Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  As expected, the guy at the diving center isn’t too impressed with our request and isn’t willing to cooperate. The boy meets all the clichés of a dive or surf instructor.

  His appearance can be described as a mix between Leonardo Di Caprio in "The Beach" and Justin Bieber. Pumped up and baby faced, he embodies the complete sunny boy image, and no doubt has a quota for rich and bored daughters on family vacation.

  Anyway, he just won’t budge. Even with my "Hey, dude, we surf too" attempt, I’m simply banging my head against a brick wall. On the other hand, we might be asking for too much. Our needs definitely exceed the competence of young David Hasselhoff. So a change of tactics: a few threats later and he finally gets the hotel manager.

  But the manager has a similarly negative attitude towards our wish.

  "Are you serious?" he asks incredulously.

  "Of course," I reply. "When Bill Gates got married on Lanai, he booked every helicopter flight from every company in Hawaii on that day, so that no photographer was able to disrupt his ceremony."

  "And you are Bill Gates?"

  "No, but I would still like to have the keys to both speedboats for an undetermined period of time. I don’t think it will be longer than two weeks. Please leave the boats unlocked with a full tank at the pier.”

  Well, our request is somewhat unusual and rather boldly presented, but I’m not in the best mood after the unnecessary arguing with the beach boy.

  By now, anyone else would have screamed at me and kicked us out, but our Mr. Hotel Manager not only has style, but also apparently enjoyed a good upbringing.

  "On what basis do you make this demand?"

  I give him the General’s number and ask him to call there.

  On the phone, he demands an official military document before he hands over the keys. Even as the General offers to compensate for the loss of revenue, the manager remains stubborn. It’s not about the money, but about providing superior service for the hotel guests by offering a wide range of leisure activities.

  In response, Miller offers daily patrols by uniformed soldiers with machine guns slung over their shoulders at the hotel beach.

  You don’t want our General to be your enemy.

  A bit later, we’re back on the road to Bob, with the boat keys in the glove compartment. The hotel receives no financial compensation; the fine Mr. Hotel Manager gambled that away with his bitching.

  Kiara is working all afternoon at the heliport, but Bob is at home. In the morning, he attached an additional gas tank to the aircraft to extend its range. He’s in high spirits and informs us that General Miller will join us for dinner.

  Looks like we’ll barbecue again. No worry - you truly can’t grill often enough.

  In the afternoon, we run a few errands, and then go long-board surfing. At 5 p.m., we return to Bob’s and arrive at the same time as our civilly dressed General who shows up in a rental car.

  We take a welcome drink to the garden and exchange the latest information.

  "You're right: Stice and Andrews indeed had operations in South America just before they left the army and founded S&C. Both stayed in Colombia, Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Venezuela for almost a year before they quit. Andrews’ last job again led him to Colombia, but this time without Stice."

  "Why were they in South America?" I ask.

  "Like I said, these are the kinds of jobs where the government denies knowing you if something goes wrong. Therefore, the missions hardly get documented at all. I don’t know any details. Basically, it was a mission to support the government in the drug war and expose corrupt officials. Whether there were any active attacks against cartel bosses is beyond my knowledge."

  "They went there together and, one year later, only Andrews returned to Colombia," Steve repeats.

  "Maybe during the first visit, Andrews got in contact with the drug mafia and developed a business relationship with them later, when he knew that S&C would get the job on Kahoolawe."

  "Do you have anything else?" I ask.

  "No, I have to be careful to avoid any big repercussions. But I do have some equipment for you."

  We didn’t expect that. We eagerly haul two heavy steel boxes out of his car and into the garden.

  While Kiara spreads steaks and sausages on our plates and decorates everything with some salad, Miller opens the first box:

  five radios – in case we run into a cellular dead zone

  four pairs of binoculars

  four GPS devices

  two rainforest-model combat uniforms

  16 packages of ready-to-eat food, in case it takes longer than expected

  two desalination cartridges that turn sea water into drinking water

  two multi-function knives

  two long ropes

  Box number one is empty. We’ll take care of number two later.

  Now it’s time to concentrate on the food. Just as I’m pushing the second piece of tender beef into my mouth, the phone rings. The German prefix on the number suggests what’s going on.

  "The chase is on!" calls Alex. "A boat towing a floating pontoon is leaving Kahoolawe!"

  "Thank you!" I shout, jump up and sprint to Bob's computer.

  "Good luck!" screams Alex, still in the handset.

  Kiara, Steve, Bob and General Miller follow me. Mesmerized, we stare at the screen. Although difficult to see at dusk, something is surely leaving Kahoolawe.

  "Let’s go!" I shout and start for the car, but the General holds me back.

