A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

  "That's Gonzales' boat," Mike said, blinking. He was sunburned and sore from being beaten around in a Cigarette all day. And now this.

  "And it is nearly eight," Anastasia said. "But I would recommend a shower."

  "If I'm going," Mike said. "This guy may be connected to the people that shot up Vanner and Adams. And I need to be briefed in on what's been going on. And why seven?"

  "I asked about that," Anastasia said, dimpling. "I met a very nice lady in the market, a local who sells baskets. She has much knowledge of the local customs and we'd chatted yesterday. So I dropped by after we got the message. The White Line is a noted party boat, yes? But only pretty ladies and the . . . better class are invited. And the better class . . . Well, they generally bring a guest, a partner, female or male, and a few . . . assistants."

  "Oh," Mike said, nodding and chuckling. "I can bring up to five bodyguards."

  "Yes," Anastasia said. "I would recommend Oleg, Shota . . ."

  Either of the two could have been NFL linebackers.

  "Telling me my job, are you?" Mike said. "Yes. Oleg and Shota. Tell Oleg I want him in shorts. Oleg, Shota . . . you, Britney and Greznya. Tell Greznya to get dressed, then head for my stateroom. Anything else?"

  "Daria wishes to speak to you," she said.

  "Tell her to come on in the bathroom," Mike said. "It's not like she's never seen me naked."

  "Kildar?" Daria said, walking into the large bathroom.

  The Kildar was in the shower, soaping his short hair.

  "Hey, Daria, whatcha got?" Mike called.

  "I have found a land base," Daria said, looking at her notes. "A villa on a private island in the Abacos. That is the area you wished, yes?"

  "Yes," Mike said.

  "It has fourteen bedrooms, a private landing strip capable of handling a small jet and underground refueling tanks," Daria said. "Also servants' quarters. Enough room for the Keldara to 'spread out.' I have contacted a company to ensure they are fully fueled for both diesel for the generators and aviation fuel for the boats. The same company is delivering food and other supplies. The shipping company's boat with the container has been diverted. I contacted Chatham Aviation and requested a Gulfstream and two crews."

  "That wasn't on the list," Mike said, sounding puzzled.

  "You are probably going to be flying back and forth from here to there," Daria pointed out. "A Gulfstream is faster than the Lynx."

  "You're a gem, Daria," Mike said.

  "The boat has been reprovisioned," she continued. "We have bunker fuel for a four-thousand mile run and sufficient provisions. I had a call from Vil regarding the boats he picked up, though."

  "How's that going?" Mike asked.

  "They are on their way," Daria responded. "They have had some problems, but they are on their way. However, all of the boats are not set up for long range operations . . ."

  "They need tanks," Mike said, sighing and stepping out of the shower. He picked up one of the supplied towels, which was so thick it was almost a nuisance, and started drying off.

  "Yes," Daria said, turning away politely. She had, in fact, seen him naked several times. But right now she didn't need the distraction. "I contacted a number of boat yards in the area and none of them could get free even when I suggested a large sum of money for a rush job. Apparently—"

  "Nassau is awash in money," Mike said, nodding. "And do you have a fix?"

  "Possibly," Daria said. "But it will require calling Colonel Pierson."

  "Fix it," Mike said, shrugging. "Fast."

  "I will do so," Daria said, making a note.

  "Good girl," Mike said, pecking her on the cheek and wrapping the towel around his middle. "I'm sorry I'm not bringing you to the party. I can dump Britney if you wish."

  "No," Daria said, shaking her head. "I have been in the lion's den. I do not wish to go back. Thank you. I will go take care of these issues."

  "Okay," Mike said, striding out into the bedroom. "Thanks. Oh, hi Greznya."

  "Hello, Kildar," Greznya said, blushing slightly.

  "Hey," Mike said. "Stay there," he continued, walking into the closet and shutting the door. "Go."

  "I have a list of the probable people that are being invited to the party," Greznya said. "Along with some background bio. Most of them are more or less legitimate businessmen or retirees. Mostly European but a few Americans. There are a few key members of the Bahamas government expected as well."

  "Not surprising," Mike said. "I'll look it over before I head over. Go."

  "I have had a brief conversation with Lieutenant Harder," Greznya said, her voice slightly raised. "If your surmise is correct we should be getting some data. There is a carrier battle group patrolling the Florida coast. Only on their south end, though, do they get into the area where the freighter would probably be located." She paused and looked at her notes. "We put the information about the two men into the law enforcement database that is being used for this mission. The current emphasis is on containers coming in. There is a note from CIA that that is the intended method of insertion."

  "Love to know the means on it," Mike said, walking out fully dressed. "CIA usually can't find their ass with both hands." He paused and held his arms out. "What do you think?"

  "What is that shirt?" Greznya asked, her eyes wide.

  "It's a Hawaiian shirt," Mike said, looking down at the eye-searing monstrosity. It was mostly purple flowers with a red and yellow background. "It's all the rage."

  "As you say, Kildar," Greznya said. "If I am going with you, I had better change." And put in some contacts, she thought. Eye shielding ones.

