Aruba Mad Günther

by T L Yeager

  His eyes were fixed on the young Assad. The boy was leading the group of hostages toward the boat. They were shuffling, single-file, beneath a light above the sidewalk. Assad was shorter than them all. Walking off to the side, down in the sand, he looked like a prepubescent boy doing a man’s job.

  What Anas saw next was not something his brain was capable of registering. Assad’s head was there one instant and gone the next. Anas hunched from the crack that resounded above him.

  Assad’s headless body continued for a step or two then fell to the side. The hostages ran into one another, the straight line jumbling together like an uncoordinated inchworm.

  Another shot rang out, streaking above Anas, who was still frozen with confusion. The line of hostages broke. Most darted left for the safety of the beach restaurant. A few ran right, struggling to escape through the soft sand.

  Anas looked back toward the pool. He saw a flash of light. The crack that followed knocked him from his feet. Every hair on his body was sent on end.

  He touched his ear. “Run! They’re attacking! Everyone onboard now!”

  He stood and sprinted for the boat, ignoring the pain in his leg. His shoes scratched four steps across the sand covered sidewalk, before a jolt rocketed him forward. He felt his body sail through the air as if slung from a catapult. His hands were out in front to absorb the impact but he was moving so fast they were of little consequence.

  His head cracked off the cement. The crest of his forehead gave way. He felt it press in behind his eyes. A pulse of pain ran from the impact through to the opposite side of his head. It felt like an electric shock, his eyes twitching in their sockets.

  The static and twitching quickly faded into a hazy recognition of the present. He was on the sidewalk, still and unmoving.

  More shots pierced the air above him, traveling with incalculable speed. Footsteps passed. Voices came and went. He felt sleepy. Sound oscillated in and out of recognition.

  A low guttural thunder bloomed. His eyes opened. Sand in the lines of stamped concrete ran up to greet them. There was movement in his peripheral vision. With his body unmoving, his eyes instinctively jumped to focus on the motion. Another rod of lightning rocked his head.

  He squinted and waited for the worst to pass, then opened them again. Grains of sand at the tip of his nose. He turned his head, ever so slightly, to elevate his vision without having to move his eyes. Glimmers of light hovered across the water. They receded on ribbons of white roiling water.

  They’re leaving me, he thought. Why am I on the ground? Why did I stop running? His mind was functioning as a detached entity. It felt decoupled from his body, which was draped heavily on the sandy walkway.

  Throbbing pain started mercifully at first. Within seconds, the spot where his head had hit the ground began to throb with each beat of his heart. The sensation of the impact left him worried that his brain might slip out if he moved. Beyond the fear of seeing his gray matter fall to the ground before he died, the sounds of the passing bullets had created a paralysis of their own.

  And so, he lay there, conscious but paralyzed, not sure if by mechanical or psychological means. The moon lit the sky as it had the night they arrived. He watched his ride motor out and away from the success he’d cultivated. The silhouette of the Contagious took shape on the horizon as the sound of the engines became too faint to hear.

  Anas was left alone, the wind sweeping above him in a steady gale. Palm fronds streamed their rustling song. Grains of sand blew up under the cuffs of his pants. He’d die here, and it wasn’t all bad. He could think of worse ways to go.

  Closing his eyes as if to sleep, Anas adjusted his head. He opened them again. At the center of his vision now, the moon hung bright in the clear Aruban sky. Its jejune craters pockmarking the surface reminded Anas of his own adolescent skin.

  Staring captivated, his mind stopped racing. Stillness found him.

  As he gazed up, he sensed movement in the sky. A line of white, like a cloud, streamed in from the left. It crossed the face of the moon then dropped like a roll of toilet paper from a table’s edge. The cloud turned at a right angle and dove toward the Contagious.

  A white light met his eyes. The intensity triggered another flash of pain through his head. When he reopened them, fiery wreckage was still falling back to the surface of the Caribbean.

