by Jake Bible
“Shit, man,” Gunnar said as he tried to take the bottle from Darren. Darren blocked him from taking the bottle, but poured him another. “He wants you to call your father-in-law.”
“Ex,” Darren said, “Ex-father-in-law.” Darren set the bottle aside. “And no way I’m calling him. We don’t talk much.”
“Bullshit,” Gunnar said, “you talk to him all the time. Always checking up on Kinsey.”
“Asshole,” Darren said, “now you’re cut off.”
“You can’t cut me off,” Gunnar said, “I’m just getting started.”
Darren kicked the stool out from under Gunnar and he hit the dirt coated floor in a heap. He tried to get up and then collapsed, his eyes closed, his head resting on his arms.
“He’s always been a lightweight,” Darren said. “Reason number sixty-eight why he would have sucked as a SEAL.”
“Let’s get to business then,” Mr. Ballantine said. His eyes were clear and steady despite the amount of alcohol he’d already put away. “You make that call, get Commander Thorne to help put a Team together and I give you all the funding you need to hunt your whale. Once the pirate compound has been successfully raided. That has to be key. If that mission cannot be accomplished, then our time together is done, and I won’t be able to help you.”
The bartender started to yell as Beau got up on the counter and dropped his drawers. He started to piss wildly, spraying the rest of the crew.
“Jesus,” Darren said as he looked at his watch, “thirty minutes? Really?”
“Nice watch. Rolex?” Mr. Ballantine asked. “I thought the SEALs stopped that tradition.”
“It was a gift,” Darren said, “from Vinny, in fact.” The bartender was still shouting, as were the rest of the crew. “I better get them out of here.”
“I’ll have Darby bring the van to the front,” Mr. Ballantine said.
Darren waited for Mr. Ballantine to finish calling Darby before he spoke again. “You’re missing one key element to all of this.”
“Oh, and what’s that?” Mr. Ballantine asked, a smile on his face that said he hadn’t missed anything.
“I don’t have a boat anymore,” Darren said as he walked away.
“Not a problem,” Mr. Ballantine said as he helped Darren lift Gunnar off the floor.
“How do you figure that?” Darren asked as they walked Gunnar to the front door. The rest of the crew got the hint and fell in line. There was a considerable amount of bitching.
“I’ll show you,” Mr. Ballantine said, “if you don’t mind taking a little detour before I drop you and your crew off.”
“Oy!” the bartender yelled as Cougher and Popeye reached over the bar and snagged a bottle of brown in each hand.
“That’ll go on the tab,” Mr. Ballantine said. “I’ll settle up here if you can handle Mr. Peterson.”
“Been doing it most of my life,” Darren said.
He walked out and found the van ready and waiting. Darby stepped up and helped get Gunnar into the van, which wasn’t easy as the rest of the drunken crew kept stumbling and bumbling their way into their seats.
“Thanks,” Darren said. Darby just nodded.
Mr. Ballantine came out of the bar, wallet in hand, and got into the bar. He opened the glove box and tossed the wallet inside. Darren couldn’t help noticing the Sig Sauer P226 that the wallet landed on.
“Nice piece,” Darren said, “but I prefer the P220. Better stopping power with the .45 rounds.”
“If every shot hits the eye, then it doesn’t matter,” Mr. Ballantine said, “but I tend to agree. It was a gift from a friend.” Ballantine shut the glove box and nodded at Darby. “Klipshen Marina, Darby.”
She nodded back and drove away from The Plank.
***
The van slowed next to a long concrete block wall and turned into the driveway as an iron security gate automatically opened. Darby steered around a small building then stopped about twenty yards from a private pier.
Darren had a ton of questions and they all caught in his throat. Except for, “What the fuck?”
“Yes, I expected that response,” Mr. Ballantine smiled. He wasn’t smiling for long as Darren’s fist found his cheek, knocking his head back against the side window.
“Mother fucker!” Darren yelled as he lunged over the seat and started to throttle Ballantine.
