A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

  Actually, Disney, accidentally, had one of the better set-ups. Because they used a tram system to move most people from their cars to the entrance, it made getting a car bomb into a major crowd harder. The main crowd a terrorist could hit on the outside was that of the people waiting for the trams. The next major chokepoint they'd already secured with big "planters" designed to stop anything up to a semi-trailer. The areas where really big crowds gathered you could only insert individuals into. And whereas a suicide bomber could take out quite a few people in one of those packed crowds at the monorail or the boats that crossed Bay Lake, it was nothing compared to what a U-Haul packed with ammonium nitrate could do.

  The monorail had him really worried though. Again, max casualties about six hundred but that would be dead. A suicide bomber blowing the monorail would take the entire thing down.

  And none of that took into account the VX. The main threat there was crop dusters. All of the known crop dusters in the Central Florida area were registered and cops were keeping an eye on them in general. But there were a bunch of the damned things. Outside of Orlando and the tourist areas, Central Florida was still mostly rural and heavily farmed. With constant sunshine, lots of rain and good soil, it was a supplier of off-season vegetables and other crops on the same order as the Imperial Valley in California. But the same idyllic conditions also meant a hell of a lot of crop pests, which meant dusting.

  Poison gas was, essentially, pesticide with humans being the pests; anything that could spread pesticide could spread VX. And it would kill everything else that had a nervous system just as well as humans: birds, snakes, kittens and your little dog, too.

  What was really bad about VX was that it lingered. The molecule was very robust and didn't break down well. If any of the shit got spread around it was going to poison the area for a good long time. Unless every single surface was carefully cleaned, someone touching the underside of a door knob a year later would die. And if a couple of canisters were dumped over Disney—or EPCOT or Universal or anywhere else in the area—the shit would feed into the water system, contaminating it for years.

  And nobody seemed to be taking the threat seriously. It was like the entire JTF was in denial. Nobody would be so vicious and cruel as to spray Disney or Sea World or Wet and Wild. Why, that would kill people! Yeah. And nobody would ever fly a plane into the Twin Towers.

  The reports from the FBI were driving him crazy. First of all, there were reams of them. And they were . . . gobbledygook. The FBI had flooded the region with agents, most of whom were wandering around with no real clue what they were looking for or at. Agents from Seattle were trying to figure out this whole "sunshine" thing. Agents from New York were trying to "interface" with red-neck deputies in Lake County, a major crossroads area, and there had been "issues." Lake County sheriff's department had a very simple motto: Keep the FBI as far away from us as possible. Their joke was that the first biggest lie is "I'm from the FBI and I'm here to help." And the FBI's motto seemed to be "Ready, Fire, Aim." Flood the area and hope like hell it helped. At the very least, their ass was covered. Especially if they created lots of pointless reports.

  On the other hand, Mike had taken one look at the DEA's reporting system and given up in complete disgust.

  The FBI, though, had "determined" nine crop dusters in the Lake County area. Not "determined that there are." Simply "determined." Mike couldn't even figure out what that meant. Had they secured them? Had they simply counted them? And crop dusters in Lake County didn't really matter to him; the flight time to any significant target was too far.

  The FBI had also "determined" seven in Orange County. Most of them were located at the Kissimmee Airport, which was close enough. It was in easy striking distance of all the major attractions. But Mike couldn't see the rag-heads taking off from Kissimmee. They were going to have to load the birds. That was going to take time. They'd be in full view of airport security and, now, Orange County deputies and FBI. Even the FBI was going to be asking questions, given that very little dusting took place in winter.

  It didn't even have to be a crop duster. The vortex of a plane's passage, and the vortex created by a prop, would spread the shit pretty well. Just a plane big enough to carry the two barrels would do it. Hook up a couple of big tubes, run one out either side of the plane, and you had a pretty effective distributor.

  Another effective distributor could be seen every night in Orlando. Even in winter the mosquitoes in Florida could get bad. To keep them down, every county had pesticide trucks. They were converted pickup trucks that simply sprayed clouds of pesticide out the back. They only ran at night, usually in the very early morning hours. But Mike's nightmares were starting to be seeing one of those driving through a neighborhood in the middle of the night. And in the morning, the clean-up crews coming through for the bodies.

  "Kildar, we have a problem," Greznya said. "Anastasia has disappeared."

  "And so the other shoe drops," Mike said, looking up from the report and taking off his glasses. "Any intel?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

  "Not so far," the Keldara said. "But Gonzales' ship put out shortly before she disappeared. She asked to be taken to Nassau so she could do some shopping. And she asked to go alone. Is it possible . . . ?"

  Mike looked at her and blinked in confusion, then shook his head.

  "She didn't turn if that's what you mean," Mike said. "She's afraid of the outdoors. She was probably just working on that. I should have made clear that she needed an outer perimeter."

  "Greznya," Olga said, walking in the room and handing the intel boss a note. "Jay."

