by Scott Cook
Clay frowned but I nodded appreciatively, “You mean that these… attacks… weren’t attacks at all. What do you think they were, then?”
Miles shrugged, “I don’t know.”
“Meant to frighten you,” Umberto suggested. He then frowned, “No… if these men, whoever they are, know either of you, then they must know you don’t frighten easily.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said, nudging Clay.
“Oh yeah, I cried like a bitch,” Clay said and thumped me on the shoulder.
“In fact, Clay and I were just discussing this very thing before you gents arrived,” I stated, looking from one man to another. “I also feel that these two incidents weren’t what they looked like. Maybe meant to test our resolve, resourcefulness or maybe skills?”
“If it was one or more of the Cartels,” Umberto put in. “Then this could be the case.”
“Meaning they’re behind the raids on Green City,” I finished his thought, “and already know about both Clay’s and my connection to Miles.”
“Or at least mine,” Clay stated, “maybe not you. As you’ve said, you’re just collateral… for now.”
“An interesting idea, Umberto,” I acknowledged.
“Gracias, senor,” He replied with a smile.
“If he’s right,” Miles observed, “then the Cartels could be behind the trouble we’ve been having. It’s not that farfetched, really. Green City isn’t far from here and much closer to the Nicaraguan border. As you gents may or may not know, Costa Rica is an important interdiction zone in the war on drugs. We stand between a major pipeline from South America and break that line between Panama and Nicaragua.”
“A lot of trafficking still goes on here,” Clay added, “Drugs, weapons and even white slavery.”
“But what would they want with your Green City?” I asked.
Miles scowled, “That’s what I want you boys to find out. Or at least you, Scott. I’d rather not get Clay too involved, for obvious reasons.”
“So let me see if I have this right,” I gathered my thoughts. “This Green City project is some kind of big deal for EcoLife. Probably an experiment that’ll set the stage for your company’s work for the next decade or so, right?”
Miles nodded and treated me to an appreciative smile.
“Your ex-wife is vying for control,” I went on, rubbing my temples, “and Green City could be the fulcrum for the lever she wants to use to take over?”
“A fine piece of deduction, Holmes,” Clay said.
“Indubitably, Watson,” I Sherlocked. “The puzzle before us has three components. First, we must determine who the villains are, their grand scheme and finally… how they shall perpetrate their misdeeds.”
Umberto was eyeing me with a questioning look of consternation on his broad face. Clay noticed and laughed.
“He’s a silly man, Umberto,” Clay explained, “Likes to do voices and accents and make up crazy jokes.”
“Esta loco?” Umberto asked with a gleam in his eye.
“Oh, no question on it,” Clay said.
“So do you think you can help?” Miles asked after a chuckle.
“I don’t know,” I said. “So far I know very little. Maybe we should go check out La Cuidad de Tierra Verde.”
“We were actually going to suggest that,” Miles stated.
“What about Andrea?” I asked. “What’s she up to right now?”
Miles snorted, “There’s the rub, Holmes… she’s disappeared. I have reason to believe she’s in country, though…”
“Or in Nicaragua?” Clay asked.
Miles heaved a sigh, “Yeah… helping the other side. All I know for sure is that she’s smart, dangerous and ruthless.”
“Okay then,” I said, getting to my feet, “let’s take a ride and you can brief us.”
Chapter 7
We all piled into Miles’ Land Rover and began the winding trek further into the mountains to where Green City was being constructed. Miles said it was about an hour’s ride because we had to circle around to the eastern side of Lake Arenal.
The house where the Delaneys were staying was a bit more than an hour outside the northern Pacific port of San Luis. The lake ran more or less north to south. The only main road was essentially a giant “J” that encircled the lake and wound its way up north and down along its eastern shore. Clay said it was a bit like a fishing hook, with the eye of the hook being the Arenal volcano and the barb being a little south of his house and the small village close to them.
“As you already know, Clay,” Miles was lecturing as Umberto drove, “and you may not yet, Scott… This part of the country has just about the perfect climate as well as environmental conditions. Up here in the mountains, at this elevation, the temperature swings between sixty-five and seventy-five degrees all year round. There’s plenty of rainfall and the mountain valleys are fertile.”
“It seems windy now that we’re a bit higher,” I noted.
“Yes,” Miles replied, pointing out the window, “Blows a steady thirty knots or so twenty-four seven.”
As far as I could see, the low hills and higher crags of the mountains through which we drove were dotted heavily with tall spindly wind generators. It made sense, considering the strength and steadiness of the prevailing winds.
“Must be kind of annoying to live around here, though,” I observed. “Howling winds all day and night.”
“People up here find ways around it,” Miles explained. “Walled compounds like Clay’s, and they build in small valleys and canyons that block the winds, or block them enough to turn the strong winds into pleasant breezes. But think of it… a steady flow of wind power, big hydro-electric from the dammed lake, plenty of geo-thermal power not far beneath us, thanks to the volcanic sub-structure and solar of course. Energy in much of the country is cheap and practically free up here.”
“Good place to build a self-sustaining community,” Clay offered.
