by Paul Lally
So… who’s getting the money then, if not the brothers and sisters in Christ who took the vows?
Somebody is, that’s for damn sure. Carnival Cruise, Norwegian Lines and the rest the big cruise players shell out all sorts of cash to pay for all sorts of “shore adventures” for their guests—guides included. Nobody works for nothing—and what’s even worse, that nun is not licensed.
No fucking way.
“Excuse, me, sister?” Pedro says in a syrupy voice that could sweeten a gallon of iced tea. “May I see your license, please?”
The young woman looks at Pedro in surprise and then smiles. So innocent, so not guilty of anything but pledging her body and soul to a non-existent god.
He holds up his hard-won tour guide ID and dangles it like a pearl beyond price. “You need one of these to do what you're doing.”
She blinks twice, rapidly.
It happens so fast that if Pedro were not experienced in people lying to him, he would have missed it. But he's been in many situations like this in the past; been lied to by the rich and the poor, the movie star and the deadbeat, but never a nun—at least until now.
He proceeds to read her the riot act, from memory:
“City Ordinance 44-8: Groups of ten or more people may not visit a nationally designated historic or religious site accompanied by an unlicensed guide. Violation will result in a fine not exceeding 1200 pesos.”
The nun glances away, her smile still serene, but her eyes most definitely telling a different story.
While all this is going on in rapid fire Spanish, her group of what Pablo guesses to be nearly forty men stand around, patiently waiting. Mostly in their early sixties, dressed in matching Hawaiian shirts and bright blue baseball caps, they gawk and gape and point at things in the church interior, clearly waiting for the exchange to be over so they can see what's to be seen, take the requisite photos, and post them on Facebook, back on board the cruise ship tonight.
One of the men detaches from the group and joins them.
“Disculpe, mi español no es tan bueno ...but it seems there's a problem here.”
Before Pablo starts to reply in English, the other man, clearly an American, mid-forties, extends his hand.
“Jack Riley, by the way. And you are?”
Introductions over, Pablo explains his dilemma while the American keeps smiling and nodding. The guide finishes with what he feels is a dramatic statement that defends the upstanding reputation of licensed guides, and the absolute necessity of paying for goods and services rendered—especially those who know the heart and soul of Cancún like no other.
“I see your point,” Jack says. “And I wonder if this might ameliorate the situation.”
“Ameliorate? No intende la parabla.”
“It means to make things right—but only for the moment, mind you—until Sister Angela, here, can speak to her Mother Superior about that City Ordnance you were talking about. She had no idea that was the case, right sister?”
Sergeant Iglesias shrugs and smiles innocently.
Jack pulls out a fat roll of 1000 Peso notes. Pablo tries not to look at how many bills the American is peeling off, but as he approaches 20,000 pesos he can't help himself.
“Señor Riley...”
“Call me Jack. Everybody else does, right, Pop?”
The older man grins. “Right as rain, son.”
Jack stuffs the banknotes into the guide’s microphone bag. “Share it with the other guides, okay?”
“But of course,” Pablo says aloud, but thinks, “Not in a million years will share a single peso. This will put food on my family's table for a solid month—maybe two if I can keep the older ones from eating everything in sight the minute they spot the grocery bags.”
He turns to go. Sister Angela touches his forearm, her fingers stroke his skin like brushing velvet, “God bless you, Señor Romero. I will never forget your kindness and understanding.”
“It's the least I can do for the church, sister,” Pablo says, but thinks to himself as he walks away to rejoin his waiting tour group, “And I will never forget screwing the Franciscans out of their cut of the action.”
When the Delta Team hand-off finally happens, it’s surprisingly efficient.
One minute, twenty-eight men stand in the catedral's famous Rose Garden, while a diminutive Franciscan nun pretends to describe the heirloom flowers, some of which are direct descendants of breeds known to have existed in Cortez's time.
