by John Ringo
"My daughter is in there!" the woman shouted. "She was down by the wave thing!"
The guard looked over his shoulder and could see where whirlpools had formed as the massive pumps reversed. The pressure would be enormous; if there was anyone down there they weren't coming out.
"Ma'am, I'm sure she's not down there," he started to say as the crowd surged forward and parted.
A heavy-set guy was head down, pushing through the crowd and panting hard as if he'd been running. As he passed the guard he looked at the woman.
"Where?" the guy panted.
"On the right, I think," the woman said.
"On it," the man said, diving into the water.
"Hey!" the guard shouted. "No diving!"
Mike knew he was fucked. Those were big fucking pumps, designed to drive masses of water like son of a bitch. Then there was the VX, which was probably in the water somewhere.
But he also could see a figure pinned against the grates. The figure's arms were up but the person couldn't reach the surface. They were caught like a spider in a web, only a few feet from air.
But inches from air could kill you.
He could feel the suction of the inlets, now, drawing him in. He rode the current, his feet forward, and slammed with both feet onto the grate. The grating was small specifically to keep people from being sucked in by the waves. It wasn't actually hard to stay "upright" sideways.
He crouched and walked, carefully, to where the figure, a girl naturally, was pinned in a rather charming spread-eagle. But at that point he was sort of stuck. He couldn't figure out how to get her unglued.
Up was the only rational choice but it was going to hurt like hell. Especially since the only thing he could get ahold of was one arm and her hair.
He grabbed both, crouched and yanked her upwards. He gained a few inches, stepped forward and tried it again. So far so good. Now if she just wouldn't die on him.
He kept yanking until he felt the flow was pulling him down instead of sideways. He could see a slight shelf just above water level. He lunged for it, got one hand on the ledge, then pulled the girl upwards against the lighter flow.
Heather had been sure she was dead. When she felt the water irresistibly pulling her under she'd taken a big breath of air. Surely they would stop the flow as soon as they realized what happened. And there were all these lifeguards and stuff around. She wasn't going to drown!
But as time went on, as she felt that screaming craving to breathe, pinned against the intake, all she could think was that it was a lousy way to die. She was too damned young to die such a lousy way. It made her want to curse. It was just so unfair. She'd never seen anything. She'd never . . . done anything!
She hadn't had much time so she'd prayed. She hadn't cried, though, cause she couldn't afford the air. She just hung on, fighting the will to breathe, letting out a bit of air from time to time, a trick she'd picked up in swimming class. She could feel her vision getting darker when somebody grabbed her by the arm and the hair! Oh. My. God! That hurt! But she hung on. Then she started being dragged across the concrete and that hurt. But she was being dragged up. That was good.
She was half unconscious when her mouth cleared the water but she let out what air she had left and took a big glorious drink.
"Oh," she said, taking another breath.
"Air's great when you haven't had any in a while, ain't it?" the man holding her hair said. He let go of the hair and pulled her up into a little ledge were water usually flowed out. "You okay?"
"I am now," Heather said, breathing deeply.
"Not too much," the man said. "Calm it down. Or you'll hyperventilate. And, uh . . ."
Heather looked down and realized that her bikini had . . . Well, it was hanging around her neck and covering her top about as well as a necklace.
"Oh," Heather said, blushing and tying it back up. "Thank you. For both."
"You're welcome," the man said. "I'd ask for favors, but you're much too young. And you shouldn't argue with your mother; she really loves you, you know?"
"How do you . . . ?" she asked then she ducked her head. "You're the guy in the GT, right?"
"Right," the man said. "And you're the girl with the belly."
"What?" Heather asked, looking down. "I don't have a fat belly!"
"I didn't say 'fat,' " the man said, chuckling. "Wave for your mom to tell her you're okay."
Heather dutifully waved, then looked at the crowd. Everybody was out of the water and they were staying way back.
"What's happening?" she asked. She felt weird. She'd nearly died and now she was chatting with some stranger while perched up on an outlet in full view of a big crowd.
"Somebody dumped poison in the water," the man said.
"That's why they were sucking it all out," Heather said.
"Correct," the guy said, looking over at her. The look gave her butterflies in her belly.
"Wha . . . who . . . why . . . Did somebody stop them or what?"
"Yeah," the man said, standing up. The whirlpools were gone. "Somebody stopped them. Time to take a swim."
"Okay," Heather said, jumping into the water. She must have cut up her back because it really hurt. "Ouch!" she said as she surfaced.
"Pain is weakness leaving the body," the man said, then followed her in.
"Whatever," Heather said, frowning. "Hey, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure," the man said, breast-stroking towards the side of the pool.
"Can I get a ride in your GT?"
"Not today, I'm a little busy," the man said. "But I'll find you tomorrow and you can then. If your mother says it's okay."
