by John Ringo
This motherfucker was purely going to die. But first she was going to fuck him over. Big time. And before he died she'd make sure he knew it. Just before he died.
"Hello, Gloria, is Daria, how are you?"
Gloria Chatham shook her head. They'd just done a charter for the Kildar. Two big planes. Now Daria was calling again.
"Hello, Daria," Gloria said. "I'm fine. How are you?"
"Very well," Daria said. "I am in Bahamas. You know Bahamas?"
"I do," Gloria said. "I wish I was in the Bahamas."
"Well, perhaps you can get time off, come down with plane," Daria said. "Kildar is needing Gulfstream. Two weeks at minimum. May be longer. Two crews. You have?"
"I do," Gloria said. "Captain Hardesty is on another charter at the moment, but . . ."
"Perhaps send crew and half," Daria said. "Have Captain Hardesty come down later. We will pay plane fare and that. Have quarters ready. Nassau Airport, yes?"
"We can do that," Gloria said. "I'll send two crews and when John gets free he can come down and relieve one of the pilots."
"Very good," Daria said. "We pay for both ways, of course. Usual fees?"
"I don't know," Gloria said. "Are we going to get our plane back?"
"If you do not, Kildar will buy," Daria said, obviously grinning. "But, yes, you get plane back. Is not problem this time. Promise."
"I'll get the plane rolling within the hour," Gloria said. After she hung up the phone she raised her voice. "Thooomas!"
"Yes, dear?"
"Mr. Jenkins again," she called. "Needs a Gulfstream in Nassau. Wants John when he can catch up. Tickets paid both ways and so forth."
"Then send them first class," her husband called back, somewhat angrily. "I swear, that man . . . I don't think we should take any more charters from him!"
"The pilots love it and you know it," Gloria said, getting up and walking to the door of her husband's office. "James Bond and all that. Mister Super-Spy."
"The man's a menace," Thomas Chatham said. "One of these days we're going to lose a plane and a couple of pilots, mark my words."
"There's a reason you only hire fighter pilots, dear," Gloria pointed out. "And they do get so tired of ferrying Mister 'I made my money in stocks and bought a trophy wife' around. Besides, it's the Bahamas. I'd like to take off for the Bahamas myself."
"Who'd tend the shop?" Thomas asked, waving his hands around.
"Maria, dear," Gloria said. "Take one of the pilot slots. You're always saying you don't get enough stick time. And I could meet Daria. She seems like a lovely young lady."
"You just want to meet Mr. Super-Spy," Thomas said, grinning. " 'My name is . . . Jenkins,' " he added, dropping his voice. " 'Mike Jenkins.' "
"Actually, I think he's just called 'the Kildar,' now."
"This is the Cut," Mike said, gesturing around.
"It doesn't look like much," Britney said. She could see it was shallow water in every direction, but other than that it wasn't much to look at. There wasn't even an island to mark it. Hell, there wasn't even a buoy. "It's not marked?"
"The current moves it around all the time," Mike said. "The entrance, anyway. And the Bahamas government is not the greatest about channel markers, anyway."
"You think this is where they're going through?" Britney asked.
"If we're not totally off base," Mike replied. "And they're going to have to tank somewhere north, before they load; there's not many fueling facilities down here between Bimini and Nassau."
"Do we have enough fuel?" Britney asked.
"Plenty," Mike said. "Extended range tanks on this baby. It's one of the cigarettes the muj were using down in the Andros."
"You mentioned that one," Britney said. "And to Sol."
"He'd figured it out," Mike said.
"We need to call in his tip on those two suspects," Britney said. "Where were they?"
"Tavernier," Mike said. "Between Largo and Islamorada. Got the cheapest gas in the area if you know where to look. Okay, time's awastin'. Let's take the cut."
Chapter Nine
"Bal Harbor Cut," Randy said, pointing at the entrance. The dark brown water rushing through the narrow, concrete-walled channel was humped up in head-high waves.
Bal Harbor Cut was one of the few openings in this section of the string of barrier islands that lined the Atlantic coast. About fifty yards wide it was deep enough to take a major vessel but too narrow. Not to mention the fixed bridge that crossed it. However, since it was the only way through to the ocean for miles, it was a busy place. Fishermen lined the fishing pier, a former bridge, that jutted out over it and a cluster of boats was gathered on the inshore side of the cut, where it opened out into the intercoastal waterway. The boats were mostly motoring in circles, occasionally dodging each other or backing and filling.
Randy had led the group of racers off to the south side of the entrance, grounded in shallow water. The tide was incoming so getting off shouldn't be hard and he'd rather have to recover one of the racers than have one of the meat drivers smash one into some guy's fishing boat. The boats had anchors out and he'd gathered all the guys on the Lightning.