The next moment—poof—half of the men disappear, thanks to the Battleship Boys' screening maneuver that allows CW and his men to enter the weather-beaten garden shed, whose secret entrance, Xi the cleaning lady/DEA informant discovered.
But isn't that always the case?
All the time you spend planning, scheming, discussing, debating—no matter the occasion—when it comes time to pull the trigger—like going into that garden shed—the moment flies past so fast you barely register it until it's over.
Not for CW, though.
Just before the carefully choreographed “dance” his team used to enter the “back door” to Vargas’s catacomb-like drug-manufacturing facility beneath the cathedral grounds, CW took time to establish direct eye contact with three men without whose help none of this would be possible: Jack for bankrolling the cruise with his seemingly unlimited funds, Tommy for helping old timers re-discover moral backbones lost in the fatty layers of retirement boredom, and Admiral Lewis stiffening those backbones even more with the challenge that comes from being on a secret mission to save innocent lives.
Despite the covert nature of the mission, CW taps his forefinger to his blue baseball cap in salute to the (now) active-duty vice admiral, who returns it with a fractional nod.
“Oo-rah, major,” JJ says softly.
“Aye, aye, sir. Be advised, SOCOM still thinks this a harebrained scheme.”
“Been on crazier ones than yours.”
“You mean ours, don’t you? This is a team effort.”
“Yes, but we’ve done our part. Now it's time for an ice-cold beer for me, and good luck and Godspeed to you and your men—almost forgot, extraction aircraft’s lined up?”
“Due on the ground before we arrive. Supposedly due, I should say.”
JJ shakes his head. “When we did extraction ops, the flyboys always cut it too close.”
“Nothing changes, I guess.”
“What about your bus?”
“I thought you were off to grab a beer, sir.”
“Once a SEAL always a SEAL, I guess.”
“Copy your last. And yes, our getaway bus is in place. A backup one, too.”
“Just in case.”
“Exactly. The three most important words in the English language.”
The two men regard each other for a long moment. No way to even hazard a guess what's passes between these two special ops warriors, one in the prime of his career, the other looking back, but with eyes still sharp, reflexes still swift, and his sense of duty, honor, and country if anything, stronger than before.
Books have been written, interviews conducted, movies made about people like them. But unless you've walked their walk, faced their perils, and done their deeds, the best you can ever do is simply be grateful that when your head hits the pillow tonight, safe and secure, fall asleep knowing that certain men and women are willing to do whatever it takes for you to do the exact same thing tomorrow night—up to and including sacrificing their lives.
“Bring those men back, CW,” JJ says.
“Count on it, Mainiac—may I call you that?”
“You just did.”
With Williston and his team off and running, the Battleship Boys’ role in the mission is complete. The old timers clamber back onto the tour bus. Quiet and subdued when they first take their seats, conversations soon rise to a loud pitch, aided in part by the vivid memory of the Delta Team disappearing down the steps to rescue the hostages.
And they were standing right there, damn it. Not only
witnessing every bit of it but playing a vital part in the “father-and-son” deception, wild-ass Hawaiian shirts and all.
Then suddenly the Delta guys underwent a transformation...
With the Battleship Boys acting as a screen, guns appearing out of the thermos coolers the guys have been dutifully lugging around. Night-vision goggles secured over the “Farewell Cruise” baseball caps, body armor straps tightened, ammo clips secured, comm equipment checked out—it’s like being trapped inside an action/adventure movie where the leader—who sort of looks like Bruce Willis, shaved head and all—leads a group of take-no-prisoners special forces guys on a hostage rescue mission.
Only in this case, the Delta Force guys aren't swooping in and evacuating innocent women and children from the evil clutches of some ragtag al Qaeda outfit. This time it's our guys, and their Mexican counterparts trapped in the vice grip of drug cartel goons using real bullets and real machetes. Not stunt-doubles and pyro guys making you want to eat more popcorn and hope you don’t have to use the theater’s restroom again before the good part ends.
