by John Ringo
Swimming head down he got to the first rank of remaining barrels. Bracing himself with a fin stuck between two of them and blowing out all the air in his BC, he pulled a mesh bag off his side and started pulling out items. First there was a long rope which he dropped to settle against the barrels. Then he pulled out a nylon harness and clipped the bag back on his BC.
The harness went around one of the barrels and clipped together. It was a pain to get on but he had plenty of time. He was wearing double 105 cf tanks, over pressured to 4000 PSI and NITROX. The boat wouldn't be back for over two hours and he could stay at this depth for longer. Of course, he'd have to decompress, but the way things were set up that wouldn't be hard.
He uncoiled part of the rope and attached the barrel to an already tied in loop knot. One down.
Working faster now he fitted another barrel and another until he had four. Only then did he release the ties holding the pre-weighted barrels in place.
Now was when he was going to have to use up some air. First he tied down the rope with a quick release. Then he attached four large float bags to the rope and inflated them from a spare hose attachment on his regulator. His air supply dropped noticeably but he still had plenty. Last, he grabbed onto the ties that had held the barrels down, wrapped the rope around his body and released the tie.
The bags wanted to jump to the surface but that would be bad. Instead he belayed them up until the rope was taught. Then he undid it from his body, grabbed the barrels and went for a short ride.
The rope was fifty feet long. The top of the container was at seventy. He slid out of the opening, easily missing the side and popped up twenty feet. A glance at his dive computer indicated that was not an issue. The computer said he'd need to decompress at twenty feet and ten but he had loads of time. Then he checked the watch built into the computer. Loads, the boat wouldn't be back for over an hour.
He reinflated his BC and slid up the rope to the loop at twenty feet. Once there he adjusted his buoyancy, clipped himself in and lay back to enjoy the peace and quiet, bobbing lightly up and down due to the bags at the top. He'd have to be careful; he could very easily fall asleep. It wouldn't kill him, when the regulator slipped out he'd just get some seawater in his mouth and maybe lungs and cough a lot. But it would be a pain. And this was just too pleasant after being slammed around in that damned boat for two days.
* * *
"Okay, this is just too much fun," Mike said, sliding out of the water like, well, a seal. "I feel like I'm playing."
"You may," Yosif said, climbing out on the dock next to him and gasping for air. "I don't. I thought this was going to be fun. . ."
"Try doing it in twenty degrees," Mike said, referring to the temperature in Celsius. "This is the shit."
Yosif's team had been doing crossovers, swimming one way, surfacing for a breath and then swimming back, for nearly an hour and one by one they all managed to clamber onto the dock. And they were all gasping as if they'd just finished a marathon.
Cross-overs were deceptively exhausting. At first they were easy. This section of the harbor was barely wider than most pools and had concrete walls on both sides. Mike had shown them how to push off and you could coast most of the way on a push. And you weren't actually under water all that long. But you were only allowed to come up for a fast breath and then you had to dunk back down and do it again. And again and again and again.
The muscles in the body quickly ran through their anaerobic energy stores, and those caused lactic acid generation anyway, then they had to switch to aerobic. Aerobic exercise released CO2 as the body converted O2 molecules into energy via ATP in the mitochondria. CO2 caused the "desperate for a breath" reaction. And the short bobs were never enough to get rid of all the CO2, much less get enough oxygen.
Doing it over and over again was debilitating in the extreme, worse than a fast run of the same time duration. The Keldara were only able to survive it due to two factors: they were all runners thanks to Mike's training and they were from a high-altitude environment. They had grown up with about two thirds of what most people considered normal oxygen and their bodies had reacted by producing an abundance of red blood cells. Those were able to scavenge extra oxygen from their short breaths and carry more of the CO2 to their lungs to be expelled.
And, of course, they were very hardcore and were not about to disappoint the Kildar.
Mike had managed to scrounge swim goggles for all of them from the well-appointed yacht as well as the estate. Now they pushed them up or off, sprawling in the Caribbean sun.
"You guys are going to have to do better than this," Mike said, shaking his head. "I thought you were swimmers!"
