CRUISE STORY - CSCI Cruise Ship Crime Investigators Part 1 - the very beginning

Hi, Stuart St. Paul here, and I'm in Southampton. Are you ready to cruise? Because this ship is, and there are about one, two, three, four others. But, if you're cruising this way by reading Cruise Ship Heist, great. Enjoy it. Chapter One. Problem. I'm Commander Kieran Phillips, or was. I've been discharged from my military service. Not that the Army uses that term nowadays. There won't be much paperwork on it. There never was much paperwork on anything they had me do. I can sense when something's very wrong, but the real skill is to figure out what it is before it kills you. Maybe I'm overthinking things, suffering from no longer being in military service, but something feels wrong. Maybe I need more therapy, but I used to be paid to feel this right. The hairs on the back of my neck, the sensitive skin under my ears, and on my cheeks, sense danger. The pressure, the texture, and the temperature. The air in this small plane has been less fresh than on my long-haul flight, but now the doors must be open. People are reaching overhead for their bags, hurrying to queue to leave. Like so many young soldiers, I watched rush in under fire when a cool head might have saved them. They're keen to get off. Their bulky hand luggage appears too heavy. Relocation? A mass exodus from Colombia to Costa Rica? Perhaps they're hawkers, off to sell to tourists on the beaches, and this excess hand luggage is their stock. That would explain the impatience. Every minute lost is a missed sail. Stand up and join the queue. I tell myself, but I remain fixed in the penultimate row at the rear of the plane. The larger part of me is not ready to stop profiling others and join civilians. I never asked to be a real civilian. I change planes for the second time in Cartagena after a long flight across the Atlantic, so I'll have to wait for my checked in case if it managed to follow me. My hand luggage is two uniforms. Parade, for a casual event, and ceremonial for formal evenings. Plus black boots. None of that leaves my side now, but I can no longer replace it. Everything else I own is replaceable, and stowed below, hopefully. I'm wearing civvy hiking boots, just in case I can get to see Braulio Carrillo National Park before we sail. I'm ready to dump bags and run, although I suspect that's a long shot. A travel day often vanishes, and so far, this has been two days, three planes. I feel the heat now, but I'm used to that. I convince myself that the queue at immigration, then a wait at baggage reclaim, will put me behind the semi-locals, with their excess hand luggage arguments at customs. So I should stay put. But the real reason is the woman behind me. I can't turn and look, but I noticed earlier. She's built like an athlete, wide shoulders, toned arms. She hasn't moved either. An athlete would be up, and in this race. She, however, has a worrying coolness, and is waiting for something. Chapter Two. On my six. No one should be carrying a weapon, even though this is South America. They all went through security, except airline security can be a joke. Did you pack your own luggage? Are you carrying anything sharp? I only have a sharpened wooden pencil, with which I could slay a vampire. The problem is, vampires don't exist, but pencils kill. Soldiers who've been trained to spot and deal with terrorists are being laid off from the forces, and they can't get jobs back in the UK. No country ever wants their military back. They train them to kill, then don't know what to do with them. Many ex-soldiers would be better off getting refugee status, than adding to the urban homeless on Bended Knee. I can't think of a more fitting description for them than refugee. A displaced person, who has been forced across national boundaries, and who cannot return home safely. The plane begins to empty. Time to stand and join in. At a little over six feet tall, I've no problem sliding my suit bag out from the overhead compartment. The woman behind me is still biding her time, waiting and watching. I smile politely. I'm encouraging her to go first, but she's not moving. I don't like anyone on my six. It appears neither of us feel comfortable with somebody behind us. To lose her, I cross the two empty middle seats, and become the last in the queue on the other side of the plane. She's tall standing up, has a short sleeve white shirt, easy skirt cut just below the knee, and flat shoes. We catch eyes again. She has a solid stance, and could be military. We exchange a knowing nod before I turn to the older couple in front, who are blocking me. The man is struggling with their case in the overhead locker. He could be a descendant of the Toltec, Aztec or Mayan people, who are often short, but age has made him shorter. The couple look like they've been together forever, and I bet he used to get their case down with ease. A life partner in my line of work would have been a risk. Someone who could have been used to get to me. A weakness. Or is that just a feeble excuse for me to avoid real life? I've no excuses now. I'm Mr. Joe Public. Off to join a cruise ship. I slide their case out, and lower it for them. She offers me a grateful smile. Preoccupies, amigo, I say. They squeeze past a tall lady about my age. Her clear Spanish skin, vivid dark hair, and clear eyes make it hard to judge her age. She laughs at me, and I'm captured by her beauty. What did you say? she asks. I said no worries. No, you said worry, my friend, like you were going to kill them. She laughs. No te preocupies, amigo, is what you should have said. Hombre agradable. Hombre guapo-guapo, the older lady says, understanding my error. But her husband moves away quickly. She catches my eye, then looks at a man still asleep in the window seat. I am confused. What is that? I ask my translator. He said thank you, she offers. I got that bit, I mean the other. Nothing, she says, smirking. She's holding back. My look demands an answer. She said you were handsome, very handsome. She's old, must be going blind. Her look demands I lift her bag down to return the favor. I've become a baggage handler. I was one for a while, at Beirut International Airport, when working undercover. Before the attacks. Before the name was changed to Beirut Rafiq Hireri International Airport. If the sleeper is her husband, why doesn't she wake him? Why doesn't he lift her bag? No, she shows no connection. And her clothes are far more expensive than his. They can't be together. I retrieve her case. Immediately, I know why she left it for me. It's very heavy. She guides me to rest it on her other wheeled bag that she will pull off the plane. No wedding ring, but age spots on her hands. Maybe I should have offered to carry her case for her. It's not a foreign weapon, left in a jeep as an attractive keepsake. Cable to trigger pounds of nasty explosive. I should have tried harder. Maybe that's why I'm still single. But why has she three bags of hand luggage? Why does everybody have so much junk? I'm looking for trouble that isn't here. Perhaps she'll be on my ship. I ponder. But then again, why would guests be joining a ship here in mid-cruise? Being sociable, I lean over to wake the guy by the window. But he doesn't move. I touch his skin and it's cold. He's dead. I've felt bodies like this before. It was good I found him and not the Latina sitting next to him. He's not young, but too young to die. The last time I touched a dead body, it was a child spread eagled on the street and I was helpless. That child was one too many and I knew I had to get out. I reach above him and press the button to call the attendant. There's nothing I can do to help him. There's a lot I could do to help the children living in the streets of Syria. But that was not why I was deployed there. The attendant arrives, against the flow of people, and breaks my wandering thoughts. He seems in a deep sleep. I hope he's okay. The attendant reaches over and comes to the same conclusion I did. But he doesn't want to engage in any kind of hysteria either. You can go, sir. I've got this, the young man says. It seems he is used to dead bodies as well.