A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

"I need a vector," Kacey said, dropping lower to the waves.

  Creata fiddled with the controls for a moment, then nodded.

  "Turn to nineteen degrees," she said, yawning. "Sorry. Range . . . one hundred kilometers."

  Souhi was getting very tired of this round-robin. The brief rest in the hotel had done nothing but make him look forward less to this trip.

  The sun was setting as they headed northwest towards the tanker. At least the weather was good. And there were no other boats around. He'd heard about the other boat so he kept looking behind him. But, so far, nobody.

  The radar tech on the Ronald Reagan was watching the activity with interest. Everyone on board had heard the news and the captain had added some additional items. And now everybody knew the reason they'd been steaming up and down the coast for the last week. But the tech suspected she was the only person onboard that was actually doing anything about it.

  A P-3 radar craft was circling high over the area, sending its take back to the Ronald Reagan and not even looking at it itself, supposedly. She knew the crew was probably sneaking a peek.

  And there was stuff to watch, now. A single track had exited the Abacos chain and was headed for the freighter. Another track had exited not long before but they turned east and were now doing a slow figure-eight. The tech did some calculations and determined that they would, probably, be below the horizon of the fast mover.

  As she watched, two more tracks came into the area, surface fast movers, then a helo came up from the Abacos, flying not far off the water and fast. It was going faster than a Super Cobra. And no transponder. Interesting . . .

  Mike opened the door and slid out, holding onto the rope secured to his STABO harness.

  There had been two choices. Try to capture the ship and then take down the cigarette from it or take down the cig and take the ship from it. Taking down a ship is hard, especially in the initial assault. SEALs trained in it, extensively, but the Keldara had not. Mike was unsure about taking it down at all, but if they did it would have to be by surprise.

  Which meant capturing the cigarette and, even more important, the driver. The driver, obviously, was going to be the only one who knew where the mother lode was.

  He reached the end of the harness, hanging a mere fifteen feet under the helo and spinning like a top. Spreading his arms he stabilized, then held his right arm out.

  Pavel was having more trouble but Mike could tell he was grinning behind his balaclava. Oh, hell, so was Mike. He was having a blast. But he wasn't going to let it interfere with the mission.

  They linked hands as the helo banked, turning to come in behind the blacked-out cigarette.

  Souhi had stopped looking behind him. There hadn't been anything by dark and it was unlikely that anyone could track in on him out here. There weren't any aircraft in the sky, nothing but these damned rollers. This was, in a way, the worst part of the trip with the waves coming in at an angle, a nasty quartering sea that sent the cigarette corkscrewing on each breaker.

  The damned movement was a bitch. The targets were corkscrewing back and forth and the driver was seated. All that was really visible was his head and shoulders. Doing the shot was going to be a stone bitch. Which was why he was doing it.

  "Keep going," Mike said, thumbing his mike with difficulty. "Get right over the son of a bitch."

  There was a strange note to the engine. Like a whopping sound. But it was still running. Hopefully they would make the ship. There was a technician onboard just in case they had problems.

  "Strike, NOW!" Mike shouted over his mike.

  The helo sped up and Mike, still holding Pavel's hand for stabilization, slid across the boat, his feet barely over the heads of the startled muj in the back, and fired the taser downward into the shoulder and neck of the driver.

  It was a tough shot. Forget the corkscrewing, he had to figure windage for a vessel going nearly seventy miles per hour and he was swaying in the STABO harness.

  The taser plunked into place perfectly and the driver began spasming.

  Which created its own problems. His hands fell away from the steering and the boat went into an out-of-control turn, nearly broaching in the waves.

  The helo banked, throwing Mike and Pavel outwards. Due to the same effect that children use to play "Crack the Whip," they suddenly started pulling more Gs than Mike wanted to experience ever again.

  "Fuck," Kacey snapped, seeing the boat go out from under her. "Lasko, where's it at?"

  "Left, it went left," Lasko said. Then, as she was banking, he shouted again: "No, it's turning back right!"

  "Where's the Kildar?" Kacey asked.

  "Over it!"

  Hoping against hope, Kacey dropped the helo down.

  Mike felt the lurch downward and saw the boat coming up at him, fast. He let go of Pavel's hand and braced, expecting to slam into one of the many hard surfaces that were more or less vertical.

  Instead his feet hit the deck, right between the driver's seat and the AD's, as the boat was jumping over a wave. He grabbed one of the chicken bars, hit the quick release of the STABO and lurched across the driver, his feet going airborne, to kill the throttles.

  That fucking pilot was magic. He didn't pay her nearly enough.

  The two muj in back were scrambling to their feet but his pistol came out faster than they could react.

  "You can be martyrs if you'd like," Mike said as a dripping Pavel dropped onto the deck. "I really don't care."