"What is it with adults?"
Chapter Twenty-Six
"You're wet," Britney said as Mike collapsed into the seat of the GT.
"Yeah," he said. "And my cell's trashed. Could you get me the rig out of the back?"
Britney picked up the case in the back and opened it as Mike pulled out. A state trooper car pulled in front of him, trying to block the GT, and he slid around it dexterously. Punching the accelerator he began weaving through the remaining traffic on I-Drive and blew through the red light at Kirkman, narrowly missing an SUV.
The case contained a tactical communicator but one of the smallest ones Britney had seen. There was an ear bud, a throat mike that wasn't much more than a patch and a small device that looked like a PDA in a belt rig.
As Mike swept through the turn onto I-4 she attached the belt rig and the throat patch, then handed him the earbud.
Mike slid in the ear bud, weaving through traffic, then keyed on the communicator.
"Who's there?"
"Lydia, Kildar, do you want an update?"
"Two major attacks? I-Drive and Wet and Wild?"
"Yes, Kildar," Lydia said.
"Switch me to Dunn," Mike said, sliding into the left-hand emergency lane to get around a rolling roadblock. He was doing over a hundred and the suspension did not like the rougher surface.
"This Jenkins?" Dunn snarled a moment later.
"You could start with 'thank you for doing my job for me,' " Mike replied.
"You realize you're on national TV at the moment?" Dunn asked. "I'm trying to convince everyone that the guy flying down I-4 in a GT is not a terrorist and doesn't go around shooting people for the fun of it. But since I'm not sure myself . . ."
Mike glanced in his rearview and finally spotted the line of police cars trying to catch up to him.
"Good, at least they're heading the right way," Mike said.
"I'm watching you on TV," Dunn said. "I can't believe you're able to talk. The only people I know that can do that are cops. Don't ask me about eating lunch during a high-speed chase and I won't tell you the story."
"I'm good at multitasking," Mike said, slipping through a gap between two semis at about twice their speed. The cop cars in the rearview either braked or tried to slip into the emergency lanes. He was just passing the onramp from the Beeline and saw three black Merced
es stacked up entering the interstate at high speed. "Okay, now is when it gets fun. I wondered when this would start . . ."
Mark Este, chief helicopter pilot and owner of World Helicopter Rides, Inc., wasn't too sure about the latest charter. The man who had set it up said that they were photographers looking for some stock shots of the Orlando area. And the group had big bags, but they didn't look like camera bags.
But, what the hell, a charter was a charter.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked as he took off.
"Down I-4 towards Disney," the leader said as the helo gained altitude. "I am a pilot as well. Would you mind if I rode up front?"
"Sorry, FAA reg against it," Mark said. He felt a cold circle on the back of his neck as the man slid into the co-pilot's seat.
"You'll forgive me if we ignore that," the man said, strapping in and putting on the spare headphones. "My bird."
The three Mercedes had obviously been souped up since they were, marginally, keeping up with the GT. The problem was the traffic. Mike was having to find the gaps and the Mercedes were following him through them. They were outdistancing the cop cars for that matter.
He didn't flinch as the first rounds struck the GT but he did snarl.
"Those motherfuckers just shot my car," Mike said. "They are so going to pay for that."
"Okay," Dunn said. "I've convinced them that you're one of the good guys. Bad guys shooting at you helped. What are we going to do about the guys trying to kill you?"
"That's handled," Mike said. "Lydia, you there, dear?"
"Yes, Kildar," Lydia said.
"Tell Dragon it's time."
"Dragon, Dragon, Keldara Base. Kildar is southbound on I-4 south of 535. Three black Mercedes in pursuit. He requests having his back scratched, over."
"Got it," Kacey said. "ETA three minutes."
The Hind had been loitering southwest of Bayhill in an area that was still undeveloped. She'd mostly been hovering over palmetto scrub and scaring the hell out of the armadillos and feral hogs that made a home of the inhospitable scrub.
Now she powered up and headed east. Time for the Dragon to eat.
The body of the former pilot tumbled into the triangle of grass at the intersection of the Beeline and I-4 as the helicopter dropped down and accelerated.
"We cannot get up to this car," the leader of the hit team said over the radio. "You might have to take him out."
"We are on our way," the Colombian pilot said. "It will take about a minute to catch up."
"You just missed the exit for Disney," Britney pointed out as Mike blew past U.S. 192.
"I know," he said, sliding into the emergency lane again and staying there. The suspension really didn't like it. "I'd rather keep on track. We've got friends headed in."
"Dragon?" Britney asked. "You know we're on national TV, right?"
"Life sucks sometimes," Mike said.
"Kildar, Keldara Base."
"Go."
"Be aware that police now report a stolen helicopter headed towards your position."
"Life really sucks sometimes."
