by John O'Brien
“And, you should say something to Lynn…sir.”
“Are we seriously back to that? Go away, I’m tired.”
Gonzalez smiles and plants a pair of earbuds in. Thumbing her iPod, she leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.
I stare back out of the window without really seeing the landscape we’re flying over. Instead, my mind is on the previous conversation. She’s probably right about where I’d be if I weren’t here. As a child, I was always seeking the next adventure, the next thrill. I know this and have had this conversation in my head numerous times. And, will again, no doubt.
I long for what I can’t have, and perhaps that’s my fascination with Lynn. I mean, I like her and all, but she’s out of reach. Relationships, close or not, with those you work with just aren’t a good idea. Plus, there’s the little fact that she’s way out of my league. Gonzalez hinted—more than hinted—that Lynn was interested as well, but I honestly haven’t seen any signs of it. Not surprising, though. I’m not very good at identifying subtle things like that. Even so, a play is out of the question.
Fuck, why am I thinking about this nonsense? I have a mission upcoming and need to focus on that. See, this is what I meant about becoming distracted.
Closing the window shade, I pull out my laptop to again study the satellite footage of the resort.
* * * * * *
Popping my ears as we descend, I focus on the upcoming mission. The transition out of a safe habitat into insecurity is quick. The normalcy of an aircraft filled with tourists is oddly disparate from the six of us heading out to defend against a terrorist attack by a cartel. Looking at the passengers, I note there are a few from other countries, but the majority of them appear to be from the US. They’re coming down even with the travel advisory in effect—I can’t fathom why anyone would be so foolish. There’s a reason those are posted, but I guess it comes back to the fact that we all live in differing levels of reality.
Once we land, we’ll essentially be on our own. Lynn will be flying circles high over the Pacific fifteen miles out, but she and the gunship won’t be of any real use to us firepower-wise. I can’t envision any scenario in which we’ll have an AC-130 spewing 25mm shells through a crowd of frightened tourists.
The descending aircraft swings out over the blue waters to the whine of hydraulics as flaps are lowered. With completion of the turn comes the heavy thunk of the gear locking into place. Lower we go until it seems like we’re about to skip across the rolling swells. The white of breaking waves form just below the wings, and then we zip over the sands of an empty beach. Trees replace the coastline just before the aircraft jostles, the wheels finding the black-streaked runway. The seatbelt tugs at my waist as the reversers kick in and the brakes are applied. We’ve arrived for a seemingly impossible assignment.
Following the usual customs wait, we gather outside and wait for the resort shuttle along with others who shared the plane ride with us. From the airport, it’s an easy trip down the main coastal thoroughfare. We pass a Walmart and Sam’s Club of all places, a hospital, and an Outback Steakhouse before coming to the resort stretch, with their tall structures rising above a forest of palm trees and players sweating it out on blue-painted tennis courts. On one side of the thoroughfare are shops that line the tourist-filled sidewalks. People enter and exit cafes and clubs, many laughing with relaxed smiles of contentment. To me, the scene holds something else entirely. Somewhere out there, hidden among the buildings, plans for a massacre are being finalized.
We pull into the lot. The resort is the last in a series lining the coastline. Further down the beach there are only a couple of sandy lots; the road narrows as it enters an area crammed with small businesses and smaller hotels. The shuttle comes to a stop at the front entrance in the shade of an overhanging veranda.
“You guys go ahead and check in. I’ll be up shortly,” I comment.
“Where are you going?” Greg asks.
“Just for a little look-see,” I answer.
“And what, I suppose you’re expecting us to carry up your bags?” Greg growls.
“That’s so kind of you to offer…thank you,” I reply, stepping onto the concrete.
“The entitlement of fucking officers,” Greg grumbles as I start back down the entryway.
“Wait…weren’t you an officer?” McCafferty inquires.
I only hear Greg’s growling response in the background.
