Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

At the time, it seemed like the right thing to do. The Spooks said this mission needed good air-to-air refueling guys, and when Norton was asked for the best, he gave them Gillis and Ricco.

But had he done the right thing? Or had he just been grandstanding? Caught up a little too much in the cloak-and-dagger excitement of those first few days. How could he justify involving the two tanker pilots in a mission he knew nothing about? What witches’ brew had he gotten them into? With its reputation for screwing things up, could he really trust the CIA? Or any Spook, for that matter? Had he just been swept up in it because he wanted to be a hero? Because he wanted to do something more exciting than fly the Cobra at air shows?

He didn’t know. And that was the problem. Gillis and Ricco weren’t regular military; they were National Guard guys. Weekend warriors. They probably had wives and kids and homes, things he and Delaney did not. What if Gillis and Ricco got killed on this mission? What if by Norton’s recommendation he’d brought Gillis and Ricco into something that would end up causing their wives to be widows and their kids to be fatherless?

He took another long sip of beer. Delaney was blabbing away about the weather or something, but Norton could not hear him. His ears were ringing too much. And his shoulders were suddenly feeling very heavy.

These disturbing thoughts were eventually knocked away by a sharp jab to his rib cage, courtesy of Delaney. The pilot was indicating that Norton should look at something off to their left. Norton did, and immediately saw what Delaney had spotted.

It was a group of Marines, about twenty of them, or one quarter of the complement known to be on the island. They were crawling through a grove of palm trees about fifty feet away from the yacht. The Marines were dressed in heavy combat gear and carrying enormous weapons. They were almost invisible.

Norton had seen the Marines training several times since arriving on the island, in those first hours before his marathon sessions in the Can had commenced in earnest. Each time, the Marines were in the process of surrounding and attacking Motel Six, which was the name given to the island’s first motel-like structure. (The second motel-like structure, the one where many billets were located, had been named “Motel Hell.”) Now it appeared the Marines were preparing to attack the structure once again.

Norton and Delaney watched with bemused interest as this first group of Marines got into position. Then they became aware of a second group of Marines inching their way up towards Motel Six from the opposite side of the runway. And a third group was in the process of scaling the structure’s rear wall. Then, someone blew a whistle, a flash grenade went off, and the Marine assault was on. In seconds jarheads were swarming all over the structure, kicking in doors, going through windows, dropping down through holes in the roof. Norton and Delaney could hear shouting, heavy footsteps, the sizzle and pop of more flash grenades going off.

“Hey, man, this is better than the movies!” Delaney declared with a noisy slurp of his beer. “I just wish they would attack something else for a change. This particular act is getting boring.”

The Marines apparently did mock assaults on Motel Six as many times a day as Norton and Delaney found themselves stuck inside the Tin Can. In other words, endlessly.

“Let’s see,” Delaney said. “We can call this mystery number two hundred and seventy-three. What the hell are these guys practicing for?”

Norton just shrugged. “Again, it’s probably something we don’t want to know.”

The mock assault was over in a matter of minutes. Then the Marines started filing out again. Some of them passed right by the boat dock where Norton and Delaney sat, now drinking their third set of beers. Their blackened faces stared in at them. They looked exhausted, hot, sweaty—and most of all, thirsty.

Delaney raised his beer in a mock toast to the Marines.

“Semper fi, guys!” he called out to them. “Keep up the good work!”

The Marines growled at them, but kept moving.

“Can I tell you something, partner?” Norton said to Delaney.

“Sure…”

Norton watched the Marines disappear back into the palm groves.

“Something tells me we should be real nice to those guys,” he said.

Before Delaney could reply, they heard someone walking down the gangplank towards their boat. Delaney quickly went to hide the beer. Not that he was afraid drinking on duty was against regulations. He simply didn’t have enough to share with a third party. But this person had no interest in drinking. It was a guy named Raoul. He was one of several CIA flunkies on the island.

“I’ve been looking all over for you two,” he said, out of breath but with relief.

“Why? Where’s the fire?” Delaney asked him.

“The fire is in the Big Room,” Raoul told them in cracked English. “The time has come—that’s why Smitz wanted me to track you down.”

“Time has come for what?” Delaney asked him, now chugging his beer in full view.

“For the briefing,” Raoul said. “The big one. The one to explain whatever the hell we are all doing here.”

“The ‘mother of all briefings,’” Norton said, “It’s finally time.”

“Yeah, cool,” Delaney said draining his beer. “And we get to go drunk.”

The Big Room was another name for the main dining area inside the restaurant on Seven Ghosts Key.

It was an odd place inside an odd place. Back when the restaurant was built, prior to the Bay of Pigs invasion, someone thought it would be clever to paint folksy native murals on the walls as one more piece in the mosaic of the island’s cover story.

The result was a collection of very dated and crude paintings. A huge marlin jumping at the end of a fishing line. A crimson tropical sunset. A garish voodoo ceremony. Children playing in the surf. The murals gave the place a certain campy look, but were also weird and unsettling. One was particularly eerie. It showed three jumbo black women carrying pots on their heads on their way to market. The way the mural had been painted, they seemed to be laughing at anyone who came through the front door.

The far wall of the room contained no murals. Instead it was dominated by a huge curtain, behind which was a gigantic TV screen. Communications gear of all shapes and sizes surrounded this screen. Radio transmitters, fax machines, scramble-cable printers, a secure Internet hookup—they looked like planets orbiting a rectangular star.

Usually found next to all this high-priced stuff was the chow table. It was well-stocked by the CIA-run kitchen located in the basement of the restaurant. The line of hot dishes was always substantial here, the coffee always fresh, the Cokes always ice-cold. Spooks had to eat too, and considering the location and the circumstances, the fare on Seven Ghosts Key was very good. But there was no hot food steaming today. No bucket full of icy Coke. Not even any coffee brewing.

Instead the buffet table was closed, the coffee machine stood mute, and there were three guys who looked very much like doctors sitting on folding chairs. In front of them was a smaller table with three black bags containing huge hypodermic needles opened up for all to see. And instead of plastic coffee mugs, there was a line of paper cups, each with several pills inside. None of this looked particularly inviting.

The first thing Delaney spotted as he and Norton walked in was the hypodermic needles. He almost passed out on the spot.

“Man, this is not going to be good,” he whispered. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”

They avoided the table of needles, and took seats in the last of five rows of chairs set up facing the big screen. The air-conditioning was working full blast, and it was actually chilly inside the room. Norton felt his sweat turn to ice; he wished he’d been able to finish one more beer. Delaney simply slumped in his chair and began a long series of burps.