by John Ringo
"I'm a very bad man," Mike said. "I will tell you this, though. Feel free to pass it on to anyone you can who has National Security Counsel clearance. Please fucking feel free to pass it on. The Russians told the U.S. it was nukes. Three of them. That was what I was getting paid to recover. Three nukes."
"That's serious enough," Britney said, her eyes wide.
"Nothing compared to the real package," Mike said, his jaw working. "The real package was Armageddon on a fucking platter. But here's the kicker. I told the fucking Russians if I was going to keep their secret I wanted the deal sweetened. Four nukes. Five mil apiece was the vig. Twenty if I recovered all three. Hell, I turn up with four, that's another five, minimum, right? Enough to keep my mouth shut."
"Yes," Britney said, shaking her head. "That must have been an interesting negotiation."
"If I'd known they were going to fuck me as hard as they did, I'd have either told them to piss up a rope or told them ten," Mike said. "Then I'd have sent them back, VPP. But here's the real kicker. Guess how many I gave the U.S.?"
"Huh?" Britney said then her eyes widened. "Oh . . . shit."
"Three," Mike confirmed. "Hey, that was all they were expecting."
"You have a nuclear weapon in your possession?" Britney said carefully.
"Yep," Mike said. "About ten kilotons. In the basement of my castle. Partially disassembled I might add, thanks to the WMD expert I picked up on the same op. Something about retaining the quality of the tritium. But it can be assembled in about three minutes. And one of these days, oh let that day be soon, I'm going to take it and shove it up Vladimir's ass, then blow the son-of-a-bitch."
"I so didn't want to know any of this," Britney said, shaking her head. "I'm not even sure who I can tell."
"I can put you on the phone to the President if you'd like," Mike said, putting the boat back up on plane. "And you'd be surprised the shit you don't want to know about what's in the basement of my castle. Belts."
"We were talking about Gretchen," Britney said, strapping in.
"Yeah, we were," Mike said, powering up. "And now we're not. Thanks, though. I appreciate it."
"We're not done," Britney said as the boat started hopping waves again.
"No, we're not," Mike admitted. "And, yeah, we'll talk again. But it was a good start." He tossed the remains of his drink over the side and looked over at her. "Think you can survive making it down to the cabin and getting me a Coke?"
"Can I ask you one thing first," Britney said, undoing the straps while bracing herself.
"What?"
"What is the Navy's first rule about a fire fight?"
"Send the Marines."
Chapter Seven
"Who now?" Jason O'Connor asked. "The Marines?"
O'Connor was the desk manager of the Hollywood Florida Central Governmental Surplus Repository. Run by the Marshals Service, it was the place where everything the United States government seized in its ongoing war on drugs was dumped for eventual resale. Stuff seized by the IRS, despite the "Central Government" part, was sold through another agency.
The law under which the government seized most materials was incredibly archaic, going back to the middle ages. Effectively, the condition of forfeiture meant that when a crime was committed involving a device, vehicle or even home, that device, vehicle or home was considered an accomplice in the crime. And being an inanimate object, it had none of the "rights" of an individual. It was assumed to be guilty.
Thus when a person was pulled over and drugs were found in his car, the person would be arraigned, have hearings and in some cases eventually be tried if there was sufficient evidence and if the DA was feeling lucky.
The poor car had no such rights. Oh, if the owner contested it was given a trial, but no peers! And if the owner didn't contest, usually because they were guilty as hell, the poor thing was sent directly to the Hollywood Florida Central Governmental Surplus Repository where it languished behind chain-link fence and barbed wire until some individual bought it at auction and freed it from durance vile.
Quite often that person was a friend or relation of the original drug dealer, who then transferred the title back. This was especially common with boats, some of which had been "incarcerated" four or five times for the exact same offense, the definition of recidivist. Alas, there was no three strikes law for boats.
Jason was having a bad day. Apparently, every government service in the nation was descending on South Florida for reasons he didn't know and, frankly, could care less about. And they all wanted vehicles. Since the HCGSR had lots of vehicles, of every shape, model and description, and since the U.S. government already owned them, it was a natural source. Cars had been rolling off the lot all day. Not only did every one mean more paperwork, he knew they were going to be returned in poor to awful condition. Virtually unsellable. Cops never took care of their cars. Fibbies were the worst. No, DEA was the worst; what DEA did to a car shouldn't happen to a junkyard dog.
But this guy wasn't BU or DEA. No suit in the first case, no jeans and dreadlocks in the latter. He might be BATF. Some of the BATF guys had that military look. And those cars . . . Jesus.
"What?" Jason snapped.
"You have five offshore power boats," the man said in strongly accented English. He handed over a distribution form. "The Kildar wishes them."
