The Everglades - Chapter Four

4

December 1945. Johnson Billie was the older brother of Franklin. The younger sibling hadn’t been seen for months. Life in the Everglades was as difficult as any place on Earth, but the combined Seminole-Miccosukee tribe had met its challenges.

Johnson was married and already began his family. He saw a similar life-path for Franklin and Sarah. Natives approached marriage and family in a natural and harmonious manner. Relationships were divinely ordained. Paramount was the older brother’s determination to find out what happened to the young couple.

Several Seminole and Miccosukee tribesmen attempted assimilation into local society. Jobs were secured within the burgeoning tourism industry.

Visitors were welcomed on the reservation, but there wasn’t enough tribal business to employ youth. Seeking validation outside the bounds of ancient families exposed youth to the resonance of evil.

Johnson spent days driving throughout the city visiting friends at jobs. Spiritual balance offered the warrior the understanding a new force had been introduced into their fragile environment. Innocent teens weren’t murdered and disappeared without intense purpose. Ambition beyond purity ventured into the glades. Its only source was seen as new to Miami. Not until a conversation with a young Seminole woman who worked as a clerk at the Property Appraiser’s office did Johnson find where malevolence settled.

The young woman, whose given name was Princess Thunder, had taken the Anglo name of Tracy. She was the granddaughter of Chief Alice Brown Davis, who held her position from 1922 to 1935. Tracy knew all of the tribe’s business dealings. Rare, but not unheard of, was the purchase of property off reservation. Particularly odd was the sale of a warehouse property to a company named SEMINOLE VENTURES, INC.

Seminole Ventures was owned by layers upon layers of shell corporations; meant to disguise true ownership. The young woman became exhausted by research once it led overseas. Inquiries were made of her grandmother. When the old woman confirmed the tribe didn’t own the property, Tracy ended her search for ultimate owners.

The young woman mentioned the newly created Seminole-named business to Johnson one evening at a reservation gathering. Unsuccessfully identifying meticulously concealed human owners fueled the young man’s speculation.

Stoked by impetuous, youthful, and warrior-like energy, the young man didn’t worry with identifying owners. He was more interested in the location of the property. Tracy gladly fulfilled her friend’s inquiry.

The corner of NE 17^th Street and SE 2^nd Avenue became his destination.

Days were spent surveilling the property. Comings and goings were noted. Workers were approached for information. A natural bond between Black workers and the Miccosukee, seen as brothers in oppression, flourished. Intelligence was readily shared.

Johnson’s approach morphed into seeking employment at the facility.

Security precautions embodied Gestapo-level tactics. The General’s office was perched above the property’s corner; overlooking both streets.

The Nazis had no clue a man loitered outside daily.

Johnson must become the Germans’ most trusted employee.

When the HELP WANTED sign was taped inside the glass doors of the building, Johnson leapt at the opportunity to secure employment. He knew whatever job offered would be manual labor. It offered the opportunity to operate inside the building; on a daily basis.

Hard days were spent unloading crates filled with boat parts. Especially difficult were the coffin-sized boxes containing outboard motors.

Months passed as the young warrior toiled away; without indication of illegal activity. Business appeared legitimate. Trust was never ceded by Johnson.

Most employee interactions were with the Colonel.

Hochstühl spent most days aloft in his second-floor office.

Johnson worked harder than other laborers. It was the only way to gain the Nazis’ trust. Little did he know, confidence beyond Aryan bloodlines was never given. The longer he was employed the more certain he became; his bosses’ presence in Miami extended far beyond marinas and mechanic services. He would never act without proof.

Johnson familiarized himself with the flow of goods; arriving and leaving the warehouse. There was a rhythm and cadence that embodied German precision. Nothing witnessed spoke of illegal activities. Doubts echoed in the young warrior’s mind. What was the purpose of the German’s presence in Miami?

Rarely available spare time offered Johnson the opportunity to move freely about the warehouse. If he could only find evidence of nefarious purposes.

Most fortuitous was the day bosses went to city hall. They desired to secure a permit to conduct a Christmas market at Bayfront Park. The men had been away from their Fatherland less than a year, but yearned for that which made them German.

All workers knew there was no loyalty offered by employers. Honor wasn’t offered beyond the hard work they were paid to do. It bothered no one that Johnson drifted aimlessly about the warehouse; ostensibly accomplishing nothing. They knew the man was a hard worker and didn’t question seeming lack of focus.

Johnson walked the perimeter of the warehouse, looking for that which might conceal criminality. Banging his work boot on the concrete beneath his feet, he listened intently for echoes denoting open spaces. He knew Florida’s shallow water table would most likely have been avoided. The young man must be thorough.

