Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  To our right, Molokai is passing by and we’re hovering towards the setting sun. If I'm not mistaken, this is the course to Oahu.

  Forty-five minutes later, two bodies fall from a great height and strike with deadly force on the water’s surface.

  No, just kidding.

  Forty-five minutes later, two skids gently touch down onto the roof of a tall building in Honolulu. A handsome uniformed and not-less-armed reception committee awaits us. We get out and enter the building through a staircase.

  Andrews escorts us into an office on the sixteenth floor. There, an elderly, stocky gentleman is waiting for us. He wears no uniform and seems to be less than enthusiastic about our visit. First, he leaves the room with Andrews. His and Andrew's voices in the hallway suggest some form of disagreement. The old man is angry about our presence. While the loud conversation continues outside the door, I take a look around. The two guards are definitely soldiers. The same US Army emblem that’s on their arms is also on pennants, file folders and the stationery.

  "Steve," I mutter, "We’re safe. This is an army base!"

  "I know," whispers Steve, "but I’m still not sure where this is heading."

  "Yep, I’m also very curious about that!"

  The door flies open, and in comes the old man, followed by a disgruntled-looking Andrews.

  "My name is Robert Stice and I am the head of S&C. My company cleans the island of Kahoolawe of undetonated explosive devices, in order to restore the island back to its original state: a Hawaiian paradise for both locals and tourists alike. My project manager, Mr. Andrews, told me that the two of you have tried several times to sabotage our important work. By doing so, you have committed a criminal offense according to both US civil and US military law. These two gentlemen will accompany you to your cell until the magistrate finds time to deal with you. He looks towards the soldiers and commands, “Discharge!"

  Just when I’m about to ask who gives him, as a civilian, the right to imprison us, the door flies open.

  "Robert, what's going on here??"

  "David?! How ... what ... why?" stammers Stice.

  "I was just about to have dinner with my daughter when I hear a helicopter has landed on our roof and you’re interrogating civilians here without any military assistance. Robert, have you lost your mind?"

  David – that name rings a bell. David Miller. General David Miller! Bob’s old friend! Perhaps my text message saved us after all!

  For a moment, Robert Stice’s face drops. He’s a grown man in his fifties, has a few pounds too many on the ribs, but is quite fit. Definitely a go-getter kind of guy: always well prepared and not easy to confuse. But he didn’t expect that.

  "David, come in," Stice responds, "I thought you were already gone and I wanted to inform you tomorrow."

  Stice has caught himself amazingly fast - a professional through and through.

  Miller continues: "Cut the crap, man! You’re just about to maneuver yourself into a huge barrel of shit. Nobody cares about a few Islamists in Guantanamo. But these two guys here are German! You can’t imprison any Germans without good grounds. Boy, that would cause some international tension."

  Stice is visibly annoyed. That isn’t how he visualized things: "These men sabotaged the work of an American company and, on top of that, they entered a restricted military area. Two good reasons for locking them up."

  "Where were these two caught and who arrested them?" General Miller demands to know.

  "On Maui, by one of our security guards."

  "Maui is not a restricted area and S&C is a private company. You aren’t allowed to arrest anyone. You may hold people and wait for the police. A formal violation like this would have the case dismissed in court. Robert, how could you let such a beginner’s mistake happen?"

  "These gentlemen injured two of my employees on Kahoolawe, they sabotaged a speedboat, and broke into our office on Maui!"

  "And so you have them arrested by private security and fly them to another island? If you're lucky, they won’t accuse you of kidnapping!"

  "I could do that twice already," notes Steve.

  "Shut up, I’ll get to you later!" grumbles General Miller.

  Turning to Stice again, Miller complains: "I don’t know what’s going on here and why, in the first place, foreign civilians can so easily enter Kahoolawe while you’re working there. It’s up to you to guard the island. My God, what if a stupid tourist blows himself up there? I can’t even begin to imagine… Robert, keep your company and the island clean!"

  Robert Stice prepares to argue, but Miller is faster: "Now shut the fuck up!"

  Now it's our turn.

  "And you two," Miller begins in the same direct and angry tone he used with Stice, "are fortunate that our Robert here did behave so inordinately stupid. If he had called the police, you would have been convicted for burglary and interrogated by a military court due to the allegations on Kahoolawe. I don’t like it when someone plays cowboy on my islands. So, I suggest you leave the country today and never come back!"

  Steve begins to open his mouth, but again Miller nips a possible discussion in the bud.

  "I said shut up! That counts for you as well!" he shouts.

  "Robert, is the helicopter still on the roof?"

  Stice just nods.

  "Well, then take those two back to Maui. Fly directly to their accommodations. There they will pack up and get their passports. Afterwards, you fly them to the airport. I’ll have them picked up at the heliport. The time is now 8 p.m. and the last flight is at 10:30 p.m.. Your pilot has a personal responsibility to drop them off on time at the heliport! End of discussion and everyone out now!"

