by John Ringo
“That’s up to you guys,” Clarn said as the rest of the team scrambled onboard. “Anything else?”
“Nothing we saw,” Genrich said, setting his weapon into a deck-mounted rack. “We’re clear.”
“Then we’re out of here,” Clarn said, putting the Hustler into drive.
* * *
Vil turned, his MP-5 coming up to ready position as a hand came over the side of the Cigarette. He held his fire, though, since the mission was to capture as many of the terrorists as possible. He was glad when he saw the head of the Kildar come over the side, drop something on the floor, then slide up with a kick.
“Damn,” Mike said, breathing hard. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
The fast boats pulled away as the light from the helo went out. The cigarette rocked on the waves for a few moments then went up in a flash of fire. In a second, all there was left to indicate that a small battle had happened here was a bit of gasoline burning on the surface. In seconds that was gone.
“They just blew it the fuck up,” the co said, shaking his head. “That’s a quarter of a million dollars just went sky-high.”
“315, this is Dragon Flight, over.”
“Go, Dragon.”
“This mission is classified, codeword Thunder Child, security level Ultra Purple. Need to know is restricted to CJCS and above. Your participation will be reported to appropriate persons. No one in your chain of command below CJCS has need to know. Do you acknowledge, over?”
“Acknowledged, Dragon,” the pilot said. “We’re out of here.”
“Roger, 315. Suggest next time you mind your own business.”
Chapter Seventeen
“We have a portable GPS,” Mike said, scrambling onto the helo. The boats and the helo had rendezvoused on a bit of sand — it couldn’t be called an island — south of the intercept. The sand was half mud and Mike lost one of his socks. He hoped nobody found it; it was about the only sign that anything had happened in the area.
“I got the dash mount,” Creata said, holding up the destroyed unit. “I can’t get anything out of it.”
“Somebody might,” Mike said, shrugging. “And this might have something,” he added, handing over the hand-held.
“If they’re smart, they don’t even turn it on until they get near the drops,” Creata pointed out.
“True,” Mike said. “Take a look.”
Creata had tried to memorize all the GPS configurations she could but this one was easy. The Garmin GPS was similar to one that the teams had used before they got more advanced gear. She keyed it on and sorted through the menu, then grinned.
“There are four points on it,” she said. “And a track. But, yeah, it starts about fifteen miles north of the first point. Nothing before then.”
“Well, we’ve got those,” Mike said. “That’s something,” he added, keying his throat mike.
* * *
“315, 315, this is Dragon, over.”
“What the fuck does he want now?” the pilot snarled. “Go, Dragon!”
“Stand by to receive coordinates,” Dragon said. “Probable WMD drop points.”
“Oh, shit,” the co said, blanching. “That wasn’t a drug boat…”
“Roger, Dragon,” the pilot said. “Your bird. And get off the line.”
“My bird,” the co said.
“Go, Dragon…”
Mike read off the coordinates then paused.
“315, what is your status?”
“We are bingo. Headed to Bimini for fuel.”
“Roger. Vector to coordinates upon refueling. We are vectoring to that location at this time. Contact your higher upon refueling. They should have orders for you.”
“Roger, Dragon,” the pilot responded. “And, uh, sorry for jumping your shit, over.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Tammy, give me a direct link to the joint task force.”
“JTF Six.”
It was late but the admiral had been awake. He’d been sleeping in catnaps for the last two days. He’d developed the ability years before and knew he could keep going, and keep functional, for another two, max.
“This is the Kildar. We have four probable WMD drop points. I’m sending the coordinates over on a secure link. I recommend we wait for a pick-up before we hit them. The boats picking up are probably Scarab fast fishers. I’m vectoring my team to stand-by positions but do not intend to engage. However, make sure you have fast boats this time. Note: the Scarabs probably have radar.”
“Roger, Kildar,” the admiral said, frowning. Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, you arrogant prick.
“The locations are near Largo. If you don’t have fast assets in that area, call me back.”
“Roger, Kildar,” the admiral repeated. That was actually a point. There might not be fast assets in the area. “I’ll call you back.”
“Roger. Kildar, out.”
“Vil, what’s your fuel state?” Mike asked.
“I’m at sixty percent. Most of the other boats are in the same range. Clarn is at about forty-seven.”
“Roger,” Mike said, frowning and thinking. “Head for coordinates 52 East by 27 North at this time. If Clarn can’t make it to tankage in a round-robin, have him break off and head to Bimini to fuel.”
“Roger, Kildar.”
“Dragon,” Mike said, changing frequencies. “What’s your fuel state?”
“I could practically fly to D.C.,” Kacey said. “We’re good.”
“Right,” Mike said, sitting down in one of the jump seats in the bird. “Lasko!” he shouted.
The shooter looked over his shoulder and tossed his head in acknowledgement.
“Close it!” Mike shouted, motioning him to close the door.
“Dragon,” Mike said. “Head for Largo.”
“You’re kidding!” Admiral Ryan snapped.
