Half way to Hawaii

by Torben Sonntag

  We get out and now experience the downwash from the other side. A sandstorm in the Sahara could hardly be more violent; within two seconds every single pore of our body is clogged with at least one grain of sand. Before we grab the boards and start paddling, we jump into the water. The weather is perfect: blue sky, clear waters, calm sea and not a bit of wind.

  We paddle along the coast slowly, heading towards Maui. We glide over pristine coral and plenty of fish of all shapes, colors and sizes. We even meet small reef sharks and rays.

  No doubt, there are also benefits when an island is closed off and therefore protected from the thousands of people that snorkel, swim and trample over the corals every day. That is, of course, provided a bomb doesn’t happen to drop into the reef. It seems that the Americans are at least able to hit the island, since the underwater world seems untouched and beautiful.

  We turn towards Molokini and paddle across the open, turquoise sea. The water shines in an intense and beautiful blue, but doesn’t have as much animal life to offer as the shoreline did.

  We reach Molokini in about two hours. The scenery is almost the same as the last time. Whale-like, oily human bodies drift close together, trying to break through the thick film of sunscreen lotion at the water’s surface with their snorkel gear. At the edge of the crater, we are almost alone. We let our legs dangle into the crystal clear waters and enjoy the beautiful day.

  I consider sharing my doubts from last night with Steve, but reject the idea. The General and I designed a battle plan, and I will stick to it. Steve will be informed later.

  We talk about general things: mutual friends from ancient times, ideas for new trips, dreams about what we could still do with our lives, or memories of the good, old days. In our vacation talks, we never mention job-related subjects. Although pilots, just like doctors or event managers, have severe difficulty not mentioning at least a little bit about their oh-so-great jobs, Steve does a really good job keeping silent about aviation.

  About 1 p.m., we arrive at Big Beach on Maui where Kiara is already waiting for us. We load the boards on the car and return them to the surf shop. The owner is a little out of tune, because I actually borrowed them for just a few days and not nearly three weeks. But a six-pack of cold beer has a calming effect; in the end, even a benevolent smile scurries across his face. When leaving the store, I hear a well-known "Tschhhht" behind me. The first beer has not even made it into the refrigerator.

  After five hours of paddling, we feel rather spent. At a deli counter in the supermarket, we find the remedy for our growling stomachs. Naturally, a full belly and sore muscles require a nap. Kiara takes a swim then reads a book while Steve and I just lie beneath a palm tree and sleep deeply for two hours.

  In the afternoon, we go windsurfing for another two hours, but not in Hookipa. After the nap, we’re feeling a little groggy, so we don’t want to push our luck. In Sprecks, we find six-foot-high waves, which is just perfect for us today.

  Back at Bob’s, the familiar smell of a barbecue receives us when we get out of the car. The General is in high spirits and just flipping some juicy London-broil steaks on the grill.

  The container was emptied and all explosives have already been identified. The removal of the remaining shipping containers begins tomorrow. How exactly the freighters are going to be dismantled is still unclear. Currently, the Army is trying to sell the wrecks to an Indian company. Perhaps they also give them away for free, provided the scrap is removed at the new owner’s expense.

  Regarding the cargo of the ships, everything is now settled, so General Miller doesn’t want to lose any more time. In a quiet moment, he takes me aside and proposes to fly with him to the headquarters in Honolulu tomorrow. I want to bring this to an end, and agree.

  Chapter 18

  Our day starts again with a leisurely breakfast, followed by a surf session on the south side. On the way back, Miller and I happen to be sitting alone in one car. Bob, Steve and Kiara drive in front of us. At a traffic light, the General slows down, even though we would have made it through the green light. This way we get rid of the others.

  By the airport, we pull off and park the car in the regular parking lot. We don’t have any luggage and, thanks to Miller's status, we don’t even have to check in. His military rank allows him to just hop right on the plane at the gate. We pass the security check and head to a Hawaiian Airlines gate. Fifteen minutes later, we’re already in the air, and another 19 minutes later, we’re back down again.

  A driver picks us up at the Honolulu airport; from there we continue directly to the headquarters. On my last visit, along with Andrews, we touched down on the roof of the very same building.

  It’s 2:30 p.m.; we still have time. General Miller shows me around a bit and says “hello” to some employees. Then we take a snack in the cafeteria.

  Approaching 4 p.m., the building slowly empties. That is why we have set up our conversation for 5 p.m.

  Just before five, I sit alone in a conference room on the top floor. Through the open door, I watch the long empty hallway and wait.

  Right on time, the elevator at the end of the corridor opens, and Robert Stice disembarks into the hallway. Quick and determined, he walks up to me. Surprised, he looks at me and around the room.

  "What are you doing here?" he asks.

  "Debriefing," I reply.

