There was a short briefing by the commander, then a quick trip to Admin for my travel packet. Less than four hours later, I was headed for Miami and a highly unpleasant evening. The following morning, I was once again at Miami Airport, getting stuffed into a L-1011 along with several hundred chattering tourists bound for the British West Indies.
I caught a glimpse of my destination just before the plane landed--a tiny sliver of an island that I would have sworn would sink under the aircraft's weight, surrounded by the standard-issue baby-blue tropical waters and white coral beaches. After the usual mad scramble for baggage, I was met in the custom's shed by two of my people. They were trying their best to look like tourists, but not succeeding very well.
A brief handshake. "Sergeant? Glad to have you here. The truck's out back."
Five minutes later, we were bouncing along the island's main drag in a curious open-topped jeep-like contraption. Along the way, I had the island's points of interest, mostly bars, pointed out to me. Another fifteen minutes and we were at the other end of the island, and at our hotel. After I received the key to my room, I turned to the dark, heavyset member of our trio. "Walker, where's Mac?"
Walker looked uncomfortable. "Um, dunno. He wasn't around when we went to pick you up, so we left without him."
I looked at Ortega, the question in my eyes. He shrugged. "Beats me. We hardly ever see him around."
"I see. Well. Where's Ops?"
Operations turned out to be squirreled into a tiny suite in the hotel's remotest wing. I walked through the entrance, and into an overturned anthill.
Ops was crammed with people, all talking at the same time. Various maps, charts, graphs, memos and what-have-you festooned the once-clean walls, and stacked commo gear chattered away maniacally in the corner.
I blinked, rocked back on my heels by the sheer noise. Then, before I could get my bearings, something resembling a mangy grizzly bear in a striped shirt suddenly bulldozed its way through the crowd and headed straight for me.
"Mike! Dammit, man, are you a sight for sore eyes!" The apparition grabbed my hand in a grip like a hydraulic press and pumped it. It was Austin, my senior Airframe and Powerplant mech, smelling of kerosene, old beer, and older sweat. "You got the stuff?"
I blinked again. "Well, um, it depends on what 'stuff' we're talking about. You mean the mail? It's in that big bag over. . . ."
I trailed off at the look of alarm that spread over his worn face. "No! No! The T5 harness! Did you bring it?" My blank look told him all he needed. "Dammit! I told Mac we needed that thing pronto! That Number-Three engine rig isn't gonna hold up much longer. . . . Didn't he call you before you left?"
"No," I answered slowly. "When did you tell Mac that you needed another T5?"
Austin ran dirty fingernails across his scraggly scalp. "Jeez. It must've been three, no, four days, now. You sure you don't have it?"
"No, Austin, but we'll get it, even if Mac has to swim for it. Now, have you seen Mac?" Austin scowled and shook his head disgustedly. I turned to some of the others. "Bennet! Anderson! Kemp! Any of you seen Mac?"
The three I'd named looked at me, then at each other for an awkward moment.
Finally Kemp spoke up. "I think he's down on the beach, somewhere."
"Down on the beach."
"Yeah. Collecting seashells. He does it every day."
"Collecting seashells," I repeated slowly, a cold anger beginning to form. "I see." I turned to my mech. "Austin. Since my representative isn't here to brief me, I'm afraid that you're going to have to help me get situated."
Austin shrugged. "Sure. Come down to the bar, and I'll buy you a drink."
Damn, but I was gonna need that drink. Anything that could possibly be screwed up. . . . Austin gave me the whole sad story. Fuel problems. Storage. Security. Parts. And the man I'd stationed here to handle such things, out hunting seashells.
I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Now I knew why the CO wanted me here. "Okay, Austin. Our first priority is getting the parts you need. You have any contacts at the airport?"
He thought for a moment. "Well, I've gotten pretty chummy with the folks in Customs. Think they can point someone out to us?"
"I hope so." I looked down into my drink, then finished it off. "Well. Soon as we get the morning flight up, Austin, you and I are going to go down to the terminal and get sociable."