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I’ve been here before.
The realization dawned on Germaine as the crew, their benefactor, and said benefactor’s manservant and/or bodyguard, Vic, did preparatory recon at the park’s front gate.
A six-lane highway led into and out of the greater Futureplex. A second road appeared on the map and cut through the ‘Plex on the far side. Labeled “coming ’89,” construction never even began.
One long, decorative metal arch spanned the road. Signage beckoning visitors to enter “Devereaux’s Futureplex and World of Tomorrow Resort.” Another sign just said “Welcome!” in various languages before tapering off, incomplete. A tourist-y façade amidst a demilitarized zone. Stretching out indefinitely to the north and south was a wall of plain grey concrete twice the archway’s length.
Germaine’s family had passed under that very archway years ago. It must have been towards the end of middle school, back when the economy still allowed for disposable income. They had taken a greyhound, spending hundreds of dollars, a full twenty-four hours’ worth of layovers in various bus stops between here and Nashville. All for an extended weekend stay before doing it all again – the family’s only vacation of note. Would’ve been the late seventies.
“I remember this place.” He blurted out matter-of-factly, surprising the rest of the group.
“Do you, now?” Dan said.
“Think I’ve heard of it,” Soto said, though he continued to stare out the window, brow furrowed. “Houston had a few advertisements when I was a kid.”
Their benefactor turned around in her seat. “Show of hands, who has actually been here before?”
Germaine alone raised his hand. Even so, it was an indecisive maneuver, wavering before it even rose above shoulder-height.
“Look, I barely remember anything. Just that archway.” Germaine pointed down the road. “Fortifications are certainly new. Swear it had a different name, too.”
Also new was the blockade. The People’s Lord’s etc, etc had stacked multiple layers of sandbags along the road and staffed these roadblocks with technicals and the odd machine gun nest.
Rocket damage pockmarked the arch, toppling the signage out of “Devereaux’s” name. While there were still no physical signs of the defending party, mortar fire had destroyed older barricades, with new sandbags piled up a few meters behind the craters.
“We’re not getting in at this gate.” Dan passed the binoculars to his left.
An eighteen wheeler’s charred carcass sat at the foot of the gate. It was a makeshift battering ram, and the gate had won.
“Lake is out, swamp is out. Backroad, out. Gate, out.” Germaine counted off the routes on his fingers. “So, how’s this: we dig an elaborate tunnel network from the hotel under the lake…”
“The Devereaux Resorts Municipal Airport still receives up to three flights a week.” Miss Diaz said. “Schedules have been… inconsistent of late, but the next shipment should be departing from Miami in two days.”
Anything to get them out of cult territory. Miss Diaz’s lawyer insisted that the PLLAoD did not have sufficient anti-air capabilities to stop them.
Get on the plane, fly right over the layers of natural and planned barricades. An okay plan. Certainly not even in the top ten risky claim-staking maneuvers Germaine had done that year.
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Interstate 95 southbound was clear of any checkpoints or insular militia nutters from Port St. Lucie to Miami. Roads were paved, speed limits posted, the odd municipal law enforcement vehicle remained visible. An eerie ambiance prevailed – like a trip back in time 30 years.
Miami was the same as it always was. Stable in the macro due to massive Caribbean trade networks. A wild party down at street level.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Ten years prior it was even more of a party, due to international drug-smuggling operations. A flailing economy left little disposable income for high-end cocaine, though, so it perhaps paradoxically cleaned things up. Those same drug-smuggling routes had left this steamy subtropical port high and dry and were now trying to edge their way into Hokkaido, or Sevastopol, or wherever.
The crew each got a hotel room to themselves now. They were moving up in the world!
The salvage team had everything they needed to pull off a heist, they’d merely lacked opportunity and wherewithal until now. They had a safe cracker, demolitions for when they had to blow a lock or wall, and, of course, physical security. Sometimes you just need to put shotgun rounds down a hallway.
Germaine’s physical security skills were first up. Miami International Airport’s smaller terminal contained tiny transport planes meant to deliver supplies to cut-off interior regions as well as small Bahaman islands.
The turbo-prop cargo plane had Devereaux’s name engraved on the side in faded, loopy cursive. Hard to miss.