The man didn’t have to time to defend himself before Darren was yanked off him by Darby, her arms braced around Darren’s neck.
“I had a feeling that might be a response also,” Mr. Ballantine said, rubbing at his bruised throat.
Darren’s eyes bulged and he sputtered and spat as Darby slowly choked him out.
“That’s enough, Darby,” Mr. Ballantine, “I think Mr. Chambers will behave.”
Darby gave her boss a questioning look, then complied. Darren lunged at Ballantine again, but Ballantine had managed to get his hand behind him and opened the van door, sending them both tumbling to the pavement.
The crew had frozen when Darren went ballistic, shocked by what was happening. But they quickly regrouped as their captain fell out of the van. The doors were opened and they jumped out, ready to lend a hand. But Darby had other ideas, as she sent first Popeye then Lake and Cougher to the ground. Beau and Bach came at her from opposite sides, but were soon a part of the pile, their lips split and noses pouring blood. Jennings watched her for a moment then smiled, his hands up.
“You win,” he said, “I know a losing fight when I see it.”
Darby just waited.
“Of course, you never know until you try,” Jennings said as he came in fast, a right hook aimed for Darby’s head.
The woman ducked and rolled, coming up to the side and behind Jennings. Her fists landed six shots to his kidney before he had a chance even to turn. He went down on a knee and had to put a hand to the pavement to keep from collapsing. He lifted the other hand to ward her off.
“Cool, cool,” Jennings coughed, “tried and failed. I got it. Don’t fuck with you.”
Darby watched him, and then held out a hand. “Exactly.”
Jennings took it and gasped as he was pulled to his feet. She nodded at him and then went over and separated her boss from Darren. Despite his training, Darren had taken a few shots from Ballantine and was almost as bloody as the other man.
“You bought the Hooyah!” Darren screamed at Ballantine, pointing at the pier where his former ship was docked. “You fucking asshole!”
Beyond the Hooyah was a much larger ship with the name “RV Beowulf II” on the stern.
“That’s my equipment,” Gunnar said as he staggered from the van and saw men wheeling boxes and crates to the new ship. “They have my equipment!”
“And we are moving it to your new ship, Mr. Peterson,” Mr. Ballantine said, wiping blood from his mouth. “If your captain agrees to my proposal.”
“Why would you buy my ship?” Darren snarled. “Why do that?”
“Yeah,” Cougher said, “kinda douchey.”
“It tied up some loose ends,” Mr. Ballantine said. “The transaction cannot be traced back to me or the company I represent. As far as anyone knows, you are out of the research business. Set adrift as so many are when funding has fizzled out. Just another failure in oceanic research.”
“But why?” Darren asked. “Why not let us keep the Hooyah?”
“Because, Mr. Chambers,” Mr. Ballantine smiled, “you’re going to need a bigger boat.”
Chapter Three: A Team Is Born
The screen of the phone dimmed, and then went black as former SEAL Commander, Vincent Thorne, sat at his kitchen table, his eyes staring at the rectangle of plastic and glass.
“Not how I thought I’d start the morning,” Thorne said as he got up to make some coffee.
Dressed only in a pair of boxers, he scratched at his cotton covered ass while he waited for the water to boil. A man of many tastes, Thorne only drank his coffee from a French press and only black. He’d had eno
ugh weak ass, watery crap in the Navy. He didn’t plan on spending retirement drinking shit in a mug.
Not that his retirement was on solid ground after the phone call he took. He rubbed the salt and pepper stubble that covered his round head, thinking over the last few minutes of the early morning. The clock on the stove said it was five-thirty, which meant it was twelve-thirty in Cape Town. What, his former son-in-law couldn’t have waited another couple of hours?
It didn’t matter too much to Thorne, he was used to getting up at the crack of ass, coming instantly awake as soon as his eyes opened. It was from years of service as a SEAL, and even more years as Commander of the BUD/S training program. He rather enjoyed being up before the sun, just so he could sneer at the orange orb as it crested the horizon and say, “I win.”
