The Maya 1.22

Previously On The Maya...

George Kirkegaard and Jim Layton continue their discussion about the effects of island food on humans. Women are changed more than men, perhaps due to a difference in diets. Layton's wife, Marie, has changed inside and on the outside. While she's 33, her internal clock may have well turned back her biology to when she was 27. Layton isn't reaping the same benefits, but his aging has been slowed nevertheless.

Eugenio Stavros comes to say good night to Amara Barclay, who has been reclining in a hammock near the ocean. He clearly doesn't want to leave her, but the negotiations for his corporation's steel contract begins the next morning. Amara gives him a kiss and then watches him go, a tortured soul in conflict.

When he's gone, she slips out of the hammock and runs down to the dock where she hops into a speed boat to take care of some late night, clandestine task.

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The Maya—a living legend covert operative-for-hire that no one she encounters can remember.

George Kirkegaard—a former newspaper owner forced out of business by state government.

Eugenio Stavros—a shipping magnate on a trip to the mysterious Isle of Use to renegotiate a steel contract.

Amara Barclay—a savvy, independent multi-millionaire entrepreneur and socialite with unparalleled beauty.

Mr. Tic and Mr. Snake—two U.S. government officials running off-the-books dark ops involving The Maya.

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And now...the next installment of The Maya.

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The abandoned dance studio made a perfect base of operations for the two men. First, it offered a higher level of privacy and safety, given who or what normally lurked around at night in the alleyways, and it gave them a place to store equipment, maps, charts and other conveniences. The idea was to set up shop after their operation actually began, and with The Maya clearly on the island, it was time to move forward on their end.

Both had requested vacation time from their federal government jobs so they could monitor proceedings from their base. A couple of computers and cots, a mini-refrigerator and some food were all that was needed to get going. The studio was boarded up so no one could see in, and the locks and chains on the wrought iron gate outside would keep most undesirables out.

They hadn't spoken to each much since their self-imposed sequestration. When they did, they didn't use their names. Secretly, though, unbeknownst to the other, they had each given their counterpart a nickname. The second man referred to the first as Mr. Snake, because of his temperament and because he trusted him as about as much. Mr. Snake, in turn, inwardly thought of the second man as Mr. Tic because of his nervous eye twitch. He didn't trust the man, either, but for totally different reasons.

Mr. Tic had taken the first watch of the night, letting Mr. Snake get some sleep in a room in the back. As quiet as it was, Mr. Tic could still hear Mr. Snake's light snoring, and was grateful they'd be taking turns.

Not a whole lot was expected tonight, but The Maya, after establishing their own base, was supposed to go out reconnoitering. Sutton, the target, lived somewhere on the Isle of Use. According to the CIA interviews, he had a mansion near the largest lake on the island, in the Eastern mountains. Getting to the compound would be difficult enough, let alone getting in. There was only one road that went up there, and it happened to loop the entire island. The west side of the lake was accessible to the public, but the common use road ended there. The private drive was walled, gated, and guarded.

The beauty of their plan, or rather, the layers of plans, was that The Maya didn't necessarily have to make contact with Sutton. A lot of it had to do with subterfuge, but helpful things like DNA samples, thumbprints, and his recorded voice aided various scenarios, whereas the absence of those items limited the mission's scope. How The Maya got so close was up to them. There was so little to go on, it was impossible to come up with particulars anywhere other than on the ground.

In addition to checking on access, schedules, and other possibilities, The Maya was supposed to survey the island. They were equipped with four devices which, once placed and activated, would digitally map out everything between them via lasers and sonic technology. The images could be stored, or sent via satellite uplink. The two government men were interested in having a tangible layout to go by. One, so when the plan worked, they would have a better idea where best to send an invasion force. Two, if it didn't, they would still know best where to send the invasion force.

Mr. Snake had not told him that part of the plan, but Mr. Tic knew that's what his partner wanted. He'd certainly hinted at it enough. A mission to undermine Sutton didn't require mapping devices. Nor a homing beacon for that matter. Mr. Snake said it was to ensure that The Maya was doing their job, that they were actually on the Isle of Use and not somewhere else. He had said that so The Maya would think they were concerned about the billion pounds they were spending. However, Mr. Tic knew The Maya's trustworthiness and dependability was never in question.

He heard a tired shuffling behind him and turned to see Mr. Snake yawning, scratching and walking to him.

"Anything?" Mr. Snake asked.

"No." Mr. Tic shook his head and went back to the machine The Maya's telemetry would come in on. The device would draw out the schematics sent to it in the form of a colored 3D map. "You look terrible."

"I know. I can't sleep."

"How's this going to work if we're both awake?"

"Where's the coffee?"

"In the cupboard, but I fail to see..."

"Maybe I should take this watch and you can take the next."

"Fine." Mr. Tic threw up his hands and stepped away from the telemetry machine. He was only five steps across the room when the drawing arm on the device began to move.

"That's quick," Mr. Snake said. He turned, forgetting about his coffee. The thrum and swishing of the machine brought Mr. Tic back, too.

A few minutes later, the arm stopped. The two men stared down at the rendering, then at each other.

"Looks like a coastline," Mr. Snake said.

"Yes, and according to scale, it's over seventy-eight miles of it."

"How far inland does this represent?"

"Right around thirty-one."

"So, the beach wraps around one end for a total of one hundred forty miles."

"Yes."

"That's not all of the island, though."

"I don't think so. The far end seems to cut off in the middle of things. This must represent a big chunk of the residential areas, though, all of the commercial districts, and the entire waterfront."

"Impressive."

"We'll need to do some calculating to determine how many people live here," Mr. Tic said, gesturing at their map.
"There may be more inhabitants than we thought."

"So, those buildings along the northwest end look like hotels," Mr. Snake said, "Looks like some marinas along some of this coastline, up the river, and into this lake."

"And there's the airport," Mr. Tic said, "Near the hotels on the northern side, but not far from the downtown district to facilitate the main visitors, businessmen."

"How far out did you say the coordinates were?"

"Roughly twenty-two hundred miles, south-southwest of Guadalajara."

"And it's not along any known flight paths."

"No. Remember, we checked."

"Right. Something to do with the winds out there."

"Gulf streams," Mr. Tic corrected, rolling his eyes. Mr. Snake was more tired than he knew. "There's a confluence, going in opposite directions, right in the normal range of cruising altitudes."

"And we can't pick it up on any satellites because..."

"We don't know that for certain yet," Mr. Tic said. "It could be the currents somehow deflect sunlight. It could be there's some kind of reflective matter on the island itself, either natural or manmade, but a blind spot is created. It's as if it's just not there."

"Brilliant," Mr. Snake said. Yawning, he rubbed his head and turned to go.

"I take it, you're going back to bed?"

Mr. Snake mumbled something incoherent and then disappeared behind the wall. Mr. Tic sighed as he shook his head.

How he ever agreed to this, he didn't know. Despite Mr. Snake's bravado and bullying, Mr. Tic knew they were over their heads. If not for the trillion dollar leviathan that was the federal government behind them, this whole operation would have been unimaginable. Still, he had personally covered the paper and electronic trails, leaving nothing to chance. If something did go wrong, or The Maya came after them, it wouldn't be because of him.

Little solace, he decided, if he lived out the rest of his days behind bars of a federal prison, or went to sleep, never to wake up, because The Maya slit his throat.

Shuddering, he tried to expel either thought by returning to the book he was reading.

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'The Maya' publishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

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_{Copyright © Glen Anthony Albrethsen, 2014-2018. All rights reserved.}