  "Oh yeah?! I was under the impression I’d be having an unofficial meeting alone with General Miller. I was not aware of your presence. Will your colleague, Steve Clark also be attending this meeting?"

  "Should be here soon."

  "Where is General Miller?"

  "He should also be arriving at any moment. You can close the door and take a seat."

  "Thank you very much." he replies in a slow, deep voice and sits down without closing the door. I figured he’d react this way; apparently he considers it an insult to take orders from me.

  "Well, how are you?" I cheerfully break in the silence.

  "Are you shitting me? My company is getting slammed, and the Army might even retract all of our contracts. Just because Andrews screwed up!"

  "Do you know what still baffles me: just before you shot Andrews, he had the opportunity to kill me, but he didn’t. He paused and said, ‘Greenall, I…’ - he couldn’t finish the sentence because of your bullet entering his head."

  "And?" Stice asks annoyed.

  "Well, I wonder why he didn’t finish me off, and I would really like to know what he had to say."

  "Maybe: ‘Greenall, I'll kill you!’ or something along those lines."

  "Yeah, maybe. Or, else something like ‘Greenall, I want to talk to you.’; ‘Greenall, it wasn’t me.’; or, my favorite version: ‘Greenall, I was not in this ALONE.’ what do you think of that?"

  Stice looks at me in disregard. "What do you mean?"

  "Well, it's kind of hard to imagine that Andrews set up the whole thing alone, without any help. One thing made me suspicious from the very beginning: on the evening, of Steve's kidnapping, someone warned Christine. Unfortunately she didn’t have any phone number for us, so she was not able to pass the warning onto us.

  "Too bad for you," Stice says.

  "Absolutely. But why would Andrews warn her if he himself wanted to kidnap us?"

  "Maybe the warning did not come from Andrews."

  "Unlikely. Who else would have known about the kidnapping and has Christine’s number?

  "That makes no sense," Stice concludes.

  "Right. It makes no sense. Unless Andrews had to execute commands that didn’t please him. It only makes sense if Andrews has a boss."

  Silence. So I continue:

  "The Army discovered Andrews had bank accounts in Switzerland, Singapore and the Cayman Islands. Altogether slightly more than eight million dollars."

  Stice whistles appreciatively through his teeth: "Pretty penny!"

  "You think so? I find that rather little.”

  "Little? You consider eight million dollars ‘littl
e’?"

  "On the freighter, the army secured drugs worth 15 million dollars. Since he exchanged them against weapons that cost him nothing, he makes 15 million in profits. About two cargo ships were dispatched per month, which would give him a monthly income of 30 million dollars. S&C has been working on Kahoolawe for five years. Even if he needed a year to build up his network, he would have earned more than one billion dollars in four years; minus some costs for the shipping company, but those should not be of great consequence. To answer your question: Yes, in light of this, I think eight million is next to nothing."

  "Maybe they didn’t find all of his accounts yet," Stice speculates.

  "Maybe..." I agree thoughtfully, "or maybe he was just cannon fodder and someone else is behind the whole thing."

  "Yeah, well, we’ll probably never know. At least not from Andrews..."

  "Right, you unfortunately shot him. Why did you do that anyway?"

  For a moment, it seems as if Stice loses his composure. However, he recovers quickly and answers: "Boy, I saved your life!"

  "I’m not too sure about that..."

  Stice again fights to maintain his composure. He looks out at the empty corridor, probably hoping for some support from his friend, General Miller.

  "I think this conversation is over," he says.

  "Do you know what I’ve been wondering?" Since Stice doesn’t respond, I keep on speaking: "The attack after the party was extremely brutal. Steve and my deaths would have been perfectly accepted as collateral damage. But according to Steve, his imprisonment on Kahoolawe was relatively okay; he was treated politely, and nobody harmed or threatened him. He was just not allowed to go home. That doesn’t fit together."

  Stice doesn’t respond. One can almost see his brain working under high pressure.

  "What I don’t understand is why didn’t Andrews just kill Steve after he realized his mistake?"

  "Didn’t you say your friend should have been wiped out on the freighter? Perhaps Andrews wanted to prevent a German corpse from getting washed ashore in Hawaii. That would have led to some unpleasant investigations."

  Aha, Stice talks to me again.

  "Possibly," I reply, "Such an investigation would not only affect Andrews, but also his boss."

  "If this ominous boss does indeed exist outside of your confused mind."

  "Funny you mention this; I’ve been accused of confusing ideas several times during this whole story, but, in the end, I was always right. There’s still something that I don’t understand: When Andrews caught us in the villa, why did he take us to Honolulu? He could have just flown out on the open ocean and throw us out of the helicopter."

  "I don’t understand this either. Does your confused brain also have an explanation for this?"

  "Maybe, I’m not sure yet. Why did Andrews bring us to you, of all people?"

  "I’m his boss, he was probably looking for advice, because he was starting to get in over his head."