It’s. The. Real. Deal.
While the Battleship Boys decompress on the bus, chatting about all the above, Bob Martin and his camera crew roam the aisle, interviewing them about their impressions of what it was like to have Special Forces Ospreys land on the Rock in the middle of the night and turn a pleasure cruise into a bone-fide rescue mission. Even though every frame of his video footage is embargoed until cleared by SOCOM, Martin's nose for a story is twitching so hard it's about to fall off.
“This is going to be big, Admiral Lewis, very, VERY big,” he said earlier, just before heading north to Cancún on the high-speed ferry.
“And very, very, top secret, Mr. Martin, let me remind you.”
“Until I hear otherwise, absolutely so, sir. From Robbie’s camera to God's ear—for now. But when I get the green light and uplink this to our media outlets, forget about a twenty-four-hour news cycle, this story’s going to play for a solid week. Guaranteed.”
JJ absorbs Martin's enthusiasm with a measure of calm. Don’t forget, he's a three-star admiral. Over his thirty-six-year career he's heard a lion's share of “interesting” proposals and “We-gotta'-DO-this” pitches.
But Martin’s right on this one.
If they can rescue those poor guys, everybody wins: the DEA, Mexico's scrappy Infanteria Marina, the United States Navy, SOCOM, and especially Tommy Riley, whose undying love for the Rock was—and still is—strong enough, despite his illness, to keep the venerable battleship sailing ever onward.
While it’s true, when all this is over, she could still end up sailing into the sunset of shipbreakers’ blowtorches and melted down into steel ingots. If that sad day does arrive, you can bet that with Jack Riley’s handy checkbook and his passion to do the right thing no matter what, the world will not soon forget her noble life and mournful passing.
Lots for JJ to think about and the absolute last thing any of these guys imagined would be part of the Rock’s farewell cruise. But here they are, and there he is, making his way down the aisle, chatting with the guys and thanking them for helping launch what everyone prays is a successful mission.
Only time will tell.
In the meantime, ice cold beer waits for them at Señor Frog’s.
Outside the departing tour bus, Jack’s waving down a taxi for him and his dad’s journey. It doesn’t take long. Colorfully decorated taxicabs cruise the downtown streets of Cancún like happy dolphins, leaping and darting through the crowds of tourists in hopes of catching a “meal” that will be worth the gasoline it takes to do so.
A “dolphin” darts out of the traffic and swoops to the curb. What once upon a time might have been a Subaru Forester, now resembles a four-wheeled circus clown car, complete with different colored fenders, and ball fringe everywhere. Through its open sunroof a hand waves gaily, adorned with bright-red polished nails and jangling, bejeweled bracelets.
Jack and his dad climb into an equally decorated back seat, with every color of the rainbow and every horizontal surface plastered with ornately framed religious portraits of different saints and martyrs, each sporting a fancy halo. The driver, a substantial, broad-beamed woman, smiles as she twists around to face them. Her musical voice has the swoop and sweep of a coloratura opera singer:
“This is your lucky day, caballeros. I was just about to stop for my siesta—madre di Dios, what a hot day it is for this time of year—and where in America are you from? Tell me, I want to know.”
“New England,” Jack says.
“Near Boston,” Tommy adds.
“Boss-TON” the driver says. “Lots of snow there, si?”
“Comes with the territory.”
She pounds the steering wheel. “As does the sun in Cancún—where is it my honor to drive you wherever you want today. Or maybe it is that you’d like to see a little of our beautiful city? I am not a licensed guide, allow me to say right away, but I, Carmelita Honoria Torres, was born in this city, raised in this city, went to school here, fell in love here, got married, had many babies, and I promise you there is not a single foot of a single street that I haven’t walked on, rode my bicycle, drove my car and now drive this beautiful taxi—your first time here, si?”
“Once long ago,” Tommy says. “Back in the mid-seventies.”