  In the hallway, General Miller disappears directly into the elevator, Stice running behind, making it just in time before the doors close. The two of them probably need to talk.

  Without saying a word, Andrews and the guards bring us back onto the roof.

  "Crass guy," I say.

  "Miller? I dunno," Steve replies, "The whole time he was in the room, no one said a word besides him. He came in and ran over everything like a steamroller. That’s one powerful dude!"

  "Do you understand what's going on here?"

  "No."

  More conversation is not possible; we put on the headphones and the helicopter starts.

  An hour later, we touch down in front of our apartment in Kula. Our landlady is visibly upset. Her horses are afraid of the helicopter, and she has her hands full trying to calm them down. At least it keeps her from speaking to us, which is a nice, since I have no idea how to explain what’s going on here.

  The bags are packed quickly. Since we are constantly on the move lately, we didn’t even unpack here. Andrews checks to ensure we have our passports and then we’re shepherded back into the helicopter.

  Shortly after, we land at the airport. The heliport is located along with the private aircrafts across from the public terminal. I search for Bob's plane and check to see if there’s a light on in the hangar where Kiara works. But, no, the two are not here.

  A military jeep is already awaiting us. Andrews gestures to us to get in. He exchanges a few words with the driver, goes back into the helicopter and flies off towards his villa.

  Strangely, I would have bet he wouldn’t leave us without some kind of remark.

  The driver greets us pleasantly and asks how it's going. He doesn’t treat us like prisoners; he probably doesn’t know the background of today’s events.

  He evidently enjoys racing around the airport, where there are no traffic lights and, above all, no speed limit. This is rare in America. It’s just after 9 p.m. and, at this time, it’s fairly quiet at the Kahului Airport. We stop at the southern end of the terminal, the cargo area of the airport.

  Our driver brings us to a staircase, and we arrive at the gates. From here, we walk across the entire airport, our driver leading the way and another US soldier behind us, both carrying automatic rifles. Anyone who sees us must think we are either extremely im
portant or extremely arrested.

  At the other end of the terminal, there’s another security check. We skipped the first one by entering the terminal from the airfield; normally you would start with an inspection before you get to the gates.

  Our walk leads through the cargo area, past the inter-island gates where flights to the mainland depart from. You can only enter this area with a boarding pass. The rest of the airport is openly accessible, even by people that are just there to pick someone up.

  Behind the security check, our driver suddenly stops, points to the airport bar and says:

  "Is it true that you gentlemen would like to enjoy one last aloha beer before your departure?"

  Puzzled, we stare at each other. Beer - of course - is always good, but something is weird here!

  Although the terminal is quiet and the bar is almost empty, the waiter directs us to a table in the back corner, almost a private room, not visible from the outside. Ironically, there are already two people at this table. Annoyed, I want to protest, but as I realize who’s sitting in front of us, my eyes almost pop out of my head.

  Engaged in a friendly conversation and with two half-full glasses of beer in front of them, Bob and General Miller are sitting here in the airport bar.

  Chapter 13

  "Ah, there you are. You want a beer?" Bob greets us.

  "...I‘m not sure if a beer is enough. I think I need something a little stronger," Steve is the first to find his speech again.

  "One shot, sir," repeats the waiter, looking at me expecting to get my order.

  "He doesn’t mean that seriously, please bring two large beers - for each of us," I reply.

  We sit down while the soldiers who accompanied us take a different table and also order beer.

  Neither Steve nor I can think of anything to say. Bob grins at me and breaks the silence.

  "Surprised?"

  "Indeed."

  "First of all, give me your passports," General Miller demands.

  I hesitate. It would be kind of silly to attempt travelling without passport, especially abroad.

  "It’s okay," says Bob. "Give them to him. I guarantee you will get them back."

  Miller takes the passports and passes them on to one of the soldiers, who then disappears.

  "There are two reasons why I’m sitting here today," says General Miller: "Firstly, because my friend Bob asked me to. For my second reason, you’ll first have to convince me of your story. So go ahead - tell!"

  He can have it. We tell, and oh how we tell! From the party with Christine, the way home, the attack from A to Z, and from Maui to Kahoolawe to Shanghai and back, we tell!

  Miller doesn’t even once interrupt us. Hard to tell whether he thinks we're crazy or believes every word. Only when we mention Shanghai for the first time, does his facial expression briefly change.

  After the whole story, he looks at me: "Why didn’t you call the police after the first attack?"

  "Let me answer with a question: What happens in the US when a drunken tourist, who was just involved in a car accident, states to the police that masked men had kidnapped his buddy with a speedboat after he was forced off the road? In Germany, you would first get thrown into the drunk-tank. What happens on the next day, I don’t know, but the chance of setting off a large-scale search operation is rather small."

