A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

  "Fuck, fuck, fuck," the trucker cursed.

  O'Toole had managed to get one of the lids off and frowned down at the contents.

  "It ain't cocaine," he said, leaning down. Then he flew back, his eyes wide and started gagging.

  The officer fell to the floor of the truck, gasping and convulsing.

  "JOSE!" he managed to gag. "What . . ."

  Jose grabbed the officer and dragged him to the ground, over into the verge, then pulled his shoulder-mounted mike around.

  "This is Unit 27," he shouted. "We have a hazardous materials incident at mile marker one seventy-eight, turnpike! I need HazMat and an ambulance. Now! Officer down!"

  "So they're inside," the President said, frowning.

  "Yes, sir," the secretary of Homeland Security confirmed. "So far, Wal-Mart is agreeing to the cover story. Hazardous materials somehow were loaded on one of their trucks. The turnpike was shut down for about two hours but it's open again."

  "We got those, but we don't know how many others have made it in," the FBI director said. "Florida has reopened all their weigh stations in South Florida. The cover story is an outbreak of Mediterranean Fruit Fly. All trucks are being searched. Even moving vans are being searched."

  "But they got inside," the President said, angrily. "What are we paying all this money for if they can just slip through?"

  "We don't know their methods, sir," the CBP director said, nervously. "If they brought in a container, they're apparently breaking it down somewhere in South Florida. We'll find it."

  "And if they didn't?" the President asked.

  "That is the top theory at the moment, Mr. President," the DNI said. "We're relatively certain they brought in the full container. Find that and we find the mother lode."

  "I don't care if they brought it in by balloon," the President suddenly shouted. "FIND IT!"

  "Yes, sir," Greznya said, handing over the headpiece. "The President."

  "Hello, sir," Mike said, looking at the document on his lap. The track had come from north of Grand Island. That meant that there should be a refuel ship up there. But, if so, it was probably sitting outside the two hundred mile "economic zone" of the U.S. Very long damned run. On the other hand, the Ronald Reagan CVBG was up in that area. They should have seen something by now.

  "Where are you?" the President asked. "I called the primary number and they transferred me."

  "On the way to the hospital to see my two wounded men," Mike replied. "Don't worry, it's not interfering with the mission."

  "That's open for debate," the President said. "Two barrels of VX were intercepted in Central Florida. The officer who found them only got a whiff of one of the binaries but he's in the hospital. Tell me you have some good news."

  "I can't," Mike said. "What I have so far are hunches."

  "Your hunches have been pretty good in the past."

  "Okay, sir," Mike said, closing his eyes. "I have a hunch that the boats are picking up their cargo from a container that's floating somewhere north of Bahamas Grand Island. Probably underwater. That they then run down the coast of the Keys and drop it off. Another boat, probably two Scarab fast-fishers that we've lost track of, pick the stuff up. How were they moving it?"

  "In the back of a Wal-Mart truck," the president said. "Apparently it was loaded into it while the driver was eating. But we're checking all the trucks now. They won't be able to do that again."

  "You can move one of these in a big trunk," Mike pointed out. "Two or three in an SUV. You can't stop every vehicle."

  "I'd already thought of that," the President admitted. "And I'm getting tired of everyone telling me the situation is 'under control.' Thanks for not doing so."

  "Under control is an overstatement if I've ever heard one," Mike said. "Where'd they stop it?"

  "On the turnpike, just south of Orlando."

  "Interesting," Mike replied. "But not getting us anywhere at the moment. I've got an op planned that may turn up something soon. But I'm going to need some political muscle."

  "What do you need?"

  "PO Johnson?" the CIC officer said, walking over to the radar tech with a message form in his hand.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Your Lloyds Looper has generated some high-level interest," the officer said. "We're going to be putting a Viking up. When the Viking has to return they're putting up a P-3. The take from both is going to go to your screen and your screen only. You will then send the take to this address," the officer said, handing over the form. "You will not discuss any take from it with anyone else. Vanders will be briefed in on it but only Vanders. You may receive classified requests for retasking which you will then pass on with the minimum possible discussion. The classification on all data is Ultra Purple under code name Thunder Child. No one onboard this ship, with the sole exception of you and Vanders, is cleared for data regarding Thunder Child. Are those orders clear?"

  "Yes, sir," the tech said, her eyes wide.

  "For anyone listening in," the officer said, raising his voice slightly, "there had better not be any questions about this. Not here, not in the mess, not in the bunks. Forget you ever heard it. Chief, lock this down."

  "Yes, sir," the section NCOIC said. "It is locked." The crew might ignore such an order from the OIC, but they weren't about to cross the chief.

  "Sir, can I ask one question?" the tech asked. "The codeword I get. But what is Ultra Purple? I don't recognize the security classification."

  "The group with access is restricted," the officer said. "So even I don't know. But Ultra class refers to working groups with CJCS and higher clearance. However, CJCS is only at Ultra White. Purple is higher."