“Much has changed since then, señor.”
“You’re telling me.”
Jack leans forward, “My father spent his honeymoon here.”
“Beautiful!” She slaps the steering wheel and laughs. “Cancún! The perfect place for love.”
“It was for my wife and I, that’s for sure.”
“How many years married?”
“Almost fifty.”
“Fantastic. What is her name?”
“Eileen... she, uh, passed away about year ago.”
The woman’s face shifts from beaming happiness to sympathy. She drapes a well-fleshed arm over the back of the seat and her bracelets jangle like church bells. “My husband Mateo... he dies two years ago...heart attack...like that.” She snaps her fingers. “I lose his love.”
“I’m so sorry,” Tommy says.
“Gracias.”
“But at least he leaves me his taxi to earn my daily bread for the family, thanks be to God.”
Jack leans forward and says, “Do you know where Puerta Azul is? Just south of the town, they’ve got an ocean overlook.”
“Si, si...but of course. Very popular place.”
“Dad and mom would go there every night after dinner and look at the sea.”
“I am on my way.”
She slams the car in gear, then slams it back into neutral and turns around. “No charge, señores. This is gift from me and...” she lifts her eyes to heaven. “From my dear husband Mateo, and your wonderful wife, Eye-LEEN.”
She SLAMS the car in gear again, guns the engine and darts back into the constant stream of traffic not even bothering to look. She just.... goes.
To Jack’s astonishment, it works.
To Major Williston’s equal astonishment—the video signals from three of his four YellowJacket micro-drones crap out less than thirty seconds into exploring the different tunnel branches.
“Status?” he whispers into his headset to “Flyboy,” the USAF Special Warfare team member responsible for the drones.
“When I know, you’ll know....sir.”
It’s not a matter of being able to see where CW’s team’s going. That’s the easy part. Their low-viz head rigs reveal in bright-green clarity the maize of tunnels the Maya carved out centuries ago by hand.
Which tunnel to choose is the problem.
Twenty-five yards into the journey down the Catedral’s Rose Garden “backdoor” tunnel they arrived at a junction where one tunnel became three, each heading off in a different direction. That’s when the YellowJackets started losing signals and pooping out.
If that isn’t bad enough, the RFID-6 beacon implanted in Capitano
Gomez inexplicably faded into oblivion too. Any number of reasons why it did so. Point is, up until now, CW had a solid idea where Vargas and his cartel goons were holding the hostages. While it’s true, the odds are in his team’s favor that the DEA guys and the Mexican Marines won’t be going anywhere soon, it grates on the Marine Corps major’s sense of order that there is no order—at least temporarily.
“Got it back!” Flyboy hisses.
Sure enough, three separate views of three individual tunnels, each pretty much looking like the other, fill the display screen as Flyboy switches the video feed from drone to drone.
“Must have been the re-boot when I switched over from RFID to TPS. Fussy little bugs don’t like it when you change their minds in flight.”
“Good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Up until now, the internal “memory” of the RFID’s last-known location had been guiding the drones’ winged search down the tunnels. But from now on, a complex algorithmic system of “assumed coordinates” accomplishes the same thing.
Not as pinpoint accurate as the real-time data delivered via military-grade GPS or RFID systems like Gomez’s, TPS (Theater Positioning System) accuracy is 90%. As far as CW’s concerned, that’s close enough to kick some major ass.
For sixty long seconds the two men huddle nearly head-to-head, analyzing the video feeds as the drones fly deeper and deeper into the tunnels.
Same thing,
...same thing,
...same thing: tunnel wall surfaces, water-puddled floors....
“Shit, another junction.” Flyboy says.
He brings the three mini-drones to a hummingbird-like hover to assess the situation.
“Which one is this?” CW taps the screen.
“Drone one.”
CW leans closer and examines the video feeds. After a few seconds he whispers, “Send it in about fifteen feet further and boost brightness.”