Battleship Boys

by Paul Lally

  Jensen scans the sprawling parking lot. Not much activity at this time of night that’s slowly turning into day. He checks the outline of the tarpaulin-covered tractor trailer filled with cucumbers piled on top of the drugs.

  “What are you going to do with the haul?” Jensen says. “It’s pretty strong stuff,”

  “Burn it like we always do—and you? What will you do with Miguel Lopez-Vargas, who my government is so kindly donating to your famous waterboard room?”

  “Get him wet, then burn him to a crisp—after we get what we want from that fucking murderer.”

  “Which is?”

  “The network, the names, the usual.”

  Captain Gomez nods but says nothing for a while. Finally, he says, “This never ends, you know. Them and us.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Same reason you do it.”

  “Oh really?” Gomez grins. “I didn’t know the DEA can read minds.”

  “Lots more than that.”

  “Then tell me why I do it, my friend.”

  “Because you don’t know how to do anything else that makes life worthwhile.”

  “What about making love to a beautiful woman?”

  “Fair enough. There is that.”

  “There is always that.”

  “But only after the mission.”

  “Always.”

  The smell of diesel exhaust mixes with the warm air of the truck’s heater. Ernesto counts at least ten tractor trailers parked nose to tail, elephant style. Five more crowd the fuel station, topping off their tanks before heading north, first to the Mexican side of the border crossing, then over Veterans International Bridge and coming face to face with stone-faced U.S. Border Patrol and Customs agents.

  He admires the wisdom of his brother choosing this entry point for the delivery. It’s the busiest of the three Texas border crossings, and what’s one more plain vanilla truck waiting in the endless line to cross into the gringos’ land of milk and honey?

  Every year, over half-a-million commercial trucks travel north and south across the Brownsville border, carrying billions of dollars’ worth of food, furniture, electrical machinery, plastics, vehicles, and fuel oils both in and out of Mexico.

  In less than a half-hour, Ernesto’s red sixteen-wheeler filled with cucumbers worth $8000 wholesale will make the crossing, including what’s hiding beneath those soon-to-be sweet and sour pickles: triple-wrapped, bulk packages of uncut fentanyl/heroin capsules with a street value of $5,300,000.

  That’s a lot of zeros behind that five.

  Ernesto’s good with numbers, so he does the math in his head. The Mexican peso’s trading at 22 at the moment... Got to be worth about 152 million pesos.

  Out of curiosity, he taps his iPhone calculator, opens the conversion app, enters the US dollar street value amount and smiles when up pops 155,035,767 pesos.

  Then he laughs—but not at the amount. He laughs because suddenly he too, has to pee.

  “The power of suggestion,” he says, and hops out.

  But not to follow Arturo into the dingy service station complex. Those bathrooms are a stinking mess, so much cleaner on the gringos’ side. But he can’t wait until then. Besides, he doesn’t dare leave his truck parked here unattended. True, he’s not traveling alone on this short-notice journey. But only a fool would walk away from 155 million pesos.

  So...which tire to pee on? The first set of tandems will do nicely.

  As he baptizes the tire, he auto-dials his brother. “How’s your tooth?”

  “Hurting—where are you?”

  “Gasolinera Chivas.”

  “And?”

  “And I am enjoying the scenery. Especially in this crowded parking lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “The cargo is safe and sound, and about to be delivered—after we deliver the cucumbers, of course.”

  “You’ll have no problems crossing over our side. And when you—”

  “—yes, I know, when we cross the bridge and say ‘buenos días’ to the gringos, I hand them the manifest. Three minutes later we are on our way in Texas because you planned it perfectly, little brother. I am proud of you.”

  A short pause.

  “Are you still there?” Ernesto says.

  “I am here. I will always be here for you, as you have been for me.”

  Ernesto zips up his fly. “Except when you have a toothache—¿estoy en lo cierto?”

  Miguel laughs. “Adios, hermano major.”

  Ernesto doesn’t get a chance to reply because the world goes dark when the Mexican Marine slips a black hood over his head and another team member pins his arms.