"In about ten, fifteen minutes the waves will go down," Randy said. "Then everybody and their brother will go running through. Those guys will go gunning for the exit. There's going to be another group on the other side; they'll be running to enter. There's probably more people that are going to come running from around the corner. Arguably, boats like this could do the cut easy," he said, pointing as a big Donzi came in through the cut, pitching up and down on the waves. "But until you're a little more comfortable with the boats, I'd rather not."
He'd spent time with each of the boats, running the group through basic maneuvers and rules of the road. Most of it was common sense and, thank God, these Mountain Tiger guys seemed to have that in spades. They also were quick studies. Most of the minor mistakes they'd made so far was just stuff he hadn't had time to cover. And they only made the same mistake once.
The problem being, the sea was an unforgiving mistress and there were a million mistakes you could make that were fatal.
"While staying right, stay as close to the centerline as you can," Randy continued. "Avoid the rocks along the sides. Ignore the waves from the other boats, just take them head on. I'm going to wait until the beginnings of the outflow to start. Any questions?"
"Why is that water acting like a river?" Shanar Mahona asked after a moment. "Is the ocean, yes?"
"You guys don't know what tides are, do you?" Randy said, backing up and realizing he had a long way to go with these guys. "Oh, Jeeze. Okay, the moon pulls up a bulge of water as it circles the Earth. That means the water rises as it passes overhead. More or less. Sort of. Right now it's rising. In a bit it will stop at what's called high tide. Also called slack. There's slack low, when the moon is on the other side, and slack high. When it starts to flow out it's called ebb tide, the tide's 'running.' Coming in it's flood tide. Everybody with me so far?"
"Yes," Vil answered but the group generally nodded.
"Okay," Randy said, trying to think how to put the rest. "That back there," he said, pointing toward the intercoastal, "that's a sort of big . . . basin that's cut off from the ocean by islands. When the water starts rising it rises in the ocean easily, but there are only so many places, sort of like the necks on a bottle of beer, for it to get in. This is one of them. So it rushes in, really fast. The reason for the standing waves is too complicated to get into," he added, grinning. "But that's why it looks like a river."
"My boat is floating," Clarn said, pointing to the Hustler. "Because water is rising, yes?"
"Yes. Go over and start it up," Randy said. "Run it in a bit more and tighten up the anchor." The boats had been arranged practically touching but the Hustler and now the smaller Cigarette were both drifting out from the formation.
"Nice boats!"
The hail had come from a small dinghy with three teenaged girls in it. Young girls. Fo
urteen will get you twenty girls.
"Thanks," Randy called back as the Keldara clambered over the side.
"They yours?"
"My boss's," Randy said. "We're delivering them to him in the Bahamas."
"Can we go for a ride?" the driver of the boat asked. She was a cute little blonde, the other two being nearly as cute brunettes.
"You're way too young to be accepting rides from strange men in boats," Randy said. "I'd love to, but we've got to hit the cut and then head for Bimini. And I don't think your folks want you riding over to Bimini."
"Damn," the girl said. "Okay. Maybe another time."
"You got any questions?" Randy said as Vil pulled the boat forward. Genrich was up front, pulling in the anchor line and securing it. The one thing Randy hadn't had to teach these guys, thank God, were knots. Those they knew. Probably from climbing.
"A million," Vil admitted in Russian. "Not all of them about boats. Was that young lady serious?"
"Yeah," Randy said. "Stupid but serious."
"Very stupid," Vil said. "I will not speak to her morals, I know that the cultures are different. But . . . where I came from, until the coming of the Kildar, girls such as her were always escorted by men. Because of moral issues, yes, but also because they were often kidnapped and turned into whores."
"Plenty of girls get snatched in the U.S. every year," Randy said. "Boys too, but more girls. And they usually either disappear or end up as a rape/murder case. But . . . generally not by guys driving quarter-of-a-million-dollar boats. Oh, there are exceptions. A guy like that, identity unknown, is still the top suspect in a multiple rape murder over in Tampa. But mostly they're safe; they've got too much to lose to screw some fourteen-year-old. So she figured she'd get a ride in a fast boat, which is always fun, get dropped off and motor on her way. Hell, she's probably done it before. The waters around here are still safer on that score than about anywhere else in the world."
"Very confusing," Vil said. "I wish that the Kildar had assigned Sawn's team to this. I love the boats, don't get me wrong. I think we will do well. But it is all very confusing. Sawn is . . . was better at confusing."
"Was?" Randy asked.
"He . . . bought the farm you say," Vil replied. "In a battle about a month ago. And much of his team bought the farm or are recovering. Was very bad battle."
"Wait," Randy said, his eyes wide. "That sniper shot on TV?"
"Yes," Vil said, nodding. "Lasko. He is magic. Black magic. Nearly three kilometers. Impossible shot. Right through the X ring."
"Damn, that was your guys?" Randy said. "Bet you're glad you weren't there."
"I lost two men," Vil said. "More in hospital. Tuul is still home recovering. Clarn probably should be; he took a chest shot at nearly point-blank range. Two units of whole blood are the only reason he's here."