  67

  Dr. Horacio E. Oduber Hospital, Aruba

  The sixth time, Maddie thought. She was positive of it.

  She’d decided to keep count after the second… or was it the third?

  The wake-ups only lasted a second or two so she had to act fast and add another mark to the cell wall. She’d done the slanted one for the fifth and started a new set this time.

  She knew she’d been captured and drugged. There’d been bright, blinding lights and then blackness. Time had been passing, but tracking it in the dark was impossible.

  The drugs hurt her veins. It bloated them up and her body was running out of space. She had a dream where she exploded.

  The wake-ups are coming more frequently, she thought. The drugs were wearing off and she needed to escape before they realized it. Her mother had been calling her to dinner for hours. She had to get home. Her mother would be worried.

  Let me go! Let me go! There they were again, the tubes in her arms. She was strapped to the floor of the cell. The only thing she could reach was the wall, to scratch the lines.

  It started to get dark again. Wait! Wait! Please wait! It went black. It’s okay, I need to get clothes. I… I can’t run away naked. Next time, I’ll get clothes.

  At least it was quiet. They’d turned off the speakers. The voices were gone. These son-of-a-bitches were ruthless. They’d piped in psychological warfare. When she heard their voices, her insides kept dying and her mother cried. They had recorded Ross and Izzy talking. Baby sounds. Grunts and moans and noises like first words. They recorded it and forced it into her head with a pipe. They were torturing her with it like the Manchurian Candidate.

  That’s right! Now she remembered. I’m their Manchurian Candidate! But I won’t kill my family. No… No… fight it! I won’t kill my family! They were using her. She had to repeat it. They were programing her like a robot to go destroy her America.

  The wake-up. It’s coming again. The light was back, the hoses, the straps. Mark the wall, she told herself. Mark the fucking wall! You always forget!

  Movement stopped the voice in her head for an instant. She checked again. The movement was still there. I can move. My head moves.

  “Papa! Mommy’s head moved.” The voice was so loud. They’d turned up the volume. They knew about the wake-ups. Fuck!

  “Mommy! Mommy! Can you hear me?” It sounded just like her. The worst kind of torture.

  “They said you might wake up today.”

  You’re a liar, Maddie yelled in her head.

  “What’s the matter, sweets?”

  It was him. Sometimes instead of blocking it she pretended they were there, but for real, instead of the speakers. She felt a hand in hers. They’d gone so far as to get a child’s hand. She’d felt it before. Soft and small. It was too much. She wanted to kill them. She wanted the rifle back. The rifle was so loud. Hurt her ears. Still ringing.

  Another wake-up was coming. She could feel it but she needed to hide behind her eyes. If they saw the color they’d know the drugs were wearing off. Then they’d give her more Manchurian medicine.

  She could see shapes through her eyelashes. The lids quivered from her trying to keep them closed. Keep your fucking head still! You dumb SOB! You moved!

  “See, Papa!”

  “Honey... Maddie... Can you hear me?” They were patting her hand. She couldn’t take it anymore. She opened her eyes.

  Ross smiled. He covered his mouth with a hand and hugged Izzy with the other. Tears welled in his eyes. He leaned in and hugged her.

  Everything she thought she knew was gone. She closed her eyes but the wake-up stayed this time.<
br />
  “Mommy, you’re awake!” Izzy ran around to the other side of the bed. Maddie turned her head to look. She reached a hand out and Izzy hugged it, hoses and all.

  “Izzy…” Her voice was gruff, rumbling up from the center of her chest.

  “Shush… Mommy. You’re gonna be okay. The doctor told us.”

  Maddie squeezed Izzy’s arm. Then she lifted her free right arm and wrapped it around Ross.

  “Next time… let’s come down together,” she whispered in his ear. Ross laughed and cried. Their cheeks were touching. She kissed his beard.

  “Good thing you brought the superhero cape,” Ross said.

  “Where’s the Char-monster?” she asked.

