Aruba Mad Günther

by T L Yeager

  Geert whistled from the auditorium.

  “Hang on, PTang.” Maddie pushed the door open.

  “Prop the door open with your bag,” Geert instructed. He was removing the faceplate of the electrical panel at the back of the room.

  “You actually going to fix something?” Maddie asked.

  “Now you’re smart, aren’t you. No, this is just for looks.” Geert pulled the last screw from the plate. He took the assembly from the wall and set it on the floor. After digging around in his bag, he pulled out a flashlight, turned it on and set it on the floor as well.

  “You’re awfully thorough. You sure you didn’t used to be an actor?”

  Geert laughed then started toward her. “I come and hang my arse and what do I get?”

  “A hard time,” Maddie finished.

  They looked left down the hall toward the entrance to confirm it was still clear. Then they walked to the back door and looked out.

  Maddie lifted the phone back to her ear. “You see anything on your end? Looks good from here.”

  Geert said that an officer would usually come and check in on him after arriving on base. They expected someone would be along eventually.

  “Like I told you,” PTang said. “They went light on the cameras. There are many blind spots. But the ones I can see are clear. No one seems to be headed your way.”

  “Then let me in,” Maddie said.

  She ended the call and dropped the phone in her pocket. The magnetic door to the armory buzzed as she reached up. She leaned forward and followed the door into the first chamber of the two-stage entrance.

  Only armorers, gunsmiths and weapon technicians were allowed in the armory itself. At least, that’s how it worked in the US military. Most soldiers would only ever enter the first stage. The second stage was reserved for soldiers whose military occupational specialty, aka MOS, was affiliated with the armory.

  Two steel plates in the wall opposite the doors marked the spot where the weapons where transitioned. Two more tempered glass windows sat above the metal plates. From the inside, the armorer could open the metal plate high enough to accommodate the weapon being passed from inventory to the field.

  Maddie turned around and looked up. She smiled at the black dome on the ceiling. A moment later the second windowless steel door behind her buzzed with magnetic life.

  Maddie’s respect for PTang was growing by the minute. It was as much for her nonchalance of what other people thought as it was for her talent. She could almost see her in the gray beret and Star Wars t-shirt, working the keyboard. She wore it three days a week. Working with her the last two days had been a wholly new experience. Her ability to tickle the electrons of the internet into doing what they needed was a gamechanger. Significant enough that Maddie felt confident going forward with a plan that otherwise would have been ludicrous.

  She turned and pressed down on the lever-style handle. The buzzing of the magnetized lock went silent.

  The smell of gun oil was faint in the first chamber but the main room smelled like the machine of war. For all the technology the nations of the world had devised to kill one another, none of them had removed the requirement of a soldier and her gun. Achieving total defeat still required soldiers firing lethal lances of lead through the air to kill the enemy. The rooms that housed these weapons were marked by the dank, musty smell of the earth’s most precious natural resource.

  In the faint light coming from the window, Maddie could see a silver switch plate on the wall. She flicked at it and the room broke into light. Built like a locker room for a gun fanatic, the walls of the room were lined with cages where the weapons were stored.

  Maddie had never actually been inside an armory. She’d only ever seen one through the windows of the receiving area. Even still, something about the place rushed her back in time.

  Overall, the room was one contiguous rectangle. The entry area took up the corner at Maddie’s back. In front of her, along the right-hand side, worktables lined the wall. Updating and repairing weapons was critical to any military organization. The small arms technicians that worked here were key to the unit’s readiness. With spare parts and replacement weapons five thousand miles away, if they failed at their jobs, the unit would resemble a Stone Age horde instead of a modern fighting unit.

  Maddie walked to her left. Five green racks filled the center of the room. Diamond-shaped holes perforated the sides and front to ensure the temperature and humidity controls built into the room also made their way to the weapons. The green armory cabinets were a standard for military and law enforcement organizations. A sort of locker system on wheels, the cabinets could be moved left and right using a three-pronged handle mounted on the side. The racks were pushed together to the left, toward the wall that adjoined the hallway. The ones in front were empty.

  The rack on the end was wide open, its accordion doors folded to the sides and pushed back out of the way. The mounts were empty, a fact that was at once discouraging to Maddie. Had she placed herself in danger for nothing?

  A separate set of racks lined the back wall of the room. Maddie counted ten chambers. Four were open and empty. Six were closed and appeared to have weapons.

  Thick silver locks hung from a bar affixed inside the cabinet handles. Geert had brought a pair of bolt cutters that were half Maddie’s height. She’d need every ounce of the leverage they’d provide to fracture the hardened steel locks.

  Maddie shot toward the cages. She hit the closest cage at a jog and laced her fingers through the holes. It was just over half full, the grips of what looked like Glock-17’s facing her.

  She dropped to a knee to inspect the bottom rack. It too was configured for pistols. A full rack of grips stared back at her. The third, fourth and fifth cabinets were more promising. Standard issue 5.56 assault rifles were resting ten abreast. They looked to be carbine models with a forward grip that was different than the ones used by the US military. Maddie knew she’d hit pay dirt, but she kept looking.