  "Absolutely," Mike said. "Meet us at the poop deck in ten minutes."

  "Why do they call it the poop deck?" Greznya asked, pausing.

  "It's where the poop heads used to hang out."

  Souhi was exhausted. He could barely think as he brought the cigarette up alongside the freighter.

  The loop the boats were taking took nearly two days. Two days of constantly being banged around by waves, except the rare flat periods when they were interior channels. Run up from Nassau through the Abacos. Tank. Run up to the freighter, arriving under cover of darkness. Tank while riding alongside, not the easiest thing in the world. Pick up the cargo then run down the coast. Hope they had enough gas to make it to Nassau. If they were critically low on fuel they could stop at Nicoll's Town, but that was an easy way to get detected. In Nassau they were given one night's reprieve. Then they had to do it all over again.

  The crew of the freighter lowered a fuel hose. Zakharia Al-Shemari, the third member of the team, grabbed the hose, then pulled off a small, sealed box and dropped it on the deck. Then he laboriously dragged the hose to the hungry maw of the fuel tanks.

  Kahf, moving slowly, picked up the box, then sat back down, holding it in his lap.

  Souhi kept the cigarette as close to the freighter as he dared as the tanks filled. He had to fight the wash from the freighter, which alternately threatened to push them so far out they lost the hose, then drag them in to crash into the side of the freighter. And this was good weather.

  Finally, the tanking was done, the hose retracted and he could pull away. As the crew strapped down he turned opposite to the freighter's course and added power.

  Kahf sat down next to him, still holding the precious box, and strapped in.

  "I don't know how much longer I can do this," the fedayeen diver said, bouncing in time with the boat.

  "Only three more runs," Souhi pointed out. "Where's the next drop?"

  Technically, Souhi was the only one who was supposed to know the key operational details so Kahf looked at him quizzically, then opened the small box. Inside was a scrap of paper.

  "Twenty-four, fifty by eighty, twenty-seven," Kahf said, then slipped the paper back into the box.

  Souhi, still driving the boat, punched the coordinates into the GPS and then nodded.

  "Off Largo," he said. "Closer this time by a bit. A long run, though. First, t
o the pick-up point."

  The cigarette plunged across the big Atlantic rollers, headed east . . . .

  Chapter Ten

  Mike pulled the Cigarette up to the landing platform and backed as he came alongside, reversing the starboard engine to bring the rear of the boat around.

  The line handlers were much better trained than the Keldara, he had to admit. They scrambled aboard, picking up the mooring lines before any of Mike's party could do more than stand up, and had the boat secured in an instant. However, they didn't look Colombian. Indonesians at a guess.

  Mike climbed out of the boat, showing his invitation to a big guy wearing an earbud.

  "Mike Jenkins," the Kildar said. "Pleased to meetcha. Nice boat."

  "Yes, sir," the man said, nodding and gesturing to the ladder up to the yacht. "Welcome aboard the White Line."

  "Am I supposed to salute?" Mike asked, as he walked up the stairway.

  The rear deck of the yacht was about packed with people already. Another man, much smaller and dressed in a white blazer, held his hand out for Mike's invitation, read it briefly, then nodded.

  "Michael Jenkins and associates," the man boomed. He had a much more resonant voice than his appearance suggested. "Mountain Tiger Breweries."

  "And bearing gifts," Mike said, gesturing to the crate that Shota was carrying. "The good stuff."

  The man waggled a finger at one of the waiters and the crate was hurriedly shuffled off to the bar.

  "Mr. Jenkins," Juan Gonzales said, walking over with his hand out. "A real pleasure to meet you. I've heard so much about you."

  "The pleasure is all mine, Señor," Mike said, shaking his hand affably. "And if I could introduce my friends?"

  "And lovely friends they are," Gonzales said, nodding.

  "Britney Harder, Anastasia Rakovich, Greznya Mahona, Señor Juan Gonzales," Mike said. "Juan, meet Bambi, Anna and Grez."

  "Please make yourselves at home," Gonzales said, shaking hands. "My boat is your boat. Mr. Jenkins, there are some people that I think you must meet."

  "Glad to," Mike said, grabbing Lieutenant Harder's hand. "I think Bambi wants to meet them, too."

  "Of course," the lieutenant said, smiling.

  "Britney Harder," Suarez said, shaking his head. "Second Lieutenant, SOCOM G-2, South America section. She's one of their people for tracking people like, well, us."

  "Unsure of herself but combat trained," Ritter said, nodding. "Look at the walk."

  "I can see," Enrico said. "Anastasia Rakovich. Former harem girl of an Uzbek sheik. Jenkins' domestic manager. The other girl, the two guys, I got nothing on them."

  "You don't need it for the guys," Ritter said, pointing to the monitor. "One of them was either in a bad wreck recently or, more likely, serious combat. Look at that prosthetic. But he doesn't seem slowed down by it. The other one . . . pure muscle."

  "He's big enough, that's for sure," Suarez said. "The girl I've got nothing on, either."

  "Have you penetrated their system?" Ritter asked.

