Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  General Miller takes a substantial pause, and then continues: "The drugs and the connection to Shanghai are the common thread weaving my problems into your story. Unfortunately you can’t prove anything, so I can do nothing for you; at least not through formal channels."

  "What can you tell us about S&C, Marc Andrews and Robert Stice?" Steve asks.

  I expect a thunderstorm, but Miller starts to talk.

  "Robert and I met at the military academy. At the time, we were just nineteen and had completed the basic training together. I chose an academic career while the desk seemed too boring for him. He got trained as a frogman and joined a special unit. Over the years, he climbed the ladder. In the end, he coordinated his own projects and carried them into execution. He commanded Special Forces units around the world, the type of operations where the government denies knowing you, if you’re ever caught. His teams varied in size depending on the job, but he always had a core team including Marc Andrews, 20 years younger than Robert. They worked side by side for the last fifteen years. Going through extreme situations together ties you together and, over the years, the two developed a father-son type relationship. Six years ago, both retired from the military service. Robert founded S&C and, because of his good contacts, he soon got big contracts. Andrews is Robert’s right-hand man in the company."

  "But they started to clean Kahoolawe in 1998. Wasn’t that long before Andrews and Stice retired from military service?" I ask.

  "Correct. But the joint venture that was originally commissioned to clean Kahoolawe didn’t really do themselves any favors. The disposal of unexploded ordnance took much longer than expected. Therefore, the order was revoked from them and handed over to S&C."

  "When this was being decided, it certainly didn’t hurt Robert Stice to have those military contacts,” I interject.

  "Vitamin B is invariably more important than anything else, Mr. Greenall."

  "Where exactly were Andrews and Stice deployed during their last – let’s say – two years of military service?" I ask.

  "I can’t answer that; more or less all over the world. These types of Special Forces units are not only used within crisis areas, but also in places where we don’t want to end up with one, if you get what I mean."

  "Like preventive killings of aspiring dictators, for example?"

  Miller does not answer my provocation.

  "How long have you been working on the islands’ drug problems?" I ask.

  "For about five or six years."

  "That’s the exact timeframe in which S&C took over the helm on Kahoolawe," Steve states.

  "Looks like it," Miller confirms with a bitter expression. "However, I’ll vouch for Robert. He would never do anything that could harm the United States. If there were ever a born-and-bred patriot, it’s Robert Stice."

  "Money ruins character," I object.

  "No, not Robert. Not when it comes to drugs. Robert had a son. Because of him being abroad most of the time, he noticed too late that his son had gotten into some very bad company. Initially they just smoked weed, then harder drugs were added. One of his friends lost control of his car when he was driving stoned one night. The car plunged down a cliff and landed on the roof. Everyone inside was killed instantly. Robert's son was in the passenger seat."

  Miller continues: "As I said, I can’t do anything officially. But, unofficially, I have my options - even if only in a very limited way."

  We carry on our conversation.

  An hour later, our flight gets announced.

  "Gentlemen, it’s time for you to go. I respect your decision and wish you a good flight home," General Miller gets up and hands over our passports, a boarding card inserted within each. We shake hands, and Steve and I go to the gate.

  There, our boarding passes get scanned and we silently go along the gangway towards the aircraft.

  As the door of the Boeing closes, we look at each other. Neither of us says a word, but we’re both wondering if we made the right decision.

  Chapter 14

  The plane gets pulled back away from the gate by the aircraft tug, turned by 90 degrees and decoupled. The United Airlines jet with the flight number UA 528 then rolls to the runway under its own engine power.

  With a loud roar of the turbines, the aircraft accelerates and lifts off into the bright night sky.

  Suddenly Bob appears in front of my window and opens the door from the outside. Steve and I are still standing inside the gangway, watching the plane disappear. Our names are, however, on the passenger list on this flight to Los Angeles. Bob leads us down the outside stairs from the gangway. The three of us get into a military jeep on the airfield again.

  With lights switched off, Bob drives close along the building. From the terminal, we are practically invisible. At the northern end of the runway, we open a gate in the fence and cross a meadow to the next street. This leads to the Hana Highway where Bob finally turns the headlights on.

  "Where shall we drive?" he asks.

  A little surprised, Steve and I exchange glances. Back to the apartment in Kula is not a good idea. Andrews knows the property now and, besides that, the landlady will definitely give us a hard time because the helicopter has frightened her horses.

  "Good question."

  "Come on, let’s drive to my home. Kiara has fresh Mahi-Mahi we can throw on the grill!" Bob suggests.

  Mahi-Mahi is not the official fish of the state of Hawaii; everybody knows this is the Humuhumunukunukuapua'a. But it’s either not edible, nor - as I suspect - pronounceable. No matter the reason, the result remains the same, the Humuhumunukunukuapua'a never happens to appear on any menu. Mahi-Mahi, however, is omnipresent.

  Fish is not really my thing: apart from the taste, I have my own opinion on it. I think it's just wrong if someone wants to save the world or protect animals and therefore eats no meat, except fish. Essentially, there are at least three good reasons to enjoy meat and stay away from fish:

  1. Overfished seas: meat can be bred, but no one has overfishing under control. Soon, the oceans will be empty, and vegetarians will be to blame.