  “Oh. She’s next door! The hospital emptied the room so we could stay here with you. I’ll get her.” Ross rose. He reached out and touched her face. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Let me put down this rail,” Maddie said. Izzy was cradling her arm, stroking it gently. She pulled it back, pressed the button and lowered the rail. Izzy leaned in and rested her head on her mother’s stomach.

  “My Mommy!” she said.

  She was rubbing the soft brown hair on Izzy’s head when Ross returned.

  “Mooommyyy,” Charlotte said, pointing.

  “She said her first words!” Ross’s eyes were filled with tears. “When we brought her into the room and she saw you in the bed. It just came out.”

  Maddie lifted her arm to make room on the bed for her baby girl. Ross set her down and Charlotte leaned in, mumbling, “mooommyyy,” a second time. Maddie closed her eyes and felt the energy of her children being drawn down through the blankets.

  68

  38,500 Feet Above the Atlantic Ocean

  The Hellfire missile launched from the Predator drone killed all hands. For days after, news coverage showed pieces of the yacht being recovered.

  There had been two operatives outside the resort. Both were confronted and killed.

  Only one of the terrorists had survived.

  Opening statements in the trial were to be held seventy-two days after his capture. Known as the international city of peace and justice, The Hague was the ideal setting for the trial.

  Ross Günther was escorted by armed guards and flown via private government jet. He’d told his story countless times already.

  “Anas Atwah masterminded the operation. He’d made claims that minimizing loss of life was a key to his concept, but had failed to prevent the killing and been unwilling to stop it once it started.” It was to be a swift trial and Ross was the star of the show.

  After it was over, he and his family were going to disappear for the summer. He was done with work as he knew it, and doctors said Maddie would need a year to fully recover. They had received an anonymous offer to use a sprawling beach house. The benevolent owner said they’d need a place to, “get away,”—a place without prying eyes. It was a beachfront home in the sleepy resort town of Emerald Isle, North Carolina. They’d be able to enjoy being a family and retreat from the onslaught of media attention.

  What a long, strange trip it had been, Ross thought as he stared at the clouds below him. In the days following the end, stories of what had happened at the Surfside Resort trickled out. The last hour before the missile strike was the subject of intense focus by the media.

  Maddie had regained consciousness and summoned the strength to crawl her way to the balcony. She had killed three and wounded one.

  The bullet that hit Anas was stopped by the computers in his backpack. It didn’t make it through but it carried adequate energy to throw him to the ground, crack his skull, and knock him unconscious.

  US Special Forces swarmed the resort minutes later.

  There were some international pundits who argued that charges should be brought against Maddie. She’d violated a series of laws that spanned simple misdemeanors to capital crimes of violence.

  Instead of an indictment, Madeline Günther was awarded the oldest and highest honor of the Kingdom of the Netherlands. The Military William Order was bestowed, “for her excellent bravery in battle which spared the blood of the innocent and brought a swift end to this confrontation against humanity.” Despite the rarity of the chivalric order, she declined the public ceremony that routinely accompanied its awarding.

  Ross was again in high demand, albeit for a different reason this time. He was the only hostage that interacted with the terrorists. He was able to detail the orchestration and purpose of the attack. He’d sat in the command post and been privy to the computers that where the epicenter of the operation.

  Some suggested he’d gotten too close to Anas. Ross ignored them. When asked about him, Ross limited his comments. “A troubled man whose poor decisions allowed his intelligence to be used for bad instead of good.”

  Charlotte and Izzy were doing well. It’d been hard to leave them. Ross had snuck out when it came time to leave for the airport.

  The first question he’d been asked came from Izzy, after the last shots had been fired and the resort fell silent. “Can we go in the wazy river now, Daddy?”

