by T L Yeager
His point man reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. He pointed at his mouth. “Your mic is still open.”
“Shit,” said Ilan, broadcasting his frustration to the entire team.
As soon as the channel was clear, Fazul cut in. “Remember. Keep the button on your comms depressed when you talk. Don’t double click it or the mic remains open.”
**Surfside Security Office**
In the hotel’s security office, Fahd Umari sat with the security shift supervisor in front of a bank of screens. Four monitors hung in front of them, each split into four rows showing images from the security cameras across the resort. They covered all the common areas and every floor in each of the four buildings.
As a hotel runner, Fahd had the wide access he needed. He worked the graveyard shift running shaving kits, extra towels and other assorted stuff up to the rooms of the resort. Fahd was one of two runners that worked on the skeleton night crew. He was responsible for buildings one and two but helped where ever he was needed. His counterpart was an older man who could frequently be caught napping in the maintenance shop at the bottom of Building Three.
In the beginning, Fahd supplemented part-time in the morning. After a few weeks, he started bringing in coffee and donuts to share. That, along with the occasional bottle of Anejo tequila for the night security supervisor, had bought him the political capital he needed to win his current post.
The nights were slower, it gave him time to investigate, answer questions and prepare for the invasion. He fed Fazul endless details about the operation of the resort and formed alliances with the unsuspecting.
“Carlos. You have been a good friend to me.” The security supervisor was sipping on the tequila he had poured himself just minutes before. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the security displays. Fahd often sat with him watching the displays, waiting for room serve carts to be pushed outside the doors so he could run up to collect them. “You are a good person. This will be my least favorite event of the night.” A backpack rested on the floor between Fahd’s legs. He had chambered a round and toggled off the safety before coming into the room.
The supervisor stared at Fahd, not understanding the comment. “Thank you Fahd, but…”
Out of the corner of his eye, Carlos noticed motion on the screens. Several of the small boxes showed the squads sweeping into the resort. Fahd lifted the pistol. He closed his eyes before he pulled the trigger. He opened them in time to see Carlos’s head bounce off the desk. The motion sent his chair backwards. Fahd watched him fall to the floor, the life gone. It was the first life he had taken.
Carlos kept his radio on the desk in its charging station, right next to the photo of his family. Fahd pulled the picture from the tape and laid it flat on the desk. Then he lifted the radio and made a call.
“Security. Carlos asked me to request that you meet him outside the main lobby.” It was designed to lure the other security guards toward the front of the complex and away from the advance of the main assault.
“Copy,” said one voice.
“I copy as well,” said a second through static.
Fahd then pulled a headset from his backpack. It had arrived along with a walkie-talkie and a set of instructions just days ago. He slipped the set over the top of his head and positioned the speaker over his left ear. He pressed the comms button. “This is the security post. Radio check.”
“Welcome to the fight. We read you loud and clear,” said Fazul over the radio.
Fahd held the radio in his hands and stared at it as he formulated his report. “The security post is secure. One guard is down. I’ve place a call to the others requesting them to the front entrance. One of them is in the parking lot by Building Four. He is headed toward the front now.” Fahd was pointing to the man on one of the security camera displays. “The third guard was sent up a short time ago on a noise call. He is about to enter the main elevator in Building One.”
Fahd stood and leaned into the security screens. “We’ve got a cleaner in the front lobby and two people in the back office. The night manager and a call operator.” Sidestepping to avoid Carlos’s body, he moved to a door left of the screens and pushed his way into the adjoining information technology suite. “Telephone service, internet and television will all be disabled momentarily.”
“Very good. Continue as planned,” called Fazul over the radio in reply.
11
Ashton, Maryland
Awooga. Awooga. The sinister 60’s-era klaxon alarm startled Maddie from her sleep. She grabbed the phone from the nightstand and was about to place her thumb on the fingerprint reader when she ran out of cord. It fell from her grasp, bounced off the edge of the mattress and, awooga-ed its way to the floor.
“Dammit.” Maddie stared at the ceiling for three more shrieks of the klaxon then swung her feet from the bed. It was 3:07. Preferring to rise on odd numbered minutes was just another quirk of character. Like calling a dress shirt a button-up, or emphasizing the second word of a sentence instead of the first. She was squirrely without trying.
“Enough already,” she said, fishing the phone up by the cord.
One hand rubbed the sleep from her face while the other thumbed up the text message app. “Hi-ho the derry-o,” she said as she waited for it to launch.
She was just a long workday away from getting to Aruba. She’d taken possession of the freshly minted passport just after two the previous afternoon.
They had walked from the Marriott to the entrance of the passport agency. A line had indeed formed, but Maddie’s experience was one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees from Disney. Despite the shitty weather, people were kind.
“No one should have to stand out here with a baby,” the woman in line behind her had said. “Give me your number and go wait inside at the cafe. I’ll call you once they open the doors.”
Her excitement at reaching the window of a passport agent had been ruined by the nonchalance of the person working it.
