A Deeper Blue pos-5

by John Ringo

  Katya was in, they’d checked her CV and apparently hadn’t had any questions since the hacks had only gone to that point and then stopped. If they’d had any questions they would have searched deeper. Finding Robert’s trojans in the NC DOT database, the ASU student database and the Highlands Courier would have been hard, but the search would have been obvious.

  Robert was expensive but, like Jay, a patriot and very good. The NSA had been idiots to let him go over one little unauthorized hack. Especially since the take had proven him right.

  God damn the Clinton administration.

  “Very good!” Ali Hamedi said as the couple walked away. The Midwesterners looked as if they didn’t care much for Islamics.

  Good for them. Neither did “Ali Hamedi.”

  “What is this place?” Britney asked as the white Lynx settled onto the helipad.

  “Islamorada Harbor,” Mike said, nostalgically. Things had been… simpler once upon a time.

  The harbor was tucked inland about a quarter mile from the water, the only access a half natural, half man-made cut. For Mike, it was one definition of home.

  “Thanks, Kacey,” Mike said over the intercom. “You good on the way home?”

  “We’ll have to tank again,” Kacey replied. They’d had to stop in Bimini as it was. “And again on the way back. No externals on this bird. But we’re good.”

  Mike waved and climbed out of the helicopter, followed by Britney. The weather was still cool so they were both wearing windbreakers and jeans. Mike’s had a snarling tiger face on the breast pocket and the name “Kildar” embroidered on the back over a much larger embroidered tiger.

  So somebody was after him. That was just fine by Mike. Next time let them shoot the right target.

  He made his way to the marina’s offices, sniffing the air. It was a good day to go fishing; the recently passed cold front would bring the fish up a treat. And it was perfect sailfish conditions. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the fucking time.

  He opened up the door to the grimy interior and grinned. “Hey, Sol.”

  “Mike!” the man said, standing up and coming around the corner. He shook Mike’s hand, then gave him a bear hug. “Man, where you been?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Mike said.

  “You disappear and then some DEA guys bring your boat back,” Shatalin said, shaking his head. Sol Shatalin was a short-coupled, barrel-chested man, a former Navy bosun who had a part interest in the marina. The money was a guy in Michigan who’d made his fortune in bio-tech, then settled back to enjoy it. Part of that was buying a marina, partially because they were pretty good moneymakers but more so that he had an in on the Florida boat and fishing trade.

  Sol ran the place, working his ass off most of the time but loving every minute of it. However, he’d worried about his friend, the former SEAL who had disappeared.

  “Christ, they actually used DEA?” Mike said, shaking his head. “Great.”

  “Oh, they didn’t wear the jacket or anything,” Sol said. “But after you’ve been down here for a while you know. They were dressed like gang-bangers, you know? But they were… too straight. And bangers wouldn’t be returning your boat; they’d be selling it.”

  “Captain Don’s been running it, though?” Mike asked.

  “Yeah,” Sol said, shrugging. “Keeps it in good shape.”

  “Don’s a good man,” Mike said. “But I’m here about the Late.”

  “Tied up on D-43,” Sol said. “Don’s used that for a few charters, too. I’ve made sure it’s up. Just put in a new fuel injection system, bottom’s recently painted. You got the bill.”

  “I’m sure,” Mike said, smiling. “I spend most of my time lately signing checks.”

  “Hey, where were you for that nuke that went off?” Sol asked. “You remember, about a week or so after you left? And where’d those two chicks with you go?”

  “Uh, they caught a ride home,” Mike said. “You know boat bunnies. And I was… Hell, Abacos I think. Yeah. Abacos. That day. I got the news a few days later in Nassau.”

  “Okay,” Sol said, nodding slowly. “Just asking. ’Cause, you know the newsies. They get everything wrong. There was one news report said that the FAST that was supposed to have been the ones that found it got there… too late. That it was actually a one-man operation, a CIA agent. And the fucking terrorists were using cigarettes. Then, well, there’s this cigarette turns up, two more DEA guys, by the way, say that it belongs to my old SEAL buddy. And guess what its name is? Too Late.”

