Harry Jacobson was at the cars watching people coming and going. He sent a text that a group of six teenagers was coming, headed our way. We had ear wicks for all of us. I motioned for the girls to put the wicks in.
I could hear them coming over the dune, all mouthy with a Mid-Eastern accent. I guessed they were arrivals to the area from one of the many relocation programs that had been in effect.
All the terrorism raids had put a cold shoulder on those programs for the time being. People were beginning to have second thoughts about open unrestricted immigration. It was too little too late; the terrorists were here – and from everything we had learned – some had been here prior to 9-11.
They stood on the dune line for a few minutes before walking towards us and the beach. They walked to the water then turned around and walked back to the dune and to the cars.
At the car they unloaded several cameras and tripods and started up the dunes with the equipment. Gordon had alerted us to what was going on. At the top of the dune they set the cameras up recording us.
As soon as they started our way, “Gordon; disable or destroy the cameras, strip the memory cards out of them,” I instructed.
The group came to where we were and sat down, “Hey, you want to party with us?”
“No! Get lost,” I replied.
“Don’t you like young Arab men, we can treat you right,” one of them said.
“This is a private beach by invitation only, and I know you have no invitation. It is also a nude beach and you are dressed. I know Arab men are ashamed and never expose their bodies to be ridiculed. So again, get lost,” I replied.
“We don’t take orders from anyone and certainly not women. You American women need to learn respect and your place,” he said.
The four guards were on the way. The teenager closest reached to grab me by the boob but I was faster. I grabbed the fingers on his hand and quickly broke several with a twist. At the same time a fist to the side of his neck near his Adams apple left him stunned and gasping.
Vicky was applying similar treatment to one of the other teens. He was on the sand screaming like a banshee.
Their buddies decided they needed help only to be grabbed by Gordon and our other three guards. Our guards walked them back to their car on their tiptoes, screaming the whole way. They would have sore elbows for several weeks.
“Don’t ever come back here!” they were told; “This is your one and only warning,” Gordon said and they were shoved into the car.
Everything returned to normal; sand, water and suntan lotion that had now become playful fun as it was applied.
Running around naked, the boys also learned they could pee on the grass and anything else and how to aim. Progress? Maybe, but we would have to see if the potted flowers in the house paid the price.
It was 1600 when Gordon spoke into the ear wick, “You have company coming; four of the teens are back with two men whom I suspect are their fathers, along with a police officer.”
“Cover up girls. Men, come in and join the party,” I instructed as I was pulling on both the light body armor and a pair of shorts.
The hand was wrapped in bandages and the fingers in splints; three other young men each had an arm in a sling.
An older man who was walking with the boy with the broken hand spoke in an Arab dialect that I recognized as from North East Africa, most likely Tunisia or Libya.
“Which one of these despicable women broke your hand for no good reason?” one of the men asked the boy in his native tongue.
“She did,” he replied as he pointed at me with his good hand.
The adult with him started yelling and screaming in a mix of English and Arabic at the policeman, thinking no one could understand him. He was raging about how innocent and pure his boy was and how a decadent immoral woman was corrupting his children. He was trying to get the officer flustered.
“Ma-am, I need to see your ID; these teens have alleged that you assaulted them,” the officer said as he was looking at my men holding their MP5s.
“Who are these men?” the officer asked.
I handed him my Federal ID and badge and said, “They are my bodyguards; you need to call your dispatcher on the telephone and have them send your Chief and the Mayor here pronto. Do not broadcast who we are.”
He looked several times at the ID, then me and my guards, “Dispatch Officer 39; I need to have the Police Chief and the Mayor come to the west shore cove as quickly as possible.”
“Chief to Officer Thirty-nine; what is the problem?” came over the radio.
“You need to come here and settle this; it’s way above my pay grade. I don’t think you want this problem in your office later,” the officer replied.
“Ma-am, I’m really sorry to bother you with this kind of mess from these people; you’re not the first they have harassed. But it looks like you are the first to do something about it,” the officer said.
All I had on was the white vest and shorts. I reached into my bag, put on my holster and Glock and then a blouse that I left unbuttoned. The girls did the same thing. The troublemakers became very quiet.
With my smarter than smart phone, I took pictures of the four boys and two men and then sent them to the INS director in my office at Section 12. “Run these and get back to me immediately with the results,” was the text I sent with them.
“What did you take their pictures for?” the officer asked.
“I sent them to the INS to see if everything is up to date on them,” I replied.
“That will take several days at least,” he replied.
We waited for twenty minutes for the Chief to show up. The Chief and the Mayor came in the same Crown Vic.
While we were waiting, the group of six became more agitated; there was a lot of muffled talk among the six. They had come to the conclusion that I was someone important and that they may be in deep camel crap.
I started a conversation with the girls and my men in Russian. I also warned my men to be ready for the group to cut and run and ordered one of them to move behind the men.
They were really getting fidgety and quickly became more so at the Russian conversation. They had lost the ability to follow the conversation and still play dumb.
The Chief and the Mayor came over the dune and stopped at their officer. I handed the Chief my ID.
The Chief handed it back without opening it up, “I recognize you, I don’t need that. What should we do with them?” he asked.
My phone dinged that I had a message. Both of the older men were on expired visas, including their families who had been processed on the same day. The visas were expired over a year ago.
“Chief, what is your phone number? I will send the info to you. There is a number for you to call; just arrest them and the INS will handle the rest,” I said.
“The first time they were here they set up video cameras on the dune to record what they were going to do. When you search the houses, look for computers, memory sticks, cards or other storage media that may have evidence of the other harassments,” I added.
I had the name of the older man and in his native language told him, “You should have accepted all those certified letters you refused to sign for and just maybe you could have avoided the grief that is coming your way. That and had someone teach your boys what is acceptable conduct in America between men and women, especially on the beach and in public.”
“You came here for a better life and then brought all the bad customs and culture that destroyed the country that you left. Now you are going to be sent back there; good riddance. We want immigrants who want be part of the American dream and join our society and contribute, not change or destroy our dream,” I added.
Friday morning we boarded the G5 and headed home. Over all, we had had a restful 4 day vacation. Tomorrow night was the first Embassy Ball to finish out the week.
All of us were ready to go back to work and we did from the G5 during the flight. There were so many things to catch up on.
Edit by Alfmeister
Proof read by Bob W.