  Jensen grins as his night goggles display the capture scene. “Right on the money, captain. Damn, your guys are good.”

  The Mexican officer grunts his agreement, then adds, “Infanteria de Marina gets the job done.”

  “I’ll say you do. And what’s more, you—”

  The greenish world in the night-vision goggles blooms with a series of white flashes.

  Small arms fire.

  “Holy shit, they got back up!” Jensen says.

  A horde of ghostly green figures pour out of a step van parked behind the eighteen-wheeler. They fan out, firing as they go. One of the Mexican marines holding the captive spins away and crumples to the ground. The other marine shoves the hooded figure toward a waiting DEA vehicle.

  Gomez shouts, “Ve, ve, ve!”

  The marines and DEA agents fall back, trying to take up a defensive position but their assault team is vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

  What Jensen thought was going to be a standard ho-hum bad guy grab is turning into a cluster-fuck before his night-vision eyes.

  But he’ll be good god-DAMNED if it happens on his watch.

  On his feet, heading straight for the disaster-in-the-making, he’s firing his M27 assault rifle; the same one he used in the Marines. He drops two of Miguel’s security guards before he takes enemy rounds. The first slams into his body armor, but the second one nails his upper right arm. The impact spins him around and loosens his grip on his rifle, sending it clattering to the ground.

  Fighting at close quarters, the tunnel-vison-like effect of his night goggles limits his peripheral vision. Crouched down, reaching for his Glock, he never sees the man coming up from behind him who kicks him in the back and sends him sprawling face down.

  “Le tengo!”

  His night vision goggles take a beating. One of the lenses shattered, the other shaky, he manages to see the fuzzy shape of the DEA Hummer as it accelerates away from the gunfight.

  “At least we got Vargas,” he thinks, just before the security guard clubs him unconscious with his rifle butt.

  When the dust settles and headcounts are taken, two Marines and one DEA agent sprawl dead on the truck parking lot. The bodies of five of Vargas’s backup security team lie scattered beside them. The FAST team survivors kneel on the ground, arms behind their heads, including Captán Gomez.

  Jensen’s still out like a light.

  One of the security guards shoves his boot under Jensen’s motionless body and flips him over. As he does so, the possum-playing DEA agent scissor-kicks the guy, entangles his legs, and sends him sprawling.

  He tries to scramble to his feet for the follow up, but the momentary burst of bravery ends as quickly as it started when he sways back and forth, dizzy from loss of blood and from the effort of performing a Judo double leg takedown while flat on his back. This time he collapses for good.

  Arturo’s stunned as he witnesses the aftermath of what took place while he was peeing in the filthy bathroom.

  Without a doubt, Vargas’s backup security team has the situation well in hand. As proof, they unceremoniously toss dead Americans and Mexicans into the back of their step van, piling them in like so many sacks of dried beans. Somewhere along their return route south to Mérida, they’ll stop long enough to heave them in an arroy
o for the coyotes to feast upon.

  Originally, the plan was to kill the surviving prisoners and add them to the coyote feast. But Arturo’s panicked call to Miguel about the DEA bust and his brother Ernesto’s capture changes everything.

  “Bring them back to me,” Vargas says, his voice muffled.

  “Do what, señor?” Arturo says. “I can’t understand you.”

  “Dentist. Novocain.” He sucks back drooling saliva from his numbed mouth then continues. “To the tunnel....south entrance...take them there.”

  “Si, señor. Madre di Dios, what do I do about Ernesto’s truck?”

  A long pause. So lengthy that a worried Arturo finally says, “Are you there, Señor Vargas?”

  A deep sigh ending with a sob. “Ernesto!”

  South Boston’s Black Falcon Cruise Terminal is accustomed to whale-sized, snow-white, multi-deck cruise ships tying up at the pier and promptly swallowing up thousands of passengers craving a seaborne adventure.

  The terminal’s deep-water berth easily accommodates the drafts of these gargantuan-sized, floating hotels whose sole purpose in life is hauling hordes of bored people from here to there, while stuffing them full of food and drink along the way.