A crew of five loaded foodstuffs into the cargo hold while two pilots lounged around a hangar on smoke break. Germaine and Vic took the lead.
“Your plane. Hand it over,” Vic said.
The accent had an added intimidation effect to it. Kept anyone from trying to be the hero.
“You’re… not here for the drugs?” asked one of the pilots.
“We haven’t even loaded ‘em yet!” said the other. “They gotta come in from up north now. Meyers won’t shut up about her supply shortages.”
“Drugs? What? And Whom? No. We just want the plane,” Germaine said.
Regardless, the pilots surrendered quietly, hands up.
Besides, the heist crew was packing heat. The pilots were not – at least not openly so. Germaine slid a three-thousand-dollar bill to both pilots; a tip to avoid a shootout.
“Dollars are still good here, right?” Germaine’s eyes danced from pilot to pilot rapidly. “That ought to cover a round of drinks or two. Give up the plane and walk away.”
The pilots laughed.
“All yours,” said the copilot.
“Back in Sevastopol we have to bribe party heads, trade pilot’s license for colored television,” Vic said. “Americans seem more direct. I like it. Wonder why you lost the Cold War.”
Dan shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, we can discuss the intricacies of the Pax Soviet World Order on the flight. C’mon, everyone.”
Old Vic was a certified pilot (apparently). Dan got the copilot’s seat, as he had non-zero aeronautical experience and therefore could pick up slack if Vic had any questions regarding American aviation protocols.
Germaine and Soto were stuck in steerage, with the crates.
“Estimated flight time should be about an hour,” Soto said.
“I see you’ve secured our transportation.”
Miss Diaz entered the cargo hold. She plopped her rucksacks down in the nearest available free space, then sat upon these bags like a throne.
“That’s not part of the plan. Plane has got a strict weight limit,” Germaine said.
“It’s not a space shuttle.” Even Dan came to their employer’s defense on this one.
“Okay, but this is going to be a dangerous operation.” Germaine did a curt nodding motion in Diaz’s direction. “We need you safe and sound to give us the paycheck when it’s all said and done.”
“Miss Diaz has security training,” Vic said, beginning the final pre-flight safety check. “She comes too.”
“He’s my bodyguard. If I stay here, he can’t protect me.” Diaz put her hand on her hips. “And nobody’s getting their payment if I’m still here in Miami – how will I know if the job is done?”
“Point taken.” Germaine sighed.
Complaints were moot and fruitless. Within an hour of the wheels clearing the tarmac, Vic was answering a radio transmission requesting permission to land at the airport on the southernmost tip of this mysterious Futureplex.
Not a lot for Germaine to do here in steerage. He peeked into one of the storage boxes he was using for a footrest. There were just rows and rows of electronic equipment. Voice boxes. Weird computer chips. And tokens, lots and lots of tokens of variable color and size. The largest were about twice as big as a quarter with an engraved face of some old-timer. The smallest were slightly larger than a penny with strange cartoon characters on ‘em. Almost like their destination used its own little funny money.
He tried a few more boxes. Not a lot in the way of foodstuff.
“Huh. Guess they don’t need to feed many people,” he mused.
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Smoke rose from the gate house far below. A new round of rockets, battering trucks, and responding mortar fire had broken out overnight.
As they approached, an inbound radio signal blared into the pilot’s headset.
“System seems automated.”
“What?” Soto asked.
“Unmanned system,” Vic clarified. “Voice is a robot.”
They flew in a circle around the airport while waiting for clearance from this auto-whatsit. Good for recon, but all the while, a strange ping-ping sound like BB pellets on a mailbox kept reverberating through the hull.
“Somebody’s throwing rocks in the engine,” Germaine said, knowing it was impossible at this altitude.
“Small arms fire,” Vic said. “From militia.”
Germaine turned to their benefactor. “You said they didn’t have anti-air capabilities.”
“They don’t have sufficient anti-air capabilities.”
“Good. Good.” Germaine said. Hopefully the militia hadn’t been saving any surface to air missiles for just such an occasion.
“Gunfire is random,” Vic continued. “They fire into the air quite often.”
The plane looped around the complex, then began its descent. The port windows offered an excellent view of the complex – from the terminal all the way to the theme park.
Their benefactor pressed her hand to the glass. She closed her eyes, as if recalling a long-forgotten memory.
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