  Greznya looked at the note and nodded.

  "A group of what looked like a DEA snatch team took Anastasia from the market," Greznya said. "Colonel Montcrief of the Constabulary has been informed that this was not one of our operations and is investigating. She won't be going out by plane, that he can confirm. Boats, helicopters?"

  "Get word to Jay that we need the take from the mikes Katya planted," Mike said, nodding and looking at the reports. "And keep me updated."

  "Yes, Kildar," Greznya said, frowning slightly.

  "How's it going?" Britney asked, walking in and sitting down across from the Kildar. He had reports spread all over a coffee table and had put his hated glasses back on.

  "I'm trying to figure out probable method of attack," Mike said, taking off his glasses. "I don't mean direct method, how they're going to spray it, but . . . There are two major attack methods if you have lots of resources. And six barrels of VX, three useable units in other words, is a lot of resources. Do you go for simultaneous attack or ripple?"

  "One attack that either gathers people or emergency services, then another on the gathering?" Britney asked.

  "Bang on. I'm going to make a WAG that the main attacks are going to be simultaneous or near simultaneous. The terrorists saw our response to 9/11. When the first attack hits, we're going to go to DefConOne and shut everything down. People are going to get distributed, fast. But they're going to concentrate in certain spots during that distribution . . ."

  "What you were talking about with the tunnels," Britney said.

  "Give the girl a cigar," Mike said, leaning back and looking at the ceiling. "So figure that there are three near simultaneous attacks. What are the indicators that they are about to go down?"

  "If I knew that, I'd be in the intel business," Britney said. "Oh, wait . . . ! Seriously, I have not the faintest clue."

  "Then use that noggin," Mike said. "What were the indicators of the 9/11 attacks?"

  "Guys with box cutters in their luggage?" Britney asked. "The hijackings."

  "Right," Mike said. "The terrorists don't make their own weapons; they use weapons that are already made by societies that can actually make stuff. Oh, sure, they use bombs and poison gas, but they're not going to make big distribution systems. One report I had the girls go over is sales of aircraft in Florida to men with Middle Eastern names. They got nine hits. I've got a st
andard request out there to find those nine planes. Five have been located and examined; none of them are in the process of conversion. But I also talked to Arensky about conversion methods and he said two guys could do it in a couple of hours."

  "So if a plane gets stolen . . . ?" Britney said.

  "Or any other distribution method," Mike said with a sigh. "Which is why we've got all of Central Florida's dispatch system feeding back to the caravanserai. I mean, I've only got so many people here. But if anything odd comes up, they should catch it there."

  "And then?"

  "Well, then somebody's got to shoot down the planes."

  "You heard Anastasia's been kidnapped."

  "Yep."

  "You don't seem concerned."

  "You don't know Anastasia as well as I do."

  "So, you're awake."

  The hood was yanked off and Anastasia blinked at the strong light in her eyes. But she was spun away from it to look at the room she was in. There were shackles hanging from the ceiling, whips lining the far wall and a set of nasty metal tools displayed in a case. At the sight, she almost fainted, but not from fear.

  "Your boyfriend has been causing me trouble," Gonzales said, walking around to stand just at the edge of her view. She was naked and strapped solidly into the chair, gagged and the gag was attached to the headrest. She could barely move a muscle.

  It was wonderful.

  "And you're going to tell me everything I need to know to kill him," Gonzales continued, walking across her field of view. "I know that right now, you'd love to tell me everything I want to know. But since I'm mad at your boyfriend, and he's not here, I'm going to take that mad out on you."

  He returned holding two clips attached to cords. One he reached down and clipped to her labia and the other he clipped to her nipple. Then he held up a red plunger.

  "Let us see how much I enjoy this . . ." Gonzales said, pressing the button.

  As the electricity coursed through her body, Anastasia screamed in near orgasm. But it sounded enough like pain and fear.

  "Anastasia was brought on board about three hours ago," Greznya said. "We got a flash of conversation in the main salon. We have a pretty good layout of Gonzales' boat from Katya's travels through it and we are pretty sure what room she's in. Katya's been informed that she is onboard. Vil's team is ready with the boats, Dragon and Valkyrie are prepared and Pad . . . Dmitri's team and Yosif's are working on an entry plan with Chief Adams."

  "Uh, huh," Mike said, nodding. "Good. Great. Glad everybody's dialed in. What's this I hear about Schwenke?"

  "Ritter was apparently Schwenke in disguise," Greznya said. "We don't know when Katya spotted him, or vice versa. But they had a very pleasant conversation just before he left. This was well prior to Anastasia being snatched, but it might have been . . ."

  "Nah," Mike replied. "This is Gonzales. Kurt would know better."

  Greznya leaned to the side, touching the earbud she had in.

  "Julia says that something's happening with Katya that may have relevance," Greznya said, frowning. "We have the take in the . . ."

