Wake: Episode One… I Like Your Son, So I’m Not Gonna’ Kill Him

The Water. The only time he felt at peace was when he was watching the light glint off of the surface of the ocean, each flash appearing and disappearing seemingly at its own discretion. As a young boy growing up in the poor district of Registro, Sao Paulo, Marcelo Ronaldo often wished he was light on the surface of the sea. No focus, only movement, appearance and disappearance. It was his love of water, and of family that brought him to a place that gave him a bad feeling; a feeling of shear terror, although he was not clear on what it was he feared.

Marcelo stood next to his father, Liberio, and scanned the surrounding area of the deserted and unkempt pier. The wood of the platform was shiny, soaked to the bone from being close to the water. The waves occasionally lapped up over the platform replenishing the moisture and feeding the green tint of prolonged algae growth. This was not a piece of Rio De Janeiro that Marcelo was familiar with. That made him uncomfortable. He noticed men in black fatigues perched on the tops of the surrounding loading docks. They wore black fatigues. White faces were barely visible from under their sunglasses and low-set hats. Their exceptionally rigid postures gave them away. These men weren’t from around here. These were Americans. Why were they here? What were they waiting for? Probably the same thing Liberio was waiting for.

Marcelo noticed something out of the corner of his eye. It appeared so quickly and with such definition that he had to fight the inclination duck out of the way of what he thought might have been the shine of a projectile. His stomach turned with a speed that he had never felt before, as quickly as the involuntary shutting of the eyelids when faced with the light and salty spray from a wave impact on the side of a boat. He turned his head to find the source of the speck of light, only to see his father.

A drop of sweat rolling down Liberio’s cheek was reflecting sunlight dead into Marcelo’s eyes. The sharp contrast between the light and Liberio’s dark skin made the refracted light that much brighter. Liberio Ronaldo’s breathing was shallow and rapid; the kind of breathing one does in anticipation of gunfire, or some expected pain. He was sweating so much that stains shown seeped through his black buttondown shirt and the back side of his black dress pants. Marcelo had never seen his father like this. It was only supposed to be a quick errand. Why was his father so nervous?

Liberio wasn’t anxiously surveying his surroundings the way Marcelo was. His gazed was focused on one point out in the harbor. A boat. A long yacht lay silhouetted against the glistening ocean. In front of it, an inflatable dingy was making its way at top speed toward the pier. In the small boat were three men; two in the same black fatigues that the watchmen on the top of the docks wore and one in a white linen shirt and white linen pants. As the small craft approached the pier, Liberio seemed to become more nervous.

The two men in black exited the boat first, and then pulled the man in white onto the pier. His eyes were a piercing blue that shown through a face that was so scarred and cracked that one might assume he had spent the majority of his years in the dessert. His eyes seemed to possess a youth that was uncommon for a man who looked to be in his late sixties. His gaze was evil; a result of a lifetime of war.

The man offered his hand to Liberio, who took it immediately, like a dog trained to shake the hand of his master upon command. Marcelo watched his father, who smiled, seemingly out of fear rather than compulsion. The man spoke. “Liberio, how nice to see you again!” He said Liberio’s name with such a thick southern American accent that it made Marcelo cringe.

“Sim senhor,” Liberio replied.

The man looked at Marcelo and smiled.

“What, is this your son, Liberio? He’s a might lighter than you isn’t he? Although that’s not hard, now is it? You sure he’s yours? I’ve been around quite a bit, I might have some illegitimate children I don’t know about. Hell, we both know if that beautiful wife of yours was… well I think you get the picture, huh?”

The man laughed at his own remarks and was joined by the nasal snickers of the troops who stood behind him, hands on their guns. Marcelo was surprised to find his father laughing as well, but it wasn’t a real laugh, it was a necessary one.

The man yelled up to the watchmen on the ro fs of the loading docks. “Ya see that?!” He yelled, These Mexicans got a sense of humor!” “Brazilian,” Marcelo said.

“What did you say?”

“We’re Brazilian.”

The man slowly walked over to Marcelo. “Well son, I have guns and you have a life that I could easily take away. Don’t you think that probably means that you are what ever I want you to be?”

The two stared at each other. The man had a grin on his face. Marcelo’s face held a look of anger. The old man opened his mouth to speak again, but Marcelo spoke before the man had a chance to utter a sound.

“Richmond,” Marcelo said pointing out to the yacht in the harbor.