The water kettle began to whistle and he pulled it from the element, pouring the steaming water over the grounds in his press. He affixed the lid and plunger and then let it steep as he went into his bedroom to throw on some clothes. It was going to be a long day and he didn’t want to bother with a shower. He doubted it would be noticed where he was going.
His small apartment was located on the outskirts of Coronado, California, only a couple miles from the Naval Special Warfare Center, and as he looked about at the dusty rented furniture and few personal affects, he shook his head, wondering how he’d gotten there. Not that he was losing his mind and didn’t know how he physically got there- a moving company had hauled his stuff from the Naval Center to the apartment complex; he’d followed in his Jeep Wrangler. No, he wondered how he had gone from Commander of one of the most elite military programs in the world, to retired jackass that made coffee while he stood in his boxers. It had only been a year since he’d left the Navy, yet it still didn’t feel right, like a shirt that had shrunk in the dryer.
He hadn’t wanted to leave the Navy, but he’d been forced to. Not forced out, just left no honorable choice but to resign his post. He was due for retirement anyway, so it had been in the back of his mind for a long time. Yet, the circumstances weren’t exactly how he had wanted to go. He thought about that as he picked up a photograph of his family the last time they had all been together.
His son, Vincent Junior, stood in the middle, looking handsome in his Marine dress uniform. He had died three months after the picture was taken, a casualty of the battle in Sadr City. Thorne’s daughter, Kinsey, stood with her arm locked in her brother’s, dressed in her own Marine uniform. What big brother did, Kinsey always followed. Their mother was at Vincent Junior’s side, not knowing that a drunk driver would take her life three weeks after they received the news of young Vincent’s death.
That left Kinsey and Vincent Senior as the last of the Thornes. He sighed as he set the picture down, not wanting to think too much about the task ahead. He would hit Northern California, and then double back to San Diego. That would be the hard part. It was why he was going to NorCal first, so he could get reinforcements. He’d taken the job on one condition- his daughter would be a part of it all. She needed it. That was a fact that Thorne knew in every fiber of his body. She hadn’t deserved the way she had been treated; neither did he for that matter.
When her brother had been killed in combat, the normally kind and easygoing, yet driven, Kinsey Thorne, lost something. The kindness was no longer there, but the drive was. She wanted in the thick of combat, she wanted to kill, kill, kill. It would be years before she would even get a shot at the opportunity. Not that the Marines were letting women fight on the front lines; no, that was a long way off. It was that the SEAL BUD/S had decided to open the training to women. The Navy was going to be the trailblazers in the gender equalization of the United States military.
And Commander Vincent Thorne was going to oversee the switch.
Kinsey had applied and been accepted right away. She was a perfect candidate and joined six other women at the Naval Special Warfare Preparatory School in Great Lakes, Illinois. Once the two-month prep training was done, she was the only female recommended to move on to the full BUD/S program in Coronado. Not surprising to her father, Kinsey was comfortably in the middle of the pack the entire six-months of training. Also not surprising to her father, was that she passed and moved on to SQT (SEAL Qualification Training).
What did surprise him, was that after making it through BUD/S and the notorious Hell Week, she would risk everything with a stupid mistake. She denied it up and down, and he struggled to believe her, even taking the drastic step of retiring when she was dishonorably discharged. But the evidence was there- amphetamines in her last blood work. She had two weeks left of SQT. Two weeks, and instead of being booted, she would have been the first female in military history to be assigned combat duty. And not as some grunt, but part of the elite SEAL forces.
“Fucking shame,” Thorne said to himself as he depressed the plunger on his press, waited for it to settle, and then poured the coffee into his insulated travel mug. He grabbed the duffel bag he’d packed and took a look around the apartment he never considered home. “Fucking shame.”
He opened the front door and stepped out into the California morning, ready to hit the road and start the next phase of his life.
***
“Are you fucking high, dude?” Max Reynolds asked as he leaned back against the tall fir tree, a joint in his mouth and a bottle of pale ale in his hand.
“Yeah,” the young hippie at his feet said, “totally.”
“You dialed in?” Max asked.