  “Coincidences are hell, aren’t they?” Mike said. “But unfortunately, we’ve got a date to make.”

  “We?” Sol asked, looking out the window. “Another hottie. You go, dude.”

  “Britney,” Mike said, walking outside. “This is Sol Shatalin. Great guy. Sol, Britney Harder.”

  Shatalin didn’t comment on the name, he just nodded.

  “Army?” he asked.

  “I was,” Britney said, shrugging. “Just got out. Shows, huh?”

  “Right, pull the other one,” Shatalin said, shaking his head. “MP or intel?”

  “Intel,” Britney said, frowning.

  Mike shrugged. “Sol’s got an eye.”

  “Sollie’s got eyes, Sollie’s got ears, Sollie ain’t got a mouth,” Shatalin said, smiling. “I think Sollie’s even got a current TS, for that matter. Not that I give a shit down here. People want to run drugs, that’s their business.”

  “A lot of people die because of those drugs,” Britney said, her face tight. “Not just cops and gang-bangers and innocents on the streets, here, but innocents in Colombia and Venezuela and all over South America. And American troops I might add.”

  “Then legalize them,” Sol said, shrugging. “We’ve got enough problems as it is. In case you’ve got your nose stuck too far into the drug trade… Ensign.”

  “Army, Sol, Army,” Mike chided.

  “Sorry. Lieutenant,” Sol said. “I thought you didn’t give a rat about drugs, either, Mike. Shame on you.”

  “Inside,” Mike said, gesturing with his chin.

  “Okay, Sol, what do you hear?” Mike said. “Because, you’re right, I don’t. War on Drugs is stupid. Prohibition proved that. But this isn’t drugs. So… What do you hear?”

  Sol went behind the counter and picked up the stub of a stogie and lit it slowly.

  “What is it?” Sol asked when the foul thing was finally smoking up the room.

  “That’s not for dissemination,” Britney snapped.

  “Fuck you, LT,” Sol said, looking at Mike.

  “Sol, first, Britney’s not a meat,” Mike said. “Yeah, she’s an LT. A cherry LT. But I knew her… Way back, Sollie, way back. I covered her back, she covered mine. So treat her with respect. And the answer is more fucking WMD. What type is not for dissemination. And, yeah, the Andros job? That was a one-man operation. Want to see the fucking spare assholes?”

  The scars from bullet marks make a puckered spot on the skin. They look very much like a small anus.

  “You sure about this?” Sol asked through the cloud of smoke.

  “Very,” Mike said. “We don’t know how it’s coming in. But we’re very sure.”

  “New boats,” Sol said. “Up in Tavernier Creek. Two of them. Scarabs. The kicker is… Well, usually when you see Middle Eastern types with those, it’s a Saudi prince or something. They’ve got a captain, in other words. What the fuck do most Ay-rabs know about fishing? These are a few guys staying at the Hampton Inn. Bought the boats from Hanson’s up in Largo. Cash. They only go out at night. Say that they like sword-fishing. Never have much luck, though. Like… none.”

  “What’s a Scarab?” Britney asked. “Sorry.”

  “Big two- or three-engine fast fishing boat.” Mike shook his head. “You don’t use a Scarab for night sword-fishing. They’re run and gun boats. They rock like a son of a bitch, there’s no amenities… If you’ve got that kind of money you get a yacht like mine. If y
ou don’t… Hell, you get an older one or a supply boat. Something with a stand-up head, a galley, bunks.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Sol said, setting down the stogie. “And that’s all I’ve got. And you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Never,” Mike said. “But thanks. I guess I better go get the Late. See you ’round, Sol.”

  “You too,” Sol said, pulling out a set of keys and handing them to Mike. “And keep your head down. You SEALs never learned the Navy rule about firefights.”

  Britney followed Mike down through the docks until they got to the boat, then shook her head.

  “How long has this just been sitting here?” she asked.