  "Do you have any military training?"

  "No," we answer truthfully.

  "It's a wonder you’re still alive!" Bob throws in.

  "...Or remarkable how vivid the imagination is that dreamed up this story," Miller remarks.

  "What about the soldier I shot in the leg? A gunshot wound must be hard to hide."

  Miller throws open a newspaper. The second page is emblazoned with the headline: "Incident on Kahoolawe: soldier accidentally shoots comrade in the leg while cleaning his gun!"

  "Do you have any evidence for your accusations?" asks Miller.

  "For the kidnapping - no," replies Steve, "But you can ask me anything that only someone who has actually been on Kahoolawe before would know."

  "I believe you, that you were on that island. Even Marc Andrews attests to that. Maybe you just wanted to feel the thrill of entering a forbidden island. Or maybe even steal explosives."

  "Sure, just to paddle back to Maui on a stand-up paddleboard with a live explosive?" I submit.

  "Your escape was spectacular enough, maybe you planned it that way from the very beginning. You just happened to flee without any bomb because you were caught. You shot a guard down, panicked and fled without the loot. The story makes sense this way and is actually what S&C is claiming. In court, it would just be your word against theirs."

  "Then why are we not in any court?" asks Steve.

  "Because you’re damn lucky that Andrews made this formal violation and arbitrarily detained you, rather than calling the police. In addition, because Bob called me after he received a text message with a call for help."

  Ha! My text message did arrive. At least the face-punch was worth it.

  "So can you prove anything? Do you have any kind of evidence?" Miller asks again.

  "We do have video recordings where it’s evident that Andrews or one of his men are removing weapons from Kahoolawe using a floating pontoon."

  Miller sighs, bored: "The explosives are removed from the duds and destroyed by a controlled detonation on the high seas. This is to avoid constantly seeing and hearing explosions on Kahoolawe. First, this protects the island; second, it avoids disturbing the tourists on Maui."

  Silence.

  "So, you have no proof of anything," Miller summarizes.

  "I do have a file in my possession that shows that the shipping company GSS doesn’t make a profit and only operates on ocean routes that are usually pretty dead. However, the owner still somehow maintains a very lavish lifestyle. I have no proof that connects this with Andrews and Kahoolawe, but I do have a theory."

  General Miller looks at me disapprovingly.

  "I also have this digital camera," I hasten to add. "There are pictures on the memory card of the villa on Maui. I photographed everything in the office."

  Miller raises an eyebrow.

  "And?" he asks eagerly.

  "I… uh... I haven’t had a chance to look at the photos yet," I admit sheepishly as I hand him the camera.

  He takes it and clicks through the images.

  "So what do you think?" he asks.

  I don’t understand and keep looking at him.

  "Your theory! Explain it."

  "We found a connection between a shipping company that maintains unprofitable routes and a disarmament company that has access to large quantities of explosive materials. One of the seaways GSS maintains leads straight past Hawaii. I think the cargo ships that operates the Shanghai - Buenaventura route briefly stops here and loads the container of explosives that Andrews brings to an offshore meeting point with the floating pontoon. The explosives get sold to the Mafia in Buenaventura, which, in turn, leads to their bloody drug war. In return, the next freighter brings a container with drugs that Andrews partially sells in Hawaii. He receives more drugs than the islands are capable of consuming, so the rest goes on and gets sold by other freighters on the way to New Zealand and Bali. The ships slow down in front of Australia, all the little islands on the way and, of course, in Bali itself. Small motorboats pick up the drugs and bring them ashore. Absolutely brilliant! Andrews provides the explosives he digs out for free on Kahoolawe in exchange for the much more valuable drugs and, on top of that, he gets a salary from the USA for his services."

  "You really have an imagination, boy," Miller comments on my theory. "Your thoughts sound rather utopian, but I'm still going to tell you the second reason why I’m sitting here today talking to you:

  I love these islands. But over the last few years, we’ve seen a serious drug problem surface. In the past, a few teenagers might have smoked a joint or two, and occasionally someone brought some harder drugs from Asia. All in all, not to
o bad. Recently, however, someone has virtually flooded the islands with cocaine and heroin. We have no idea where it comes from or how it gets here. We’ve already assigned several agents to the matter, but never found a real trail. The criminals were always one step ahead. So, a few months ago, I put my best man on it, Lieutenant Rogers. Over time, the suspicion rose that the drug dealers have access to inside information from military sources. So Lieutenant Rogers was officially placed on leave. Nobody except me knew about his mission, and he reported to me exclusively. A few weeks ago, our contact suddenly broke off. He had traveled to Shanghai to follow a lead. In his last report, he mentioned meeting a Chinese named ‘Chang.’ He’s been missing ever since."