  "Yep," Mike said, nodding. "Let's check it out."

  He followed the girl to the interior room of the suite where the intel team had set up shop. It was technically a maid's bedroom, windowless and surrounded by the rest of the suite. It wasn't entirely, or even mostly, secure, but was the best they could do under the circumstances.

  The intel team had changed locales so much they had it down to something of a science and the room was ringed with monitors. One of them was showing the jerky shots of Katya walking down a hallway. From the occasional harder jerk, she was apparently being shoved from time to time.

  "I gotta give that girl a raise," Mike said. "She never seems to catch a break."

  A door opened and Mike shook his head. Anastasia was naked and tied up, spread-eagle. Gonzales, sweating, was standing in front of her holding a whip. From the looks of it he'd been working her front and Mike shook his head when he saw the marks on her breasts.

  "Never whip breasts, you idiot," he said, sighing. "When will they ever learn?"

  Anastasia had a ring gag in and as Gonzales struck her again she screamed, hoarsely. Clearly they'd been at this for a while.

  "Do you see this, bitch?" Gonzales said. A hand came up past the pickup and her head jerked to the side. It looked as if he was pointing her head to look at Anastasia but Katya's eyes were jerking around taking in details of the room. "This is what happens to bitches that displease me. Are you going to please me?"

  "Oh, yes, please," Katya whined.

  "Yes, Katya, you can have him when we're done," Mike said, pressing the transmit button on the desk mike. "Do me two favors. Wink at Anastasia and gimme a good view of the interior of the door."

  The view of the wink was weird; it turned the room surreal for a moment as the processors suddenly had to shift to just one eye then back.

  "I'm sorry," Katya whined, sliding down and huddling on the ground. "I won't talk, I promise!" She'd turned her head away, apparently to keep from looking at the girl, and focused on the door.

  "Yeah, one bolt," Mike said, touching the transmit key again. "Good girl. Remind me when you get back I need to give you a raise or something."

  Gonzales apparently didn't care for her turning her head away and dragged her over to the tortured woman. There was a brief flash of muff, then it was pretty apparent where he'd shoved her head. Greznya leaned down and put the sound on "record," then cut off the exterior speakers.

  "It's late," Mike said, walking to the door of the intel room. "I'm gonna get some sleep."

  "Kildar," Greznya said, exasperated. "That's Anastasia! You can't just leave her there!"

  Mike turned back and walked to the controls, hunting around until he found the recording feature. Using one of the other monitors he backed up the recording to where Gonzales laid the whip on his harem manager and froze the playback. Then he zoomed on her face.

  "See that expression?" Mike asked.

  "Oh," Greznya said, biting her lip. In freeze frame it was pretty apparent that what looked like a scream of pain had been anything but.

  "She's having the time of her life," Mike said, turning back to the door. "Gimme a call if it looks as if they're gonna kill her. I think Gonzales is having too much fun to do that any time soon. God knows Stasia is."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mike stood in front of the glass doors of his room, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the sun come up. It was going to be another glorious Central Florida winter day: fleecy clouds were spotted hither and yon and the sky was otherwise clear. It was supposed to get to nearly eighty today, which was a bit much even for Orlando in winter.

  He didn't turn as the door opened, just took another sip of coffee.

  "You want the update on Anastasia?" Britney asked.

  "I hope you weren't watching any of that," Mike said seriously.

  "A bit," Britney admitted. "And, yeah, it was hard. You know the question that gets me? How many of the girls in the bunker . . . ?"

  "About twelve at a guess," Mike said, still not turning around. "Sort of. If they knew it was a game, twelve would enjoy it. And, hell, probably one was ready to hit the table knowing it wasn't a game; there are some masochists who can't wait to die under the blade. But Stasia's not that far gone. On the other hand, she knows that at a certain level it's a game. She knows there's a strike team ready to go if it looks as if she's going to be killed. Intentionally, mind you. You play at that level and it's not real safe."

  "Do you guys ever . . ." Britney asked, trailing off.

  "Pretty close," Mike said, taking another sip. "The real bitch about it is that he's going to scar hell out of her. Bastard. No matter what you do you can't get rid of them entirely. How's she doing?"

  "Oh, she's spilling all sorts of stuff," Britney said. "All total bullshit. He's a lousy interrogator. She started in on DEA and he started naming names of people he suspected were agents. She
'burned' about half of them. I checked the DEA database. None of them are agents and a bunch of them are people close to him. It's going to nuke his network if he tries to off all of them."

  "She's very good," Mike admitted. "But getting her to actually break? That's tough."

  "Do you . . ."

  "It's her favorite game," Mike said. "She has a secret and she won't share it. I . . . encourage her to share. The last time it was a cookie recipe. Never did get it out of her."

  "With whips and . . . ?"

  "I told you in the bunker I'm not a nice guy," Mike said, turning around. "And you didn't believe me."