Aruba Mad Günther

by T L Yeager

  After Charlotte’s nap, Maddie drove them to the pharmacy for the last piece of the red tape puzzle.

  “Take it again, please,” Maddie said. “Just one more. I promise.” She couldn’t leave a single stone unturned; there’d only be one chance to get it right.

  The pharmacy clerk pretended to not be bothered, but Maddie could tell she wanted to gouge her with the scissors. She didn’t understand the importance of contingencies.

  “I’ve heard they’re not strict on baby pictures.” The goth clerk was standing above her daughter with a point and shoot camera.

  Maddie wasn’t against piercings per se, but the clerk had at least four running up her ear. In the lobe was one of those round hoops – gauges? Maddie thought – that expand the opening over time. A piercing in the nose, and another in the tongue, were paired with full tattoo sleeves on each arm. She didn’t strike Maddie as an expert in passport photography.

  Two hours and one disgruntled pharmacy clerk later, her mission was complete. She dropped a pen in the plastic folder, stacked her keys neatly on top, and went into the kitchen.

  An ice cube clinked into the tumbler. She pulled the cork from a bottle of eighteen-year-old Lagavulin single malt and poured herself four fingers.

  “Salud,” she said, lifting her glass. “Here’s to vacation.”

  3

  Maracaibo, Venezuela

  Back at the staging warehouse, Anas Atwah was at his desk studying Google Earth satellite images. He jumped in his chair when the call from the boarding party cracked in his earpiece. A brief round of applause rolled from the far side of his door.

  He checked his watch. They weren’t expecting the text message for at least another fifteen minutes.

  Anas gathered his things. A humid breeze drifted in through the panes of broken glass and swept down across the desk. The air from the Maracaibo harbor stunk of stagnate oil and decaying industry. Anas was looking forward to leaving this forsaken wasteland of a country. He’d been here too long.

  So many events had transpired in the last nineteen months. Anas was on the precipice of taking his crimes to an entirely new level. He relished the infamy his recent successes had gained him, but now he looked forward to the limelight. A life in the shadows, filling the coffers with ransom money, was not his ultimate goal. He wanted to show the world his genius, not rest on his laurels as an anonymous technological pariah.

  Despite the organization’s name, the leadership of the New Jihad Front espoused financial success over religious fervor, and they paid very well. Anas received a commission off every dollar he brought in. That was the main reason he’d gotten involved. The attention they gave him was the Kool-Aid—he’d only taken sips initially, but once he became a cornerstone of their plan to modernize the war strategy, Anas was hooked.

  The plan started with the shredding of old playbooks. Anas had arrived at the perfect time. They needed an innovator to take their ideas to the next level. The group envisioned events of escalating psychological terror that provided the platform to sway hearts and minds. Of course, they would also bring handsome returns that bloated the bottom-line.

  Traditional terror attacks were aimed at convincing Westerners that they needed to stay out of the Middle East. In reality, these had the opposite effect—more troops from more nations, pouring in to continue the fight against terror. More vicious attacks brought greater solidarity and larger numbers of troops.

  Besides, Westerners were immune to images of destroyed buildings and mass shootings. They’d seen countless victims emerge bloodied in a veil of dust. Bodies motionless on the ground no longer struck fear in the masses.

  Violence was not achieving the ultimate goal.

  The NJF realized the power of showmanship and money. The threat of murder was worth far more than murder itself. They aspired to devastation wrought by bloodless blows that turned to festering wounds. The term weapons of mass destruction was antiquated in the pantheons of the New Jihad Front’s leadership.

  The idea was that creating a highly visible threat of mass destruction would win them the platform, and eventually, the infinite pile of currency they desired. The events would get into the heads of the enemy, a terror that changed opinions. Terror without mass killing would be the key to victory that had eluded so many other organizations.

  Their prototype operation consisted of an event that brought an entire industry to its knees—not by stacking bodies, but by creating the threat of doing so. They’d hold the world hostage for days by giving them a show that unfolded at an excruciatingly slow speed. Still frames and panicked moments captured on cell phone video would be a thing of the past. Their events would yield hours of video to afflict the weak infidel minds.

  They’d use the hyperactive media and internet as a spotlight to force unprecedented ransoms that bulged the coffers. The wake of the operations would cripple entire industry segments and send waves of disruption rippling across Western economies. In the wake of the onslaught, they’d offer another ransom: Leave our countries and this can stop.

  Anas had conceived of the mission while sipping a Mai Tai from a chaise lounge owned by the resort they’d be in control of within twenty-four hours. There in the chair, his mind had mapped the exquisite details of the raid. He could see the men running from the dock in a tactical posture with Kalashnikovs at the ready. He could see the yacht and the Pelican cases filled with the technology required to bring the event to a global cyber audience. It had come to him as a stroke of creative inspiration.

  His plan was the first such large-scale operation. Everything done to date had been cloaked from the eyes of the world. When he’d suggested it, the leadership had quickly embraced the idea. Their ties with Venezuela were already firmly established, but the relationship had yet to bear fruit. Anas’s idea was novel, took advantage of the South American relationship, and far exceeded the criteria set by the leaders of the NJF.

