Revealing Revelations (10 page)

Bazz answered, “Miami.”

“South Beach, here I come,” I said to myself. I gathered some clothes together in my green duffle bag and headed to O’hare Airport, catching an eleven o’clock flight to Miami International Airport. 

Four hours later I arrive in Miami traveling from the airport to the Ritz Carrollton in South Beach. I figured if I was here I might as well live in the moment, however long the moment was. I had been here once before years ago, but not much has changed over the years. In fact, the city is more congested than ever. You’d never know we were at war with a nation that’s been itching for revenge since the cold war the way people are smiling and laughing, not thinking every second they’re celebrating, enjoying and appreciating lives there are heroes that pass for those simple benefits. It was hard remembering that I, too, was a civilian now. Accepting the carefree mentality was one thing I could get and I’m kind of glad I didn’t.

I pull into the valet of the broad white building. I remove the keys from the ignition and hand them to a short male with slicked hair. It was hard to tell his ethnicity, but judging by his complexion – and the fact that this is Miami – he was most likely Cuban. I proceed to the double sliding doors that open as I approach them and enter a broad wood polished room. It was like everything in the lobby was made out of some designer dark oak wood. The walls, the floors, the counters, everything. I smell something unremarkably pleasant as I walk towards the receptionist. I approach the counter pulling out my license and credit card just to get it out the way before the receptionist asked me.

“Hello, welcome to the Ritz Carrelton,” an almost childish voice says to me.

I look up and see one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was of Asian descent with a darker complexion suggesting she may be mixed with African roots. I was stunned by her green eyes that possibly could be contact lenses, but I didn’t care. Good looking was good looking in my eyes. She had a smile too.

She looks me in my eyes and asks, “Sir, how long is your stay?”

I stared at her almost analyzing her remarkable beauty. I almost find myself at a loss for words. I try to regain myself in the midst of the situation. “Uhh! I plan on being here for five days. And let me get something on the first floor by the beach,” I said to the patient young lady.

“Okayyy,” she says extending the last vowel as she swiftly taps keys on the computer. “That comes to three thousand two hundred eighty two dollars and sixty seven cents.” Hearing the total expense come from her glossed delicate lips almost romanced the fact that this place was expensive, but I was already aware. Besides, I kind of wanted to look like a big spender in her eyes. I hand her my license and MasterCard. She accepts it but her eyes shift all focus on the front door, which drew my attention as well. We see a tall man in a black silk dress shirt and black silk pants, and from where I stand, expensive crocodile shoes, getting off of a well-kept black horse. A herd of valet workers rush to welcome him and escort his horse away. The man had a certain look about him. His demeanor said he was on top of the world. But the look in his eyes said owed him something, like the people took what was his and he was coming for revenge. He wore a matching watch, bracelet and necklace that all looked like white gold or platinum with diamonds embedded in them. This was truly out of the norm to see people just sulk in their blissful lives. “Uhh, I’m guessing you guys accommodate every means of travel, huh?” I ask the beautiful receptionist.

“It seems valet has made arrangements,” she answered.

“Arrangements you say?” I ask her, smiling at the thought. “Seems as though they’ll have to do some rearranging and stall construction in the parking garage to accommodate that stallion,” I said.

She smiles in return.

“Actually, they bloody have. And that’s a Clydesdale, not a stallion,” a deep voice says in a slow pace British accent to my right. It was him, the horse rider. He must have crept up on us while we were discussing his means of transportation. He towered over me like a tree. He was English, depicting from his choice of words. He had a strange aura about him. It was like his build was young body builder material, but his face shows so much age. “Good portion and planning has been put into me coming here for quite some time I assure you,” he said with a certain look in his eye, an almost sinister look.

The receptionist hands my credit card back, eyes still locked on him. “And how long will you be staying, Mister….?”

“Commerce. Mr. Commerce. And my stay is well…indefinite, I guess you could say,” Mr. Commerce said. Well that did it, he made sure every aspect about him says he had money, and if you didn’t get the message, he made it clearer by having a name that means money. Commerce.

“Okay, Mr. Commerce, and we will need a credit card on file for your stay, sir,” she said to him with hand extended to him in expectations.

He holds her hand and looks into her eyes almost as though he’d seen her soul and says, “I don’t think that will be at all necessary.”

She retracts her hand and gives him a key card.

He smiles at me and walks off.

“Must be that pimp game,” I say under my breath as I walk off to my room and get situated.

After I place my bags down, I look through my windows at the beach that’s a mere few steps away. I walked a few blocks from the illustrious hotel on the beach to Joe’s Diner, where I was told we would meet up at. I step inside and feel the old fashion theme amplifying the meaning behind the word ‘diner’. The white square tiles on the floor. The metal stools at the counter with the red cushion top. With walls half white at the bottom, and black all the way to the ceiling. And I see they couldn’t leave out the traditions of the jukebox. “Johnny Be Good” echoes inside the wide building and the smell of fresh bacon catches my attention. I look for my old comrades which knowing them means they got a booth somewhere near the back. It was just easier to keep prying ears out of our conversations. Sure enough, I see them in the back corner. I see Bazz holding a white mug in his hand and talking to who I believe to be from the back of his head Shane.

“It’s been a long time,” I said. The two look at me unaware I crept up on them.

“Too long,” said Bazz. Bazz stands up with an extended palm. I welcome his greeting by shaking his hand. He looks the same even after all these years same. Shane looks at me hesitating briefly before he stands to his feet. After he stands he looks emotionless in the face as we shake hands. “How you been, Shane?”