  "Wait, my friend. Always keep calm and collected," he advises me. How he can stay so calm in this situation is beyond me - presumably from years of practice and routine.

  "Eat up; a hungry soldier makes mistakes. Andrews is moving pretty slow and has a long way ahead of him. We have plenty of time."

  “Eat,” is the wrong word; Steve and I inhale everything like there's no tomorrow. Who knows… maybe there isn’t one for us.

  Empty plate, so time to go! But no, the General again has something against it. Very seriously, he warns us that he’s now treading into water that can get him into deep trouble. He then opens the second box. I can’t believe my eyes.

  "Unlock it here and set whether you want a single shot, three shots or automatic fire. I guess you know where to pull the trigger. But be careful using the continuous fire; the magazine runs out quickly!”

  That’s it? That’s all you need to know to operate a machine gun?

  "I have another surprise for you at the bottom of the box. Just pull out the pin, throw it away and boom!" Miller concludes his instructions. The latter, of course, refers to the operation of a hand grenade.

  We carry the boxes to our car. Bob and Miller are very serious and wish us all the best and good luck.

  Kiara and Bob drive to the airport, while Miller stays here.

  "So," says Steve more to himself than me, "Andrews, my friend, this time we hunt you down!"

  Chapter 15

  Over and again, Steve has to slow me down. Not figuratively speaking, no, he actually forces me to put my foot on the brakes. On our way to the speedboat, I apparently have a problem with adhering to the speed limit. With our trunk’s contents, however, a stop and search is not really advisable.

  "What do you think - how fast can Andrews go with the pontoon in tow?" I ask.

  "Five knots, probably less," Steve estimates.

  "Okay, the boats from the hotel each have 540 hp. So they should reach 50 knots easily."

  "We’ll need a maximum of 20 minutes from the Wailea Resort to Kahoolawe. Andrews is about one and a half hours ahead, so we might be able to catch up with him in about thirty minutes."

  "That’s how I calculate when playing that Halfway-to-Hawaii game, but I’ve only won it once."

  "Twice," Steve corrects me. "The first time you just overslept and didn’t hand in your guess."

  "True," I admit.

  "It’s easier at sea; I’m sure the current won’t play a factor."

  Arriving at the luxury
resort, we don’t even think about stopping or signing in, leaving a wildly waving porter in our dust at the gate.

  Fortunately, we can drive almost right up to the pier, since they normally have to load heavy scuba tanks there. We carry our boxes to the boats and evenly divide the contents, put on our camouflage and turn on the radios.

  "Check?" says Steve in his apparatus.

  "Check!" I reply.

  "Check!" comes from Kiara.

  "Check!" by the General.

  "Get the swine!" comes Bob´s voice through the walkie-talkie.

  We start our engines and slowly drive away from the beach. It’s not necessary that all the tourists notice us thundering towards the Kahoolawe military zone at 1,100 horsepower.

  After a few hundred yards, Steve comes alongside and throws over the bolt cutters. He’s already clipped the awning off his boat and thrown the entire aluminum construction overboard.

  "Hope to see you alive the next time we meet," he shouts, slamming the lever to the table - nautical language for going full throttle or, in driving terms, putting the pedal to the metal.

  Still driving slowly, I also cut the four aluminum awning supports on my boat, throw them into the warm Pacific and push both throttles horizontally as well. The engines, each with 280 horsepower, get the boat planing in no time and off I go!

  I race directly towards Kahoolawe, while Steve is heading east, towards Big Island. We have a rough idea of where Andrews might go, and we want to approach him from both sides.

  Andrews uses the cover of darkness to avoid being accidentally discovered by another ship. Presumably he’ll meet the freighter in the morning or later. When exchanging a container of explosives and rockets for one filled with drugs, natural light is certainly an advantage.

  We’ll accompany Andrews, film the transfer and then catch him with the drugs. Once we catch him, we’ll contact General Miller. He can then officially intervene and stop the freighter. That's the plan.

  Without any evidence, not even the United States can simply hold a freighter in international waters, unless it’s a threat to the environment or shipping.

  Some years ago, a Russian tanker had technical problems near South Africa and was unable to maneuver. It was threatening to drift onto a small rocky island and spring a leak. The Russians refused, however, to accept help from the Coast Guard. They didn’t want to have their tanker towed into a harbor, nor were they willing to take South Africans on board.

  There was a risk of an oil spill happening along the coastline around Cape Town, so the authorities intervened and sent over some combat helicopters. However, the crew still refused to let them touch down on the tanker and fired warning shots. Not a good idea: the military had significantly more firepower, perforated the bridge and seized the ship.

  The incident had no further consequences for South Africa since the tanker – in international waters or not – was a risk to the environment.