"Oh," Randy said. He'd kept up with the discussion of the battle on the boards. The questions about it were still raging. Nobody could believe that the group had survived the reported correlation of forces. Or that the sniper shot had been made at the range that it looked like on TV. That was damned near two miles. But here he was sitting next to one of the guys who had been in the battle. If Vil had questions, Randy had as many.
"Well, you're doing fine with the electronics," Randy said. Vil had figured out the complicated navigational system for a treat. He was still learning to read the markings, but the controls he had cold.
"These are not complicated," Vil said, sighing and gesturing at the console. "We work with satellite communications, battlefield computers, GPS, all of that very much. Water. These boats? The society? Father of All, they are complicated."
"Father of All?" Randy asked.
"Is our way of saying God," Vil replied. "The boats are starting to move."
"Yeah," Randy said, standing up. "Okay!" he yelled. "Weigh anchor!"
"How are we to weigh it?" Clarn yelled. "Where is the scale?"
"Oh, Jesus," Randy said, grabbing his hair.
"I'm getting a base," Mike said. "Not just the yacht. For one thing, the Keldara are hot bunking."
The run from the cut to Nassau had been fast. The passage had lower waves than the Florida Straits so he'd cranked the boat up to the maximum he felt he could run given fuel usage, which went way up at max speed. At ninety miles an hour, the run had gone quickly.
"We need some sort of confirmation on what's going on," Britney said. "If you get a base near Nassau and it's all happening down around Andros . . ."
"I'm not going near Andros," Mike said, chuckling. "My pilots won't go near Andros. Not on a bet. They, through a remarkable coincidence, are the pilots who were flying the FAST in when the nuke went up. Kacey still bitches about that. Only bird she's ever dumped."
"She's very . . . cocky," Britney said.
"Pilots usually are," Mike replied. "Good ones. But in her case it's justified. None of the Keldara saw her take out the bunkers that got— Well, anyway, there were some Rangers watching. Words like 'unbelievable' and 'awesome' were the minimum they used. Apparently she just went insane. You can . . . do incredible things when you're out of your mind."
"Seen it," Britney said, grinning.
"That wasn't as far as I've gone," Mike said. "The Keldara are still whispering about the Charge of the Kildar in the last battle. I don't really remember it. But even Adams was impressed and he's hard to impress. And then . . ."
"You collapsed," Britney said. "It happens. Post-combat reaction can be as bad as postpartum depression. As I said, lots of counseling. And, hell, that's why I got my bachelors in psych."
"Great," Mike said, shaking his head. "Just what I need. A shrink."
"Frankly, you probably do," Britney replied. "But I'm not going to analyze you. We'll talk, when you feel up to it."
"Nassau," Mike said, pointing at the island on the horizon. Boat traffic had definitely picked up and the Cigarette jumped over a series of waves from the wake of a freighter. "And that freighter could be the very one we're looking for."
"No," Britney said. "If they're already moving things in, it's not. The one we're looking for is somewhere up there," she added, pointing north.
"Sir, got a strange track," the radar tech said.
The deck officer for the CIC of the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan walked over and looked at the screen.
"Whatcha got?"
"Freighter," the tech said. "Sierra forty-two. I only bring it up cause I saw it yesterday. And the day before. It's just cruising back and forth." She highlighted the track, then brought up a previous day's track. "Same general position. It's doing a long figure eight, just running back and forth."
The CIC officer didn't know why the carrier battle group, which normally was doing "power projection" somewhere in the Middle East, was stuck patrolling up and down the Florida coast. But he did know that they were told to report anything "suspicious" to higher.
"Could be a Lloyds Looper," the tech said, shrugging.
And that was the problem with it being "suspicious." It really wasn't. Freighters were a business, which meant that most of the time they should be going from point A to point B, preferably filled with cargo. But under certain circumstances, related to obscure insurance rules, circling around in the middle of nowhere made more financial sense. Six ships had been detected, shortly after the Iraq war kicked off, circling in the Indian Ocean. After debating it for a while, spec ops teams descended on them in the middle of the night. No illicit cargo was found in them. In fact no cargo was found in them. It turned out that for insurance reasons, it was more profitable for them to stay at sea, waiting for their next load, than to tie up along shore. Even burning as much diesel as they did.
The term had become "Lloyds Looper" even though Lloyds was no longer the only insurer of freighters in the world.
"Keep an eye on it," the deck officer said, shrugging. "If it stays there we'll drop the data in the net and put up a Viking to keep an eye on it. Good eye, PO."
"Thank you," the y
oung lady said, smiling. Then she got back to work. All the "Atta-girls" in the world could be erased by one "Oh, shit."
"Oh, shit," Mike said when he looked at the invitation.
It was just after the rapid tropical dusk when he'd pulled up alongside the yacht. And the first person who confronted him was Anastasia with an open envelope in her hand.
The message was simple:
You are cordially invited to a small party onboard the White Line. Festivities begin at eight but feel free to turn up earlier. Casual dress. Up to seven invited.