  2. Efficiency: for every single fish dish, an individual animal has to die just to fill up one human for a few hours. A pig weighs about 400 pounds; you can eat about 70 per cent of it. That makes 280 pounds; divided into nine-ounce portions, that makes around 500 meals. So, from the death of just one pig, five hundred people can have dinner. From this perspective, one should eat as heavy an animal as possible - best breed whales!

  3. Catching and transportation: only God knows how many other fish have to die just to obtain one edible one. For one farmed salmon, twelve other edible fish get processed into fishmeal and fed to the one salmon. Not to mention the fish trawlers’ bycatch. It also takes half a gallon of kerosene to transport one kilo of fish to the place it gets eaten. An ecological nightmare!

  Yes, yes, I know. Strictly speaking, a true vegetarian eats no meat at all. However, I know many people who claim to be vegetarian, but still eat fish in order to save the world and to protect animals from industrial livestock farming. For simplicity’s sake, I take those fish-eating, but meat-boycotting fellow people and throw them in a pot together with pure herbivores under the generic term "vegetarian."

  Assuming that for each plate of fish, two or three other animals die - whether as bait, fish meal, bycatch, crabs in trawler nets, or sharks, turtles and dolphins in driftnets - then it’s not just one whole fish, but rather four marine animals, compared to one five-hundredth of a pig, to fill one stomach.

  That means each fish-eating vegetarian causes approximately 2,000 times more animal deaths than an honest and law-abiding meat eater. Of course, our meat-free animal lover will now argue that there are also large fish, from which several meals can be made. But what, my dear vegetarian, is with the herring, mussels or even shrimp? How many of those animals do you shovel into your insatiable mouth for just one meal? Moreover, even if it were only half a fish per meal, it would still be 250 to one. But let us
calculate with one dead fish per meal and one meal per day.

  In 80 years of life, I’ll eat about 40 pigs, while an equally long career of a vegetarian will cost the heads of approximately 25,000 marine animals. If we add three bycatch victims per edible fish, it adds up to about 125,000 creatures getting killed, just to satisfy the animal friendly appetite of a single meat-abandoner.

  With this in mind, the classic argument "But the fish have a nice life in freedom before they’re caught" doesn’t hold any water!

  Back to the subject: Mahi-Mahi is nevertheless still tasty, even though it mostly gets caught off the islands by trawlers. More importantly, I’m looking forward to seeing Kiara again.

  En route, we stop at the Minute Stop in Paia since fish for dinner virtually screams for a white wine accompaniment.

  Shortly thereafter, the gas grill hisses while Kiara prepares the fish. We sit in the garden, a cold beer as an aperitif in hand. With the fish / meat topic still in my mind I ask:

  "What does ‘vegetarian’ actually mean?”

  "Well, you don’t eat any meat," Steve replies.

  "Sure. But why is it called ‘vegetarian’? What does the term mean?" I attempt to clarify my concern.

  “The word ‘vegetarian’ is pretty old. It comes from the time when men used to live in caves, and it means ‘bad hunter’,” Bob explains.

  Everybody laughs.

  "Vegetarians eat up the vegetation," Kiara claims.

  "Well, then what’s someone like me called? Someone who likes to eat meat and doesn’t pay attention to side dishes?" I dig deeper.

  "A meat eater," suggests Bob.

  "No, not English, it would have to be derived from Latin," says Kiara. "Carne means meat. So you’re a carnivore."

  "Ha!" snorts Steve, "a big meat eater; Tom is a grande carnivore!"

  It’s always a pleasure to be taken seriously. Kiara goes into the kitchen and returns with the wine and a juicy steak.

  "This is for you. We don’t want Grande Carnivore getting fish poisoning," she proclaims, laughing.

  "I eat fish. I just don’t like it as much as meat. I prefer a steak at any time. But you don’t have to grill a steak just for me..."

  "Never mind," she dismisses me, "I understood you, Grande Carnivore."

  "Well, I’d like to take the steak. But only if you stop calling me ‘Grande Carnivore’."

  "Why? Do you not like being an island?" she teases me.

  "Oh, I do. Every man is an island. Didn’t you see ‘About a Boy’? Hugh Grant is bloody Ibiza. Looking at it that way, I’m in good company!"

  The evening is beautiful. We are in a playful mood and stay sitting at the table in the garden for a long time. It's good to be in the company of nice people, who have a lot to laugh about. Yes, I literally relax!

  We spend the night in Bob's guestroom, and the next morning an excellent breakfast awaits us under swaying palm trees. Kiara squeezes fresh juice from fruits whose names I do not know. Bob collects avocados in the garden.

  "What is this?" I ask Kiara.

  "Lilikoi."

  "What’s Lilikoi?" I wonder aloud.

  "Hawaiian for ‘passion fruit’," she replies, "How is it called in German?"

