Chapter 2 Tahoe
TWO
Tahoe
They made me come here. It was under the pretense that only my particular expertise could serve this command.
In reality, my bosses sent me here because I slipped up.
Overworked and dog tired, my mistake got a brother shot.
As if living with that knowledge isn’t enough, I’m now forced to associate with the small-town folks of Bronze Bay that look at me like I’m the statue of David. Or a pariah, I can’t really be sure.
Relax, they told me—focus on making sure everything runs smoothly.
Work out, keep my aim sharp, and keep my ears open and my eyes wide.
Terrorists lurk everywhere, and I know this firsthand.
It’s why I’m a heap of muscle and a mess.
It’s why all of my brothers in arms are busy hunting people down.
It’s why I’m burned out, why I haven’t had a true life outside of work in years. A decade?
My new motto is three words. Keep it simple.
It should be easy in a place like this. No one moves very fast, and it almost seems life exists separate from the rest of the world here.
The people are friendly, the beaches are nice, and the women are rabid for fresh meat.
I went to the solitary bar in town last weekend and could have taken home at least five different women.
I didn’t, though. It wasn’t that kind of night.
I’m still getting the lay of the land, trying to figure out where I fit into the scheme of things, absorbing the details most gloss over.
This weekend I’ll go back for other, more selfish reasons.
After glancing over a report about an incident back home in San Diego, I head into the conference room for the daily meeting.
It’s a rundown on who is doing what and who is allowed where, a never-ending list of small tasks that need to be accomplished.
With a base on this side of the Gulf of Mexico and another on the East Coast of Florida, we’ve been moving boats all over the place so we can be as fast-acting as possible.
Pensacola took a huge hit in the attacks, and those in charge felt it was safer to have a new base for us to operate out of rather than try to move in on the destruction.
Knock on wood, it’s been slow days at the office since we got here.
“I want to secure an airport,” Leif says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the long table.
“For jumping?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “Or?”
“Yeah, for jumping, and it would be nice to have something closer if we need to get somewhere quicker. The main airfield is quite a distance away. We always planned on building an airport here.”
I pick at my thumbnail. “We aren’t on the first call list. We’re not going anywhere fast, bro.
I can see having something for jumping, though.
That would be fun.” I nod, thinking about skydiving.
There’s little else that thrills in the same way.
Wind hitting my body, the black of night encasing me, my very existence teetering in my hands, only to be saved by the pull of a string.
“The May Airport? Down on the other side of town?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the nail.
“That’s the only one,” Leif says, sliding a printout across the table. “Our budget was upped again, so buying it outright won’t be a problem. This will be much easier than building one.”
“Hasn’t that been in their family for generations? What makes you think they’ll sell?”
Leif opens his oversized arms to the sides.
“Look around. If the price is right, these people will do anything.” He fails to realize the people of Bronze Bay love their lives and wouldn’t change a thing.
I haven’t been here long, but something like pride in your family establishment is an easy understanding.
I nod, shrugging my shoulders. “Sure. Okay. I’ll feel him out.
I can head over after this, I brought the truck today.
” Honestly, most days it’s easier to bike in to work, but I bought an old jalopy of a truck when I first arrived.
I’d sold all of my possessions before I moved across the country.
What I didn’t have time to sell, I gave away to my friends.
“Anything else? I read the reports about the incident in San Diego,” I say, changing the subject.
Leif shakes his head and tells me a few other tidbits of information he’s gleaned, and we start wrapping up the meeting.
“Call me and let me know what you find out about the airport,” Leif calls at my back.
I throw up a hand and nod. “Diving tomorrow?” I toss back on second thought.
“Yes. Then the range. Check out the weapons you’ll want before you get in.”
A day full of my favorite things. Bonus points for not doing them while my life is on the line.
My truck doesn’t start when I turn the key.
Hopping out of the tattered cab, I pop the hood and mess around with the spark plugs I know are on their last leg.
Sure enough, a little twisting and the truck rumbles to life.
It will be a fun weekend project—something to keep my hands and mind busy.
The mundane. Something I’ve only had in insignificant doses over the last decade.
There’s no need for GPS or navigation in Bronze Bay.
There’s the waterside and inland. Now that we’re here, we’ve taken up a huge chunk of the waterside, securing government water for our boats and our diving.
The beaches are fenced off on either side of our compound.
I’m driving inland now, toward May Airport.
There’s tall grass growing on the sides of the roads, and the houses are few and far between.
I turn down an unpaved road that’s half seashells and half dusty rock pieces.
The only indication this is where I need to be is the large rectangular sign proclaiming this as May Airport.
The font is square and large in a bright shade of red.
It reminds me of something you’d see in an antique shop.
The landing strip comes into view, as does a cluster of airplane hangars, one larger than the others.
I pull into a spot that looks as if other vehicles have parked before and hop out into a cloud of salty dust. I traded my uniform for my standard black tee and jeans before I left work.
Not that it makes me any less conspicuous.
The word “outsider” might as well be tattooed on my forehead.
The residents know I’m not the standard-fare newcomer. I’m an intruder.
A loud engine roars from somewhere in the general vicinity breaking up the silence.
“Can I help you?” a man calls over the noise.
I turn toward the voice and see an older man wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt. I put up one hand in a wave. “Hi sir, I was hoping to speak to the owner,” I say, approaching slowly.
The man perches both hands on his hips. “Depends on which one you’re looking for and why, but I suppose I fit that description,” he says, grinning while extending his hand in my direction.
I don’t miss the way his eyes scan my body from my head to my toe.
“What can I help you with? We don’t get visitors very often. ”
What he means is he doesn’t get visitors like me.
Shaking his hand, I ask if there’s somewhere we can talk with a little less noise.
He tells me it’s an airport and I should expect some degree of noise at all times.
I laugh, grin widely, and pretend not to be annoyed.
It probably doesn’t work well. I’ve been told my smile resembles the Joker, Heath Ledger style.
“Let’s head to the office.” Mr. May inclines his head to the large hangar beside him.
I follow warily, taking note of everything around me.
Running an airport has to be tiresome, but I imagine the only people using it are the extremely wealthy or the hobbyists.
The light metal exterior of the hangar belies the contents.
After I walk through the door, I’m met with air conditioning.
That’s the first surprise. The second is that it’s actually really nice inside.
There’s an office to the right and a spiral staircase to the left of the office.
A door straight in the back ostensibly leads to the portion of the hangar where actual aircraft are stored.
“Right through here, Mr.…” May pauses, waiting for me to offer my name.
“Tyler. Tyler Holiday. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, clearing my throat and walking into the office.
May leaves the door open and walks to the other side of the room, where a small mini fridge buzzes in the corner. “Can I offer you something to drink, Tyler Holiday?”
I don’t want anything, but rejecting hospitality is bad form.
“Sure. Please,” I say, nodding to the bottle of iced tea in his left hand. A can of Bud Light is in his right hand. After he hands me the tea, he cracks the beer and downs half. “I’m here on behalf of the Bronze Bay Naval Compound,” I hedge.
He nods. “Of course you are, son.” He lowers his chin while staring at me. “The question is, what are you doing at my airport?”
He knows. He must have anticipated something like this.
“We were hoping to inquire about the procurement of your fine facilities,” I say, setting the bottle down on a table next to me.
I don’t take my eyes off his face, eager to glean any tells he may give.
Nothing. “We are prepared to pay you handsomely.”