“Sir, I’m sorry,” the Coast Guard rep to the JTF said, shrugging. “We don’t have all that many fast boats. We had two experimental ones, faster than just about anything out there, but we never got funding for more, or parts, and had to eventually scrap the one we had left after one crashed in a chase. DEA had some but they mostly wrecked them. The ones they’ve got left are up in the Palm Beach area or down by Key West. The ones in the Palm Beach area, if we can get them scrambled, will take a couple of hours to get there. The Marine Patrol has some and all their boats are as fast as a Scarab. I suggest we call them.”
“Okay,” the admiral said, sighing. “I need the FDLE rep, right now. But… I’m going to let someone else take point. Marine Patrol can help but they’re to remain distant from the engagement. I have another call to make.”
“Kildar,” Creata said over the intercom. “Admiral Ryan.”
Mike keyed his throat mike as Creata transferred the call.
“Go, Ryan.”
“You were right,” the admiral said sourly. “There aren’t any fast boats, not Cigarettes or equivalent, in the area.”
“There’s a reason I’m here, sir,” Mike said. “Besides the fact that I’m trusted by higher and get the job done, I know the waters and the players. I was pretty sure that was the case. I may need some discreet tanking after the job is done.”
“The base at Largo has avgas,” the admiral said. “That good enough?”
“As long as we can get this done by dawn,” Mike said, glancing at the sky. “Hell, I’ve got an alternative, even if we can’t. We’ll get it done, sir.”
“Roger,” Ryan said. “Marine Patrol is on standby to intercept if necessary.”
“Hopefully not,” Mike said as Creata gestured at him. “I’ll get back with you in a bit, sir.” He changed back to local. “What?”
“We have two winners,” Creata said, pointing to her screen. “Two boats are approaching two different drop points. They’re in about two hundred feet of water, by the way.”
“Deep dive,” Mike said, shrugging. “But you can do it on trimix. What’s our time to intercept?”
“About an hour and a half,” Creata said. “For the boats. Less for the helo, of course.”
“No, we’re going to need the boats,” Mike said. “Keep an eye on those contacts.”
* * *
“There,” the technician said. “There are the two boats. They’re heading for the coordinates.”
“They won’t stop,” the admiral said, looking over his shoulder. “See if they slow down, but I bet they don’t stop.”
“That one… it’s circling. Circling. Now it’s leaving.”
“Bet it heads to another drop point,” the admiral said.
“Direct vector,” the technician said, nodding.
“Tag that contact and zoom out,” the admiral said. “Look over towards the Bahamas cut and look for some fast boats and maybe a helo.”
“One helo approaching Bimini,” the technician said. “Coast Guard 315. There…” he added, highlighting a group. “Four fast boats and a helo following headed west out of the cut. Looks like a fourth that might have been with the group heading north to Bimini.” He paused, puzzled, and pulled up another control. “The helo does not have a transponder.”
“Is there a way for me to cut out all the take on this to anyone but us?” the admiral asked.
“The control is the Joint Drug Task Force command, sir,” the technician said uneasily. “But, yes, it can be done. But, sir, there are all sorts of ops that depend on this system. There are probably three or four drug ops going down right now using this take.”
“I need everything related to these tracks filtered out,” the admiral said. “The security on this op is at a very high level.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech said. “I know how that can be done, technically, but I’d need clearance codes from JDTF.”
“I’ll get them. And I might have to cut you out, as well. If not, you’re going to go into a very restricted compartment.”
“Okay,” Mike said over the team circuit. “These guys probably have radar. So we’re going to be detected on the way in. That means they’re going to run. A Scarab has a top speed around fifty knots. Top speed for our boats is closer to a hundred. The helo is faster. When we get in detection range, if they run, two of the boats will take off after one contact, the other two after the other. Lightning and the Drone to the south contact, Cig 36 and the Nordic to the north. The helo will vector to the south contact, wait until the boats are close, then take down the contact. Boats will close, secure gear and determine if there is WMD already aboard. If so, NO SHOOTING. You’re not in MOPP gear. If there is any evidence that the WMD is active, do NOT board. The helo will then vector to the other chase. If the boats get inshore, continue to pursue. Do NOT let this stuff get onto land. If they get inshore, there may be Florida Law Enforcement in the area. You will not interact with Florida Law Enforcement. You will not speak to them and you will carry out your mission even if they attempt to interfere. Secure the personnel, transfer them to the helo and leave any WMD you find. FDLE and the JTF can clean that up.”
“DTF is locked out for take,” the technician said, punching in the last code. “For these tracks and these tracks only.”
“Okay,” the admiral said. “I have the board,” he said, gesturing for the technician to stand up. “I’ll call you back when you can have your board back.”
“Sir, with all due respect,” the technician said. “I’m not going to talk. I have a very high clearance. And I can do this job — sorry, sir — better than you can. I would, with respect, recommend that you let me stay.”
The admiral considered that, then shrugged.
“Okay, lady, but if you so much as breathe a word of what is about to happen, you can plan on spending the rest of your life behind bars.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech said. “Clear, sir. But you might want to get a chair. This isn’t going to go fast.”
They were closing, but not fast. The boats had gone to the second drop point, circled around again, then headed back to the first.