  At the moment, Princess Lines’ Ocean Queen is gobbling up 4,392 hungry passengers who’ve driven/flown/taken the bus or train to arrive here on this blustery, snow-squally late February day.

  Every bundled up, sock-hat-wearing, glove-slapping, person’s desperately eager to feel the hot sun of the Caribbean for the next ten days before sailing back to Boston, tying up, disembarking and heading back to Logan Airport, or scraping snow off their cars in the cruise terminal parking lots, turning up heaters and heading home, five pounds heavier but hopefully happier.

  Today’s a little different.

  Tied up directly astern of the leviathan-sized, 110-foot-long, octuple-decked Ocean Queen, the menacing, low-slung, sleek grey silhouette of the USS New Hampshire (BB-70) waits to board her passengers. But the lucky men climbing the gangplanks have no desire to arrive somewhere, so much as they aim to enjoy the journey itself.

  No multi-deck staterooms for them. No restaurants, theaters, swimming pools, and shopping arcades stuffed inside the Rock. She was a capital warship that waged the most violent of wars with the least comfortable accommodations for her crew.

  And even though her weapons are stilled, Jack Riley made sure to have Captain Koga elevate the main battery guns forty-five degrees while tied up at the terminal, announcing to the world that this ship brought peace to a warring world. An if the huge mob of curious passengers gathered on the aft decks of Ocean Queen is any indication, her presence in Boston will be remembered for a long time to come.

  To make sure that happens, Bob Martin and his public relations company have orchestrated the Rock’s departure like Leonard Bernstein conducting the New York Philharmonic.

  Five—count them—five camera crews swarm the terminal and the Rock, capturing various tableaus; interviews with the incoming Navy veterans, their initial reactions, how they feel, what they’re looking forward to, etc., plus the refurbished ship herself, including the newly installed crew quarters with crisp sheets and comfy pillows.

  Stanley Albertini’s holding court in Turret 4, showing off the size of the (supposed) dummy rounds painted blue, but are in fact, HC rounds packing plenty of punch for that abandoned oil rig. Butler Arsenal’s Eddie Parker stands off to one side, admiring his paintbrush handiwork.

  Below in the crew mess, the bustling galley staff of White Apron Catering, the company Jack hired to feed his hungry mob of 250 guests and the 100-plus crew, are hard at work.

  Bob Martin darts from camera crew to sound recordist to lighting guy like a jovial bumble bee pollinating flower after flower. And lest you think bumblebees are harmless, they can sting—but only when provoked. And if there’s one thing Bob doesn’t do, is get provoked. He’s too high on what he’s doing to think for an instant that his client isn’t equally thrilled.

  “Don’t forget the meat lockers!” he shouts to the camera crew roaming through the main galley, getting footage of the prep chefs and line chefs hustling like mad to get the welcome-aboard buffet ready, plus tonight’s main meal.

  “Show what’s inside, Robbie. Watch for lens fog,” Bob shouts.

  Thumbs up from Roberto Tomaselli, lead DP, as he leads his soundman and gaffer/lighter into the mist-swirling depths of the freezer.

  Bob nudges Jack, who’s been watching his friend in action. “My guy’s a tiger. Pushing sixty-five and still has his chops.”

  “How distribution going?”

  “Six story packages so far. CNN, CNBC, Fox, ABC—CBS carrying for sure... the Sunday shows too, with our bon voyage story—getting some great stuff. Social media too, from Yahoo News to Pinterest. Hefty page counts all around.”

  “Thank God for slow news days.”

  “The Rock’s the news today, my friend. And it’s just the beginning. Before I’m done, the world’s going to know that your Flying Dutchman is up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

  “Mixing too many metaphors. Stop.”

  Bob laughs. “Whatever it takes to tell the story of a homeless battleship in search of a harbor, I’m fully prepared to do—how’s your dad holding up?”

  “Hanging in there.”

  “Excited about all this?”

  “A little dazed at times.”