“Come back in three hours and pick it up,” she’d said.
“That’s it?” Maddie asked, wanting a high-five or to do a dance. The woman said nothing, just nodded and clicked at the computer.
Maddie walked away from the window in disbelief. Something told her to go back and ask in clear words if this meant she was good, that she’d get the passport and be able to leave for Aruba in the morning. She resisted the temptation.
Her spirits were so high when she left that waiting in the hotel wasn’t enough. After bundling Charlotte in the stroller, she navigated the icy sidewalks to the White House where she took a selfie with her daughter and sent it to Ross.
Maddie looked down, smiling at Ross’s replies from the day before.
‘Good luck with the flight tomorrow, Super Mom. Your beer is chilling in the fridge. Don’t forget your cape—I feel like you’ll need it… BTW, you’re my hero if you didn’t know… Repayment will be long and enjoyable. Thank you!’
Ross was an amazing husband and father—an even keel of support. He raised Izzy, sometimes alone for many months while Maddie was deployed, all while working a high-stress job. He looked like a lumberjack and cared for his family like a mother hen.
Maddie was convinced they were meant to be together. They dated two years in high school then Ross left for college. A long distance relationship wasn’t in the cards, but they’d both accepted it with sad faces.
Seven years later, and four days after graduating from the Marine Corps Scout Sniper School, they stumbled into one another at a mall while she was home on leave.
“I like the short haircut,” Ross said after hugging her. “What’ve you been up to?”
It took just one date to rekindle the flames, but a lot longer for Ross to accept that his high school prom date was now a Marine Scout Sniper.
“You were always a tomboy, but Jesus,” he said, his mouth hanging open.
Maddie had struggled to find work after graduating from college. The economy was sagging and her computer
science degree sat on the shelf collecting dust. In the space of two days, she read two articles about the military. The first was about women being placed in combat roles for the first time. The second was an article about how too many Marines were washing out of sniper school and how it was leading to a shortage of the specialists. Maddie’s father was a veteran of the Marine Corps, a fact in which he had great pride. She was a country girl and always a better shot than the boys. With no job in sight and a flat love life, she joined up and helped shatter glass ceilings by becoming the first female Marine Scout Sniper and later, receiving a chest full of decorations.
Less than twelve months after their mall reunion, Maddie and Ross were married. A few months after that, Maddie left on her first deployment.
‘I posted the pic of you and Char in front of the white house and the one of the two of you with the passport. A ton of likes! Sleep tight.’
Maddie stared at his words. Aruba didn’t observe daylight savings time. It was an hour later but still four in the morning. Ross and Izzy liked to sleep in and wouldn’t roll from bed for hours. But Ross always turned his ringer off at night so Maddie pecked her own reply out and hit send.
‘Rising and shining here in the good ole MD. See you in 9 hours. Aruba or bust!’
12
Surfside Resort, Aruba
Back at the Contagious, Fazul paced back and forth along the dock, staring at the phone in his hand. He looked up at Anas who was leaning on a dock piling waiting his turn to engage in the fight. They made eye contact just as the phone chirped.
‘Activating cell charges then headed to the entrance,’ it read.
Fazul stared at the screen, knowing that his two other on-island operatives would be prompted to send their updates after seeing Jamal’s. A second message popped up. ‘In place at CJ.’ Then a third in quick succession: ‘In place at CC.’
Outside the resort, the three texting operatives had been triggered into action by Fazul’s original message.
One quarter of a mile to the north and a mile to the south, two cellular substations serving the Noord district of Aruba were under siege. A series of thermite boring charges lit the fenced complexes as chemical reactions sent molten lead down through the delicate circuitry that made cellular service possible along Palm Beach. Minutes after the team laid boot prints in the pristine sand, hot slag was dripping from the transceivers and tens of thousands of tourists were stripped of reliable communication.
Jamal Hamadei had planted the charges on the cell towers between midnight and 2 A.M. As the invasion started, he was idling in a box truck along Lighthouse Road. He was to wait five minutes after Fazul’s text message, which launched the operation, before he activated the charges. The grace period was built in so that any other pertinent information could be communicated before cell service in the Noord district was taken away.
Aruba was divided into six districts. The Noord district included almost all of the tourist-powered real estate. All of the high-rise buildings and most of their older, low-rise cousins to the south were dependent on the towers for cellular service.
At the five-minute mark, Jamal activated the reactions by placing two separate calls to cell phones rigged as detonators. They were the last calls routed by the towers.
After initiating the charges, he was to use the truck to block the entrance to the resort. Orange cones and heavy plastic barriers, stolen from a construction site, were used to make it look official.
To the southeast, Adnan Sali and Jaber al-Quso sat low in their seats in front of two separate houses. The Kia Picanto and Suzuki Swift they were driving were two of the most common vehicles on the island. They would not be seen as anomalies.