“800 yards,” the hippie said, “adjusted for elevation.”
“And wind?”
“Adjusting for wind is for sucks,” the hippie said. “Can I shoot?”
“Here,” Max said as he put the joint to the young man’s mouth. The hippie inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out, a cloud of smoke drifting above him and the sniper rifle he rested on a sleeping bag in front of him.
“Dude,” Max said, shaking his head, “you just gave away your position. What do you do when you exhale?”
“Blow it up my sleeve, let my shirt filter and trap it,” the hippie said, bummed he hadn’t gotten it right.
“Exactly,” Max said. His radio squawked.
“Dude, you sending up smoke signals?” his brother Shane asked over the two-way. “Looks like you’re ordering take out from there. Was that a pint of kung pao chicken or a quart?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Max said, “he has been duly chastised.”
“Good,” Shane said, “carry on.”
“Dialed in?” Max asked the hippie again.
“Good to go,” the hippie said.
“Then break that bitch,” Max smiled, putting a set of binoculars to his eyes. He found the watermelon 800 yards away, across the field of cannabis growing in the narrow valley.
The sniper rifle barked and Max smiled as a poof of dust went up about a foot in front of the watermelon.
“Dead on,” Max said. “If that was a person, they’d think twice about taking another step.”
“Hey, bro?” Shane asked over the radio. “We expecting anyone today?”
“Not that I know of,” Max said, “why? What you got?”
“I have movement at your eleven, north end of the valley,” Shane said. “I’ve got a bead on him, but you’re closer, so go have a chat.”
Max turned his binoculars in the direction his brother had indicated and scanned the area. It took him a while, but he finally found the mystery person. The guy was geared out, for sure. Pro stuff, not weekend warrior or recreational hunting gear. The man’s face was covered in a cammi balaclava, so Max couldn’t tell age or nationality. He doubted the guy was cartel, but you never knew. Not anymore.
“You have a shot?” Max asked. There was no answer. “Dude, do you have the shot?”
“Huh? What?” the hippie asked, looking up at Max. “Me? I thought you were talking to your brother.”
“Dude, you are paying us to train you to protect your fields,” Max said. “You now have a target approachi
ng your field. This is go time.”
“You want me to shoot at him?” the hippie asked.
“I want to know if you have a shot,” Max said. “Get to work and tell me.”
Max watched the man progress through the firs, pines, and oaks, towards the field of cannabis. He waited for the hippie to tell him he was ready. And waited. And waited.
“Dude?” Max asked, glancing down at his client. “You’re gonna miss your window.”
“I have it,” the hippie said, “but it’s like 1,200 yards. I can’t make that shot.”
“Not with that fucking attitude,” Max said, pissed. He took a hit off the joint and tossed it to the ground.
“Hey, man!” the hippie said. “That’s some of the new hybrid! I only have a little left!”
“You won’t have anything left if that guy gets to your crop,” Max said. “Now tell me you have the shot.”
The hippie hesitated then, “Yeah, I have it.”
“Good,” Max said, “now move.”
“What? You don’t want me to take it?”
“Fuck no,” Max said as he got onto the ground and shoved the hippie over, taking his place behind the sniper rifle.
The rifle was his first: an MK-12, modified with a collapsible stock and switched out receiver from an M-4 so it could go full auto if needed. Not that it was needed out in the wilds of Northern California. Max put his eye to the 32-power Nightforce scope and watched the target for a minute.
“Aren’t you going to adjust for distance?” the hippie whispered.
“Already did,” Max said, handing over his binoculars, “now shut it and watch.”
The hippie quieted down and put the binoculars to his eyes.
“1,200 yards, but he’s on a slope, see?” Max said. “The angle will change as he walks down towards the field. Plus, he’s moving at a good clip. The guy’s in shape.”
“So you’re leading him?” the hippie asked.
“I am,” Max smiled. “Good to know you’ve been paying attention.” Max watched the target. “Because he’s moving, and I can’t see the ground through the underbrush, I’m gonna give him a kiss.”