  "Not even close," the Mexican admitted. "Their encryption is a stone bitch, they've got firewalls from hell, some of them ones I've never seen before as if they're something custom made just for them. And they're paranoid; I've tried, twice, to do a serious attack and both times they nearly tracked me back even though I went through multiple systems. Hell, they tracked me through satellites. And about half of the boat's screened against electronic penetration. Unless we get somebody on the inside, forget it. I don't even know, for sure, what they've got in there. But the traffic level, both directions, is massive. And they've been running stuff through distributed servers a lot. I've gotten the data but without the encryption scheme it's just ones and zeros. Mostly zeroes."

  "Mr. Michael Jenkins," Gonzales said, walking over to a man in Bahamas Constabulary uniform, "Colonel Horatio Montcrief, regional constabulary commander."

  "Colonel," Mike said, shaking the man's hand. "It's a pleasure to see you again!"

  "And you, Mr. Jenkins," the colonel said, grinning. "The last time was . . . in Andros wasn't it?"

  "Bimini," Mike said, shaking his head. "The blonde and the redhead."

  "Ah, yes, them," the colonel said. "Whatever happened to them?"

  "Back at school I presume," Mike said, shrugging. "How is Deirdre?"

  "Just fine, Mike," the colonel said. "Just fine. I understand you have minions, now."

  "Friends," Mike said, shrugging. "Associates. Buddies. I could hardly call them minions. And if I could introduce Miss Harder?"

  Britney's eyes were wide as she shook the constable's hand. For all the reports she'd read, the sight of a senior member of the constabulary sharing a friendly drink with a noted drug dealer was hard to take.

  "Call me—"

  "Bambi," Mike interjected. "She likes that."

  "Bambi," she said, shooting Mike a glare.

  "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Harder," the colonel said, grinning again.

  "Sir," a waiter said, holding out a tray of champagne glasses.

  "Dom Perignon '96," Gonzales said.

  "Nah," Mike said, waving at the tray. "But could you get me some of the Mountain Tiger? Dom you can pick up in any liquor store by the case. I brought the pure quill, Mother Mahona's brew. That you can only get from the Kildar!"

  The waiter shot a glance at Gonzales, then scurried away with his tray at the expression on his boss's face.

  "Nice boat," Mike said, looking around. "Bit smaller than mine, though, I think."

  "Ah, but mine is owned, not rented," Gonzales pointed out.

  "Point," Mike said, shrugging. "But, hey, I hardly get a chance to get down here anymore. I just brought the harem down for a vacation. Georgia's cold as a witch's tit in the winter."

  The waiter had returned with four pilsner glasses filled with a rich brown beer.

  "Ah," Mike said, picking one up and taking a sip. "Nectar of the Gods."

  Gonzales picked up one of the beers, a frozen expression on his face, and took a sip. His face cleared instantly as he pulled the glass back to look at it.

  "I take it back, Mr. Jenkins," Juan said, nodding. "I confess to having your Mountain Tiger beer one time and finding it . . . good. This is . . ."

  "Amazing," Mike said. "And that's just Mother Mahona's. The boys have been trying the stuff we ship out for export and laughing their ass off. No comparison."

  "This is very good," Colonel Montcrief said. "But I think . . . Did you say 'harem?' "

  "Do not all rich men have a harem?" Juan asked, waving at the girls that were scattered through the crowd.

  "Absolutely," Mike said, raising his glass. "But I'm a traditionalist. It started off as a bit of a joke, tell the truth. Some Chechen pimps thought they'd snatch a daughter of one of my . . . associates. Well, I mean, what would that have done for my reputation? So I had to explain to them that that was unwarranted. When we'd cleaned up the blood, I had seven teenaged virgins on my hands that were no deposit, no return. A harem seemed like the natural thing to do at that point."

  "Of course," Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. "I take it that the young ladies here in the Bahamas are . . ."

  "My official wards by the grace of the Georgian government," Mike said. "Poor orphans that I took in out of the goodness of my own heart and feed and clothe by my own expense. I've got the paperwork if you'd care to see it?"

  "Not at all," Montcrief said, smiling.

  "The poor homeless waifs," Mike said, shaking his head and wiping a mustache of foam off his lip. "What could I do but take them in and . . . train them."

  "Of course," Gonzales said, trying not to snarl.

  "So I make the best beer in the world," Mike said. "What pays for your yacht, Juan?"

  "Oh, buying and selling," Gonzales said. "A bit of manufacture."

  "Mr. Gonzales is a drug dealer," Colonel Montcrief said, taking a sip of his beer. "And a very good one. Good enough that neither the government of the Bahamas nor the U.S.
government have ever found enough information to prosecute."

  "A base canard, I'm sure," Mike said, shaking his head. "You thought much the same of me once, Colonel, and I assured you you were wrong. I refuse to believe such of Mr. Gonzales. He's far too much the gentleman to be involved in anything like that."

  "Well, I understand you do a bit more than make beer, Mr. Jenkins," Gonzales said, showing a bit of teeth. "Something about Amnesty International petitioning the International Criminal Court? Killing wounded or some such. A . . . base canard I'm also sure."