"Kildar," Yosif said, finally getting his breath. "The pool we swim in is perhaps the size of a large bath-tub. I have swum across the river on a bet. This is. . ."
"I know," Mike said, relenting. "But, seriously, if we have to do a water insert, you're the guys who are going to have to do it. I'm going to set up a lesson plan because I'm going to have to head back to Nassau." He paused and considered something then nodded. "The Master Chief is probably about done with his hospital time and, frankly, this would be a good place for him to convalesce. He can oversee it. He'd consider it refreshing. Just don't let him try to swim!"
"Yes, Kildar,'' Yosif said.
"You guys give it fifteen minutes," Mike said. "Then I want you to swim over to that point," he said, pointing across the vaguely curved island to a point about a quarter of a mile away. "Stay along the sides. Yosif, drag that rescue buoy," he added, pointing at the device which was hanging by the harbor. It was cigar shaped and had a harness that went across the chest. "If anybody can't make it, call the swim and swim in. Let them hold onto the buoy. I don't want anybody dying. But the guy who calls the swim. . . He gets to work with the women in the kitchen tonight."
"Yes, Kildar," Yosif said, grinning. "I don't think anyone will call the swim."
"Guys, if you're going down, call the damned swim," Mike said, looking at the team. "Yosif, Edvin," he added to the Assistant Team leader, "it's your job to make sure everybody makes it. On second thought, Edvin, you carry the buoy. Stay near the back. Don't drown yourself."
"Yes, Kildar," Edvin said.
"Work on the side-stroke I taught you," Mike said. "Pull, breath, kick, glide, repeat. Every four or five strokes look up to make sure you are heading the right way other wise just follow the shore line. We can easily add fins as soon as they get here. Stay with your swim buddy. Repeat after me: Stay with your swim buddy. If you don't, life will get interesting."
* * *
"Well this is interesting."
"What?" David Levin said, looking up from his computer.
David had been a kid in New Jersey, planning on working at the chemical plants around Trenton just like his dad, when he saw his first Jacques Cousteau show. One show was all it took.
His parents hadn't had the money to pay for the, back then, incredibly expensive sport of SCUBA diving. So when he'd turned eighteen he'd hitchhiked to Florida and found a dive shop that needed somebody to work in their back room for just enough to survive and, oh, yeah, they'd throw in dive lessons.
Twenty-seven years later he was the owner of Diver's Headquarters, one of the largest suppliers of dive gear in south Florida. With ten locations and a warehouse jammed with gear that was sold not only through brick and mortar stores but also on the internet he was a "mover" in the international dive community. He had decades of experience in what did and did not work in sport diving and was frequently consulted by manufacturers when they had a new system, light, fin or suit they wanted to sell.
"It's an email," Joe Barber replied. David had hired Joe when the kid came in the door trying to sell him some orange solvent cleaner. The kid was clearly underage and Dave suspected, and later confirmed, that he was a run-away. But the kid had been such a hard seller, Dave offered him a job on the spot. On the phone, and back then they got a lot of phone-in orders, there was no way anybody w
ould know the kid was underage. And there were ways to make the paperwork disappear.
Once he hit eighteen, Joe had worked his way up fast, first as a top floor salesman, then a store manager then back to the phones and now internet and finally to manager of the whole direct sales division. Dave had seen that gleam in the runaway and known he had a player on his hands. Dave had been married and divorced three times but nary a one kid despite trying. Maybe it was the chemicals in Trenton. But he sort of did in Joe who was, everybody knew, his heir apparent.
"Don't keep me guessing," Dave said.
"Lady in the Bahamas wants thirty sets of gear," Joe said, wonderingly. "Everything from fins to tanks. All top line. Zeagle regs and BCs, Pro wetsuits. . . Everything listed by model. She's asking if we can supply it overnight or even for delivery late today. They're willing to pay to charter a plane."
"Do we have the systems?" Dave asked.
"Not in the warehouse," Joe replied, tapping at keys. "We'd have to scrounge the stores. She wants thirty ZX Zeagle Flathead VI. We've got, total, twenty-seven."