  Hooray! This question gets directed exactly to the right person. I typically only brake in the fruit section of the supermarket when someone cuts in front of my cart. They probably also just call it "Passionsfrucht" in German… but there was something else. Yes, I seem to recall, from some dusty, dark corner of my brain, the actual name:

  "Maracuja."

  I’m proud of myself. Pretty impressive, such a brain.

  "Hmm," Kiara thinks aloud, “Maracuja - quite a long name for a Lilikoi!"

  Puzzled, I look at her. She doesn’t seem to be joking. While I'm counting the syllables and letters of "Lilikoi" and “Maracuja," Steve appears with a tray full of scrambled eggs, bacon and fresh coffee. The smell automatically switches my synapses to appetite-controlled mode, and I follow the scent like a sleepwalker on the moon.

  Over breakfast, we debate how to proceed. First, the camera has to be put up again to observe Kahoolawe. Bob suggests connecting it to the Internet, so we’re able to view it live from home.

  Steve and I set out to search for a suitable place close to Kula.

  On the Haleakala Highway, the car in front of us pulls into the left-turn lane and slows down. When we’re almost next to him, he suddenly pulls over to the right. Steve responds promptly and prevents a collision just in time by also veering to the right. When the other car is a good third in our lane, it suddenly turns off and disappears to the left.

  "Bloody out-turner!" scolds Steve.

  "What’s an out-turner?" I ask.

  "Oh, the crazy assholes that can’t drive. They’re everywhere: people that swing out in the opposite direction they’re actually turning off into. That sucks! I hate those guys!”

  "Boy, calm down, nothing happened.”

  "Can you explain why people do that?! Why the heck do they turn the steering wheel to the right if they actually want to turn left?"

  "No idea. But I recently witnessed a diesel glove user for the first time in my life."

  "Seriously?"

  "Live and in color! I just always wondered why anyone would wear gloves only when refueling with diesel. Is gasoline better for your skin?"

  No answer, so I continue:

  "But the best part was: he wore two. One on each hand!"

  "You’re kidding me!"

  Shortly after, we pass Kula and get a clear view of Kahoolawe. Fifteen minutes later, we find what we’ve been looking for. The only house for miles around is a quiet bed-and-breakfast that advertises with Wi-Fi Internet access for guests. We stop in the parking lot, which we share with only one other car.

  At the reception desk, Steve kindly asks the owner if we may install a camera outside and connect it with their Wi-Fi. We are ornithologists working on behalf of the Navy, providing our expert opinion on the avifauna of Kahoolawe. Of course, this is only one of many observation points; the others are located on Kahoolawe itself. The camera here is very important in capturing a general overview of the wildlife at a great height and figuring out how many birdies fly back and forth between Maui and Kahoolawe.

  Steve delivers a very credible story. He even plays the arrogance of a researcher who holds himself and his work as the most important thing in the world; I would certainly buy it from him. Nevertheless, the owner doesn’t seem convinced and tells us to toddle off.

  Somehow I saw this coming, and sent a text message to General Miller before we entered the building.

  At this moment, the landline phone rings at the reception desk and the owner scrambles off.

  "United States Army?" he stammers into the handset.

  Nevertheless, he quickly regains his composure and starts to argue with the General. He requires evidence that he really has a high-ranking officer on the phone. This is followed by a long silence on his part. General Miller doesn’t exactly speak in a low voice, and I believe to hear words like 'public health department' and 'tax fraud investigation.'

  At the end of the conversation, the owner looks at us almost friendly, apologizes for his earlier rejection and leads us outside to the terrace where we can set up the camera. He actually likes birds a lot, but nowadays, you never know: people come up with the strangest stories just to hornswoggle you. Really bad!

  The phone call is one of the small, informal assistances that General Miller can provide.

  The Internet connection works surprisingly well. We can store everything online and even watch a live stream. Bob's old computer records everything at home, and I also send the link to Alex and General Miller.

  Kiara keeps an eye on the screen in the morning, General Miller's daughter takes care of the afternoon and, due to the 12-hour time difference, we slap the night shift on Alex. Not Alex personally, rather two of his apprentices.

  Since there are no boat charters on Maui, we drive to Kihei
, on Maui's south coast. With a fast boat, you reach Kahoolawe within fifteen minutes.

  There are plenty of diving schools in Kihei and we see their boats in the harbor. Unfortunately, none are good enough for our purposes. They are all too big, not agile enough and slow.

  Finally, we find what we need at the Grand Wailea Resort. The hotel owns two speedboats, inflatable models. Although they’re slightly too long for our purposes and equipped with an awning for the tourists, we realize that beggars can’t be choosers.

  The hotel uses the boats for the in-house diving school and their so-called "action rides." Hard to imagine, but lots of tourists seem to find it appealing to race over the water at 60 mph. This is about as exciting as driving a conventional road car straight ahead on a huge paved parking lot. There are no obstacles, no curves, nothing that makes the ride the least bit interesting; just straight – and not even as the driver, but as a passenger. A person of average intelligence would get bored after less than two minutes; but to know that, you have to try it first.