by Paul Lally
“What do you think, fellas?” JJ says with a grin. “Do they look the part?”
The Delta guys fashion-model their “tourist” outfits to whistles of appreciation and applause.
As they do so, hospitality students from UNH circulate through the crowd handing out identical Hawaiian shirts and caps to the guys like they’re hors d’oeuvres at a party.
“Now it’s your turn!” JJ says.
While the guys put on the shirts and caps, he continues. “You know those tour groups you see on vacation wearing vests the same color, so their guides won’t lose track of them? That’s what we’re doing—at least that’s what it’s going to look like.”
“Little do they know!” somebody in the crowd hollers and everybody laughs.
There’s something to be said about Major Williston’s wacky idea of wearing those wacky shirts...
While it’s true, he’ll most likely remain a major until he retires from the Corps, his inability to kiss ass and climb the promotion ladder is consistently offset by his innate ability to not just think out of the box, but not even see a box.
Hence, XXL bright blue Hawaiian shirts with battleships on them. Yes, they belong on a trip to Hawaii, and yes, this is the Yucatán Peninsula. But CW knows stuff that you and I don’t know—for instance, every heard of the Japanese word, Osoroi?
Probably not, but he has.
Captain Koga too.
From up on the navigation bridge the Japanese captain and Jack Riley observe the men trying on their Battleship-bedecked Hawaiian shirts.
Koga’s eyebrows rise appreciatively. “Osoroi o tsukau no wa totemo kashikoi.”
Jack Riley says, “In English?”
“Clever to use matching outfits in this manner.”
Koga explains that when the Japanese travel—and they LOVE to travel—they often wear matching coats, or shirts, shoes or hats, or a combination of all three. Not for the sake of group-control like the Americans and Germans, but for the sheer pleasure of experiencing an adventure together.
And this is about to become one hell of an adventure.
An hour later, the Rock’s peacefully anchored in Cozumel, while our guys stroll along Puerta Maya dock, all 268 of them, counting CW and his Delta Force guys, who’ve paired off with their chosen Navy vet “parents.”
Around them, mobs of cruise ship passengers traipse along behind frazzled tour guides brandishing folded umbrellas like Excalibur, trying to keep the herds together. To help do so, the tourists are decked out in matching florescent orange vests, lime-green baseball caps, and ridiculous sashes,
By contrast, the “Battleship Boys” are going full-bore Osoroi.
CW walks alongside his “father” the admiral, Tommy’s with Jack. As luck and good karma would have it, the two African American Navy SEALS in Williston’s group are paired up with two 70+ year-old African-American “dads.”
The remaining Delta Force team members stay close to their “Pops” and “Uncles” as the mob works its way through arrival customs and toward a high-speed ferry tied up at the adjacent pier that Jack’s planning team chartered exclusively for them.
The Rock’s passengers stay together in a single mass. To the average observer, seeing eighteen younger men strolling alongside their elderly companions, some arm in arm, others draping their arms over their “dads” shoulders, chatting and smiling, the conclusion is simple—and you’d think the same thing, right?
“Isn’t it nice to see fathers and sons enjoying their time together.”
And they are—sort of—like the way a sports team feels when they’re united to win the game, the way any group feels when pursuing a worthwhile cause, the way anyone would feel when about to rescue another human being from imminent danger.
While it’s true, only eighteen of the “paired-up geezers,” including Tommy and JJ, are going to remain with the Delta Force to provide them cover until they reach the final “drop zone” at the Catedral, every vet on the Rock’s cruise sports one of these wacky shirts because they’re all part of the mission.
But looking at these guys, nobody can possibly imagine their behavior to be anything but the run-of-the-mill antics of retired old farts in search of a fun time in Cozumel at the Three Amigos or The Beach Bum, or a quick one at the Hard Rock Cafe before haul-assing north to Cancún for more booze and broads.
And while you’ll spot lots of grins and hear lots of laughter and jovial conversation as the guys amble along toward the ferry, these old guys are faking every bit of this by generating a bullshit storm to end all storms.
The Rock’s passengers, on the other hand, stay together in a single mass. To the average observer, seeing eighteen younger men strolling alongside their elderly companions, some arm in arm, others draping their arms over their “dads” shoulders, chatting and smiling, the conclusion is simple—and you’d think the same thing, right?
“Isn’t it nice to see fathers and sons enjoying their time together.”
And they are—sort of—like the way a sports team feels when they’re united to win the game, the way any group feels when pursuing a worthwhile cause, the way anyone would feel when about to rescue another human being from imminent danger.
While it’s true, only eighteen of the “paired-up geezers,” including Tommy and JJ, are going to remain with the Delta Force to provide them cover until they reach the final “drop zone” at the Catedral, every vet on the Rock’s cruise sports one of these wacky shirts because they’re all part of the mission.
But looking at these guys, nobody can possibly imagine their behavior to be anything but the run-of-the-mill antics of retired old farts in search of a fun time in Cozumel at the Three Amigos or The Beach Bum, or a quick one at the Hard Rock Cafe before haul-assing north to Cancún for more booze and broads.