  Acknowledgments

  First, to all my beta readers… you indulged my newest pursuit by taking the time to read and provide honest, constructive feedback. Every comment propelled me along this journey. To my amazing wife, who, while reading my first manuscript (Paragon Tide), got to about the mid-way point and said, "This is actually really good!" Whether it was truth or kindness, I'll never know, but it meant the world to me. To my parents, sister, Phil (who not only read my books but then discussed them with me over hundreds of miles of the Appalachian Trail), Pete, Angel, Danielle(s), Cecelia and all the others… Thank you!

  Thank you as well to the editors and cover artists that helped me along the way.

  About the Author

  Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this book, please leave an honest review on your favorite store.

  And stay in touch at: tlyeager.com

  Yeager is that guy who's always ascribed to the belief that "a jack of all trades is a master of none, though oftentimes it’s better than a master of one." Writing was just another lark, something new and interesting, something to learn. He dabbled for a while, and then early one January he challenged himself to take the idea for Paragon Tide and put it to paper. Through the spring and summer the word count continued to grow, the quality of his writing improved, and for the first time he experienced the essence of the creative process. He was in the flow. By the fall, the full story had taken shape and something he set out to write for himself became something he was willing to share. The early reviews were positive, so he forged on, honing the craft and calling on professionals for help. At some point writing became a daily catharsis… release the story to paper or suffer the feeling of loss… like the day was missing something.

  With the spark to write coming from Henry David Thoreau’s Walden, it's no surprise that Yeager believes that the secret sauce of life is simply enjoying the journey… And so, with no destination in mind, he continues forging ahead to see where this new adventure takes him.

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  T.L. YEAGER’S

  PARAGON TRILOGY

  Science-Based Thrillers

  set in a

  Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic

  Caribbean

  Paragon Tide - Chapter 1

  Every morning I’m greeted by the same water stain on the ceiling. It’s a coffee colored cloud the size of a dinner plate that appears to have wicked down from the galley above. Before today I was convinced that it dried up long ago. This morning it looks bigger. Its wavy hazel outline is spreading like the virus. I can’t help but think I should have voted my way out of here last night.

  My fingers search for the edge of the blanket. The calluses in my palms hook the silky border. I pull it tight to my chin. My legs stretch, toes point, ankles crack. I roll to my side and curl into a ball, the blanket a warm cocoon.

  I live in the belly of a boat, forward of the engine, in
a quaint abode with a tinted shoebox-shaped window high on the wall providing a hint of natural light. The window is just a few feet above the waterline and doesn’t open. My stateroom is ten feet long by eight wide with a double bed and two tiny lamps on articulating arms are attached to the wall. The floor is patterned linoleum, the color of sand. The wallpaper is hypnotizing, an alternating mirror image of a quintessential seashell in blue print on a blond background. A small, chair-less desk serves as the footboard for the bed.

  The smell of the bilge always seems stronger at the dock. It’s the dank heaviness of oil that forces me from the bed. I sit up into the glow of the morning sun coming through the window and finally rub the sleep from my eyes. With a grunt, I roll out of bed and follow the worn path to the bathroom. As I brush, I try to remember where I got a pink toothbrush. The paste is gritty but fresh and quickly knocks-out the morning funk.

  It would have been fitting for me to leave today considering that it’s my anniversary. On this day last year I got up early and quietly disappeared, leaving Maryland and my old life behind. It’s hard to believe that the earth has completed a full lap around the sun since I took a taxi to Baltimore Washington International for a one-way flight south. So long calculated life. Hello new experiences, each one kicking my past further into the recesses of memory. You can’t force the bad memories away. I tried that for years without success. You have to crowd them out with new, good ones. My ghosts aren’t quite distant yet, but they’re losing focus. Like a sepia photo purposely dropped at the ocean’s edge, the waves are lapping at the discolored ink of my past.

  I spit the foam from my mouth and stare into the pocket-size oval mirror that’s glued to the bathroom wall. My face is deeply tanned and the skin has tightened making my jawbone more prominent. My eyes seem clearer. I know my muscles are far more toned than they were a year ago. Back home I pushed weights around in a windowless gym to stay fit. Out here the work and scuba diving is more than enough.