  The Too Late was a recent model Cigarette. Although “Cigarette” had become so generic that, like Kleenex, it was used as a general term, it was also a brand. And in the case of the Too Late it was actually a Cigarette as opposed to one of the company’s many competitors. At only thirty-two feet long it was smaller than some of the newer speed boats but it was still a monster. Painted black and silver, it looked as if it was straining away from the dock, ready to run.

  Most high-performance vehicles had their origins in smuggling: NASCAR was derived from bootleggers, and WWII PT boats were built by a company that had supplied booze smugglers during Prohibition. Cigarette boats were no exception. In the late 1940s the taxes on cigarettes, the things people smoked, were so extreme in Europe that it made it economically feasible to smuggle them. Fast boats crossed the Mediterranean from Algeria and Malta, dropping cigarette loads mostly on the Italian and French coast. Later, similar boats were used for the increasingly popular sport of offshore racing. But their origins remained in a moderate sized cabin forward. Originally designed for small, valuable cargo, in most modern boats it had been converted into underway quarters ranging from spartan to, in the case of Fountain high-speed boats, almost ridiculously luxurious.

  “It hasn’t just been sitting,” Mike said, stepping off the dock onto the gunnel, then taking off his shoes. “A friend charters it sometimes. Shoes off when you board.”

  “Why?” Britney asked, but she took her running shoes off, holding them in her hands as she boarded.

  “They track up the deck,” Mike said, pointing to the spotless white interior. “Don Jackson’s a captain down here. Used to be in the tobacco trade, still dabbles in it. He’s got two or three boats himself but he also knows all the local captains. A lot of good guys don’t have the money for a boat. So he sort of brokers a group of them with guys who don’t use their boats all the time. Like, for example, me. He manages the upkeep, sets up charters and banks the money. Some of it goes to keeping up the boat. I think I’m actually in the hole on the deal, but you’d have to ask my accountant. Hell, I could be making money.”

  Mike got the lines untied, the door to the front cabin unlocked and started the Cigarette, backing it out of the slot and turning to make his way out of the maze of the harbor. His previous slots, C-19 and C-20, had been right by the turning pool that led to the cut. D-43 was way back.

  He had lost some of his skills but he kept the first rule of close-approach navigation in mind; there is no such thing as too slow.

  Once out in the turning pool he started turning on electronics. There was no other traffic to worry about so he could handle the distraction. There was quite a bit of it. Don had upgraded the GPS and autopilot with a new, fully integrated system that put all the sensors, GPS, radar, three-D depthfinder, even satellite weather on a single display. The old one had been pretty good so Mike was looking forward to trying out this one.

  Three-D depthfinder, trim tabs, oil and fuel pressure: Mike ran through the whole checklist. He had to stop to make the turns out of the cut and watch for other traffic. There were far too many assholes in the Keys with boats bigger than either their dicks or brains. He’d nearly been run down several times by cigs similar to his going like a bat out of hell down narrow cuts, barely making the turns and swinging wide as they did. Bigger boats than dicks or brains.

  He was trying to figure out the new GPS, which was cool as shit but also complicated as a motherfucker, when he cleared the cut. He kept the speed down until he hit the edge of the no-wake zone, then cranked it up a tad, getting up on plane and swinging into the channel that led out past the reef.

  “This is nice,” Britney yelled, shucking her windbreaker. The shout was more necessary for the engine noise than the wind; this version of Cigarette’s line had a large windscreen and a nice profile that spread that away from the front seats. In fact, it was a tad warm even with the slight chill; with no wind the area was heating up from the bright sun.

  Mike pulled his off and opened up a dry box.

  “In there,” Mike said. “We might need them later.”

  Once they cleared the first reef Mike punched coordinates to the autonav and dug deeper into the GPS. The two systems were connected but as long as he didn’t give commands he was fine checking it out. Finally, he found some of Don’s waypoints and tracks. He picked out a better one for crossing the outer reef and then found some for the Bahamas. Don had been taking his little baby far. But, hell, the Bahamas were better fishing and less than an hour away in the Cig.

  “Can this thing go all the way back to Nassau?” Britney asked.