And while you’ll spot lots of grins and hear lots of laughter and jovial conversation as the guys amble along toward the ferry, these old guys are faking every bit of this by generating a bullshit storm to end all storms.
Thousands of passengers from the two super-cruise ships continue flowing like a relentless river of “What’s next?” on their way to individual adventures/tours/ whatever during their brief stay in Cozumel.
Many will board high-capacity ferries and cross over to Playa del Carmen on the peninsula and spend the day getting sunburned on the beaches. Or they’ll take a cruise excursion to explore Mayan ruins or travel north to Cancún. But no such variety awaits CW and the boys. They’re heading to Cancún nonstop.
The compact, blue and yellow, ultra-high-speed ferry, Pez Vela sits low in the water like a shark waiting to snatch away its victims to the various temptations of the Yucatan peninsula. Normally used to transport beach-loving cruise ship passengers north to enjoy the untouched splendor of Isla Mujeres, plenty of other adventures await if the beaches bore them. Whale watching, scuba diving, and personalized snorkeling tours, or, if all else fails, plenty of restaurants and bars to get blasted.
None of that’s on the agenda today for the tsunami-like wave of ultramarine blue XXL Hawaiian shirts covering beer bellies—and in some cases, hidden Glock 19 handguns and stun grenades—swirling up the loading ramp of the 350-passenger vessel.
Here and there in the crowd, the Battleship Boys lug what appear to be Thermos picnic coolers—the sight of which would make you think, “Good idea, keeping their beer and soda plenty cold.” And you’d be wrong of course. But who in their right mind would hide M4 rifles with SOPMOD packages, including LA-5 infrared lasers and EO Tech 655 holographic reflex sights in beer coolers?
You know very well who, because there’s a limit to what an XXL shirt can hide, right? Besides body armor vests and Glocks, the dangerous stuff they’re going to need has to be loaded in somehow. (Thank you Thermos, and the strong arms of old men).
The minute they land in Cancún, they’ll stick out like 268 sore thumbs and that’s precisely what CW wants. Rest assured, if they tried any other way to infiltrate the target, the cartel�
��s DEW—Distant Warning System’s “radar” comprised of spies and informers everywhere—would pick them up and blow the whistle long before they even got boots on the ground.
Result: a pile of dead hostages to prove Vargas meant business, his brother Ernesto sacrificed to the gringos, and a devastated vice-president of the United States who’s also a mom.
Nope.
Hiding in plain sight is the only way to go.
The vibration from the Pez Vela’s engines, purring away two decks below, carries up to the main deck as the men and fan out to find seats. Most of them use the central staircase to get to the top deck then head aft to seats open to the weather deck—speaking of weather, it happens to be fabulous for February, thank-you-very much.
The vets lift their sun-starved, pasty winter faces to its warming rays as they sprawl out on comfortable business-class style seats. While there’s the usual amount of joking and casual conversation, if you knew the full story of why they’re here and the mission they’re on, you’d understand why many of the men’s mouths have a determined “set” to them that hints at something more on their minds than getting sunburned on a beach or drunk in a tourist bar.
Even more in evidence is Major Williston and his group of “fathers and sons” who’ve set up shop on the open foredeck. With thirty-five passenger seats available, there’s plenty of room to make sure they’ve got their mission ducks lined up in a row, during the hour-and-a-half trip north to Cancún.
While CW expertly strips his Glock and examines the bolt action, he says to Tommy. “Jack, here, tells me you and your wife spent your honeymoon in Cancún. That right?”
Tommy smiles at the thought. “I highly recommend it.”
“Changed a lot since then, I bet.”
“Me too.”
Jack says, “After we get you guys on your way, Pop and I are heading for—what’s the name of the place again?”
“Puerta Azul,” Tommy says. “Great ocean overlook, just south of town. Eileen and I would sit for hours and watch the waves.”
“As newlyweds,” CW adds.
“Very newly.”
“The way life should be.”
CW finishes checking out his pistol and slips it beneath his shirt. The colorful fabric swallows up the 9mm’s bulge as it slides into the belt holster.
Tommy says, “What do you think, major?”
“About what?”
“Pulling this thing off.”
He gives the question some thought while fussing with his hidden holster. “Jack tells me you like to fish. That true?”
“Every chance I get.”
“Me too.” He flicks his wrist. “Fly-fishing.”
Tommy shakes his head. “Too fussy for me.”
“Agreed.” He flicks his wrist again. “But for me, it’s all in the cast not the catch. Sending that fly exactly where I know that little fishy’s swimming along, looking for lunch. Whether it bites or not, doesn’t matter to me. It’s precisely controlling an object through time and space that appeals the most.”
Jack says, “Like now? With all this going on?”
“Big time.”
“So tell me, once you get the hostages, how do you get the hell out of there?”
He grins. “Need to know, my friend.”
The admiral leans over and says, “Go ahead, major.”
“That an order, sir?”
“It is now.”
“Okay, here’s the deal: Latest headcount’s thirteen—fourteen if we bag this Vargas bastard.”
“How do you know he’s there?”
CW glances over to the admiral, who shakes his head.
“Forget I asked,” Jack says. “Keep talking.”
