Hydra Protocols (eBook)

1.

It would first appear as a tiny dot on the southwest horizon where the Pacific meets the sky. Friday had come, and enlisted men as well as low-level officers gathered outside a row of Quonset huts at the edge of a crushed coral tarmac along side a single north-south runway to meet the d rab olive-green Army Air Corps DC-3. It was an anticipated event that offered a diversion from the crushing boredom of being stuck on a tiny atoll in the middle of the Pacific. On board were basic base supplies, booze, and porno. The real value of this and other supply flights, however—known only to the base commander and his carefully recruited pilots—was a closely guarded stash of unmarked crates that appeared on no manifest, sitting in the aircraft’s rear compartment under a tarp; a subtle hint of moving shadows and whispers to daemons with agendas.

Vanuatu was a rear-supply base made up of rusty Quonset huts scattered about a dozen tiny coral atolls in the middle of the Pacific, the largest of which hosted the runway. About six hundred miles northeast of Fiji, coconut palm groves dotted each islet in an otherwise unbroken panorama of ocean. The archipelago of atolls formed a ring around a deep aqua blue lagoon that was a volcano eons ago. After erupting in that ancient time, it collapsed, and the resulting chasm was quickly filled by the Pacific, leaving only the coral islet necklace as evidence it once existed. It was hot, incredibly humid, and remarkably lacking in sea breezes. The still, soaking air hung on one’s shoulders like a lead overcoat. Gravity, it seemed, worked better here than anywhere else. Vanuatu had been taken after the Japanese abandoned it, and as such, was relatively peaceful, with the only combat occurring in and around the enlisted men’s club after the Friday supply visits.

In a couple minutes, the tiny dot on the horizon was roaring over the islet from south to north executing a characteristic tree-top pass to announce its arrival. On the tarmac and under the limited shade palms could provide, two heavily armed officers awaited the crates while the usual crowd of enlisted men and lower officers anxiously anticipated what Captain Julian Sheehan and his co-pilot Michael Cametti were bringing. The blast from the tree-top flyby was a welcome instant of breeze so strangely absent on this bizarre little sweatbox of an island.

Julian made a wide sweeping turn out over the ocean back to the south, then another graceful U-turn to line up with the runway. In a few seconds, the craft slammed down, throwing up swirls of coral dust. In a moment, it wheeled onto the coral tarmac, headed straight for the men who always gathered right where he needed to park. Julian held his turn about until the last second, sending the weaker at heart running for cover. At that moment, he would slam on the right brake to swing the craft around, blasting them with a brief hurricane of pulverized coral that snatched hats and even tore loose sweat-soaked shirts. Within seconds, the engines were shut down. Julian was first out of the plane, weaving through the gathering, headed to the base commander’s hut. At six feet and 190 pounds, he made a lean, trim figure slinking between officers and men crowded around the aircraft’s rear door. It was hot. His light brown-blond hair appeared slick and dirty plastered against his now sweaty head. Normally cool at altitude, it didn’t take long on the ground in Vanuatu to become dripping wet. His blue eyes stung as he tried to wipe away the sweat from his brisk jaunt to see the base commander. Wiping a dripping forehead and soaked eyebrows with a sweaty forearm didn’t seem to work so well. His kakis, like everyone else’s here, were by now stuck to his skin.

Michael Cametti flew as Julian’s co-pilot and had been making supply runs with him since 1942. There were four pilots on a special team that flew in and out of Vanuatu. Known as the Blue Crew because they flew more hours over open water in DC-3s than most, Julian, Mike Cametti, Ron Beal, and Phil Maitland traversed a circuit that took them from Brisbane, Australia, to Nouméa, New Caledonia, about nine hundred miles over open ocean, and from there to Vanuatu, another four hundred miles northeast, finally terminating in Fiji, another six hundred miles across the Pacific. From there, they would reverse and do it in the opposite order. It was an ideal route to move shipments from Southeast Asia to discrete and isolated points, where they would seemingly vanish into the ether.