He found nothing.

Frustrated, the young Miccosukee moved to the rear of the warehouse. Bolted to the cinderblocks was a metal ladder that extended the height of the wall. He looked up, toward an access door leading to the roof. He needed to meditate. Inviting spirits of ancestors into his consciousness might bring clarity.

An open sky offered the greatest chance for connection.

Once atop the building, Johnson walked around its perimeter; peering occasionally over the wall, toward the still sparse Miami landscape. To the south, blue green waters extended beyond the shoreline toward the horizon. It was that wall upon which he settled. Consideration of greater purpose centered upon protecting his tribe.

Leaning against the wall, he dropped his sight to the parking lot below. From there, he visually traced the edge of the building’s foundation.

Eventually his eyes fell upon a telephone pole. It was aligned with the furthest edge of the third garage door through which inventory was received and shipped. From his perch he perceived an additional ten feet of roof beyond the pole.

“That’s odd,” he thought.

From the inside, the telephone pole appeared to be positioned at the back corner of the building. Not until that moment did Johnson realize workers never ventured left when exiting the building’s rear egress. Like conditioned cattle men always turned to the right, toward the parking lot and NE 17^th Street.

The Germans were confident they could hide a secret passageway in plain sight by employing basic psychology.

Quickly, Johnson made his way to the southeast corner of the building. Staring at the pole, he walked along the wall until he’d estimated he covered ten feet. The laborer looked over the wall; toward the garage door below. It was just as he suspected. From inside the warehouse, that opening was ostensibly positioned at the back-corner of the building. Never had anyone noticed the additional ten feet of wall.

The warrior removed the ubiquitous knife sheathed in a leather case hanging from his belt. He dug feverishly at the tar-like roofing material. He brushed away loose pebbles as they were freed from the binder’s embrace.

A six inch by six-inch space was exposed after a few minutes. What he saw beneath surprised him. Staring up at him was the top edge of a cinderblock. A gap extended a few inches beyond the false barrier. The void spoke to a larger open space between the false interior wall, and the building’s actual boundary.

Johnson turned and fell against the roof’s cinderblock barricade. He sat feeling astonished. Awareness of a false barrier bubbled within his consciousness. “That’s how they do it?” he said aloud to ancestors he believed sparked discernment.

Johnson’s purpose intensified. He repaired the hole he’d dug as quickly as possible. He knew he’d need to come back and do a better job. Leaks made evident by frequent Miami rain would be investigated by fastidious Germans.

An exterior ladder hung over the wall and extended down to the parking lot below. Johnson quickly climbed over the wall and made his way down each rung; hand-below-hand; foot-below-foot.

Once on the ground he moved to a spot dozens of feet away from the exterior wall. He scanned the massive edifice in front of him. Three large warehouse doors engulfed his vision. They were the same openings through which he and co-workers loaded and unloaded shipments.

As he looked around the corner of the building, he noticed something of which he’d never been conscious. There was a single-wide, steel warehouse door. It was an opening that did not enter the warehouse’s interior. Johnson nodded his head. “That leads into the hidden section of the warehouse,” he thought.

There were no windows or doors along the interior eastern wall. The laborer now knew why.

Johnson walked quickly to the smaller door, grabbed, and shook the padlock that secured secrets beyond divisive protection. “Miss Weinstein,” he thought.

Hurriedly, Johnson scurried through one of the open warehouse doors, and across the massive concrete floor. He dodged crates of inventory as he made his way to the metal stairwell that led to executive offices.

At the top of the stairs a long hallway stretched the length of the second floor. The walls of the hallway were the walls of the two Germans’ offices. An opening in the middle was Miss Weinstein’s area.

Johnson turned into that gap to see the pretty secretary working diligently at her desk. He’d had the length of time it took to make his way from the single door to her desk to concoct a story. The Germans were secretive. He knew it was unlikely the woman in charge of sensitive information would let him access the General’s office. He knew what he needed, so he simply asked.

“Hochstühl called the warehouse phone and asked that I take his keyring. He said someone was coming and needs access to something. I’m not sure what, but he said the man coming would know.”

Sylvia Weinstein worked for the Germans for nearly six months. Rarely a day passed without one of them making a sexual advance. She was wise; not ignorant of the atrocities their countrymen perpetrated against fellow Jews. Loyalty was given to her job, not the men for whom she worked. “He keeps a keyring filled with keys in his upper-left desk drawer.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe that’s what you need?”

Johnson smiled and walked through the door; into the man’s office. “Does Miss Weinstein know what I’m up to?” he inquired of himself. “What did she mean by, ‘what you need?’”