“What?” the man replied. A look of surprise came over the cracked and weathered face. “That’s a Richmond Yacht, isn’t it? A 2007 148 foot Richmond Yacht. Semi-displacement hull, 11000 gallons of fuel. Those Caterpillar engines put out what? About 35-36-hundred horsepower?”

“Thirty-six”

“How did you get one?”

“Let’s just say that when you’re at the head of a military, and wars go the way that senators want them to, you end up coming out on top. Politics has been good to me. Maybe one day, you can get a boat just like that one, huh?” “I’ve seen better.”

The man smiled and turned to Liberio. “Your son knows his boats. That’s a bright boy you have there. But I wonder why you brought him. Seems to me that no good could come of it.” Liberio replied, “I want him to know what must be done to maintain the family after I am gone, General Grey.” Liberio spoke with a heavy Portuguese accent. It was much heavier than his son’s; the kind of accent that might accompany a man who had been studying English for many years, but was never immersed in an English-speaking environment.

The man laughed. “Good to know that you remember my name,” he said. The general glanced at a small warehouse that rested 50 yards from where Marcelo stood “Is that it?” he asked. Liberio nodded. General Grey called to his men, “Williams! Sanchez!” With that, two men appeared next to the warehouse, and proceeded to lift the door at its front. The objects in the warehouse were dim black. They seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. They reminded Marcelo of the American F-117 stealth fighters he had seen in documentaries at school. There were a total of six boats, all identical. General Grey smiled.

“Tell me, my Brazilian friend, what am I looking at here?”

Liberio opened his mouth but before he could speak, Marcelo gave the answer. These are “45’ 7’’, 46 rider XP triple cigarette racing boats.” He spoke with astonishment, like a boy who has just felt the thrill of taking the wheel of his father’s boat for the first time.

“Wooo, he really knows his boats,” the general said.

Marcelo continued, “They have duel Mercury racing HP600 SCi engines.”

“That’s right, boy.”

“Induction type?”

“The new clean sheet induction system.” “Supercharged?”

“Also, 3.3 Liter Lysholm screw type supercharger, roller camshaft and sequential fuel injection! Now, you tell me. What’s gonna catch that?” General Grey turned to Liberio, who seemed to grow more anxious with every breath. “I like your son Liberio, so I’m not gonna’ kill him.” Marcello turned to his father, with a look of worry. He could see the tears welling up in his father’s eyes. Gen. Grey also noticed Liberio’s disposition and exploited it like a dog would the smell of fear.

“Oh come now,” Grey said. “Are you crying? You see Liberio, crying makes me nervous. Now, I am a general in the United States military and I am purchasing high performance go-fast boats at a price of around $700,000 each from you, in order to transport sensitive materials. And you’re crying? You see, that makes me nervous. That makes me think that you’re going to get cold feet about this whole thing, and the first time a government official comes to question you about me, you’re going to tell.”

“No!” Liberio nearly shouted, tears now streaming down his face. “No senhor I would never tell. I am grateful for all you have done for my family!”

“Liberio, I pulled you and your family out of that sorry town of Registro, and got you the house and a job as a high-level government official, didn’t I? And now you’re going to tell on me?”

“No sir. No!”

Marcelo knew what was about to happen. But he didn’t know why? Why did a general need six high-powered go-fast boats? Why were they painted black? What were the “sensitive” materials he was planning on transporting? And what was the connection between this mysterious general and his father’s position as a government official?

Marcelo clenched his teeth. The pitch of Grey’s voice lowered, as if he was speaking though a cassette tape that was playing in slow motion. He had become acutely aware of details that seemed insignificant to him before. He could count the number of lines that extended from General Grey’s now smiling lips. He noticed the black lines in between the general’s teeth. But most importantly, Marcelo noticed the shine of black steel as Grey raised the gun to his father’s chest.

Liberio dropped to his knees, begging for General Grey to reconsider. Marcelo’s heart beat with such force that every pump caused pain in the center of his chest. He began to feel weak and was compelled by an involuntary reaction to drop to his knees.

He found comfort in the water on the wooden platform and focused on a puddle directly in front of his kneeling body. The sun’s light became dimmer and dimmer, but Marcelo was unable to tell whether the light was actually getting dimmer or he was in the midst of fainting. He breathed harder and harder. And then he heard two loud cracks.

Next “North to Norfolk”