While Julian met with the base commander, Michael would oversee supply unloading and manage the sale of booze and porno. He was well suited for the job of keeping sales moving orderly with several dozen very thirsty and bored men. At six feet two, he had made an excellent college half-back. With black hair slicked straight back and a New York accent moderated only slightly by a college education, Julian always assumed he was in some way connected—the mob perhaps; sort of an educated, toned-down wise guy. In any event, Michael did seem to know people.

The base commander’s two armed guards stood near the crates until the crowd dispersed. The crates would then be taken to a secure Quonset on the other side of the atoll, perhaps a hundred yards away. There was no paperwork to be done—they didn’t appear on any record; they didn’t exist at all.

Huddled in the middle of a clump of palms, the base commander’s Quonset appeared tired, rusty, and hot in the limited shade. Julian walked up the creaky, rotting steps, opened the screen door carefully so the top hinge wouldn’t break, and stepped inside. The quarters were neat, clean, and spartan. Looking in from the front door, there was a long combination living room and study. The center of the space featured basic furniture: a simple, worn couch, an easy chair, a coffee table with a desk lamp, and a small bookcase near the far left corner of the room. Immediately to the right was an interior door to a small bedroom featuring a single pipe-frame bed, nightstand, reading lamp, and a rattan dresser. Against the far right wall was another window, and to the right of that an armoire with a machine gun leaning against its side.

Standing in the middle of the living room was Colonel Miles Roman. At six feet four with a shinny bald head covered by beads of sweat, Colonel Roman’s coal-black eyes penetrated with an icy stare from atop an imposing frame that reminded Julian of a hybrid football linebacker/mob hit man. With a gravely voice that sounded as if it came from a tomb, Miles would order Julian to join him on the back porch of the Quonset for a scotch. He didn’t do this for his other pilots. The invite was less than socially proper however; the colonel would point to Julian, at a bottle on the desk, then the back porch. Out the back screen door, the tiny porch barely had room for a small, rusty round metal table and two tired rattan chairs. From here, one could look out through the stand of palms at the DC-3, the small coral tarmac, runway, the secure hut where armed guards were locking up the crates, and the ubiquitous blue ocean beyond. Julian repeatedly wiped the sweat off his forehead and face, but to no avail. The colonel spoke first about the most important item of the day.

“Crates in order?”

“Yep. I personally inspected each—all in tact.”

“Good. Mike is making sure my two men get them unloaded and secured?”

“He’s on it. Big load this time.”

“That’s right. Big payday too.”

Colonel Roman handed Julian a fat envelope.

“Aren’t you going to count it?”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Colonel. Besides, if you made a mistake and gave me too much, I’d rather discover that someplace else.”

Roman did value honesty, and gave a mild chuckle. He set two glasses down, holding them together with his thumb and index fingers on the inside. He then poured a very healthy bolt into each glass and set the bottle down. Julian envied it, in that it didn’t sweat.

“How come you never have any ice? Forget it. I ran into a strange guy in Nouméa on the tarmac, or rather, he ran into me. Made me real nervous. Really don’t like strange guys, especially like this one coming up to me in the middle of loading. How the hell did he get through your guys out front?”

Colonel Roman let go a subtle smirk, as might an attorney asking a question he well knew the answer to.

“What did he look like?”

“Well, skinny. Wore a dark gray suit and hat. Ears stuck out; he looked goofy. Had wire-rim glasses, a narrow face, brown eyes, and thin lips with a pencil mustache. Real out of place in that heat and humidity. I didn’t like it. He gave me an envelope and told me to give it to you. Better not be a warrant or I’m outta here now.”

“Relax. He’s a colleague. Works for me in insurance.”

Julian handed the envelop to the colonel. He examined it carefully, especially the back, then opened it, took out a sheet of paper, and handed it back to Julian.

“It’s blank. Just blank paper? What’s with that?”

“Last guy tried to open the envelope.”

Julian felt an urgent need to change the subject.

“So tell me, Miles, why are you out here, on this crappy atoll in the middle of nowhere, when your action is in Nouméa? Doesn’t that make things more difficult?”

Miles stood up slowly and stepped to the railing as a group of native children ran naked past the Quonset.

“They really know how to make tight little butts out here.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He...