As I walk the promenade in front of the huge resort, past blue-painted tennis courts, the heat is a sweltering cloud that surrounds me like a blanket. At the southern end of the resort, a dirt lane runs alongside the resort and extends from the avenue to the beach side. Across the track is a lot enclosed by white-painted, ten-foot, wooden poles.
I turn down the lane, small puffs of fine dust shooting out to the sides with each step. A row of three semis sit within the lot, their flat-topped beds filled with concrete foundation blocks. On the hotel side, a white-painted concrete wall rises to six feet. Atop it is a green chain-link fence with razor wire woven in and out, adding about another foot to the overall height. I sincerely doubt anyone will be making their entry along this side.
Several vehicles are parked near the beach, but the place is mostly empty with only a couple of people gracing the gravelly shoreline. At the corner where the lane and beach meet, the razor wire ends, but the wall is tall enough to still create an obstacle. The waves rolling up the steep beach nearly reach the structure, the high tide mark showing a couple of feet up the wall. I follow the barrier with the crunch of gravel grinding under my shoes, eventually arriving at a sandier beach and the open entry to the pool. With the gravelly shore I just passed, it seems pretty obvious that sand was brought in for the stretch in front of the resort, and I wonder how often they have to replace it.
On the other side of the resort is another resort, this one entirely deserted. It looks as though the plan was to renovate or demolish it—the plan abandoned either way. Within the environment stands a lonely rusted crane, the long cable dangling from the derrick swinging slowly in the breeze. The two pools are home to a couple feet of scum-covered water. Across a waterway emptying onto the beach lays another abandoned resort, perhaps part of the same complex. This one is without walls, the construction abandoned, leaving only the steel I-beams and concrete flooring. Perhaps it was part of an expansion that ran out of money…who knows.
The important part is that the complexes could provide easy access to the beach without being seen. There doesn’t appear to be an effective barrier to the pool areas in either direction. But, without other nearby occupied resorts, it also means that the beach area in front of the resort shouldn’t be overly crowded, which will make it easier to identify anything out of the ordinary approaching from the ocean side.
Honestly, given the two routes, I’d take the dirt road because the wall would keep me hidden until I was right at the pool area and also offer a faster means of escape. From the abandoned resorts, there’s more beach area to cross, but they could also give two shits about being seen. It’s possible that the cartel will opt to hit fast, hard, and leave quickly. Anything else would make them more vulnerable.
Strolling back to the resort and entering through the main pool area, I note that the palm trees and umbrella-covered seats obstruct some view from above, but not as badly as I had originally thought.
Entering the hotel, my skin tightens with goose bumps with the abrupt difference between hot day and the chill of air-conditioning. I follow the signs and find my way to the main lobby, filled with natural lighting through the glass-sheeted front. I present my ID and passport.
“Ah, Mr. Hyde, your roommate left your luggage here. Allow me to ring a bellhop and get it for you.”
I laugh and imagine Greg’s wording. “You tell that entitled shit when he checks in that he can carry his own bags up.”
“I’ll bet he was pleasant when he asked you to take them,” I state.
The clerk stares for a moment, obvious
ly wondering how best to phrase his response.
“I’ll merely say that he was emphatic,” the clerk replies, handing over my keycard as my luggage arrives.
I arrive at my room with relief as a click and green light on the door announces my key card’s success. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to backtrack to the desk because they haven’t worked. Walking in, I see Greg silhouetted by the sliding door to the balcony, with the others gathered in the adjacent joined room. Seeing the two full beds, I start laughing.
Greg turns around. “What’s so funny?”
“That,” I respond, pointing at one of the beds. “Are you even going to be able to fit in it?”
Greg looks as the bed and then back to me. “I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe if you slide in diagonally, but even that’s a stretch.”
“I said I’ll be fine,” Greg says, his expression turning to a glare.
“Does the bed know that? I think it’s already trembling, knowing that you’re going to try lying on it later. I give it until 0200 before it finally gives up and crashes to the floor.”
