A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

  Mike stood up, beer bottle in hand and shivered in the wind. The temperature had really dropped and all he was wearing was shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. But he'd been cold before. He felt, sometimes, as if he'd never be warm again.

  "Hey, Vil," he said cheerfully. "How'd it go?"

  Vil recognized the tone. Fuck, he thought again. Who was stupid enough to leave him alone?

  "Went pretty good," Randy said. "Pretty good. For their first few days, they're coming along great."

  "Good, good," Mike said. "I know it's correct and traditional to clean gear after you use it, but why don't we take one night off. Scrub down in the morning?"

  "Sure," Randy said. "Not a problem. Guys, see you here at dawn."

  "I could do with a beer," Clarn admitted, stretching his back as he climbed out of the driver's seat. "Then, I think, bed."

  "I think I may skip the beer," Vil admitted. "I have a room almost to myself somewhere in this place and I intend to find it. Are you coming up, Kildar?"

  "Nah," Mike said. "It's a nice night, I think I'll just stay here."

  Vil followed the other Keldara up to the estate wondering what to do.

  Mike was afraid to fall asleep, now. He wondered that he'd done so earlier; one of the reasons for the two-month bender was the dreams. When he was drunk enough he didn't dream. The problem was, he wasn't drunk enough, yet.

  He started to get up and saw a silhouette coming down the dock. Light dress, too light for this wind, and blonde hair. Britney.

  "Hey," Mike said, jovially. "Enjoying the party?"

  "It's winding down," Britney said. "You were missed."

  "Ah, I wasn't in much of a partying mood," Mike said, setting the empty bottle on one of the pier posts.

  "You were the life of the party for a while there," Britney said. "What happened?"

  "I just wanted to come out and look at the water," Mike said turning back to the view. "I'd missed it. More than I realized. Don't you ever just look at the water?"

  "Yes," Britney said, stepping up to stand in the shelter of his bulk. "And the stars. It was one of the things I thought about when I was in that damned bunker. That I'd never see the stars again."

  "Flashbacks getting any better?" Mike asked.

  "More like I've gotten better at handling them," Britney said. "I work in a shield room in the basement of the SOCOM building. They have to pump in sunlight. Trust me, I've gotten better at handling flashbacks. Including in the middle of meetings. You?"

  "Not so good," Mike said. "Didn't think I'd ever have the problem. Some people don't. I never did. They suck."

  "So do the nightmares," Britney said, shivering.

  "Those too," Mike admitted. "We need to go in. You're freezing."

  "You know what I'd rather do?" Britney asked.

  "I am as ignorant as an apple," Mike said.

  "Go for a ride in the Too Late," she said, gesturing at the boat.

  "I thought you'd had all you wanted of Cigs?"

  "There's not a ripple," she pointed out. "What I was tired of was being beaten to death in one."

  "Okay," Mike said.

  The keys were still in it; it wasn't like anyone was going to steal it. The Keldara had, without even asking, set up a perimeter patrol. Anybody trying to steal one of the boats was going to be facing a group of highly trained commandoes and some serious questions.

  "Did you dream?" Britney asked as Mike slowly motored out of the harbor.

  "Yeah," Mike admitted.

  "Dream or nightmare?"

  "That would be the latter."

  "Yeah," Britney said. "There's things you can do about that, you know? It doesn't always work, but I've been doing it for a year and a half. It's called dream management. You teach yourself to control your dreams. Sounds impossible, but it's not."

  "And when the guy's coming towards you with the key?" Mike asked. "What do you do?"

  "Usually I can turn the dream off before that point," Britney admitted. "I change it to a meeting or something. When I can't, well, I have somebody come in and break things up. Guess who?"

  "You're welcome," Mike said, gunning the boat as they passed the breakwater. The time was between the land breeze and the sea breeze, the stillest part of the night. There was barely a ripple on the water and the Cigarette seemed to float above the water.

  "I've been through a lot of counseling," Britney shouted. "Some strange stuff, too. Stuff that actually works. There's this thing they do where you flick your eyeballs while you think about what's bothering you. I shit you not. And it actually helps. One of those weird brain chemistry things. The point is, Mike, you don't have to just fucking suffer."

  On the way over Mike had never really opened the Cigarette up. Now, he glanced at his gauges, made sure everything was solid and opened the engine up full bore.

  The difference between seventy miles an hour and a hundred does not seem that great. But in a boat arrowing a bare meter over the water, it is.

  "Holy shit," Britney shouted, snatching at the grab points on the seat. The boat seemed to be a rocket headed into darkness. She knew there wasn't anything in the way, to the south of the island was open water, but if they hit so much as a piece of floating debris she was afraid the boat would go airborne.