“Funny thing about this lake,” Miles was saying, “is that there’s very little boating. It’s becoming more popular thanks to us U.S. transplants and visitors, as you boys have seen today, but a lot of sailboarding. Believe it or not, Lake Arenal is the wind surfing and kite boarding capital of the world.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “With all that wind and the size of the lake.”
“Tell us about the raids,” Clay inquired as we headed north and a little higher up into the mountains.
Miles blew out his breath and looked over at his security chief.
“Two raids so far in the past month,” Umberto explained. “The city is only partially completed. We have a lot of construction equipment and materials laying around. A great deal of supplies, too. Food, medical and some limited weaponry.”
“So whoever it is,” I extrapolated, “is using your site as a supply depot. Coming down from the north for quick snatch and grabs?”
“That’s what we think,” Miles said. “Umberto has recently doubled his security force. So far, there hasn’t been a single raid in the past week.”
“What’d they get?” Clay asked. “Before, I mean.”
Miles shrugged, “Food, medical stuff… that’s about it. The first raid was in the middle of the night about a month back. They were in and out before we knew they were even there.”
“Small party,” Umberto broke in. “We think no more than four men. However, the last one, nine days ago, was more… how you say… more organized.”
There was anger in the man’s voice. Clay and I exchanged a glance. I think both of us knew where this was going.
“They came in four pickup trucks,” Umberto explained. “They flanked the area and came in with automatic weapons. Three teams of four and a fourth who snuck in during the fighting and carried off as much as they could… pinche cobardes deshonrosos… they killed two of my men before we drove them off.”
We fell silent for a time. I could tell this was hard for the man to talk about. He probably blamed himself. I could understand
that, and felt a surge of admiration for the Costa Rican.
After a moment, I asked: “Did you get a look at their vehicles? Their clothing?”
Umberto sighed, “Si. The trucks were Verde… green.”
“Olive drab,” Miles clarified.
“And the men wore black pants and shirts,” Umberto continued, “with baseball caps. Also black.”
Clay and I exchanged a look before he leaned forward, “Any markings? Identifying information as to who they—“
“El ejército popular de liberación,” Umberto almost spat.
“How much do you want to bet that the two guys we encountered this morning were part of that group,” I said to Clay.
He scoffed, “No bet here. Maybe that’s good, though. It means we know who our enemy is.”
I frowned but said nothing. I couldn’t help but wonder at that. It seemed all too convenient. Although we had no idea where this people’s army was, that was easy enough to discover. This early on, with no real understanding of the situation, it seemed a little too easy to my perhaps overly-suspicious mind.
La Cuidad de Tierra Verde or just Cuidad Verde – Green City - was located in a small box canyon not far from the eastern side of Lake Arenal, maybe halfway to the volcano. Although there was no direct access to the lake itself, there was a shallow creek that was fed by a small mountain stream that flowed down into the canyon. There were quite a few large earth moving and excavating machines that looked to be widening and deepening the creek and digging down toward the lake.
The canyon itself was maybe half a mile long and half that in width, with walls that angled up at a semi-steep angle fifty feet or more into the hills. The road we drove in on was currently crushed shell, but Miles said that it would be paved very soon.
Above us, along the ridge lines of the roughly rectangular canyon were dozens of wind generators interlinked with broad solar panels. A small dam-like structure was being built near the rear wall of the canyon in order to both utilize the stream’s flow for hydro-electric power and to capture and distribute the water into a treatment facility and to facilitate the broadening and deepening of the creek.
A large structure sat along the rear wall and was surrounded by several other nondescript structures. There were other more recognizable buildings closer to the mouth of the canyon. These looked to be possible retail, business and governmental buildings… or would be eventually. There were also nearly a dozen side lanes that were regularly spaced and platted. That would probably be the main residential area at some point.
We pulled off the gravel road into a fairly open space dominated by two pre-fab buildings and a series of small trailers.
“This is where our construction and engineering teams live for now,” Miles explained. “Those two larger buildings are storage and admin.”
“Looks pretty impressive,” Clay said, “although kind of Spartan… I expected to see farms or something.”
“Oh, we’ve got em’,” Miles enthused. “Up on the eastern ridge we’ll have a dozen big greenhouses. They’ll be a combination of soil, hydroponics and aquaponics. There’s also good pasture land beyond that for cattle, pigs and chickens. Can’t raise them in a greenhouse, sadly! We’ll also probably establish something down here near the enlarged stream. Problem is that there are a lot of fish farms around the other side of the lake…”
“And they’re somewhat dirty,” I added, “as I understand it. Lot of poop byproduct.”
Clay chuckled and Miles grinned back at us, “True. Our idea is to recycle the… byproduct of our fish farms into fertilizer and reuse it in the closed systems so as not to pollute our water supply or the lake below.”
“Sounds like some serious shit,” Clay deadpanned.
I just stared. Umberto either didn’t hear or pretended not to. Miles gazed studiously out of the front windshield and carefully schooled his expression. Although I clearly detected an amused snort.
“What do ya’ mean?” I asked Clay.
He flipped us all off and then we laughed.
“I’d like to see those greenhouses,” I said.
