by Ed Teja
“And you want to see what the security is like over there?”
“I'd love to take a peek.”
“We might stir up a hornet's nest.”
“I doubt it.”
“Me too.”
“Besides, the air strip isn't far from the villa. If we were to trip an alarm entering the villa, and they have forces at the air strip that they can scramble, I'd like to know what we'd be up against.”
“I have to confess to being a fan of airports,” I said. “There is something alluring about the hustle and bustle of travel, the roar of the vending machines, being frisked by fat security people, the comfort of the chairs in the plush waiting rooms.”
“Sarcasm is so difficult to pull off well,” she said. “You should stick to wisecracks.” She put the sling of her tranq gun over her shoulder and shifted it to her back, then dropped onto one knee. “Let's check our gear.” She pulled her 9-mm Beretta M9 pistol from its holster and checked it. I did the same. If we ran into trouble at the airport, tranquilizing the folks we encountered wouldn't do the trick.
“How many magazines do we have?” I asked.
“I packed three extras in each of our utility belts,” she said, patting hers. “With the magazine in the gun, that gives us sixty rounds each. I doubt there will be more than a hundred and twenty of them.”
“What if you miss?”
She cocked her head. “Now why would we do a stupid thing like that, Martin? Bullets are expensive.”
I couldn't think of a single reason.
Coming up into a crouch, Amy moved forward, slipping silently into the darkness, heading for the airstrip. I followed into the void she left, keeping silent, using everything I knew about stealth.
This mission had far too many unknowns swirling about it.
That's what made it fun.
22
With no signs of patrols, we saw no reason to crash through the underbrush when it was nicer to follow the perfectly good dirt road across the island. Halfway to the ops center, the road forked. We went left, through a field and toward the airstrip. The area was flat leading up to it, and, just before the strip, we circled to one side, cresting low hills that would let us overlook whatever was there. We lay down, avoiding being silhouetted against the night sky.
Amy peered through a small pair of binoculars. “This is extremely disappointing,” she said as she scanned the mostly dark airstrip. Even without glasses I saw that the strip was dark. It looked as deserted as the buildings near the ramp.
“Disappointing? What did you hope to find?”
She laughed. “At least some of the stuff that was featured in Hank's photos,” she said. “But I'd say there are a couple of things missing, including a cluster of rather large satellite dish antennas.” She put down the binoculars and looked at me. “I still don't get it.”
I took the binoculars and looked. I shared her unease. Other than the basic orientation of the airstrip, nothing matched the scene that had been pictured in the satellite photos. We combat vets have a word for situations like that. The word is strange.
Strange is not a good thing in combat. Strange is ambiguous. Strange leaves far too much room for things going sideways. Under the best of circumstances, there is already way too much room for that.
Amy pointed down the hill, and we slid down the sandy slope, oddly nervous that there was no security to disturb as we went in for a closer look.
We still moved quietly. Habit, I suppose. “There isn't much to discover except that there is nothing to discover,” I said. “Can you say 'Photoshop'?”
“His photos were total bullshit.” Amy was grumbling now. “Where are the damn fuel bunkers? There should at least be some fuel trucks, and mechanic sheds or hanger bays.” She pointed to the shadowy form of a lone plane, a single-engine Cessna, tied down in front of a rather ramshackle Quonset hut. “I imagine that's the plane that brought him here from Exuma.”
“His shuttle craft.” I pointed to the opposite side of the airstrip, indicating some shapes looming in the bushes. “There's some kind of equipment over there. Let's go see what that is,” I said.
“You are hoping it's at least a death ray,” she teased. “Maybe a missile silo.”
“That would add interest.”
“Let me take one more recon first,” she said, grabbing the binoculars back, moving to the top of the hill and scanning the site again. After a moment, she waved a hand, and I clambered back up.
“I saw a dim light coming from the Quonset hut,” she said, handing me the glasses.
“A night light?”
She shrugged. “There's no snoring, but also no sound of anyone working late. I'm thinking it might be a guard post.”
“Guarding what?”
“Then maybe a base for a roving patrol?”
“You are hoping we will find people to take out, aren't you?”
She winced. I'd struck a nerve. “I'm just guessing. Anyway, there is also a vehicle of some kind parked there. It's one of those carts for off-road use. A Polaris.”
I borrowed the glasses again and peered through them. I could just make it out. “Oh my God! How diabolical. They've got a golf cart,” I said. “Now we are in trouble.”
She chuckled. “Take a breath, Martin,” she said.
I nodded. We were both getting a little giddy from the letdown after being so careful, so intense. I took her advice and the deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth. Get centered.
I handed her the glasses, then glanced at my watch. Even taking into account this impromptu field trip, we had a long time to wait before dawn, and the new and improved plan had us doing little until closer to nine in the morning. “Since we don't fancy lying outside the villa staring in, or just sitting around inside expecting to get caught, why don't we take a closer look?”