"And what the fuck is a Kildar?" Jason asked, sitting on his stool and looking at the form. All the blanks were filled in but none of them made sense. He'd never seen the authorization code and the security code was . . . He turned to his computer and made his way through the menus, hunting up the code list. The authorization code was through SOCOM, which he'd sort of guessed. He'd seen one like it before. But the security code . . . The issuing office was listed as "Need-To-Know." Fucking black ops. It was a valid code but it just pissed him off. The five boats were the best thing he had in the yard. They were going up for auction, one at a time, over the next month and were going to mean real money to the U.S. government. Money that was going to buy new gear for cops for one thing. The fuck if he was just going to let them disappear into a black ops hole. Fuck them. He had authority to deny requisitions and he was God damned well going to use it.
And the guy was just too fucking pretty. He looked like a fucking movie star. That was what really tipped the scales. It just pissed the overworked, in his opinion, desk manager off.
"No," Jason said, handing back the form.
"This is the proper paperwork, yes?" the man asked, blinking.
"That is the proper paperwork," Jason replied. "But I've got authority to deny those. So . . . No. Goodbye."
Vil considered the little man for a moment. He was puzzled. He was fully aware that most people outside of Georgia did not know who the Kildar was. That, in fact, the Kildar would prefer to keep it that way.
But he also knew, because the Kildar had told him, that the authorization was at a very high level. He should, by rights, have been terribly obsequious, perhaps not even asking for a bribe. The Kildar had told him the man would not ask for a bribe and that Vil should not offer, that that would cause problems. But there were problems.
"I would like to make a call," Vil said, pulling out a cell phone.
"Fine," Jason said. "Call whoever you'd like. The answer is still no."
The guy was still looking confused. He had a weird accent, maybe German or something. Maybe he would have understood "Nyet" or "Non" or whatever. Let him call whoever he wanted. SOCOM might think it was hot shit but it pulled no weight with the U.S. Marshals Service!
* * *
"Pierson."
"Colonel Pierson, this is Vil Mahona. I am one of the Kildar's—"
The guy was talking Russian so Pierson responded in the same language.
"Team leaders," Pierson said. "You're on an open line, Vil."
"Yes, sir. I apologize for that. Sir, I am having a difficulty. I have been tasked to obtain five vessels for the Kildar's use from a facility in the town of Hollywood, Flor
ida. You are familiar with this facility, yes?"
"I am familiar, no," Pierson said, smiling. "But I can figure it out. Go on."
"The desk manager has refused my request," Vil said. "The Kildar has assured me that I have proper paperwork and the man even admitted that to me. But he still refuses. I am wondering if I should offer him bribe?"
"No," Pierson said definitely. "Don't. Don't ever offer an American official, police or soldier a bribe. That's like . . . That's like saying a Keldara is a coward. Let me speak to him."
Now the guy was babbling in a foreign language. What the fuck were foreigners doing asking for his boats?
The guy finally stopped and held out his phone.
"This is colonel," the man said. "He is wishing to speak to you."
"I've got a billion other things to be doing," O'Connor said, but he took the phone. "What?"
"It's customary to state your name when you answer a phone," whoever was on the line snapped. "I just want to get this straight. You were presented with a requisition. Was all the information you normally require present?"
"Yeah," O'Connor said. "But I don't know who this fucker is, I don't know who you are and I've got authority to deny and I'm invoking it. So you can go revolve on your little stool as far as I care, Colonel."
"You're Marshals Service, right?"
"Yeah. We're not fucking Army, we're not fucking Marines, and we're not your God-damned boat dealer."
"Just checking," the man said. "Give the phone back."
"Vil," Pierson said. "Where are you?"
"The Hollywood Florida Central Governmental Surplus Repository," Vil said, reading it off the form.
"Just as a matter of interest, what are the authorization code and security code on the form?"
Vil read them off and got a read back.
"The security level on that is Ultra Blue?" Pierson said. "For real?"
"Yes, sir," Vil replied.
"And he kicked it back?" Pierson snapped. "Is he fucking insane?"
"You come to my understanding of the situation," Vil said, sighing in relief. "I feared it was me or that I did not understand."
"Oh, I so have some calls to make."
"You still here?" Jason asked.
"I am, sir," Vil said, closing the phone. "I shall be for a time, yes."
"Then wait outside," O'Connor said, gesturing with his chin. "I've got paperwork to do."
"Yes, I will," Vil said, picking up the form.
"We are getting the boats?" Sergejus Shaynav asked.
"There is a problem," Vil said. "I have presented it to Colonel Pierson. If it is not to be resolved, he will call us back."
"I have never driven a boat," Viatcheslav Devlich said, nervously. "I can barely swim."