  At first, the last cabinet appeared empty. The rack positions she could see were bare, but the lock was affixed. The empty cabinets had been left open.

  Two long rifles materialized. She knew immediately that they were something different. Maddie had never been a weapons aficionado. Even as a sniper, her interests ended with the weapons on which she was trained. Still, she could feel her heart double at the realization. They were scoped weapons with black bags rubber banded over the optics. These rifles were designed for killing humans from far, far away.

  The M40A5 she’d used in the Corps was as basic a rifle as there was. Many a farm boy had learned to hunt using the Remington 700 upon which it was based. Sure, they were modified by the Corps to increase their precision, but the variant she used in Iraq could have just as easily been at home on a whitetail deer hunt in the fall.

  The rifles in front of Maddie were made by Accuracy International. She’d seen them before. They would have been at home in some futuristic video game. Somehow it felt beautiful and threatening all at once. Powerful but new. Using a weapon to which you were unacquainted was not as easy as people thought. Relationships between weapons systems and soldiers was built over time.

  The stock appeared to be hinged. There was an adjustable cheekpiece, buttpad with spacers and an unorthodox pistol grip. Somewhere in their intimidating appearance Maddie could see potential, though. All the adjustable components would make it easier for her to fit the weapon to her body. She would need practice. It had been nearly four years since she held a rifle.

  As she stared at the weapons, just inches away from the tips of her fingers, the reality of her plan seemed to culminate. Excitement, disbelief and abject fear assaulted her mind. Never before had she been forced to contend with such a cocktail of emotions.

  Maddie turned and hurried for the door. She needed to move before she lost her nerve or started second-guessing the lunacy of her plan. Without another thought, she pushed her way through the steel doors into the first chamber
of the armory lockout. She felt the phone in her pocket buzz as her hands hit the wide bar of the door leading out into the hall. As she spilled into it, she realized why it was buzzing.

  51

  US Consulate’s Office, Curacao

  Margaret Baker was through with it. She’d retire when this mess was over. The life of a civil servant had been good to her, but she was too old for this. The call to update her on the fluid plans had come just after four in the morning. It was an assistant to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  The Dutch Marines had lifted off from Cherry Point North Carolina a full twelve hours ahead of schedule. Special Operations Command and the intelligence apparatus that had descended on Aruba in the last twenty-four hours were both forced into overdrive. Everything had been moved up, except the step-off time for the operation itself.

  The landing of the Dutch Marines was to be used as cover to get Delta Force onto the island. There would be two planes. One with the Dutch Marines flying home early from training exercises at Camp Lejeune. And a second, full of US special operations soldiers that had assembled at the base on Bonaire. The plan called for them to land within minutes of one another.

  An email had been sent to the terrorists through established channels. They were told that the Dutch Marines were returning but that they had no intention of being used in an offensive manner. The Netherlands had paid their ransom and expected their citizens, along with the Italians, Germans and Swedes, to be released. The email explained that the Dutch Marines were returning to maintain order once the New Jihad Front departed. It further explained that the company of Dutch Marines would, immediately upon landing, be returning to their garrison in Savaneta.

  The intent of the email was twofold. First, the Dutch had paid. They didn’t want the landing of a military transport plane being interpreted as hostility. Officials in The Netherlands would have sent the email regardless of US involvement. In fact, the Dutch had initially been opposed to bringing US soldiers onto the island before their citizens were released. But US officials leaned on them. They had devised a plan to hide Delta Force until after the Dutch were released. Besides that, there were less than forty Dutch citizens being held. Ultimately, they’d caved to US pressure and accepted the risk to appease the Americans.

  Second, the email and the whole operation, for that matter, was a ruse to hide the arrival of the attack force. After the two planes landed, both would taxi to the end of the runway where military facilities were located. The plane carrying the Dutch Marines would stop on the tarmac in plain view while the second aircraft was pushed into a hanger and out of sight.

  The Dutch Prime Minster wasn’t keen on the plan. His interest was in the safety of his citizens and controlling the damage being done in Aruba. He voiced his objection directly to the President of the United States. He’d made it clear to POTUS that he intended to publicly voice his opposition to the operation if it sparked unintended consequences.

  POTUS had argued that operational security was more important than scapegoating the US. He tried to convince him that his men would play a significant role. A show was to be made of the Dutch Marines. Even with the airport having been shut down for the better part of a day, the international media had stilled wormed their way onto the island. Many had hitched rides on the empty planes sent to fly stranded tourists out. Their rented vans could freely roam the open corridors. Some had even found their way within camera range of the resort, despite the cordoned-off bubble surrounding the epicenter.

  The news crews would be the subterfuge. They’d film the arrival and tailgate the Marines to the Barracks in Savaneta. While the eyes of the world followed the Marines, an overwhelming force of Delta operators were to remain hidden in the hanger until after sunset.