“At your death ray?”
“That could be an important discovery, vital to the national security interests.”
She shrugged. “Someone has to see that the night watchman doesn't get bored.”
We scrambled down the embankment, half sliding in the sand, then slunk in the shadows that skirted the far side of the runway, noting a number of potholes, probably from the heavy rains that could pour down in this part of the world. Someone had filled them in with rubble, which probably worked well enough for the infrequent use it got.
“Nothing of any size comes in and out of here,” Amy said.
We moved slowly along the runway, on the opposite side from the Quonset hut. As we closed in on the dark shape I'd seen in the shadows, it turned out to be the rusted and derelict corpse of a backhoe. “That John Deere has definitely seen better days,” I said. “Probably a nice bit of gear once upon a time.”
“I'm guessing it is left over from the marine research center.” She nodded at the Quonset hut. “Both of those buildings were around back when it was operating.”
The soft light shone out from an open door, but nothing moved. “I don't see any sign that the guard patrols outside.”
“Maybe the watchman is reading a book. He pokes his head out once an hour or something.”
“More likely, that light comes from a television and he looks out during the commercial breaks.”
“You've clearly made an exhaustive study of night watchmen.”
“I did my master's thesis on them.” She turned and nodded across the asphalt. “Care to promenade across the square?”
“Charmed,” I said. “You know, that rectangular building looks like it's used for storage. Care to take a look and what they might like to keep handy?”
“Why not? There's no door on this end,” she said. “We need to wander to the far end.”
With that, we strolled casually across the airstrip. No one seemed to notice or care. We arrived at the far end of the building, the side away from the Quonset hut, and found a large barn door hanging half open and slack on its hinges. “Island securit
y remains notable by its absence,” she said.
“At least they are consistent.”
Stepping inside the building, we found ourselves in a single open, high-ceilinged space—a musty-smelling storage area. On one side, three rows of rusty metal shelves held cardboard boxes that overflowed with fish nets, floats, and mysterious plastic things I did not recognize. The middle of the floor was home to a well-used welder, a generator, and a battered rigid inflatable boat on its trailer.
“They are as good at organization as they are at security,” Amy said as she headed for some lockers sitting against the far wall that looked much newer than the shelving. Given that they were unlocked, we peeked in to find emergency gear, including medical kits. Next to those was an unlocked small arms locker that held some automatic pistols, tasers, and what looked like riot gear. It was the first sign of anything even resembling a private military presence.
“Once again, I think this is pretty much what I'd expect to find for a shopping-mall security force,” she said.
“Hardly the bad-ass mercenary machine Hank promised us.”
She nodded. “I don't know about you, but this... whatever it is, makes me curious about what the high-tech ops center over by the docks really looks like,” she said.
I had never trusted Hank, but he'd managed to surprise me. “Maybe we will find a clue as to why Hank went to so much trouble to make this seem like such a formidable, well-armed place?
“At this point, I have no idea. But since we are on a roll, we might as well poke around a little more, doncha think?”
I chuckled. “I'd like a to have a clear picture in my head of what is really here, so I can feel self righteous when I pummel Hank tomorrow. But before we head over there, let's take a peek inside the Quonset hut and see if there is anything at all there. If we can do that without waking anyone, I'm up for a road trip.”
“I knew I liked you,” she said.
“When we get back, please tell Bill I managed to quote a poem to rally the troops,” I said.
“That would be a lie.”
“I know. But it will make him feel like he is exerting a good influence on me. I was thinking that one about Xanadu and the stately pleasure dome.”
“Good choice. Especially the part that goes: 'A savage place! as holy and enchanted, as e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted'.”
“Oh, that part. You think the villa is haunted?”
“If you can't believe a poem...” She let it go at that, and led the way to our next objective, taking the shadowy path through tall grass that grew behind the building, moving toward the Quonset hut. At one point, she stopped and held up a clenched fist. I froze. After a moment, I saw what she had seen. A boa constrictor, about six feet long, slithered past us, looking for a meal, I presume. Fortunately, it probably had lots of options on the island, and dealing with digesting a person didn't seem to interest it in the least. It passed by as if we weren't even there.
When it disappeared up the hill, we resumed our trek and soon came into view of the hut. It sat parallel to the airstrip. It had two large doors and the one closest to the runway was open, giving us a lovely view. Amy had called it. A man in a uniform sat on a folding chair watching television. “He's armed,” she said after scanning with her binoculars. “I spotted a side arm, and there's a rifle leaning against the wall.” She chuckled. “Not exactly on high alert.”
“Anything else?”
“I think this is what passes for guarding the airplane,” she said. “I can see some other gear, but nothing either sinister or interesting.”
“So, the high-tech airport is little more than the base for shuttling the lord and master around and the attack helicopters are actually a commuter plane?”
“Seems so,” she said.
“An amateur operation, in terms of security.”
