----------------------------------------

Early the next day, the salvage crew received a wakeup call. The couch was closest to the phone, so a still-asleep Germaine was the first to fumble his way into answering.

“Make your way to the third-floor conference room by six-fifty-five A.M.” An automated voice blared out of the speaker, so loud it filled the room.

Curt and laconic, the message ended.

“We’ve got a third-floor conference room?” Germaine asked, rhetorically.

“We’ve got,” Dan yawned mid-sentence, mind still cloudy. “a third story?”

A mechanical clock in the room stood right above the couch. It had done far more to thwart their efforts to sleep than the distant sound of drills and hammers from the lakeside.

Germaine just checked his watch again.

“Six forty-nine. What is this, a military operation?”

“Everybody up.” Soto already was – work boots were placed right beside the bed for just such an occasion.

Salvage crews traveled light. The trio was out the door by six fifty-three.

A pontoon dock now jutted out into the lake. Modified technicals maneuvered the first of a small fleet into the water.

The second-floor balcony wound around the hotel’s entire perimeter. They found a lake-facing stairwell leading up to this elusive third story.

What awaited was a modest conference room. A drywall box with a modest oval table meant to fit twelve. But it was just the salvage group with a full half the room to themselves. On the far side were their employers: Miss Diaz, driver Vic, and their “lawyer” from the previous day’s drive.

Assorted foods from may have once passed as a continental breakfast sat in the no-man’s land at the desk’s midpoint.

“We’re here to discuss the details of our salvage operation,” Dan said.

“Competition wasn’t part of the deal.” Germaine motioned outside towards the militia camp. “There’s more of them than there are of us. The ideal time to start this operation would’ve been last month.”

Dan studied their dossier for the eighth time since leaving Canaveral. Germaine eyed up their employers, ever on the lookout for signs of duplicity. Soto was distracted by the activity on the lakeshore.

“Whatever prize site you insist is out there, they’re going to beat us to it.” Soto nodded to where the first of four boats had just departed for the far shore.

“It won’t be a problem,” their benefactor claimed. “This militia – this Lord’s Resistance Army?”

“That’s the People’s Lord’s Liberation Resistance Army, of Dixie,” Germaine said. “Says it on their flags. Rolls right off the tongue, man.”

Their businesswoman benefactor nodded. “They have no right to the site.”

Germaine scoffed. “They’ve got guns, don’t they? That’s about nine-tenths of property rights.”

The crew pondered the implications over complementary blueberry muffins.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

“If someone owns the site. Occupies it legally.” Soto put down his muffin.

“… then this ain’t a salvage mission,” Germaine said between bites. “It’s a heist.”

The room was quiet, Germaine’s open mouth chewing notwithstanding.

“Are we dealing with squatters?” Soto asked.

“Moral squatters,” Miss Diaz said, then glanced at their lawyer. “Legal gray area. My lawyers will sort it out.”

Soto and Dan both shuffled about in their office seats.

“What’re we stealing, and from whom?” A sly smirk had begun to develop on Germaine’s face.

“Under chairs,” Vic said.

Hair-thin manila folders sat under each fold-out chair. Within was an antiquated travel pamphlet, so faded around the edges it looked as if it would fall apart at a touch.

“Is this map current?” Dan asked.

“As up to date as possible without satellite imaging. There’s been a few renovations.” Miss Diaz said.

Soto and Dan had flipped the pamphlets over. When Germaine attempted the same, the pamphlet ripped at a hinge.

“Damn. You need the delicate hands of a surgeon to handle these things. We’re better suited for wrenches and powder charges. Anyone got a photocopy?”

Vic was on the case, and so Germaine kept what remained of the pamphlet in its folder. The copies were all black and white but legible enough.

Over a hundred acres of landlocked Florida swamp appeared on a pamphlet in cheery late-sixties-advert sepia tone. A mighty compound sat in the center. Their own hotel would be just north and east of where the map ends; the bottom-half of the long lake was visible, though it had undergone dredging to artificially expand the moat in recent years.

“Devereaux’s World of the Future,” Germaine read along. “World Renowned Theme Park, all-inclusive resort.”

“Futurist Multiplex?” Soto said with a smidge of bewilderment. “And… an industrial park?”

“Plop a casino down and it might as well be Vegas,” Germaine said.

From this third-story perch, the crew could just barely make out a distant tower or minaret. This was the northernmost complex – the pamphlet labeled it as an adventure park.

“Something tells me we aren’t here to steal a roller coaster,” Germaine said. “Run off with all the E-tickets? Scalp ‘em on the black market? If you want to strip all the copper wiring off the rides, we can do that at Six Flags.”

The lawyer pointed out the second complex to the north. “Per the contract, you will all get a majority of the payout from any intellectual property uncovered at the Futureplex not related to the operation of the park.”

“Futureplex?” Germaine asked.

“Futurist Multiplex.” Their Russian lawyer nodded.

“Ah, so it’s some kind of acronym,” Germaine said.

“That’s a portmanteau, Germaine. Now…” Soto pointed at the third complex, a single tower with five wings budding out like a flower. “With regards to more traditional salvage, we might want to check here.”

“Coming 1972” appeared at the far south of the map. It obscured the obvious outline of an airport.

“It was completed,” Ms. Diaz said. “And will likely be our insertion point.”

“This line running through the sites.” Germaine traced the line on his scanned copy. “A road?”

“High-capacity monorail,” Vic said.

Germaine nodded. “At least we won’t have to walk.”

A curved line drawn with thick markers cut off the western perimeter from the more pedestrian streets beyond.

“If you want to sneak into the park, lake seems like a good insertion point,” Dan said.

“Should’ve stolen one of those boats,” Germaine added. “Unless there’s some security out there other than gators.”

The question answered itself. One of the PLRAD’s modified attack boats disappeared into a geyser. A delayed shockwave rattled the windows.

“Jesus.” Soto had already turned around.

Two of three remaining vessels swerved off, trying to make their way back to the shore. Another geyser sundered the furthest boat in half in a burst of vinyl siding and fiberglass. The lake had grown choppy at this point, enough to capsize a third routed vessel.

One brave ship continued onward, its crew of fifteen-plus bellowing out an unintelligible war cry. It just barely contacted the far shore before it, too, disintegrated in a fit of explosive fumes, watery mist, and finished wood siding.

“Is the channel mined?” Germaine asked, mostly thinking aloud.

This question, too, would answer itself. More explosions routed the remaining militia on shore.

“Ah, mortars.” Germaine thought it over. “So, the compound is manned. It gets better.”

There was a long, low whistling sound. Before anyone in the meeting hall could react, artillery struck an empty portion of the parking lot. North-facing windows visibly cracked but did not shatter.

“Alright, everybody out.” Vic said.

The windows were thick, but they wouldn’t survive even a glancing blow. Besides, if a mortar hit the hotel, it wouldn’t matter how much aluminum plating they had on the roof.

----------------------------------------