“We’ll use the YellowJackets to locate the secondary exit tunnel that runs northwest off the central one. It’s about a quarter mile-long. Back when that conquistador stuff was going on, the Maya used it to store food. Nowadays, it opens out into the basement of what used to be a bank, but now is some kind of fly-by-night consignment shop for antiques.”
“The customers will be in for a surprise,” Jack says.
“Not for long. We’ll head out the back way, down the alley and into a minibus. Then haul ass for a rendezvous with the Ospreys.”
“Where are—never mind, forget I asked. ‘Need to know,’ right?”
“Affirmative your last.”
Tommy says, “Packing lots of flies in your creel, major?”
CW grins. “Lots of fishies down there.”
He turns to JJ and regards him for a long minute. “Admiral, thanks for getting the guys to gather round the flag back there on the ship. We couldn’t pull this off without y’all.”
JJ pats Jack on the shoulder. “It’s this gentleman here, who deserves the real thanks. No him, no battleship. No us, no this.”
He points to the water rushing past, sparkling like diamonds in the mid-morning sun.
Jack says, “What made you think of using the Rock as your base ops?”
“The ‘rock’?”
“Nickname for the USS New Hampshire. We live in ‘The Granite State’.”
CW ponders for a moment. “I remember seeing news stories about you guys. About the raffle, about the Battleship Boy’s cruise, what a crazy-ass idea.”
“That would be that gentleman’s fault over there.” Jack points to Bob Martin scrambling along the deck with his camera crew, getting B-roll. “Bob’s been a newshound his whole life. What we’re doing’s like honey to a bear.”
CW frowns. “He’s keeping all this under his hat, I assume. Otherwise...”
“No worries. He’s a tomb until you say it’s okay to roll back the stone on telling the hostage story. Then it’s going to be like the Second Coming.”
The major checks his watch. “Let’s hope that happens two hours and ten minutes from now.”
“Counting from when?” Jack says.
“From the moment we set foot in Cancún.”
Iván Zambadas keeps both hands on the steering wheel of his chrome yellow Ferrari F8 Spider. Even with its V8 Turbo 4000cc engine turned off and sitting motionless on the shoulder of Mexican Federal Highway 180, the low-slung, menacingly sleek sports car (top speed: 250 miles-an-hour) still looks like it’s going about 70.
While it’s true, he was going a hell of a lot faster than 70 when the blue flashing lights appeared in his rearview mirror a few minutes ago, instead of feeling annoyed he nods in satisfaction.
“Right on time, amigo.”
As usual, traffic shrieks past him on the superhighway, each driver racing the other past the slow-moving truck traffic. No surprise, of course. This particular arrow-stretch section leading from Cancún to Mérida is an open invitation to step on the gas.
And if you happen to be driving a Ferrari Spider, the total absence of turbo-lag means you can go from 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds—and keep going—if you’re Iván, who loves high-performance cars more than the women he’s invited to sit beside him in the tooled leather passenger seat and enjoy a little wind in their hair—make that a hurricane.
No time for women now.
He keeps both hands firmly on the wheel, clearly visible to the approaching Federale to show he’s not reaching for a gun. Because of the roar of non-stop traffic, the overweight police officer waddles his way along the gravel shoulder and arrives at the passenger side.
He leans down and peers into the narrow window. It’s the police sergeant who works for the Seguridad Publica y Proteccion de la Comunidad in Campeche, who’s moonlighting as an SIU agent working with Iván.
“Sorry I am late.”
“On the contrary, I said nine o’clock for us to meet and—” Iván taps the face of his dashboard chronometer. “You arrive to the second—bringing good news, I hope.”
The SIU agent flips open his ticket book and begins writing as he speaks without looking up. “No negotiations. That was just a bluff. The Americans are coming for the hostages.”
“Excellent! How certain
are you of this?”
“One hundred percent.”
“You were certain last time, but then Vargas had a toothache, and those idiots captured his brother instead.”
The officer pauses but doesn’t look up. “Those things happen.”
“Not on my watch they don’t—at least not anymore—look at me.”
The SIU agent does as he’s told.
“You must do everything in your power to make sure the gringos succeed.”
“I’ve already started.”
“How?”
“I made sure they got through security in Cozumel without being detained. As far as Garcia’s sharks in Cancún are concerned, they’re just a bunch of old men with their sons, off to see the sights. No one suspects.”
“Heavily armed?”
“To the teeth I am told. Fifteen in all.”
“Excellent.”
The SIU agent frowns. “Don’t forget Vargas has his own resources. If his guys find out, all bets are off.”
“How could I forget? Bastards ruined my original plan.”
“You mean our original plan.”
“Fair enough.”
“Good thing I had an even better idea and acted upon it.”
The intimate tone of the agent’s voice gets Iván’s attention big time. “And that would be?”
“I know for a fact that the Infanteria di Marina is running a mole inside Miguel’s tunnel operation. Been at it for over a year now.”
“Who?”
“They never share that kind of information. But...” He grins. “As it turns out, I happen to know her case officer. His brother and I went to the police academy together.”
“Her case officer. You’re telling me the mole is a she?”