  They'd gotten far enough away from the island that they were hitting a light chop, ripples from Atlantic waves to the south. The boat started to leap like a gazelle over the waves, the extended props staying down below the water but the rest of the boat catching air and coasting through midair for bounds of twenty or thirty feet.

  "If you're trying to frighten me, you're succeeding," Britney shouted.

  Mike didn't answer, just leaned forward and touched a control on the dashboard. The boat turned slightly to the left, staying mostly down this time, barely kissing the waves as it screamed through the night. The moon had set and the only light source was the stars, glimmering off the surface, and yellow and green flashes of phosphorescent jellyfish, revealing their presence to predators while calling for a mate.

  Another touch of the controls and it was straight again, jumping the light waves, the air filling the world with sound.

  Suddenly, he pulled back on the throttles and hit the quick release on his straps.

  "Lieutenant Britney Harder, I would very much like to screw you."

  "I was wondering when you would ask," Britney said, pulling her sundress up over her head.

  They made love under the stars, the boat rocking on the light waves, no words, no analysis, just a desperate coupling of two ravaged souls reaching for one moment of peace.

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Track 738," Greznya said, pointing to the screen.

  The Kildar was looking . . . odd this morning. It would only be noticeable to someone who knew him well but it was clear to Greznya. He looked tired and the Kildar very rarely looked tired, no matter how long an op had gone on. Given that this one had been fairly easy so far, it was . . . strange.

  "It came into range of the balloons from the north, somewhere north of Grand Island," she continued, tracing the track. "Very high speed run down to the waters off Key Largo. Then it turned and headed over to the Bahamas cut. It was lost from radar while in the cut."

  "And it never slowed off Largo?" Mike asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

  "No, Kildar," Greznya said. "But it matches the profile perfectly."

  "So the boat is somewhere inside in the Bahamas," Mike said, frowning. "Along with a billion others."

  "Yes, Kildar," Greznya said.

  "Okay," Mike replied. "Let me think about this for a while."

  * * *

  Mike left the intel shack, yawning. Fucking dreams. Even screwing the ass off of Bambi hadn't helped. He wasn't sure it had helped her, either, but at least she understood where he was at.

  He walked out the back door and looked at the water. The boats were gone. Randy was taking the Keldara out for offshore practice. They'd only get in about an hour on the rough before they'd ha
ve to come back due to fuel constraints. Which led his mind to . . .

  The landing craft headed for the beach. It had come around the point from out of his view. Don was on the way with the Navy guys.

  Mike walked down to the beach and waited as the boat approached, sipping his coffee. The techs would have had a miserable night. The LCT had some bunks, but the crossing would have been awful; the damned things rocked like nobody's business.

  The problem being, he needed them to get started right away. Well, as soon as the boats got back. But it was going to take them at least that long to get set up.

  When the ramp dropped, the first person off was a big blond guy with a civvie bag over one shoulder. He was looking around with interest but the techs behind him were clearly just glad to get back on land.

  "You the NCOIC?" Mike said, walking up with his hand out.

  "Yeah," the guy said, eyeing Mike warily but shaking his hand.

  "Welcome to the Abacos Estate," Mike said. "The boats are out training right now. They'll be back in an hour or so. I need the extended range tanks installed and the engines tuned by sundown. That a problem . . . Master Chief?"

  "Senior," the guy said, his jaw flexing.

  "Get my boats functional and it won't be for long," Mike said. "Any issues?"

  "Parts," the senior chief said. "As in unavailability of."

  "I'll hook you up with my logistics lady," Mike replied. "She'll see to anything you need. I'm headed over to the mainland in about an hour. You give her the list, I'll get anything you need and be back this afternoon. If you need more, well, the Gulfstream's just sitting there. If you need to go get it or send somebody to get it, that can be arranged, too. But I need those boats up. I'd prefer them by this evening since I've got an op going down that I need them for."

  "Yes, sir," the chief said, looking pissed.

  "What's this all about, the chief is thinking," Mike said, sipping his coffee. "Who the fuck is this guy giving me orders? Is he Delta or what? He's in civvies, his hair's a little long . . . Maybe he's ANV or whatever they're calling it this week. The answer, Chief, is that I'm a fucking merc. I'm a fucking merc who has been hired to do all the things that even ANV can't do in their wildest wet dreams. And I'm going to do those things and in doing so I'm going to stop American civilians from getting killed. You, Senior Chief, are going to help me in doing that by making sure my fucking boats are up by sunset. I don't care what you need, I don't give a rat's ass how much it costs. Because I've got a target I need to intercept to find out where Al Qaeda has dropped some nasty shit off the Florida coast. If I don't get them tonight, that means that nasty shit gets used on American civilians. Are we clear, Senior Chief?"