  "Yes, sir," the PO said, turning back to her screen. On it a contact, labeled as a friendly Viking, was just taking off. Somebody wanted to see what the ship was doing and not only did they not want the ship to know about it, they didn't even want the captain to know about it. Hell, they didn't want the commander of the CVBG or FLTATL to know what was going on.

  What was so special about one Lloyds Looper?

  Chapter Fifteen

  "Hey there, man," Mike said as he walked in Vanner's room. "I am really upset with you."

  "Why?" Vanner said, trying to sit up.

  "I thought I told you to duck!"

  The former Marine was looking wan and had lost weight. Mike had seen the look before, quite a few times in the mirror. Some time in the Bahamas sunshine and Mother Savina's cooking would do him good.

  "I did," Vanner said, smiling in relief. "Right after they shot me."

  "Doesn't do much good then," Mike pointed out.

  "No, sir," Vanner replied. "But I've been thinking about those chicken plates a lot lately. There's a guy at Georgia Tech who came out with some better ones. They're expensive as hell, but . . ."

  "But you suddenly realize that expense is relative?" Mike asked, grinning.

  "Something like that, yeah."

  "I'll look into it," Mike said. "In the meantime, you're going to be cleared to be released in a couple more days. And I've got the perfect place for you to recuperate. Besides, the girls are getting all piney without their boyfriend around. Speaking of which," Mike said, opening the door.

  Greznya came in and shook her head.

  "Sergeant, you were supposed to avoid getting shot," the Keldara girl said, coming over to the bed and taking Vanner's hand. "I'm sure I told you that." There were tears in her eyes.

  "I'm going to leave you kids alone," Mike said. "I suggest you both have a talk about . . . things. Grez, I need you back at the island, though, so be ready to leave in no more than thirty minutes. That's as long as they're going to let you hang out in here, anyway."

  "Yes, Kildar," the girl said.

  "What about all that stuff with not being alone with Keldara girls?" Vanner said weakly.

  "I don't think that's operable anymore," Mike said, pausing in the doorway. "Not after Greznya was making out in public with another girl."

  "Kildar!" the girl snappe
d as the door closed.

  "What did I miss?" Vanner asked, chuckling. "Ow! That hurts!"

  "Hey, man," Mike said, walking into Adams's room. "You are about to be officially discharged. There's a plane from Chatham waiting to whisk you away to a tropical island where you can continue to recuperate. Say 'Thank you, Mike.' "

  "Right," Adams growled. "I'm fit as a fiddle. I can take on a platoon of Delta. Let me at 'em."

  "I think that's troop or squad or something," Mike said. "They've got that weird cavalry thing going. Seriously, you're scheduled to be released. We're in place. I've got an op going down tonight. But you're not on it and don't ask."

  "Ain't gonna," Adams admitted. "Sitting in the sunshine is really all I'm up to at the moment. But I'll seriously be ready for light ops in a few days."

  "I know," Mike said. "Which is why once you're up to speed, you're going to start training Yosif's team on swim-ops."

  "Yosif?" Adams asked. "Swimming?"

  "He's actually not too bad," Mike said. "For a guy who grew up in mountains. But I got to go finish the paperwork on getting you out of here. We'll talk on the bird."

  Thomas Chatham looked at the Super Beaver and rubbed his chin.

  "It's not really for rent," the salesman said. "I mean for a few hours, yeah. But if you need it for a week . . ."

  "Possibly more," Thomas said. "How much to buy it?"

  "Five five," the salesman said. "I mean, it's practically straight out of the upgrade. Cherry."

  The basic airplane had been built in 1956 but Beavers were considered eternal. One of the best small bush planes ever made, most of the original run that had not crashed, and given the conditions under which they flew a lot had been destroyed over the years, were still in use. Recently, new engines and avionics had been developed for them that extended their range and improved their survivability. With the upgrades, the new class of Super Beaver might still be in the air when the original airframe was pushing the century mark.

  This Beaver had been configured for amphibious operations, with pontoons that featured small wheels for strip landings. It would be perfect for use in the islands. Although with a Gulfstream and two helicopters, Thomas wasn't sure what the Kildar needed it for.

  "I'll need to call my . . . supervisor," Chatham said. He didn't need a Super Beaver, that was for sure. "That was more than we were looking at. I'll get back with you. By the way, do you take cash?"

  "I got the materials," Oleg said as Mike, pushing Adams in a wheelchair, approached the Gulfstream.

  "Good," Mike said. "You ready to walk, yet, crybaby?"

  "I'm fine," Adams said, standing up and then swaying. "God damn."

  "I've got you," Oleg said, grabbing the master chief's arm. "I was the same way. It is not something to be ashamed of."

  "I'm not ashamed," Adams said. "I'm pissed."

  With Oleg's help he was loaded on the plane. Mike climbed onboard, followed by Greznya, who had clearly been weeping.

  "You okay, Grez?" Adams asked, grimacing in pain as he settled in the seat.