Once past the exit for Celebration and World Drive the traffic opened up a bit. Mike poured on the gas, weaving through the tourists headed for Tampa, the three Mercedes falling farther and farther behind. But Britney had rolled down her window and now, fighting the airstream, looked behind them.
"Bell Ranger, low on the right, coming up fast," she said, sticking her head back in and tightening her seatbelts. "What are you going to do?"
"Drive," Mike said then braked. "Dragon, Dragon, heading north," he said, skidding sideways into an emergency crossing.
As he accelerated into the northbound lane, one of the Mercedes tried to cross the median and rolled over. Another got stuck. The third followed him through the emergency crossing but, with lower acceleration, fell farther behind. Not a lot. They were definitely souped to the max. However, Mike could see the Bell Jet Ranger now and it simply pivoted. The doors were open and he could see the machine guns carried by the passengers. Tracers flew past the GT as he ripped through the gears and back up to full speed, twisting through the traffic. A line of bullet holes appeared in a CCC truck ahead of him as he drove under the fire.
"Dragon?" Mike asked.
"I see them," Dragon replied. "Look up and left."
Mike glanced that way and grinned. The Hind was dropping down like a peregrine on a dove. On the other hand, it wasn't real close.
"You know there are two birds following you, right?" Dragon said. "I think one of them's a TV crew."
"Shoot the one that's shooting at me. I'm not sure I could get all deniable about shooting a TV crew. Again."
Rounds cracked through the roof and into the backseat as Mike slid into the shadow of another tractor trailer and braked, hard. He rolled along there for a second, but that let the Mercedes catch up and one of the passengers leaned out the window holding an automatic carbine. Rounds started to slam into the rear of the car. Which was where the engine sat, so that was bad.
"Dragon, these motherfuckers are shooting my GT," Mike pointed out. "This is not happy making."
"Almost there, Kildar."
He accelerated out of the cover of the truck as the Mercedes tried to drive alongside, rounds bouncing into the interior of the GT. Again, he was able to accelerate away much faster than the Mercedes could manage but the Ranger just dipped its nose and kept up. It had swung over to the right and rounds cracked through the hood. But they were going to find the range sooner or later and either take out the engine or Mike and Britney.
Another set of rounds cracked right past Mike's head, one tracer flying by his nose and burying itself in the driver's door, then there was a tremendous explosion off to his right. Glancing that way, he saw the flaming wreckage of a Jet Ranger crashing into the fields surrounding the Kissimmee River.
The Mercedes, finally noticing that Mike had top cover, cut across the lanes and into the median. As it bounced into the grass four laserlike lines of fire tracked across it and the Mercedes burst into fire, rolling into the oncoming lane. Cars dodged it successfully. Let the local sheriff's department handle that.
"Okay, Dragon, thanks," Mike said. "Move to secondary loiter point."
"You're welcome, Kildar," Dragon replied. "Dragon Flight, out."
"Jesus Christ," Fisher said as the smoking GT pulled into one of the VIP slots in the employee parking lot. "You really fucked up your car, Mr. Jenkins."
"Other people fucked up my car," Mike said, sourly. "Of course, most of them are dead, now. I'd call it even but I really like this car."
"Yeah, I saw," Fisher said. "Was that a Hind on the TV?"
"Shit," Mike said with a sigh. "It was a news bird, huh? I hope they didn't follow me here."
"They tried to follow the Hind," Fisher said. "But they lost it. That's one fucking fast Hind."
"It should be for what I paid for it," Mike said, pulling a large backpack out of the front boot. There were some bullet holes in it so he checked the contents but they were all fine. He pulled out the body armor and slid off his shirt, then slid the armor on. The extra bulk was hardly noticeable under the Hawaiian shirt, the pattern of flowers breaking up the outline. He did have to button it up one button, though. A Desert Eagle .50 slid into the waistband of his shorts. It was, also, well concealed by the long shirt. Heavy but the stopping power was nice.
"What do you want me to do?" Britney asked.
"Stay out of the way," Mike replied, then held up a hand to forestall a reply. "I know, I've been dragging you around into nasty incidents all day. Why stop now? Because my teams have this covered and I don't want you to get hurt. It stopped being a game back there on I-4. So . . . Head back to the hotel. Please."
"Okay," Britney said.
"Just that?" Mike asked. " 'Okay?' "
"How about, 'I'm really tired of being shot at and being around poison gas,' " Britney replied with a grin. "I'm fine with sitting this one out. I'll go catch a ride."
With that she headed for the employee entrance.
"Smart girl," Fisher said.
"Smarter than me," Mike admitted. "Say, I don't suppose Disney has a fantastic car rebuilding shop?"
"The studio guys do," Fisher replied. "Want me to talk to them?"
"Please. And ask them if they could redo it in black and silver. Maybe with a tiger face on the hood?"