  "Clear, sir," the senior chief said, nodding.

  "So get your gear set up," Mike continued, taking another sip. "Chow's in the big house, as are quarters. Quarters are okay, chow's good; I'm a big believer in steak and lobster as motivators. And, speaking of motivators, there is good news."

  "Yes, sir?" the senior chief said, suspiciously.

  "The only beer on the island is Mountain Tiger," Mike replied, grinning. "And if you're a very good boy, I may let you sample the pure quill."

  The Wal-Mart driver cursed under his breath when he saw the blue lights in his rearview. He'd been doing right at the speed limit so it had to be a random check.

  He pulled over to the side, though, there being plenty of room on the side of the nearly deserted turnpike. On weekends and holidays the road would be packed, but on a weekday afternoon there wasn't much traffic.

  Marshes stretched in every direction in the Big Empty between the burgeoning Miami area and the even faster growing sector around Orlando and Disney World. It was real old Florida, the Florida from back in the days when "I've got some dry land in Florida to sell you" was a scam. A kite swirled above on the light winds, searching for its morning meal.

  Officer Jose Coqui, Florida Department of Commercial Vehicle Enforcement, got out of the driver's door, after checking to make sure it was clear, and made his way down the narrow strip between the road and the truck until he reached the driver's door.

  "Hey, officer," the driver said. His window was already down and he had his manifest out. "I'm clean."

  "I'm sure you are," Jose said, smiling. "Just checking."

  "I weighed after I dropped my last load," the driver said. "It's in the manifest. Just running up to Orlando distribution center."

  Jose looked at the documents and nodded. The driver had followed all the restrictions that the government had put on truckers to the letter, including a mandatory rest break the night before. Gone were the days of "pop me up, jack me up, flying down the highway." Truckers were only permitted to drive a specified number of hours a day. Violate it and they were liable to lose their commercial driver's license.

  They could also lose their CDL for being overweight. The interstate highway system was primarily paid for by taxes on trucks and those taxes were based on the weight of their cargo and how far they ran between pick-up and drop-off. The weigh stations by the side of the highway, though, were being more and more replaced by a series of sensors that picked up data from the trucks about their load and destination automatically and random stops, such as this, which made sure that the truckers weren't cheating.

  Jose's partner had already rolled the scale in front of the truck's rear tires and now waved.

  "Could you pull forward a few feet?" Jose asked.

  "Certainly," the trucker said. "But you'll see. I'm clean."

  Wal-Mart trucks almost always were. The company was too big, and too professional, to fuck around with a few pounds of cargo here and there. As the controlling company of the truck, they'd get fined, too.

  The trucker pulled forward until he was on the portable scale and stopped, looking in his rearview.

  Jose walked back to the scale with the manifest and held it out.

  "Twenty-two, five thirty," Jose said. "Running light."

  "Really?" his partner said. "Try twenty-three and change."

  "You sure?" Jose asked, looking at the readout.

  The scale was a solid state model that used induction as opposed to the old "pressure" models. Sometimes they were off, but not by that much.

  "I think we have ourselves a winner," his partner said, grinning. Robert O'Toole was new to the department and "keen." He loved finding truckers that were trying to skate the rules.

  "Doesn't make sense," Jose said, shrugging. "But I'll go get him."

  "Is there a problem?" the trucker asked when Jose walked back to his cab. He knew the drill. They should have rolled him off the scale after the check.

  "You're overweight," Jose said. "Mind explaining why?"

  "Honest to God, Officer," the trucker said, opening his door and climbing down. "I weighed just before my stop. I can't be overweight."

  "Well, we got to check your cargo against the manifest," Jose said. "Open it up."

  "God damn," the man said. "Nothing against you but . . ."

  "I understand," Jose said. But he let the man go first.

  The threesome, hugging the side of the truck, walked to the rear where the driver opened the doors. Sitting at the rear of the palletized cargo were two blue plastic fifty-five gallon drums.

  "Mind explaining that?" O'Toole said, looking at the manifest. "Not a damned thing here about drums of liquid. Or is it liquid?"

  "Calm down, Bob," Jose said, shaking his head.

  "I didn't put those there," the driver said, his face ashen. "Honest to God!"

  "You might not have." Jose sighed as O'Toole clambered into the truck. "It's a new way to run drugs. You do your mandated stop, a couple of smugglers slip this into the back. You have another stop in the interim, accomplices slip it out. It's another reason we do these stops. But, if it's illicit substances, I'm going to have to place you under arrest until you're cleared."

  "Oh, fuck," the trucker moaned. "Is it going to go on my record?"

  "Not if you're cle
ared," Jose said. "And you probably will be. But the whole thing's getting impounded until it gets cleared."