  Thus, NJF soldiers trickled into Venezuela over the course of a year. They came from different directions, spent time in various cities and joined with the group only after a quarantine period marked by maneuvers specially designed to identify if they were being tailed.

  The staging warehouse was purchased, bribes were paid, and egress plans laid. A dance of logistical choreography brought explosives, drones, uniforms and weapons from the Russian backed dealer that supplied the organization.

  The plan’s only drawback was that it required Anas be directly involved. The leadership had been calling him “The Broker.” Anas had exceeded all expectations. The ransom awards he accumulated grew exponentially as his skills improved. To date, he had taken over thirty million dollars from Western corporations. Thirty million dollars added to the war chest.

  He stole money from the enemy. It was the ultimate irony—using your enemy to fund a war on themselves. But almost every time they paid. Early on, Anas occasionally struck out by locking a low-value server. Those intrusions wreaked havoc on the target organizations, but they would only pay if the server was of value. As his skills improved, he became better at evaluating the target before locking it down. After a while he could find the mothership quickly.

  Anas had written a program called Cyberlock that encrypted the data on a server and demanded a ransom. If it wasn’t paid, then the system was locked for eternity and the organization was wounded.

  “Having you on the front lines is careless, Anas,” a senior NJF commander had told him. Anas remembered how the man eyed him, expecting him to give in to the pressure. It was clear why the NJF wanted Anas to stay off the front lines. He had amassed a fortune for the organization.

  “The best generals lead from the front. Now is my time.” Anas never budged from his request. He knew they could not deny him. No one else had the skill to pull off the technological marvel he proposed. Indeed, many believed even Anas would struggle to deliver on all he had promised.

  Once the approvals were obtained, the wheels were set in motion. Nothing could stop them now.
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br />   His earpiece cracked to life again. “The boarding party is in position. Awaiting the order to proceed,” said Fazul. Anas had personally selected his brother to lead the tactical aspects of the operation.

  Anas keyed his mic. “Stage copies. We’ll communicate when message received.”

  He checked his watch. “Ten minutes,” he said to the empty room. They were expecting a text message. The rest of his army waited in the warehouse below him. An audio feed was established so they could listen to the transmissions as the events unfolded.

  Anas picked up his tablet and turned for the door. He opened the metal door and stepped out on the landing. A crowd of thirty soldiers huddled around a series of tables that had been pushed together. The speaker was in the middle, surrounded by weapons and cleaning supplies. This was their last opportunity to prepare for the battle in front of them.

  The reverberation of Anas’s steps angled around the vast facility. He leaned on the railing, the team looking up in anticipation.

  Anas surveyed the warehouse, noting the contrast between old and new. In years past it had been a seafood sorting facility; now it was a terror staging base. The rusted hulks of machinery and jumbled heaps of equipment had been pushed to the sides with a skid steer. The space had been cleared so they could practice.

  Mock rooms had been erected, and a rudimentary shooting range constructed. Pods of their gear stood idle along the far wall, ready to go. A line of getaway vehicles, two wide, would await their return. Men, material, psyche—everything was in order.

  He had memorized a speech to deliver. Having developed an obsession for reading about great combat leaders, he had embraced the importance of words. But he was not a writer. Others before him had assembled words that would suit his team just fine.

  Anas keyed his mic open so that the boarding team could hear. “Soldiers of the New Jihad Front.” He paused to allow time for the moment to resonate.

  “You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world will be upon you. The hopes and prayers of Allah march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the Atheists, the elimination of Western tyranny over oppressed peoples, and security for ourselves in Paradise. Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well-trained, well-equipped and eager to suppress the work of Allah. He will fight back savagely.”

  “But the tide has turned, my brothers. We have seen the escalation of our war over the past years. Today we begin a new campaign. Today we begin the march toward absolute victory.” He paused for a beat to catch his breath. “Good luck. Let us beseech the blessing of almighty Allah upon this great and noble undertaking.”

  Anas’s heart thundered in his chest as he descended the stairs. He had delivered a flawless, albeit edited version of the message General Eisenhower sent to the expeditionary force on the eve of D-Day. Having amassed 4000 ships, over 1,200 aircraft and 150,000 soldiers, the Allies were ready to make war on German-occupied France. Likewise, Anas’s small but high-impact team was prepared to mount an offensive. They would make their own less dramatic landing, with sophisticated weapons, numerous autonomous vehicles and enough computer hardware to spring an upstart internet company.

  4

  Surfside Resort, Aruba

  Upper floor, lower floor. Ocean view, resort view. Those combinations constituted the four levels of timeshare offered. Maddie had argued for the cheapest option, on account that the family would be on the beach or at the pool most of the time. Ross had a theory that the best bargains existed just above the midpoint but below the highest cost option. He applied this logic to every decision. Upper floor, resort view.

  “Our ‘Ruba house, Papa. It’s still here. Yeah…” Izzy pranced through the front door. Floors six through twelve were all considered upper floors, but the condos were mirror images of one another. To Izzy they all felt like their home in Aruba.