  "You mean you’re his boss at S&C?"

  "Well, where else?"

  "I'm just asking..."

  "What exactly are you driving at?"

  "When we were here last time, I had the impression that you wanted to get rid of us as soon as possible. Without any legal basis and without a trial, you were about to lock us away. For how long did you plan to imprison us?"

  "I wanted to gain some time in order to protect my company. I meant to work out a plan and talk to you. First of all, I had to clear my head. Andrews' action came as rather a surprise to me."

  I try to get Stice out of his shell: "Did you want to protect your company or your organization?"

  Stice jumps up, lifts his fists threateningly and his face turns bright red.

  "What are you trying to get at, you little bastard?"

  "Do you know what surprised me on the freighter?"

  Stice stares at me. He breathes heavily, sits down again and waits for a moment before answering. One has to hand it to him; he always does regain his composure remarkably fast.

  "No. What surprised you on the freighter?"

  "Well, I experienced the whole scene almost like a war. One freighter is burning, the other is soon about to crash and you shoot the presumed leader. I think this gives the bad guys every reason to be really pissed, don’t you?"

  No answer, so I continue:

  "To me, it was obvious the crew of the other freighter would shoot at us. But you were stunned when they opened fire on us, and you had a fit."

  "What do you mean by that?" Stice yells at me.

  "I think you were freaking out because your own people were shooting at you!"

  Stice jumps up, his face twisted with rage; he’s about to scream at me, but I’m faster:

  "Besides, you didn’t shoot Andrews to protect me, but to silence him and protect yourself."

  "You’re crazy - I shot him to save you!"

  "Andrews was your friend; you don’t bowl down a friend just like that. Why didn’t you shoot him in the shoulder?!"

  "It all happened very quickly - I entered the bridge and had to act - I had no time to think or even aim accurately!"

  "For someone not even aiming, you hit his temple pretty precisely.”

  Stice swallows down his rage. He has constantly been thinking during our conversation, and now seems to have come to a conclusion. He gazes once again into the empty corridor.

  I don’t quite have enough yet, so I continue:

  "I think you’re the head of this drug and arms ring. You killed Andrews intentionally. He had to do the dirty work while you pulled the strings in the background. Now tell me, Stice, where are the billions?"

  Now I have him right where I wanted him. I purposely mentioned the money. Stice will now try to buy my silence and then I’ll have what I wanted: his confession on the voice recorder inside my pocket.

  But he surprises me. After checking the corridor one last time, he turns to me and draws his gun.

  "Are you mad?" I exclaim.

  "Shut up!"

  "Put the gun down! You won’t get away with that. Man, we’re at the headquarters of the US Army for God’s sake!"

  "My chopper’s on the roof, engines running, just a floor above us. I can just pull the trigger and will reach the roof, even if I have to shoot anyone that gets in my way!"

  "And then?! General Miller knows that it’s only the two of us here. If I die, he will chase you down!"

  A dangerous grin spreads across Stice’s face.

  "Diplomatic immunity. I can commit crimes in the United States, even murder. If don’t get arrested within 24 hours, I can simply leave the country as a free man!"

  Oh shit, we didn’t anticipate that.

  His gun barrel is aimed directly at my face when the shot is fired.

  For a moment I feel nothing, absolutely nothing. It might be the quietest moment of my life. Involuntarily, I close my eyes and snap my head to the side.

  When I open my eyes and I slowly rise up out of the protective posture my body automatically assumed, I discover Stice is injured. His gun is laying on the table, directly in front of him. I sweep it aside. Stice stands bent over, obviously in a lot of pain. He presses his left hand against his right shoulder. His black tailored suit is soaked with blood, and his face shows complete oblivion.

  “You don’t bowl down a friend just like that,” General Miller says, the smoking gun still aimed at Stice. Hidden behind the door, he had secretly listened to our entire conversation.

  In the hallway, several doors fly open and heavily armed soldiers, equipped with bulletproof vests, burst into the meeting room. Stice gets pushed down hard on the table while he gets handcuffed.

  "Don’t haul him off yet; let him sit down for a moment!" Miller commands.

  He takes a seat opposite Stice and stares at him intently. After a while, he says only one word: "Why?"

  "My son would still be alive without these fucking drugs!" Stice yells.

  "I don’t understand. How is it supposed to get better i
f you pump even more drugs onto the islands?"

  "You’re missing the point! It’s not about the drugs; it’s about the weapons. In Colombia, I saw over and over again how little we align with our fine foreign missions. It’s not a real fight against drugs; it’s all about reputation: kill a famous drug lord, pass it to the media and walk away. This is just cheap showmanship; we do nothing to actually solve the problem. We shoot one of them and his brother takes over the next day. We shoot him as well and his cousin follows. This way, we’ll never get rid the fucking drugs. So I supplied both sides with weapons: the major cartels and the government."