“I can’t complain, can’t complain at all. Listen, I wish I took the opportunity to apologize all those years ago. It was just--” Then just as soon as I said the word “apologize” his arms were quickly wrapped around my back before I realized.

“Tommy Boy!” he yelled out. It was obvious he was more than happy to see me. It was clear he felt the same way I felt about sweeping our past under the rug. I’m having trouble breathing now that this bear had me in his clutches.

“Alright, alright. I missed you too, Shane,” I tell him. At this point I can hear the bones in my back pop. He grins and puts me down. I take a deep breath appreciating the fact of both lungs still being intact. I sit next to Bazz and Shane sits across from us. “So how’s the unit been?” I asked Shane.

“Tch! I got out a little after you did, Thomas,” he said.

“Oh yeah, your E.T.S was only a few months behind mine.

He sips from his own white mug and shakes his head. “Yeah, you got out in what, October and I got out in December the following year. Work at an offshore oil refinery now,” Shane said.

I laugh at the irony. “Ha ha. Just can’t stay away from the stuff, huh?” I asked him not really looking for a reply.

“Yeah,” he says with a grin, leaning back into his booth seat. “Reckon I can’t. We all got paid a ‘lil of nuthin to go to Iraq for the hidden agenda of oil, now I get paid the big bucks to drill it up,” he says, trying to make some comical sense of it.

“There goes that part-time Texan accent. Sometimes you want to talk like regular, others it’s like I’m listening to Yosimmity Sam,” Bazz pointed out.

   “Ha ha ha!” I burst into laughter. Shane looks sour in the face like he was a deer looking into a set of headlights.

“Looney Toons, huh?” a familiar voice says at my left.

I turn and see the freckled adult face of Sergeant Birden standing beside me at the edge of the table with a big smile almost animated. He always reminded me of that redhead freckled face kid they used as the old Mad TV mascot. “Bird Man!?” I said, surprised to see him. “Wait, why are you here, Sergeant Birden? Not that I’m not happy to see my squad leader, but I thought it was kinda a closed party.” 

“Scoot over a little will ya, Thomas?” he asks while he slides next to me in the booth.

“He’s not your squad leader any more, Thomas. You’re a civilian now,” Bazz said.

“Yeah, man. You can quit with the sergeant stuff, Jefferey will be just fine.”

“First of all, I’m not a civilian, I’m a combat vet, remember?” I ask them, reiterating that fact in their memory banks.

“True,” Shane said with a raised left eyebrow. “Sergeant Birden has joined the Tower of Commands right before you left Ft. Hood. And has been with us since. But now that we’re here and we had our welcome-back-Thomas session, can we get to it?” Bazz asked us. We all look at one another then back to him. “Right, I know some of you are wondering why I asked you here to Miami. The reason being is there are reports of activity ranging from here to San Juan to Bermuda.”

“The Bermuda Triangle?” Jeffery exclaimed loudly with an amazed face.

I quickly glance around the diner to make sure no ears picked up on the conversation after his outburst. No one paid us any mind.  

“Yes,” Bazz answered.

“So what exactly is our concern with that?” I ask.

“Intel…has it there is a facility in the parameters of the Triangle performing some heavy movement,” Bazz says, picking up his coffee mug once more for another sip. Suspense had us all eager to hear what he said next, but this time his sip of coffee seemed almost endless.

Half hysterical, Shane asked in a quick burst, “Movements of what?”

Bazz puts down the mug and looks at each of us directly in our eyes one at a time. “Everything.” He leans forward with a serious face and low stern tone. “There’s been tankers, construction equipment being flown in security patrols. All this heavy movement in the Bermuda and none of this reaches the media.”

Jeffery scratches his head. “That’s definitely abnormal activity in an abnormal location. I mean, people actually have gone missing there and the only half legitimate reason they give us is oceanic flatulence.”

“Oceanic flatulence, what’s that?” I ask Jeffery.

Some bullshit theory about the earth creating gas hydrates in the ocean floor that in turn disturbs that area of the Atlantic ocean,” he answered. “But, from what you’re saying, Bazz, this is a massive operation.”

“I know they have to be digging up something from deep sea level, there is too much construction equipment being brought in,” Bazz says to us in a focused voice.

As I look in his eyes, I can see his mind is elsewhere. I lean forward and ask him, “But what is it?” I can almost tell me asking him that question brought his mind back to the diner.

He looks at me with those reading glasses and says, “I dunno. Intel sources haven’t gotten that to me yet.”

“Wait a minute, Bazz, who’s this intel source you keep speaking about and what base are they from, Opa-Locka or Causeway Island?” Shane asks Bazz.

At that instance Bazz looks stunned, almost like a deer in headlights. Looking at Shane raising his eyebrows and biting his bottom lip patiently waiting for an answer, Bazz says, “Neither.” He exhales and removes his gold framed glasses folding them and puts them on the table. “They’re not from any base,” Bazz continued on.

“So what then, they got discharged like me?” I asked him.

“No, no. They’re just regular civilians,” he answered.

I look at Shane and Jeffery who both look confused as to where he reached out and got his information.

“Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom,” he says, scooting his way over, making Shane stand to his feet to let Bazz out of the booth. He walks towards the back where the restrooms were located. His abrupt evasion of questions leaves us all jaw dropped in affect.

I slouched down in my seat and look around the diner as everyone seems to crowd around multiple televisions set up in the restaurant. Curious as to what drew their attention, I look at the overhead television at the booth next to us. It was some brunette TV news reporter reporting live with breaking news.