She poked me in the ribs with that pointy elbow. “So say we all.”
“Then let's go see if the view around the operations center tells us any different story at all,” I said.
She shrugged. “Unlikely, but I'm willing to be convinced.” She nodded toward the hill. “Just follow the path the snake took. He was headed the right way.”
“You think we'll meet him on the way?”
“Only if he stops for lunch.”
And off we went.
23
We made our way around the buildings and crouched down near the dock near a quiet and unlit, squat cinder-block building sporting a faded sign that said, “Dive Shop.”
From where we were, the administration area looked exactly the way a business operation should look. You could imagine that the marine research center was still there, doing normal business, and the office was closed for the night.
“I guess the gun emplacements must be only architectural drawings of future plans,” I said, then stopped at the sight of an actual guard who listlessly walked the docks, staying in the glow of the dock lights. His presence wasn't awesome, but it would deter kids or some petty crook looking for an opportunity to think twice about trying anything. For a pro, he wasn't any kind of serious threat. In fact, he made a lovely target.
Two boats floated in finger docks that ran out from the main dock at ninety degrees. Both were fifteen or twenty-foot speedboats—utility boats that would be handy for shuttling supplies and unimportant passengers back and forth to Grand Exuma.
The dive shop seemed properly located for its purpose. That would be where they kept the compressor that filled air tanks for divers. On the opposite side of the dock a sidewalk led to what had once been a nice bungalow, but looked as if now it served as an office where visitors would check in. Behind it rose up some actual communications antennae. Further along in the shadows, we could barely make out the shape of a long building that had to be dormitory housing.
Along the waterfront all was quiet, other than the steady shuffling of the guard, the lapping of the water against the fiberglass hulls, and some frogs advertising that they wanted to get laid. Except for the orange-yellow glow of the dock lights and some dull illumination from the windows of the buildings that suggested people were watching television and using computers, everything was dark.
Sporadic laughter from the dorm pushed things in favor of television.
“Not much to see here,” I said.
Amy nodded. “At least there is something to see. I was beginning to wonder.”
I agreed. The sight of those buildings, of some human activity, of anything resembling an operation, as benign as it might be, gave me a small sense of relief.
“Did you want to go in? Some information you want might be in there.”
She considered it but shook her head. “I'm inclined to reset what we know back to my view of this place before we encountered what Hank refers to as his intelligence. That means what we want will be in the villa. Besides, there seem to be people around. Why risk alerting them?”
“The unsettling feeling keeps getting worse, doesn't it?”
Without further discussion, we both turned and began retracing our steps. When we cleared the halo of lights, she pointed along the headland. “That's the direct route to the villa, past the boatyard.”
The boatyard, a ramp for hauling out small craft, proved home to a tractor and a small building. A couple of trashed boats were on racks, and a workbench was scattered with parts for an outboard that sat, open to the elements, on a stand.
Nothing there merited a closer look and we headed on.
We didn't speak for a time; I assumed Amy was digesting what we'd learned in our little stroll around the island. “This is all so wrong,” she said. “Even putting aside Hank's bogus intel, I'm surprised there is no more security than this.”
“Complacency?” I asked.
I could make out her scowl in the shadows. “I suppose it could be nothing more than that. He's been running several legitimate businesses for some time now. That was one reason the idea of a private army sounded
so wrong from the beginning. Why screw up a situation that is perfect by an obvious buildup?”
“Like you said, wrong.”
“I think we can safely toss out everything Hank told us.”
“I did that about three phantom helicopters ago.”
Amy was tense. “What I don't get is what Hank's plan is. He has to know that we will come back knowing he lied about everything. We don't owe him any allegiance, so it all will come out. Now while it doesn't surprise me that he would lie to get to Vermeer while keeping his hands clean, what's his end game?”
“I know what you mean. It's still not clear what kind of mess we've stepped into here.”
As we climbed to higher ground, I looked out over the water, into the darkness that was Exuma Sound. “Is there a possibility, however remote, that this Vermeer isn't running a smuggling operation at all? Is there a chance in hell that Hank, for whatever reason, has sent us in to grab a real businessman?”
She shook her head. “No. We've got our own reasons and sources that tell us Vermeer's company is running drugs and people for the cartels. We had that part sorted out long before Hank started planning this operation.” She snorted.
“Why did you jump in? Why confront Hank and make him let you play?”
“I was investigating Vermeer. We were closing in on a paper trail that might just give us enough to shut him down. My boss heard that Hank was talking up the military ops thing and wanted to know why. It's not a nice thing when new intelligence shows up out of thin air, and my people told me to find out what was real. I just decided that worked best if I was on the ground. It also lets me grab Vermeer and his computer records.”
I couldn't figure it. “So, we are back to asking why Hank went to all this trouble, why he risks his career when there is no military threat to Polly, and you seem to get the most benefit from the op if it goes as planned.”