Paranoia nearly halted progress.

Once the keyring was in his possession, Johnson retraced the exact path he’d traversed from behind the building to its lofty offices.

Outside, the warrior fumbled with keys.

The key ring was large. Johnson held its top; allowing the myriad of keys to hang freely around the loop’s lower arch. Hurriedly, he slid the nearest key from the right side and tried it on the lock. When it didn’t work, the bandit judiciously flipped it toward the ring’s left side.

This process continued for ten minutes.

Elapsing time exacerbated questions of whether the proper key was on the ring.

The native possessed steely nerves of a warrior. Fear never resonated within his psyche. Thoughts centered around alternate methods of gaining entry. Rare were occasions the Germans left the building together. One of the former officers always maintained watchful eyes; carefully assessing movements of staff.

Johnson’s attempts to unlock the door took on do-or-die energy.

Key-after-key-after-key. Attempts to open the padlock became haphazard as he assessed each’s viability for fitting the padlock; employing sight alone. Johnson looked at the keys gathered at the bottom of the ring. Which one was the first he tried?

In frustration, he punched the metal door.

He continued trying individual keys.

Finally, ersatz ecstasy emanated throughout the man’s soul. He inserted a key and felt the locking mechanism give way as he turned it. The body of the lock dropped away from the U-bolt. The sight of the gap between the shorter end and the locking mechanism brought relief.

Johnson inhaled a deeply satisfying breath.

The warrior bent over and lifted the garage door by its handle mounted to its lower edge. It rolled effortlessly along its track; exposing a long narrow corridor that appeared empty.

Disappointment rattled the man. Why go to the trouble of constructing false walls and hidden spaces if not to be utilized?

Slowly, the warrior walked the length of the room. Brackets were meticulously aligned along the outer wall. They were made of iron. Apparent purpose was the support of shelves. Why had they not been employed for that function?

After passing several, something piqued Johnson’s awareness. He stopped and ran his finger across a figure stamped into the metal. The tips of his fingers brushed softly across it; like reading braille. Tactile significance supported visual confirmation. Johnson contemplated the meaning of the Third Reich Eagle, wings spread, and holding a wreath in its talons. Inside the garland was a Swastika; rotating left, just as Nazis designed. It was the bastardized reversal of good fortune foretold by a right-rotating symbol.

Johnson shook away malaise and continued to the end of the space. There he found a three-foot square metal door fashioned into the floor. He lifted it by its handle; exposing a vertical passageway that ended at a subterranean floor. A ladder was mounted to its inner wall.

Consideration of time left the man’s consciousness.

Curiosity burgeoned.

As if he were meant to be there, Johnson climbed down the stairs until his feet rested on the floor below. Only then did he witness another long corridor; much narrower than the ten-foot-wide secret warehouse room.

The tunnel was four feet wide and seven feet high. Lighting fixtures were mounted flush to the ceiling. The space became illuminated when Johnson manipulated the switch on the wall. The corridor was made smaller by shelving along the right wall. The same brackets mounted in the space above provided support for the shelves that contained small brick-sized packages wrapped in brown paper.

Johnson sniffed one package he removed from the nearest shelf. He had no idea what it contained. He flipped it over and picked at the folds in the paper until he saw a white powdery substance wrapped in cellophane.

“It must be cocaine or heroin,” he thought.

All packages had been accounted for meticulously. Inventory tags hung from evenly spaced columns of drugs stored in bricks; marking each twentieth kilogram. Johnson replaced the package and walked slowly along the corridor.

Journeying deeper into the tunnel, Johnson moved toward a focal point in the distance.

Time once again concerned him. He hoped for a quickening conclusion. For nearly a quarter mile, Johnson walked without conception of an end to his expedition.

The conclusion of the tunnel finally presented itself. Before him he spied the same ladder and metal door as had been constructed beneath the warehouse.

Through it, he crawled to the surface.

The landscape consisted of sand and low-growing brush. The exterior entry protruded above ground. It was camouflaged by painted fans of saw palmettos. The man-made anomaly was well-hidden.

Johnson stood atop the ground and took in a three-hundred-sixty-degree panorama. A quarter mile away he spied the first marina purchased by the Germans upon arrival. It became clear his bosses were receiving drugs through docks, storing them in the tunnel, and moving them to points unknown.

Johnson shook his head as he turned back toward the tunnel and retraced his steps. As he neared the entrance to the concealed tunnel, something on the ground near its edge garnered his attention. He reached down and retrieved a child’s toy; half buried in the sand. He brushed away sand from the rusted, miniature, metal Jeep.

Clarity racked his soul.

Drugs were not the only thing the Germans were trafficking.