"Get ten from Zeagle's warehouse," Dave said. "They're just up in Hialeah. Tell them we need them delivered today and don't fuck with us. Hell, get the entire shipment if you can. Tell the lady the plane will take off tomorrow before first light and be there at first light. Private strip, right?"
"Yep."
"Tell her there's going to be some extra costs with such a rush shipment," Dave added. "Figure out what it's going to cost us. Add fifteen percent. See if she geeks."
"Whatever the market will bear?" Joe said. "I'll add twenty."
"Good boy."
* * *
Chapter Twelve
"I should have charged you through the nose for this," Don said, gruffly, shaking Mike's hand. "Long time."
Don Jackson was a tall man, heavy of body with white hair and skin that was bright red from the sun. He never seemed to really tan but he never seemed to really burn, either.
Besides running a charter business, and a tobacco distribution system and a few condos and rental boats – the guy was just a compulsive businessman – Don ran some special shipping interests. Oh, not smuggling, just niche shipping. Don ran landing craft.
Landing craft were, in general, a horrible way to ship cargo. They were capable of sailing in almost any sea but their engines drank fuel and they couldn't carry all that much compared to their fuel costs.
However, landing craft had one great benefit; they could take the cargo anywhere there was a beach and roll it right out.
Don's landing craft had done various jobs over the years, generally for the very rich. You wanted a party for a hundred on an otherwise inaccessible tropical island? Don could roll of a container containing, literally, everything from soup to nuts. Bring your own cooks, though.
He'd participated in multiple movie shoots as well. Movie makers generally wanted somewhere "unspoiled" for shoots. Unspoiled just as often meant inaccessible. Don had developed a reputation among the guys who arranged things like that for being there on time, guaranteed. In the islands, that was pretty unusual. The Bahamas ran on "Bahamas Time" which was less precise than "In'shallah" which was orders of magnitude worse than "manana." There was no time on earth less precise than "Bahamas Time."
Don didn't work on Bahamas Time. A New Yorker who had been south long enough that the accent was barely noticeable he still ran on New York time. If he said he'd be there at ten AM you could set your watch by it.
"That's one heavy ass container, Mike," Don continued as the mover, basically a small tracked bulldozer converted to pull containers, started pulling the containerized cargo off the landing craft's ramp and up the white sand beach. "And you know what?" he added. "When we checked in with Bimini customs, they looked at the manifest and just waved us through. It wasn't sealed or bonded but, you know, they just didn't seem to care. That's lax even by Bimini standards, Mike. I could have been carrying a container packed with coke for all they knew."
"Going the wrong way to be coke," Mike pointed out. "How you been?"
"The arthritis is starting to kill me," Don admitted.
"Too many fast women," Mike said, drawing a snort. Don had been married for damned near fifty years.
"So what's in the container?" Don asked.
"You don't want to know," Mike said. "You're not even asking about my associates."
The Keldara were scattered around the estate getting it in gear but many of them had stopped to see the arrival of the container. Even the boat class had stopped to watch it being rolled up the sand. If Mike was to put one word on their expressions, that word would be "avid."
"They look like a bunch of extras," Don said. "You doing movies these days?"
"Nope," Mike said. "Well, not often. I collect a few."
"Was talking to Sol after you up and disappeared," Don added. "Interesting coincidence you going and disappearing then that nuke going up in Andros."
"I swear you guys are like a couple of old women," Mike said, shaking his head. "Next you'll be accusing me of being the guy who killed Osama."
"Well, let's see," Don said, rubbing his chin. "Osama gets killed in October. You show up in December in a brand new boat and immediately spend the next couple of months basically out of sight. And I've seen you with your shirt off, buddy."
"Dangerous ground, Don," Mike said, seriously. "The guy who did that has every jihadist on the planet looking for him."
"Which is why I'd only mention it to an old friend," Don said. "But you were the one who brought it up. So what's in the container?"
"You really want to know, 'old friend'?"