  “Because you’re shitting gold bricks again for him, am I right?”

  “That’s part of it. Plus, he’s got some pain issues starting.”

  “Damn. How are his meds?”

  “Enough for now.”

  “You sure? I got doctor friends who’ll look the other way.”

  “All set. Really.”

  “You’re my hero, Jack Riley, know that?”

  “I don’t understand—not that I ever understood you.”

  “Doing all this stuff....” Bob looks around. “This ship... the trip...it’s unbelievable.”

  “Pop busted his ass for me for years. Time I return the favor.”

  “Allow me to help...” Bob spins away, points like a traffic cop at Robbie, who’s emerging from the freezer, trailed by his crew. “Steam table, guys. Hose it down.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” Robbie says.

  “Very funny.”

  Jack says, “How many crews you bringing on board?”

  “Just Robbie and his gang. ”

  “Do me a favor when we get to Cancún, okay?”

  “Name it.”

  “When Pop and I head out to visit where he and mom spent their honeymoon, no pictures, okay?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it—hey, wait for me!”

  Quick handshake, clap on the back. “Keep shitting those gold bricks, kiddo. The world needs you.”

  He takes two steps, halts, spins around. “Almost forgot. Thank a zillion for those autorefractors.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  “You have no idea how much time we’re saving. What used to take forever to match the right prescription for these folks, now, they’re in and out within ten minutes.”

  “You’re my hero, Bob Martin.”

  A grin, a half-salute, and he’s gone, racing after his camera crew.

  A deep bass voice calls out, “Pork loin is UP, folks, let’s rock and roll.”

  White Apron catering company owner and executive chef Jay Curcio bounces from prep station to salad table, to dessert trays, a fullback-sized, determined bundle of energy with close-cropped prematurely gray hair and a bright red face from working a mile-a-minute as he presides over the care and feeding breakfast, lunch, and dinner to over 350 guests and crew, not to mention snacks and endless coffee for the next two weeks.

  From Boston, down the eastern seaboard to Florida, through the Straits, a little shoot-‘em-up with an abandoned oil rig, then on to Cancún, Chef Curcio will probably sleep three hours a night if he’s lucky. Then rise and repeat for seven days outbound, and t
hen do the same thing in reverse inbound, until the Rock reaches Boston once again.

  Jack’s go-to caterer back in New Hampshire for his business-related events, Jay’s White Apron was a shoo-in for the journey.

  “Pick-up on five!” Jay shouts.

  Two young prep chefs, one a rail-thin, red-headed woman and the other a defensive lineman-solid man double-time to a line of gas ranges, where Jay’s sliding out a canoe-sized aluminum baking dish filled with pork loins.

  “Set up five, then carve and keep warm, got it?” he says.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the red head says.

  As she and her helper heft the heavy, meat-laden tray, she adds, “Anchors away, Chef!”

  They deftly pivot sideways and pass Jack on their way to the narrow worktable. Tight quarters, but everybody seems to know what they’re doing—especially Chef Curcio, who mops the sweat off his brow.

  “Need anything?” Jack says.

  “Another prep day before you board the passengers would be perfect.”

  “Too late for that. Besides, your team looks like they’re doing fine.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, especially with my gang.” Curcio casts a critical eye over his workers. Heavy metal music thunders through the place to set the mood.

  “Uh, about your music,” Jack raises his voice be heard over the strident chords.

  “I know, I know... the kids like it, but okay, time to turn on the time machine.”

  Jay fishes out his smartphone. A few swipes, a couple taps on his music app, and the Sex Pistols’ Pretty Vacant surrenders to Glen Miller’s Tuxedo Junction.

  Groans and headshakes from Jay’s young staff at the stone-age music.

  “That’ll bring some smiles from the older guys,” Jack says.

  “What’s the final count, age-wise?”

  “I’d say fifty percent late-sixties, early seventies.”

  “Vietnam and after, right?”

  “Correct.”

  “You were—what?”

  “Desert Storm. Got almost thirty guys who served back then. In our forties.”