Turning to the open adjoining door, I shout, “Hey guys, do you want to get in on a pool to see how long Greg’s bed lasts?”
“No, they don’t” Greg grumbles.
“Has anyone called a time yet?” Gonzalez calls from the other room.
“0200.”
“I’ll take 0201,” Gonzalez replies.
“Wait, you can’t do that! You have to go in fifteen-minute increments,” I respond.
“You didn’t say that prior, so it’s not a rule,” Gonzalez answers.
“Are you guys finished or shall we just let the Alzheimer’s run its course?” Greg comments.
“I have 0202,” McCafferty calls.
“That’s not cool. I thought we were pals,” Gonzalez responds.
Greg marches across the room and I make a hasty retreat into the hall. Through the closing door, I hear Gonzalez, “What’s the buy in? Hey, where did Jack go?”
“He had to step out for a moment,” Greg replies just as the door clicks shut.
* * * * * *
From the room and the balcony overlooking the pool area, I now see that the sight lines are actually pretty hit or miss. The palm trees and chair umbrellas block more than I initially thought from pool level. However, it does give a commanding view of the campus and beach area, with the exception of the concrete wall obscuring the rocky beach to the left.
After contacting Lynn to let her know that we’re in place and what our plan is, she radios back. “Copy that, Jack. You have reservations under alternate IDs at the Now Amber resort just up the road. Your luggage has arrived at the DHL Express across the street.”
“Copy…we’ll be in touch if we find out anything.”
Walking back inside, the others are situated around the room.
“Okay, you all heard that, so it doesn’t need repeating. We’re going to check in at the other resort and pick up our items on the return. Then, we do a walk around and settle into our positions. First though, let’s discuss our escape plan should events actually transpire. After all, we can’t just start strolling through town armed after a shooting.
“So, our evacuation will be through the abandoned structures next door. Poolside positions will head north along the pathways and over the northern wall. Anyone indoors will head north in the hallways as quickly as possible and out one of the northern exits, and then follow the same path. Our gear will remain in the rooms with the exception of our weapons. If this goes down, there will be pandemonium. Use that to your advantage, but avoid law enforcement or military. They’re likely to shoot any armed individual on sight.
“Continue north through the abandoned resort to the river. Weapons go in the water, then back to the beach and north to the secondary resort. From there to the airport and out of the country. There will be witnesses to our involvement. Some will say we were in on it; others will claim otherwise. We want to be out of the country before any one story solidifies. Make sure you have your passport and IDs on you at all times.
“In case the primary escape route is compromised, we’re renting three vehicles from the Derby Car Rental just up the street. Our secondary escape route will be to drive north on 200, intercept 544 to this point here,” I brief, pointing to the map. “We then enter a network of dirt farm roads where we’ll meet Lynn and the Spooky. Everyone log the coordinates. And, if we use that route, our weapons go with us.
“We’re here legally, but I don’t need to remind you that our invitation ends the moment we break out our weapons. From there, we move like mad to extricate. Is all of that clear?”
“Hooah, sir,” Gonzalez replies.
“Yeah, I believe I already mentioned that we don’t hooah here, but I appreciate the enthusiasm.”
“Everyone needs a good hooah every now and again, sir.”
“No…no, they don’t,” I reply.
“So, I have a question,” Greg says. “Everyone else here calls you ‘sir.’ I hope you aren’t expecting me to do the same.”
“Nope, not at all. You can call me daddy instead,” I respond.
“Oh, God…that’s so wrong in so many ways,” Denton states.
“Well, that’s not happening,” Greg replies at the same time.
Okay, so my jokes don’t always work very well. I sometimes think the man in my control room sits back and allows things happen just so he can show me how relevant he truly is. I really need to add some kind of delay inhibitor between my thoughts and my mouth. Maybe have an echo of it ring in my head before speaking. Maybe then I’ll hear just how bad some of them are and keep my mouth closed. I doubt it, but it’s worth a try.