  It was being called a rescue mission, but Margaret was skeptical. There were too many variables. So many moving parts, in fact, that she considered voicing her own concern—but a lifelong bureaucrat knew better than to start a fight they had no hope of winning. Her ability to speak up had been neutered long ago, and her willingness to contest the fact was whisked away by the lost hours of sleep.

  She hung up the phone and lay her head down on her desk.

  52

  Pescadero Marina and Boatyard, Aruba

  Adnan Sali’s contribution had consisted of shooting the Chief Minister of Justice in the forehead. Sure, he’d been sending emails on activity at the airport but that made him feel more like a birdwatcher than a soldier. Plus, activity at the airport had all but stopped late yesterday afternoon. His part in the action had been frustratingly short.

  Tuesday morning had left him surrounded by a surreal aura—he was surprised by the adrenaline high that accompanied the killing. It had been easier than he’d expected. First light was just kissing the sky when the Minister opened his front door. Adnan walked right up to the man. He nearly touched his forehead with the barrel of the silenced pistol.

  The man hadn’t been thrown back the way he’d imagined. Instead, his knees sort of buckled and he crumpled to the ground. Adnan casually got back in his car. He remembered looking at himself in the review mirror as he pulled away. His face bore an expression he’d not seen before. With heart racing and a feeling of pride warming his body, Adnan drove to work.

  He arrived earlier than usual that morning. He preferred to start early to beat the worst of the heat. Just twelve degrees above the equator with skies that were perpetually blue, Aruba was a hot place to work. The inside of a boat became an oven before noon.

  Adnan was a mechanic for Pescadero Marina and Boatyard. Beginning at the age of six, he’d worked on boats, motors mostly. His father owned a small engine repair shop in Yemen—he had a knack for keeping ancient outboards running years beyond their useful life. He was like a medicine man to the local fishing fleet.

  Finding a job on Aruba allowed Adnan to blend in. Working at a marina was natural. He had offered to work a few days for free. It had taken just one for him to prove his worth to the owner of Pescadero.

  The ability to work flexible hours afforded him the opportunity to scout the Minister’s routine. Ultimately, his role in the action was simple: murder the minister and then back up the team from outside the resort. Anas had suggested the marina by the airport. Once the operation was underway, Adnan would be able to watch over the airport without drawing attention. If all went as planned, he’d steal a boat from the marina and rendezvous with the Contagious when the team left for Venezuela.

  Three weeks before the operation, he was given a set of GPS coordinates between Venezuela and Aruba. He’d met a fishing boat and been given several wooden crates. Inside were four silenced pistols, one for each of the on-island operatives. There were walkie-talkies and two AK-47 assault rifles. He and Jaber were to remain outside the resort once the action started. The assault rifles were to be used to defend themselves or to fight their way into the resort if necessary.

  Adnan climbed the ladder to the top of the flybridge where he had a view across the airport. Queen Beatrix Airport was right on the water. Its western end, Runway Eleven, abutted the Caribbean and receive landing aircraft.

  Pescadero was at the end of the road, literally. It was hemmed in on three sides with the airport fence as a barrier to the north and the sea to the west and south. The marina was tucked in next to the general aviation side of the airport. The main terminal was all the way across the tarmac on the other side of the complex.

  The fly bridges on the sport fishing boats served as Adnan’s perch. He watched for planes and used binoculars to scan the airport. Anas had sent an email telling him to expect two military aircraft. He’d barely sat down when the first one came into view.

  The first gray jet lumbered from the sky and onto the runway. Adnan watched it to the end where it exited and began to taxi toward the terminal. Jet number two appeared and followed suit. The first to land waited on the taxi way in front of the terminal. Once the second flight arrived, the two aircraft taxied back to the end of the runway where
they had touched down. There was a single military hangar at that end of the runway in the far corner of the airport complex.

  Adnan pecked an email, replying to let Anas know they had landed.

  Jet number two parked in from of the hangar after the first jet was pushed in by an airport tractor. The hanger doors were closed.

  Adnan watched buses drive into the airport and pull up alongside the hanger. Soldiers clad in desert camo deplaned the jet parked in front. They walked to the buses and boarded.

  The amplification of the binoculars and the angle of his perspective allowed Adnan to see between the buses and the hangar. Initially, he hadn’t noticed. Then something clicked. It struck him as the last man streamed toward the bus from the jet parked in front. No one had come out of the hanger. He watched and waited. Maybe there was a problem with the stairs, or maybe they needed the ones from outside.

  Another ten minutes passed before he decided to write. Once the mobile stairs were parked beside the hangar and the buses pulled away, he dictated an email into his phone and sent it to Anas.

  53

  Dutch Marine Base, Aruba

  The straight bars on the epaulets of his desert camouflage uniform marked him as an officer. Captain Koning froze as Maddie spilled into the hallway. The professionalism of his boyish face transitioned rapidly from confusion to fear.

  A small man, his head was even with Maddie’s eyes, a fact she identified as an advantage from the start.

  Koning stepped a foot back, instinctively moving into a firing stance. His arm twitched toward the Glock strapped to his leg.

  Maddie leapt forward. She gripped his neck with her right and went for his gun with her left.