  The muj had been winched into the helo, Oleg's strike team had been brought up and Mike was now headed for the rendezvous, Dragon banking off to take up attack positions. The range on the freighter's radar, to waterline, was about thirty miles. They were still over fifty from the freighter so the intercept shouldn't have been visible.

  "So far so good," Mike said. "Now comes the hard part."

  "We will do it," Gregor Makanee said. Oleg had felt that, by rights, he should be one of the men on deck. But Mike had pointed out, persuasively, that none of the muj on the boat were over two meters, blond and weighed in at damned near a ton. The three darkest Keldara in his team had been chosen instead. Mike figured that the rendezvous was going to use minimum lights. The fun part is that they probably didn't stop. He wished Randy was driving. He was a SEAL with some time in a Cig. This was something for an expert.

  "Yes, we will," Mike said loudly. "We always fucking do, don't we?" he added, so quietly he couldn't be heard.

  The tech was really resenting the security restrictions on this take, now. Wow. They'd intercepted and presumably captured a cigarette doing damned near seventy. That had to have been fun. And now it was headed for the freighter. And the other cigs and the helo were hanging back, presumably out of range.

  This was gonna be good . . . .

  "So, they have the cigarette," the President said. Just because the CVBG commander couldn't watch didn't mean the President couldn't.

  "And they're going to use it to assault the ship," the defense secretary said, nodding. "That's going to be fun."

  "We could have sent SEALs," the President pointed out. "We've got two full teams sitting on their hands."

  "Presumably the Kildar didn't want that. One suspects he wants the freighter crew. Alive."

  Mike conned the boat in alongside the freighter and headed for where a group was gathered by the side. He hadn't thought about it until the last moment, but he didn't actually know which side the guys used to fuel from. That, right there, could have blown it.

  "You didn't radio!" the deck man yelled as Mike approached. "But we are ready."

  Mike just waved, then pulled closer.

  "Get ready," he said to Gregor.

  The Keldara nodded and headed to the rear.

  A hose was dropped over the side and Gregor grabbed it, then it slid over the side.

  "Allah's Beard," he shouted in rather bad Arabic.

  "Son of a goat!" the deck crew yelled, pulling the hose back up.

  As the crew of the freighter were
distracted dealing with the hose, Gregor and Valentin drew silenced pistols from under their loose shirts and fired upwards.

  There were four targets. It was a rocking boat. They missed two shots but all four were down before any of them could cry out.

  The assault team came pouring up from belowdecks, the lead holding a grapnel thrower. The grapnel punched upwards with a "thunk" sound from the thrower. When it caught on the gunnel, the rope was reeled in and a ladder went up. As soon as it connected to the grapnel, Oleg started clambering up. If the leg bothered him it wasn't apparent.

  Mike waited for the first yell. There should be one any second. Then it would get tricky.

  A rope came over the side and Gregor secured the front of the Cigarette to the boat. It was going to knock hell out of it but Mike killed the power and let it coast into the side of the freighter. Then he headed for the ladder.

  As he climbed, Gregor slid under the console and pulled out a power screwdriver. If the women could do it, so could he. The boat was rocking up and down and banging into the side of the ship but he managed to pull three of the screws. The fourth, though, was stripped out.

  He let out a curse and grabbed the thing, pulling and twisting until it came loose with a nasty cracking sound.

  Shit. Maybe nobody would notice. No, there were bits of the guts pulled out. Damn.

  Maybe they should have let one of the women do it.

  * * *

  Mike joined the team and looked around as Shota slid his body armor on and handed him his silenced M4. By rights somebody should have seen them.

  "Okay," he whispered, pointing to the ladder to the bridge. "You know the drill."

  Oleg led, clambering up the ladder as silently as possible, then ducking down at the rear of the bridge to take up position by the door. The rest of the team spread to either side.

  Shota was last up, right behind Mike. He had a breaching charge in his hand and his favorite blast armor on. If he was encumbered by the massive stuff, it wasn't apparent.

  "Wait," Mike said as Shota attached the charge. "There might be a better way."

  "Are they done, yet?" Captain Faisal asked. He had his eyes fixed on the horizon.

  "They haven't called," the first mate said. "They call when they are done with . . . whatever."

  "Fueling," the captain said. "We both know it's fueling boats. Like that one that was caught in Florida, yes?"

  "I know nothing," the mate said. "Absolutely nothing."

  "Look and see if they are done, at least," the captain said. "Container Sixteen is working loose. I can see it from here. We need to get the crew up."

  "We are not to look," the mate said.

  "Then I will," the captain said as the back door to the bridge opened. He expected it to be one of the fedayeen that had been loaded onto his boat. Instead it was a man wearing a light white shirt under body armor. And he was pointing a gun.

  "Hello," Mike said. "Pleased to meet you. Anyone who wishes to be a martyr, raise one hand. Anyone who doesn't, raise both."

  Mike stood by the ventilator intake and grinned. The bridge crew had been gathered forward, where the material wouldn't reach them. The radar room and commo were already secure and the rest of the teams were on their way.