  Behind Kahoolawe, I turn left and go straight south. Steve should now also be going south, only a few miles to the east. On the video, Andrews´ boat and the floating pontoon both had lights. The lighting identifies it as a towing convoy.

  I once saw a cyclist who intended to cross the road between two pretty close driving cars at a pedestrian light. The two cars were turning, so they were driving fairly slowly. There was a loud clatter and the sporty and bold two-wheel-fan flew in a high arc over his handlebars. As it turned out, the front car was dragging the other, and the taut towrope threw our friend from his bike. In fact, it launched him into a parabolic trajectory, which ended with a hard impact on the paved road.

  To avoid similar incidents, a towed vessel at sea must identify itself as a towing convoy. This happens during the day with a predetermined arrangement of flags, and at night by specific lighting. Since Andrews officially destroys the explosives on the high seas, he must logically give an accurate impression. Therefore, he will make sure the lighting is switched on; at least we’re hoping so.

  However, we’re not as forthcoming, so our lamps remain switched off and the darkness swallows us.

  During my last vacation on Maui, an excited Italian at the beach asked for help. He and a friend had windsurfed far out to sea. Out there, the connection between his friend’s sail and board broke. I had a matching spare part, so we sailed out to save the Italians from drowning. We were a total of four windsurfers, but in a relatively short time, we could no longer see each other. On the open sea the swell was so high that a twelve-foot high sail could not be seen from a distance of 30 yards. Water mountains blocked the view.

  Needless to say, the missing Italians had vanished. Just before sunset, they got picked up by a Coast Guard helicopter.

  One person’s problem is the other’s advantage. With our black rubber boats, we should be almost invisible on the open sea, even in daylight. Especially since our brightly colored awnings are now swimming in front of the hotel.

  "Got him!" comes crackling over the radio.

  "Where?" I ask.

  "I’m at 20 degrees, 23 minutes and 15 seconds north and nearly 156 degrees, 28 minutes and 43 seconds west," replies Steve.

  I check my GPS device; it shows 20°27’50.44” north. So I'm located a good five minutes farther north than Steve. The distance between two latitudes is 68 miles. It's funny why you remember such unimportant information like this your whole life, but the name of a pretty blonde fizzles in a vacuum two seconds after she introduces herself.

  Regardless, 68 miles through 60 minutes makes a little more than one. This multiplied by five makes about six miles.

  "Are you on the same level as him?"

  "Actually, ‘on the same latitude’ would be the correct term," Steve corrects me.

  "Fuck you, Mr. know-it-all pilot," I respond, "Are you on the same anything with him?"

  "I think so. I’m going five knots now and will see if I’m keeping pace, or if I’m faster or slower than him. I estimate I’m about five to six miles east of him."

  I go full throttle again until my GPS shows the latitude that Steve quoted, then stop. With the binoculars, I scan the horizon to the east looking for Andrews’ position lights. I check the horizon three times; in vain.

  Back behind the wheel, I turn on a more southeasterly course and proceed at a relaxed ten knots.

  Steve radios me ten minutes later. He and Andrews are pretty much going at the same speed heading 180° direct south. During the conversation, Andrews’ lights appear in the distance. So I also turn towards 180° and reduce my speed down to five knots. Now we have to wait. It’s just 9 p.m., so it will remain pitch dark for at least nine more hours.

  Given the uncertainty of what tomorrow will bring, it would be totally advisable to take a nap.

  "Steve?" I ask over the radio.

  "Yup?"

  "How about keeping an eye on Andrews for the next four hours while I catch some sleep? I’ll stop here and set my alarm for 1 a.m.. At the speed you’re going, I should be able to catch back up to you in 20 minutes. Once I have Andrews in my sights again, you can sleep for four hours."

  "All right, will do!"

  "An elite soldier can survive a week without sleep," interjects General Miller, "but it makes no sense to suffer. So go ahead and lie down, but be careful not to drift away!"

  Even though there’s no wind and the sea is calm, I tie a diving tank from the hotel and a blanket on a rope, and throw it overboard. The heavy tank pulls the wet fabric bundle underwater and, voila – my makeshift anchor is complete! Certainly not perfect, but for my purposes, it will be enough.

  Happy and excited, I lie down and instantly regret having just sunk the nice, soft blanket, which is now about 20 feet below me, giving some fish a cozy night’s home, while my head is resting completely unprotected on the hard plastic fuselage.

  Despite the discomfort, I fall asleep almost instantly; the soft swaying of the sea no doubt helping.

  When my phone alarm rings, I wonder if I’ve slept at all. But since it�
��s actually four hours later than before, that must be the case.

  To wake myself up, I jump into the water and swim a few laps around the boat. Compared with the cold Baltic Sea, the warm Pacific offers a big step up in one’s quality of life.