"We are the Keldara," Vil said. "McKenzie has told me the words to the Song of Remembrance talk of the days when we were feared warriors in boats. The Vikings, yes? We'll figure it out. How hard can it be?"
"How long do we wait?" Viatcheslav asked.
"Until dark," Vil said. "Then we call the Kildar for further instructions."
However, it was barely thirty minutes until a government sedan pulled into the yard and a tall man wearing a Marshals Service windbreaker got out. Unlike the man in the office, the newcomer was wearing a gun and badge on his belt although he was in civilian clothes.
"Which one's Vil?" the man asked, walking up to the group.
"I am," Vil replied.
"Gimme a minute," the man said with a sigh.
Jason sat up and tried to look busy as the regional supervisor walked in the room.
"Sir, it's good to see you!"
"No, it's not," the RS said. "Pack up your personal stuff and go home. You're on unpaid administrative leave pending termination."
"What?" Jason said, his face going gray. He felt like he was going to faint. He was going to faint.
"You are too fucking stupid for words, do you know that?" the RS said, angrily. "Did you look up that guy's security classification? I won't even get into the authorization."
"Yes, sir," O'Connor said, suddenly realizing how truly he had screwed up. "But it was listed as Need-To-Know."
"Well, keep in mind that if you whisper this in your next job, you've got a one way ticket to Marion, Illinois," the RS said angrily. "But an Ultra Blue security classification can only be issued by the National Security Council. And since you're too stupid to probably know what that is, let me make it clear. They were authorized to draw on your equipment by either the President, the Vice President, the national security advisor or the secretary of Defense. The good news is that it only got up to the level of the commandant who called me. So the President has not heard about our little fuckup. But I've now got to explain to the commandant why I had a shit for brains like you working this desk."
* * *
"All Father," Vil whispered, looking at the boats.
Each of them was different. Two had two hulls, the others just one. But all were in a series of wild colors and just looked fast. He suddenly knew how Captain Bathlick must feel when she looked at the Dragon. But the captain, he reminded himself, was a highly trained professional. He had no clue how to even start one of these.
"We got one Fountain, a Nordic, a Cigarette, a Drone and a Hustler," the regional supervisor said. He didn't know who these guys were, but they had White House clearance so he was going to handle them with kid gloves. "You've driven one before, right?"
"No," Vil said, shaking his head. "But we are to pick up instructors on the way. We must get them from here to there, though."
"Ever driven a boat before?" the RS asked cautiously.
"Never," Vil replied. "I grow up in mountains."
"O-kay," the RS said. "In that case, take it slow. There's no such thing as too slow. They're all gassed, but I can't guarantee performance. We sell these things as is. They all worked when they got here and none of them have been tied up long."
"We will be careful," Vil said. "I can assure that."
The RS gave each of the two-man teams a short class in how to handle the boats, then helped them untie and get pulled out. Two of them collided, briefly and lightly, getting pulled out. Then he made sure the gate was open as the line of boats slowly motored out towards the intercoastal waterway.
He wasn't sure where they were going but he hoped that nobody got in their way.
"We will go very slow," Vil said. He'd donned the standard team headset as had the other drivers. "Very very slow."
"Where are we going?" Clarn Ferani asked.
"A bar," Vil said.
* * *
Randy Holterman sat at the Caribbean Sports Bar and Grill and considered whether he was making one fucking huge mistake.
The former PO had been a FAST boat driver with the Norfolk Underwater Support Group up until about a year before. The reality was that while FAST was the shit, the guys they were supposed to support, SEALs and very rarely Delta, hardly ever used them anymore. Most of the ops that Norfolk supported were in Europe and Africa. And nobody had used a FAST in operations in a couple of years.
So when his reenlistment date came up he got out and turned his car south for Florida.
His rep as a former FAST driver had gotten him a gig as a mate on a dive boat which gave him time to get his civilian captain's license. The combination had him doing gigs as a part-time captain, filling in for guys who had been around for a while. He'd figured out the deal; you worked your way up in the local community, you learned the fishing waters and eventually made enough to get a boat. Maybe you got picked up by some guy with money who had the sense to know he needed a captain. You networked. You built customers. In the meantime, you got a lot of water time, which was the name of the game.
Randy was an easy-going guy and he got along with the customers so he was doing well there. But he was a long way from his own boat. Not a good one. He wanted either a good solid yacht or a fast fisher. And that was serious money. You had to show you had a business before you coul
d get the financing on one. Randy figured five years.
Then he got a call.
"Captain Randy. The fish are here, where are you?"
"Randall Holterman?" the woman had asked. Foreign accent, Slavic probably.
"That's me," he said, trying to figure out which payment he was behind on.
"Mr. Holterman, my employer would like to retain your services for up to two weeks. Are you available?"