  He picked up the bulky pack and secured the hose to the intake. The pack was lashed to a davit. Then he keyed the gas and backed away. He had a gas mask on, but why take chances?

  Fast onset and thirty minutes until it wore off. Plenty of time.

  "When can we get out of our quarters?" Djelel moaned.

  "When the captain calls," Khader said, stacking a domino and picking up the set. The purser was just as bored, but orders were orders. And he wasn't going to anger the fedayeen that had taken over the boat.

  "What did you say?" Djelel replied. "You are a goat fucker!" He suddenly lunged across the table, grabbing the purser and slamming him back into his seat.

  Khader gasped as the other man started to choke him. His face had turned to one of the djinn, a nightmare face, and the deck was opening up into the fires of hell. He was in hell . . . .

  Pavel slid down the fast-rope and headed for the hatch nearest to the engine compartment. The two Keldara behind him carried cutting bars, high-temperature cutting devices. If the room was locked, they could get in.

  He slid down the ladder, hands on either baluster as he had in the yacht many times, and turned right. There was one more deck to go down before he reached the door to the engine room.

  The entire team was wearing gas masks. The Kildar had told them they must although there was none of the VX onboard. He said there would be something else to contend with.

  The ship lurched and slowed to a stop as he ran. They must have already been alerted.

  He hit the next stairway and paused as a crewman started to climb up it. The man was sobbing and screaming something in Arabic. His eyes had been clawed out and from the stain on his fingers it had been by his own hand.

  Pavel looked at the man and triggered a suppressed burst into his back. It just seemed a mercy.

  Then he continued the mission.

  "Pavel has the engine room," Oleg said. "He says there is steam being released in it. He did not do it."

  "Yeah," Mike said. The crew had gone nuts. He hadn't realized the stuff was going to be that potent. The Keldara had secured all of the crew members although there had been a few deaths. That was okay, nobody was leaving the boat alive.

  Souhi watched, ashen, as the crew was laid out on the deck. Many of them were dead and others were screaming in madness, trussed up with duct tape.

  "So," the man who appeared to be the leader said, walking over to him. "I have a few questions."

  "Go fuck a goat," Souhi said, spitting at him. "What are you going to do? Send me to Guantanamo? I sleep, I eat, I wait for your Amnesty International and ACLU to free me so I can kill you like the goat dick sucker you are."

  "No, I'm not going to send you to Guantanamo. Those poor boys and girls have enough dickheads to deal with including, yes, the ICRC, AI and ACLU. Are you the diver or the assistant driver?" he asked, turning to Kahf.

  "You are a man who licks the cocks of camels," Kahf said.

  "Oh, wrong answer," the man said, drawing his sidearm and putting a bullet through the diver's brain. "Oleg, got your first customer."

  A winch was lowered down and Kahf's feet secured to the winch. Then the diver was lifted up and lowered over the side.

  As that was happening, the dead crew were being lifted up, their feet secured to ropes and being dropped over the side to rest in the water. A spotlight was turned on and two large men lifted Souhi up so he was forced to look at the water.

  "The sharks around here are notorious," the man said, smiling. "Let's see how long it takes one to turn up."

  * * *

  It was about fifteen minutes before the first fin swept in. To Mike it looked like a Mako. That made sense; the pelagic hunters cruised the blue water constantly, looking for the fast deep-water fish that were their primary prey. But they weren't averse to eating a human, either, as this one proved by sweeping in and attacking the head of the man he'd shot.

  "Lower him a bit more," Mike said as the driver started retching. "Let's see how fast they eat him. And bring me the other guy from the boat. Time to feed the sharks."

  In another ten minutes the water was teeming. The crew, most of them trying to struggle as they saw what was going to happen, were shot, one by one, and tossed over to chum up the sharks. All the while, the driver was held in place, forced to watch.

  "Okay," Mike said, smiling that faint, friendly smile. "Even having seen all this, I won't kill you. You may not believe me, but I'm a man of my word. So you wanna give me the coordinates of the container?"

  "You cannot do this!" the driver said. "You are American!"

  "And that means we're the good guys, right?" Mike asked, pulling the man back by his hair. "Wrong. We're junkyard dogs that get kept on a leash. Because if we had our
way this is what we'd do to all you motherfuckers. You think you have the market on brutality? Ask the Indians how brutal we can be. Ask the Japanese. Ask the Germans. You're finally getting a taste of your own medicine and now you're going to FUCKING TELL ME or I'm going to feed you to the sharks, one bit at a fucking time. LOOK AT THEM!" Mike screamed, holding the man's head down so he was looking right at the red churned water. The bodies were still being torn apart; even that many sharks, and there were a lot of sharks, couldn't finish off the crew of a freighter fast. "I'M GOING TO FEED YOU TO THEM FEET DOWN UNLESS YOU TELL ME THE FUCKING COORDINATES!"