They were parked in front of the homes of two prominent island officials. The Chief Minister of Justice, aka CJ, and the Chief Police Commissioner, aka CC, would play essential roles in the official island response. They were known to be good friends, confidants who would be notified at once when local authorities realized the magnitude of the incident playing out along Palm Beach. Adnan and Jaber would assassinate them and effectively decapitate the marginal response the island’s local police force was capable of mounting.
With its most savvy crisis managers dead and the Dutch marine contingent gone for training to Camp Lejeune North Carolina, the invading NJF force could operate from a position of considerable strength as they tightened thumbscrews on the world.
** Squad Two **
Hassan was Fazul’s deputy in charge. He led squad two into the pool promenade. They swept through breaks in the tropical hedges enclosing the adult pool area. The water was lit a deep cerulean blue and perimeter lights made it obvious there was no one there. Hassan declared the checkpoint clear over the radio.
The five members on the left side of the V-formation emerged from the bushes. The three men on the right came down the walkway leading to the adult pool entrance. A spearhead bristling with eight submachine guns, the formation looked ominous as it pressed forward toward their first objective.
Buildings one and two ran down the left side of the complex as one approached from the water. They appeared to be connected from the outside but in actuality were two independent structures. Building One had a stairwell at both ends and just a single bank of elevators on the island side that brought guests down to the main pool promenade.
As the squad moved forward, the wide expanse of the main pool extended out and away on their right. It shimmered in a kaleidoscope of artificial color from the lights shone along its bottom.
To the left, the façade of Building One hid the parking level at its base and served as the second side of the chute the squad was tasked with sweeping and securing.
An unsuspecting resort guest emerged from the doors at the base of Building One as the team approached. Middle-aged, overweight and underdressed, the team rolled up on him before he had time to react.
His unbuttoned shirt was adorned with swordfish, leaving room for his Brillo pad of gray chest hair to bust out.
“Point men, take him to the holding room and lock down the building,” Hassan yelled. Two soldiers at the front of the V-formation peeled off.
“Is this a drill or something?” Brillo chest asked. He bit his lip, sensing the answer to the question was written in the intensity of the armed men’s eyes. “Goddamn insomnia,” he mumbled.
Brillo chest took two steps back. The first soldier to reach him pushed his shoulder toward the door. “Go! Inside.” The second soldier ran passed and opened the door to the elevator atrium.
“Wait here,” Hassan ordered of the other five men in his squad.
He turned and followed his two point men as they pushed the prisoner inside. One paused by the elevator doors, leveling his weapon. He was to cover the elevators and the door to the stairs until his counterpart returned.
Hassan followed the other man into the windowless game room attached to the atrium. It flashed with light from the pinball machines and gaming stations that burned twenty-four hours a day. Fahd had indicated that it was an ideal holding area. Any guests coming down the stairs or elevators would be collected and placed in the room.
“Face the wall there.” The soldier pointed. Brillo chest moved quickly to the open wall at the back of the room. A gorilla face was stenciled on the wall with the words “Game Time” written below it.
The soldier pulled a zip tie for his web belt. “Hands together, behind your back.” He looped the plastic tie over the man’s hands and around his wrists. The end was pre-fed into the square zipper. He pulled the tab, clicking it tightly.
Then he bent down and pulled a second tie out that was not pre-fed. “Feet together,” he commanded. The second tie was looped around the prisoner’s ankles, snugly tying them together.
The soldier stood and pushed Brillo chest hard to the side. “Stay here,” he said as the man fell. Unable to compensate, the prisoner fell to the floor. His head clocked off the tile and he went limp.
Hassan activated his mic. “Squa
d two has taken our first prisoner. We’re securing the elevator and stairwells on this end of Building One. Squad one, confirm you have the Oceanside stairwell covered.”
** Squad One **
At the base of the ocean side stairwell, the second member of squad one to peel off had left his post by the pillar to secure the door. In his backpack were two door blockading bars. Using self-tapping masonry screws and a cordless driver, he affixed the blockade bars over the outward opening door. With one across the top half of the door and the other below center, the bars effectively prevented the doors from being opened. This mechanism would prevent prisoners from escaping. Bars would be added to every floor as the night wore on.
One of Fazul’s worries was clearing out stairwells filled with people trying to escape through the blocked door. In an attempt to prevent the pile-up, he had laminated a sheet of paper that the soldier taped to the glass. It read, ‘Anyone caught in this stairwell will be killed.’ He hoped that this, coupled with the letters that would be delivered shortly, would be sufficient to discourage people from hiding out in the stairs.
“Building One oceanside stairwell is secure. Note in place. Returning to post.”
** Squad Four **
Squad four was three quarters of the way up the right flank. Five of their eight men had taken up defensive positions when they encountered the security guard. He was walking toward the front as instructed by Fahd’s diversionary radio call.
Squad four’s leader spotted him first and took after him at a jog. Footsteps got his attention; he turned and was met with the barrel of a gun in the light of the parking lot.
“On the ground before I count to three! One! Two!” The guard dropped to his chest in a single fluid motion. “Hands behind your back.”