  It was their seventh visit to the island but a long year had passed since the last. Maddie was very much pregnant with Charlotte the last time they visited. Most of her time was spent walking along the lazy river and resting in the shade while Ross kept Izzy occupied.

  They’d only missed one trip since they bought in three years ago; they’d sold their week in the fall when Charlotte was just three months old and still too young to travel. At least now she’d be able to sit in the sand, no doubt stuffing it in her mouth like most other things she encountered these days.

  “Can I sleep in Papa’s bed until Mommy and Charlotte get here?”

  “Maybe,” Ross countered.

  “Why maybe?” Izzy’s hands were on her hips now.

  “Maybe… As long as you promise to snuggle and watch a show before bed.” Isabelle’s smile widened at the thought.

  “Deal, Papa.” She ran to him and hugged his leg. She let go and took off squealing through the apartment.

  Ross had to lean on the balcony door to break the tight seal. Dry, tropical air swept across his skin. It was like opening the door to a giant pressurized oven. He worked his jaw to equalize his ears and let the warm, dusty smell of the island blow by him.

  Cascading water caught his attention as he stepped up to the railing. Thirty feet of manmade rock lined the side of the large main pool to his left. It was tucked up inside the giant U-shape formed by the resort buildings. Children lined up at the top of the rocks. They took turns on the water slide that disappeared inside and then shot them out at the base through the downpour of water.

  A narrow canal connected the main pool to the lazy river. Just below him, the “river” itself was mostly obscured by the tops of palm trees. In between the fronds, bodies perched on tubes drifted along the current. Three teenagers waded sideways against it. They dodged left and right, avoiding the oncoming tubes like avatars in the Frogger video game.

  Ross rested his elbows on the railing and continued his scan out toward the turquoise blue of the Caribbean. Patrons sipped cocktails in the waist-deep water at the pool bar, and a water volleyball game was on in the sport pool. Small specks dotted the kiddie pool. Mothers lounged around the perimeter in wide-brimmed hats.

  Further on, closest to the beach, tall hedges shielded the adult pool from view. During the girls’ naps, Ross would stay in the apartment and give Maddie a couple hours alone with a book and the quiet of the adult pool.

  They’d gotten lucky with Aruba and the Surfside. The first visit happened on a whim. His boss was selling his week and Ross happened to be the first person he told. They knew it’d be nice, but neither of them realized that the Surfside held a top spot on most lists when you searched for the best Caribbean resorts for families.

  A loop of a lazy river that ran for a quarter of a mile was just one of five separate pools forming the core of the resort. Palm trees lined the walkways while desert shrubs and flowering plants provided ground cover for the resident iguanas. The island formed by the lazy river was accessible by bridge only, and hot tubs were hidden amidst its dense foliage. Beyond the expansive pool promenade, guests were treated to albino sand and a leeward oceanfront that looked like the blue zenith of kiddie pools. Waves that lapped the shore were usually from parasailing boats or wave-runners. The offshore trade winds pushed everything out and away, leaving a sheet of Caribbean glass for families to play in.

  On their first trip, Madeline forced Ross to sit through the timeshare presentation to get the two-hundred-and-fifty dollar voucher. Madeline came out offended by the hard sell, but Ross was smitten.

  “Think of all the memories we’ll have with Izzy. And I know you want another. The two-bedroom would be perfect.” Madeline’s eye was twinkling for a second child at the time. For years to come their vacations would be about chicken nuggets, smoothies and maximizing time in the water to tire the kids out before their next nap. The Surfside delivered on all fronts.

  “Plus it’s a direct flight, Mad. You can’t beat it. Come on, girl.�
�� Ultimately, she’d given in, even though it wasn’t the best financial decision. Now she loved it; Maddie even got more excited than Ross. When they got back from a trip, she started a daily countdown on the dry erase board before they unpacked their bags. It had been a great choice.

  Across the open space at the core of the resort, Ross watched a couple toast glasses of wine. The resort had started with just two buildings. As demand skyrocketed, the company invested in a third and fourth around the perimeter of the property. The structures were in place when they bought into the timeshare. A year later, they were complete. When construction was over, the resort had nearly doubled in size and the enormous U surrounding the man-made water features became a Caribbean fixture.

  “I’m ready,” Izzy called from inside.

  Ross turned and looked. Something didn’t look right. He cocked his head. “I think you’re suit is on backwards, sweets.”

  Izzy pouted. “Will you help me?”

  Ten minutes later Izzy’s suit was facing forward and the suitcases were empty.

  “How ‘bout this, Papa? We go to the ocean… Then we go to the waterslide… Then the wazy river… Then we eat pizza. How ‘bout dat, Papa?”

  Ross loved that his daughter called him Papa. He’d never asked for it or even known he had a preference, but every time Izzy used it, Ross couldn’t help but beam. “Sounds like a busy night. Salad first, then pizza. OK?”

  “Gotta eat your salad so you grow big and strong.” Izzy spoke in her sing-song daddy voice.

  “You got it, girl.”