* * *
"Holy fucking Jesus," Don whispered.
The container had been rolled to a concrete pad in an interior courtyard then the mover pulled away. The Keldara had immediately gathered around and on Mike's nod, opened it and started unloading.
Cases of ammunition. Rocket launchers. Body armor. Cases of Semtek plastique. Guns. More guns. Sniper rifles in cases. MP-5s and M4s and SPRs. M-60E4 machine guns capable of delivering 2500 rounds in three minutes of continuous fire.
Then the big stuff started coming off. Miniguns. Pallets of ammunition, multiple each. 57mm rocket launchers. A pallet of rockets. The container had been stuffed to the ceiling.
"I had all that on my boat?" Don said, his eyes wide. "Jesus Christ if customs had even suspected. . ."
"Why do you think they didn't open it, Don?" Mike asked. "The guys who were there when you arrived were hand-picked."
Don looked up at the sound of rotors and blanched as a black Hind helicopter flared out for a landing. It had come in at nearly water level and was out of sight from the launch. The pilot, a female, grinned at the sight of the rocket launchers, gave Mike a salute and started getting out of the cockpit.
"I so didn't want to know this," Don said.
"Yeah, but I figured you should," Mike said. "I'm going to need you to pick it up in a couple of weeks. Well, except for the ammo."
"And I'm supposed to just float this back to Miami?" Don said, shaking his head. "You think that the US government isn't going to ask a few questions?"
"Who do you think arranged to pass it through Bahamanian customs?"
* * *
"How's it going?" Mike said, sitting down on the dock next to Randy.
"Pretty good, actually," Randy admitted. "These guys are soaking it up like a sponge and you can't beat sitting in the Bahamas sunshine."
"Mike Jenkins," Mike said, sticking out his hand. "We haven't met."
Mike had been very careful about that. Over time he'd dealt with a lot of FAST boat drivers on both coasts. Finding a combination of one who was a. available and b. he'd never met had been hard. And he'd had to do it on the plane over since it wasn't something he could delegate.
"Randy Holterman," Randy said, shaking Mike's hand and watching as the speed boat made a hard turn around a buoy. "You're the one they call the Kildar."
"That would be me,"
Mike said. The Nordic was headed back in, slowing and backing as it approached the pier then backing one engine to swing around and pull in backwards. The Keldara at the helm, Sergejus Makanee, did the maneuver as if he'd been born on a boat.
"They're very good," Randy said.
"Yes, they are," Mike replied.
"I don't know that they can win any races. . ."
"Among other things, the boats need work, right?" Mike asked.
"And if you're going to be doing long runs," Randy said, "and I somehow suspect you are, they're going to need bigger tanks."
"That's being worked on."
* * *
"Okay, this is a 'what the fuck' moment, sir."
Senior Chief Edward Marrow had been in the Navy seventeen years. As a young recruit, fresh out of machinist mate's A school, he had been transferred to the aircraft carrier John F. Kennedy sure in the knowledge that he'd be working on the massive engines, the arresting gear, all the parts that made a carrier work.
Instead, he'd been placed in the tiny unit that maintained the carrier's, many, small boats. It was a proverbial Siberia, the place where the more senior machinist mates who were unfit to work on "important" systems were shipped. But the unit was short a slot, he was a machinist's mate and thus he'd ended up there.
However, he'd quickly come to love it, despite the company. The boats were just fun. He'd become a specialist in making sure that small engines ran to the very top of their performance. He even extended his knowledge, despite superiors that barely knew which end of the wrench was which, to hull design, tankage and all the small bits that made a boat work. Whereas if he'd been in one of the bigger sections he'd have worked on just one small part of a complex system called a carrier, here he could do it all.
He'd reenlisted, made PO2 and eventually ended up on shore duty, doing the same thing with small boats at Norfolk Naval Base. There he had come to the attention of people who really cared about small boats, via a brief conversation in the Norfolk enlisted-men's bar. Shortly afterwards he was asked if he'd like a transfer. The unit was small and it only did small boats. And it still counted for sea duty. There might be some travel involved.