  "I am, in fact, very good, Master Chief," the girl said, then burst into tears again.

  "Vanner finally popped the question," Mike said, grinning. "Hey, Grez, how you fixed for a dowry?"

  "Thanks to you, Kildar, just fine," the girl said. "And I hate to say it, but the one condition that Patrick put on the marriage is that I not enter the Rite."

  "Fine by me," Mike said. "I was wondering when he'd finally get off the stick. Damn, that boy can be slow sometimes. Besides, he's good genes, too. The Mothers should be well satisfied."

  "Damn," Adams said. "Color me clueless."

  "Like I said," Mike replied. "You weren't hired for your brains."

  "Daria!" Mike yelled as soon as he was in the house.

  "Here, Kildar," the girl said, walking into the main room.

  "Where are we—"

  "The boats have been surveyed," Daria said, almost simultaneously. "The senior chief says they are all in good working order but he is 'tuning' them. They have most of the materials they need to install the extended range tanks. He assures me they will have them installed by dusk. They are being painted as well. Some of the Keldara are assisting in that. Vil's team is considered 'marginally prepared' by Mr. Holterman. Mr. Chatham has found a plane meeting your requirements but it is unavailable for rental. They want a bit over a half million dollars for it."

  "Buy it," Mike said, walking across the room towards the secure room that had been set up.

  "The captain of the yacht says that he's ready to move when you are," Daria continued. "Gear has been moved to the yacht. The Hind is fueled and back onboard. Yosif's team is ready to board. To refuel the boats offshore the yacht will need to take on aviation gasoline in Nassau. It is available and the captain is aware of the necessity."

  "Anything I'm missing?" Mike asked.

  "Lunch," Daria said. "It's being laid on right now. I suggest you eat before you board the yacht, although there is food there as well."

  "Thanks, Mother," Mike said. "I'll take that under advisement. It's a pretty long run."

  "You should also sleep," Daria noted. "It's going to be a long night."

  "I'll take that under advisement, too," Mike said, frowning.

  He walked in the secure room and shook his head. Greznya had beaten him there and most of the girls were crying.

  "This is what I get for setting up an intel shop of nothing but women," Mike said.

  "Daria!" Irina said, ignoring him. "Sergeant Vanner has asked Greznya to marry him!"

  "Oh, that is wonderful news!" Daria said, running over and hugging the girl.

  "He is so weak," Greznya sniffled. "He is so tired."

  "He'll be out here in a few days," Mike said. "You can feed him up. He'll get better. Trust me, I know."

  "He knows," Britney said, nodding. "Boy, does he know."

  "Quiet, you," Mike said. "I hate to break up the party, but do we have anything new?"

  "It turns out the Ronald Reagan had already identified a probable contact," Irina said, wiping her eyes. "A freighter is tracking back and forth north of Grand Island. They have launched a plane to keep an eye on it."

  "Excellent," Mike said. "Sort of."

  "Sort of?" Irina asked. "I will not ask. We also have gotten information from Jay." She handed Mike a form. "He believes he has a lead."

  "Also very good," Mike said, nodding. "Anybody seen Dr. Arensky?"

  "He is in an outbuilding," Daria said. "The other side from the harbor."

  "I know it," Mike said. "Okay, Irina, who's on for tonight?"

  "Myself and Creata," Irina said.

  "Okay, be at the yacht in thirty minutes," Mike said, then paused at a frown from Daria. "Make that forty-five. And get some lunch."

  Mike walked in the door of the small coral building and paused. Most of the interior was filled with plastic sheeting.

  "Tolegen?" Mike called. He could see a shape through the plastic and assumed it was the doctor.

  The interior was very cool and smelly. There was an acrid stench that was overlaid with various fruity odors. Mike didn't recognize any of them, but "cloves" came to mind.

  "Ah, Kildar," the Russian scientist said, pushing aside some of the plastic. "Welcome to my laboratory." He said it the way any good mad scientist would: Lab-oooor-a-tory. Roll the Rs.

  "Just can't keep from tinkering?" Mike asked.

  "I have never had a chance to study some of the properties of tropical fauna," the Russian said. He had a Petri dish in one hand and a glass beaker filled with a yellowish substance in the other. "There are some very vile poisons to be found in tropical species. I wonder if you're ever going to go to the Australia area?"

  "At this rate I'd put it as 'likely,' " Mike said, sitting on the edge of the room's desk. There was a small chemical lab set up on a table on the side. While it was incredibly, almost unbearably, neat, the desk was littered with papers. "Got a question for you: can you come up with so
mething that will incapacitate a large number of people? I'd prefer not to kill them because I'm going to need to ask some questions. But just unconscious or very sick would do."

  "Easily," Tolegen said, frowning. "But how large an area? If you're talking about a lot it would be logistically difficult."

  "A small freighter," Mike said. "I'm not sure of the cubic footage. I can probably get that for you. But I'd like something that's pretty potent and portable. Getting it onto the freighter is going to be the bitch."