  “On one tank,” Mike said. “It’s got extended range tanks. We may tank along the way, just to be safe.” He thought about that and shook his head. “Big fast boats have more range than this one, but they’re gonna have to tank somewhere. I mean, if they’re running down from north of the Bahamas to here, dropping something, then… I doubt they’re going to run right back. Too obvious. They’ll swing around, maybe through the Cut. They’ve got to tank and they’ve got to drop off their waypoints. They’ve got to pick up their next track, probably, as well.”

  “So… where?” Britney asked. “And should we be talking about this?”

  “Well, the boat hasn’t been swept,” Mike said. “And my name is affiliated with it.” He paused. “Hell, there could be a bomb on board for all I know.”

  “That’s a great thing to say right now!” Britney snapped.

  “Unlikely,” Mike added. “Sol’s pretty good in case you hadn’t noticed. But, yeah, we should be able to talk fine. There’s no way to remote listen on one of these things short of a bug; too much secondaries. Not the engine and stuff; that can be screened out. But the wind going by? That makes it impossible. Anyway, they’ve got to tank.”

  Mike pulled up the GPS map, which was on a screen the size of a medium laptop, and pulled up an overview of the Bahamas.

  “You’ve got the north Bahamas up here,” Mike said, pointing. “Grand Island. That’s where Freeport is. Then you’ve got this big area of open water, the Providence Channel. But here’s the kicker.”

  “Most of the stuff comes in through the Keys,” Britney said, nodding. “Which is south of Providence Channel.”

  “Right,” Mike said, zooming in. “So, we’re making one hell of a lot of assumptions, but… They have to run south of Bimini. If they’re picking up north of the Grands and Abacos, they’re going to have to use the Cut. It’s the only way across the Banks. Really fucking narrow at the entrance, but easy enough for a speed boat. But…”

  “Where do they tank?” Britney said. “I’ve been over this before.”

  “DEA?” Mike asked.

  “Yep,” Britney said. “They asked the same questions. Took a month, but they asked them. I figure some of the agents were going as fast as you, but the stuff only gets distributed once somebody high enough is willing to put it out. Otherwise, if it turns out to be stupid, they get egg on their face.”

  “I can give a shit about egg,” Mike said, pointing to the Cut. “What’s their answer?”

  “Different situation,” Britney said. “The boats are going the opposite direction. They’re coming up from the south, they’re not sure where they’re getting the drugs as I said, then swinging into Providence and tanking in Nassau
or one of the harbors in the Andros area. Then south again. They get in the islands and disappear as a hard track. Then they appear again. DEA is sniffing around for their drop points. They figure that the drugs and the waypoints never cross paths, too.”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “The tracks might, but not the waypoints.”

  They crossed over the outer reef and the waves started to chop up, the big rollers from offshore peaking into near breakers as they crossed the reef. Mike gestured at Britney’s seatbelt pointedly.

  “You’re going to want to put that on,” he said, reaching down and sliding the four-point restraint on. It was much like a military helicopter’s straps so Britney had no problems.

  Then he kicked it.

  The boat rose nose up for a moment, then settled back down, hit the first wave and went momentarily airborne, the engine screaming. Mike didn’t bother to throttle down, though, since when it hit it stayed mostly down, jumping from wave-crest to wave-crest in a continuous series, the props rarely leaving the water.

  “Where were we?” he yelled over the engine noise.

  “Tracks and waypoints,” Britney yelled back.

  Mike keyed in the opening to the Bahamas Banks Cut and leaned back in his seat. The motion was much like the FAST boats he’d ridden in as a SEAL but the seats were much more comfortable. And he wasn’t wearing a hundred pounds of gear. The day was clear and the sun was warm. He’d made sure they both put on sunblock before they even boarded the helo so they were good. He checked the estimated time. Fifty-three minutes to the next waypoint. Not too shabby.

  “They’re going to need another tank point,” Mike said, bringing up the measuring system. He created an imaginary track, running a notional boat through the Cut, then having them refuel at Crossing Rocks. He ran them back around the Grand Islands then down the Florida Straits and shook his head. “They have a bunch of range, but not that much.”

  “So where?” Britney asked.

  Mike fiddled with the system, checking ranges from various fuel points.