“They’re carrying two divers,” Mike said. “They spot the contact, toss over a buoy and drop the diver. The diver goes down, finds the barrel, secures it and raises it with a float bag. Probably it has some sort of transponder so they can find him again since he’s gonna float. They go back, pick up the first one then go pick up the second.”
“Yes, sir,” Creata said. “But they appear to have picked up one, now,” she said, pointing to the screen. The boat had stopped, not by the first drop point but close. Now it was heading north again.
“Are there other boats in the area?” Mike asked.
Creata hit a control and brought up All Tracks.
“There’s a boat northwest of the second drop point,” she said, pointing. “It’s not moving. Could it be a support boat?”
“Probably some guys out night fishing,” Mike said. “If they see us intercept they’ll probably assume it’s FDLE or Coast Guard after drug dealers. When’s sunrise?”
“One hour,” Creata said.
“We are about to become somewhat unblack,” Mike replied, frowning.
“AER KELDAR!” Edvin shouted, grinning. The Lightning 42 was flying across the waves of the Florida Straits, leaping out of the water then slamming down. Edvin had a solid grip on the grab handles, but he was loving every second of the trip. “What is that song that the Kildar plays? About coming from the land of the ice and snow?”
“The Keldara were boat warriors once,” Vil shouted back. “Now we are again!”
The Navy chief had, without being asked, installed racks for the guns. Which was fortunate because without those racks the weapons would have been battered to pieces. As it was, two of the team’s radios were out. The ride was brutal but exhilarating.
“We’re going to have to tank!” Vil noted, tapping his fuel state. “I think we are going to be seen!”
“That is for the Kildar to figure out! All we have to do is capture some fucking Islamics. Then find out what they know!”
* * *
Abdullah al-Egypti pulled the exhausted diver over the side and clapped him on the back.
“Good job, Farid,” he said. “Time to head home.”
“I used to enjoy diving,” the former commercial diver said, pulling off the elaborate dive rig. “But this is getting to be a bit much.”
“Well, we will have a break in—”
“Abdullah,” Jamal said, pointing to the screen. “We have two boats approaching from the east. Fast. And a plane or a helicopter.”
“Get that stowed,” Abdullah said, running to his seat. “And for Allah’s sake, secure the barrel!”
“We need to get it below,” Farid shouted.
“No time!” Abdullah said, starting the engine and turning in-shore.
“There they go,” Creata said.
“Alpha team,” Mike said. “Target is rabbiting. Say again, target is rabbiting.”
Chapter Eighteen
The sky was turning a deep blue overhead, a sure sign of the sun coming over the horizon, as Vil tried to coax everything he could out of the Fountain, trimming the engine up a tad more to reduce the amount of hull hitting the water. He was slowly leaving the Drone driven by Tuul in his wake. In fact, the Drone had dropped directly into the wake as a way to pick up just a bit of speed. In flat water the Drone was, perhaps, a tad faster than the Fountain. But in these heavy waves the bigger single-hull boat was definitely faster. The problem with running in a wake, Randy had told them, was that the bubbles from the lead boat, the “cavitation effect” reduced the power the trailing boat’s propellers could convey. So despite the lighter waters the Drone was still falling behind.
“We’re on them, Kildar,” Vil said, touching his throat mike.
“Alpha team, turn fifteen degrees west,” Mike said. “Cut the corner.”
Abdullah looked at his GPS. It was five miles to the outer reef. The Scarab would be faster once he got into the slightly calmer water. As it was, he was having to keep his speed down to prevent the
barrel of VX breaking free. Farid had lashed it down in the corner but if it broke loose they’d have to stop and secure it again. Otherwise it was likely that the barrel would break open. And while Abdullah didn’t mind being a martyr, he’d like to take at least a few infidels with him.
“Farid! How is the barrel?”
“Holding,” Farid said. He was crouched by the barrel, tying in another knot. “So far!”
The boat driver looked at his radar next, then shook his head. The two boats pursuing him were cutting in from the south, not following him directly. They were going to try to cut him off. And they were fast. Allah’s Teeth they were fast.
“I can see them,” Dmitri said, reaching down to the deck and unstrapping his MP-5. “Team,” Yosif’s assistant team leader continued, thumbing his throat mike. “Lock and load. But unless forced, do not fire. Take a bullet if you have to. But whatever you do, don’t shoot one of those damned barrels!”
“Dragon, move to take-down position,” Mike said.
The helo sped up and Mike gestured to Lasko to open his door.
“Lasko,” Mike said. “Two outboards. Don’t hit the barrel.”
“Of course not, Kildar,” Lasko said, thumbing his mike. “Who do you take me for? Shota?”
Lasko leaned out the door of the Hind and lined up the port engine. He could see a man crouched by a blue barrel at the rear of the boat. The man looked up at him and made a gesture with his hand that was as ancient as any human culture, a thumb thrust up between index and middle finger.
Lasko could care less. All he wanted to do was make the shot. He targeted the port engine and stroked the trigger. The boat almost immediately swung hard to port, then corrected back and began weaving.
