep his eyes open now. “Do you worry about getting killed on any of these hunts?”

  “Legacy can be a cold, hard bitch,” Cam grumbled. “As much as I want my girls to see a better tomorrow, they may not like the things that had to be done to get there. Things get messy when you try to save the world. As much as I feel responsible for the safety of you and Trip, we all made the choice to throw our legacies out the window the moment we walked into that casino.”

  The two brothers shared a solemn, tired moment of levity before toasting another round and calling it a night.

  . . .

  The next morning at sunrise, Cam fumbled anxiously through the kitchen for coffee filters. Bacon, eggs and beer were on the table by the time Michael and Trip awoke. It was fly fishing day. And there could only be one winner.

  By noon, the guys were huddled together on the rocks along Hopper Run Creek eating pre-packed ham sandwiches. Michael was up by three trout.

  “This happens every year,” Cam quietly noted.

  “What does?” his brother snapped.

  “You win.”

  Trip, meanwhile, watched eagerly as a pod of brook trout danced downstream. “The day’s not over yet, boys.”

  The sandwiches were dry and tasteless but provided a good source of energy for the afternoon challenge.

  Hopper Run was the spot Michael and Cam had fished as kids with their oldest brother, James, and their father. It was quiet and peaceful, far from the Susquehannock River and any outlying lodges. The leaves had changed months ago, only a few random specks of brown remained on the northern hardwoods. A few cherry trees peppered the surrounding woods, still holding their brilliant red flare.

  “This place hasn’t changed a bit,” Cam noted.

  “Nope, not one bit,” Michael agreed as he gave the forest a quick glance. “Dad still loves this place. Comes up every spring.”

  “Remember that time he got so excited about a catch he stumbled over a rock and fell face first into the creek?”

  They chuckled.

  “How about you, Trip? You guys do much fishing in Texas?” Cam asked, trying to draw him into the conversation.

  “Sure. But we’re mostly hunting folk,” the young hacker joked. “Always been better with a rifle than a rod.”

  “What’d you hunt?”

  “Deer mostly. You know, I was a better shot than Mark. He couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from five feet back then.”

  “I believe it.”

  “I don’t know why you SEALs let him become a sniper…never sounded right to me.”

  The three shared a spirited exchange of grins.

  “I wish I had a chance to meet him,” Michael said.

  Trip’s jovial spirit morphed into a flash of happy memories. “He was a protector. The big brother who always had your back. A brilliant decision maker. He would have hated you.”

  A flow of laughter echoed along the riverbed.

  “Fair enough,” conceded Michael. “So where does Elena think you are this week?”

  “She knows I’m out here.”

  “Brave man,” Cam said.

  “She’s a good girl,” Trip explained. “Probably out of her mind to be with a guy like me, but I guess that’s why I love her.”

  “You trust her?” Cam asked.

  “I do. She’ll be my wife soon. And while she knows I’m with you guys, she doesn’t exactly know what we’re planning. It would ruin us,” he said with a sobering tone of truth.


  Cam stared down at the rocks beneath him. “We don’t have to do this forever. I never want these hunts to come between you and Elena, you know that right, Trip?”

  “I do.”

  “You just say the word…and this all ends.”

  “How about we just burn that bridge when we get to it?”

  “Deal.”

  They rose to their feet and cracked open their cans of beer, taking in the mountain air that drifted through the valley. With one last toast, the tournament’s second phase got under way.

  The next few days passed with scenic hikes and drinking games. Their weeklong getaway had been a complete success.

  Chapter Seven

  The cabin hangover lingered for a few days.

  Their specific target, including logistics and tactical plan, wouldn’t be set for another month or so. But the votes had been tallied; they would be hijacking a mass weapons cache at the Syrian border. It was going to be a huge adrenaline rush, Cam could already feel it in his bones. It was the type of mission he had trained for a hundred times over. But it was hardly going to be a proverbial walk in the park. It never was; danger always lurked on even the most simple of missions.

  It was Monday morning and the girls had left for school an hour earlier. Cam sat in the kitchen, ravaging a breakfast burrito still steaming from the microwave. With no work on the day’s calendar, he had time to clear his mind at the shooting range.

  Iran would be a tough egg to crack, he thought. Standard back-channels were rare and getting the information they needed could take months. Luckily, Cam had a huge network within the intel community and Trip was still in contact with a collective of vigilante hackers who had proven they could deliver top secret information.

  But even with all their resources and bravado, Cam understood they had to be willing to scrap a mission without hesitation. And with so many moving pieces involved in an operation like this, it would only take one to go wrong and derail the entire thing.