“I think the others are using ‘sir’ out of habit given our previous military ranks. I’m fine with first names, seeing we were both captains,” I tell Greg.
“All right. So, who goes where?” Henderson asks. “I’m assuming Denton and I will be in our room on overwatch.”
“Correct. Work out shifts between you. I want the main courtyard and beach visually covered 24/7. I think one in the lobby during the day will suffice, with two seated poolside and one roaming the beach. As I said before, we’ll rotate positions periodically. To start, McCafferty will be in the lobby, Gonzalez roaming. Mr. My Bed’s Going to Break and I will take the pool area,”
“My bed’s not going to fucking break,” Greg rumbles.
“Oookay…I still have 0200.”
“So, sir, why do you and Greg get the pool?” Gonzalez asks.
“Because, bikinis,” I reply. “I mean–”
“There’s more guys than girls out there,” McCafferty interrupts.
“No there isn’t. Come here and I’ll prove it,” I reply, moving to the overlooking balcony.
Down among the umbrellas, there’s one gentleman who sticks out like a flashlight in a darkened closet. And I use the term “sticks out” both figuratively and literally.
“Is that a…is that a dick thong?” McCafferty asks and starts laughing.
From what I can tell, he is very interested in something he sees.
“Jesus, dude! There’s children around,” Denton comments.
“Well, I guess we can rule him out as carrying a weapon…or another one, at least,” Gonzalez states.
“Yeah, I don’t think he has enough room to carry a tune,” I say.
“Oh, I have one of those,” Greg says, smiling.
I don’t know if that comment is in jest or not, and I don’t think I want to find out either.
“Well, there goes lunch…for like the next four weeks,” Denton says, gagging.
I look at Greg, measuring him up and down. “If that’s true, I bet you have to pry out a car’s airbag.”
“Oh no,” Greg responds. “You know those inflatable twelve-man rafts? Yeah, that.”
“I bet that’s not the only inflatable you use,” I chide.
“Ewww,” Gonzalez says.
“Well, if
you two still want to take the pool, enjoy the scenery,” McCafferty states.
Chapter Three
After checking in at the secondary hotel, we each leave a bag with additional clothing and gear in case we use our primary extraction. We then rent the three vehicles for our backup extraction and pick up our “luggage” at the DHL. Back in our original rooms, we place our short-barreled modified M-4s with folding stocks in carry bags. In addition, I print out a tide schedule for the area. The southern beach and wall entry won’t be accessible during high tide, so that will minimize the points we need to monitor during those times. With bags in hand, we set out for our starting positions.
The heat is penetrating out by the pool; my face and shoulders feel like they’re being fried under the intense rays. I can almost hear it sizzle like bacon in a hot skillet. Greg and I find positions on opposite sides of the pool, making sure to be under one of the umbrellas to cut down on the glare. The pool carries an underlying murmur, the occasional splash of someone diving in, soft conversations drifting, waves faintly breaking on the beach, and the creaking of lounge chairs as vacationers move, either refilling drinks or cooling off in the water. The smell of chlorine wafts in the near motionless air, mixing with the delicious smells emanating from the surrounding restaurants.
It seems as if the courtyard is in a constant, albeit slow, state of motion, always changing as if it were itself alive. People roam around the pool, some entering its depths, others either leaving or arriving. A few people venture out of the pool area to enjoy the beach but soon return to take a break from the fierce sun. The tall structures of the resort block off the sounds from the street—the horns, the idling or revving engines, the shuffle of steps on pavement, the bells tinkling in businesses with each opening and closing of their doors—all part of another world.
To the side of my reclining chair sits my zippered bag, the contents not meant to aid relaxation but holding the instruments necessary to contain a murderous rampage. The insert by my ear is a constant update from Henderson regarding staff moving among the vacationers. When they appear with rolling carts, either Greg or I move from our positions to follow discreetly, ready to order everyone into action.