“We’ve only got three up now,” Miles reported. “One that uses the rich soil for some citrus trees and things. The hydroponics house is already producing a lot of veggies and root veggies. The third is an aquaponics lab which is working on shrimp, a few crustaceans and filter feeders as well as snapper, speckled trout and other fishes.”
“Damn…” I muttered, “saltwater species?”
“How big are these houses?” Clay asked.
Miles chuckled, “Yes, salt water for now and fresh later. We manufacture the seawater and keep it filtered. It’s actually quite easy… or easier than you’d think, anyway. Each house is about twenty-thousand square feet at the base. Two hundred by one hundred feet. And about thirty feet high. Composite framework and Lexan glass. And the glass uses embedded solar fibers for extra juice.”
I whistled, “Wow. I’m no expert, but those sound like big greenhouses. And the same solar as Victoria Chandler wants to use in her houses, right?”
Miles nodded, “Would you guys like to take the nickel tour?”
We agreed to take the nickel tour. Clay said that he only had Costa Rican money, though. I laughed, but only to be polite. I’m far, far more amusing.
We walked around to the side of the prefab admin building and found what looked like a golf cart parking lot. Upon closer inspection, though, Clay and I saw that these were in fact some kind of electric dune buggy contraptions about the size of a golf cart but with a few more features.
“Four passengers,” Miles explained as Umberto got behind the wheel and Clay and I once again took the back seat. “Large off-road tires that can be variably inflated from in here. Ion lithium batteries and integrated solar on the roof panel. She’ll do fifteen miles per hour. Not fast, but it’ll run for about eight hours. Low center of gravity and we can even lock in four wheel drive. Pretty good torque when she’s in all wheel, too.”
“Cool,” Clay noted. “Can I get one?”
Umberto pulled out and we headed for the rear of the canyon. As we did, we could see some road construction going on. There were two roads being laid into the steep incline of the canyon walls and a bridge being built over the creek. There were maybe forty or fifty people milling about, some in hard hats and some in white coats.
“Where’s the security?” I asked. “Things seem pretty… casual around here.”
“They are,” Miles said. “We want it that way. You’ll notice, though, that everyone here doing any kind of non-degreed work is Costa Rican.”
“You can’t take jobs from Ticos,” Umberto said with a grin.
Miles nodded, “Country law. Ticos are what the working people here call themselves. You can open a business here but you can’t work in it if you’re not a citizen. There are a few exceptions, though. Those generally come in the more specialized fields. You’ll see folks here from the States working, but they’re generally scientists and engineers.”
“As for security, senor,” Umberto continued, “they’re around. I have twelve men here. Many of them are also on the construction teams. In this way, I can spread them out through the operation. They’re all armed with pistolos… and I also have six men who patrol with assault rifles.”
“This was added after the last raid,” Miles said tersely.
“Where did it happen?” I asked.
“They came right in the front door,” Miles said coldly. “The way we did. But the actual thieves came down from above the canyon, from the direction of the greenhouses. That’s where we’re going now.”
I was surprised when Umberto slowed, pulled a small gear shift and then accelerated again right for the rear of the canyon. Seemingly without effort, the little vehicle tilted thirty degrees upward and began crawling up the embankment. The big knobby tires were ballooning slightly, their treads gripping the earth and grasses easily.
We crested the rise and came to a sort of flattish plain
between two mountains. Another peak rose majestically ahead of us, yet what dominated the scene were the three huge alien-looking frames of the greenhouses.
“Wow…” Clay breathed, “They’re bigger than I’d imagined.”
I was equally impressed. They looked like semi-clear airplane hangars. Big airplane hangars.
“They seem vulnerable up here all alone,” I remarked.
Umberto and Miles laughed as we pulled up to the nearest warehouse sized structure. Clay and I looked at each other as Umberto drew his pistol from a hip holster, aimed it at the nearest Lexan panel along one side and squeezed off three shots.
“Our men use Israeli weapons,” Miles explained as we walked up to the spot where Umberto’s rounds had impacted.
“The Jericho 941 9mm for hand guns,” Umberto explained, “And the Tavor Micro as the carbine. Standard NATO five-fifty-six round in thirty round magazines.”
Clay and I were astonished to see that the 9mm rounds hadn’t even scratched the plastic pane of the greenhouse. We both whistled appreciatively.
“Bullet proof,” Miles explained, “one-inch thick Lexan that can withstand a seven point six two round. Not forever, naturally, but pretty tough.”
“All the panes are like that?” I asked.
“No,” Miles replied as he led us toward the main entrance, “only the first three tiers. They go up about a dozen feet. Then we use thinner material for the upper layers. Still strong, but not as tough as the lower panels.”
“They wouldn’t have to be,” Clay stated. “Even if you fired shots at them from the ground, the angle of deflection would do the work for you.”
“Exactly, senor Clay,” Umberto said with a grin.
“Each house is fitted out with a security key lock and biometric scanner,” Miles explained as he placed the index finger of his left hand into a recess next to a small keypad. He punched in a six digit code and the ten foot by ten foot entrance door slid smoothly aside, emitting a breath of much warmer and more humid air than the sixty-five degrees we’d gotten used to. The humid air from inside also carried a light but distinct essence of the sea.