A Deeper Blue (ARC)

by John Ringo

  "That one," Vil said, grinning, "the Kildar would mind. But that brunette over there. . ." he added, pointing...

  "That brunette what?" Stella said, leaning over the back of the chair and blowing in his ear.

  Vil leaned into his wife's head for a moment and just breathed.

  "Can you believe it?" she asked, sliding over the couch and taking Martya's place. "We have a bedroom all to ourselves!"

  "Really?" Vil said, grinning.

  "Really," Stella replied. "Oh, the room is small and the bed smaller, but I don't think that will be an issue."

  "Sorry, Randy," Vil said, looking at the instructor. "My wife, Stella. Stella, Randy Holterman."

  "You're the man who's trying to kill my husband, yes?" Stella asked. She'd stretched across the length of the remaining couch, her feet up on the top, resting most of her weight on Vil.

  "Trying to keep him alive," Randy said. "Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mahona."

  "Mother Stella soon," Stella said, smiling and patting her tummy. "But not Mother Mahona for many years I think."

  "Our clan names are complicated," Vil said, shrugging. "Mrs. Mahona is sort of correct and. . . sort of not."

  "I'm figuring that out," Randy said. "I'm glad you guys are okay with first names."

  Martya came back and pouted, looking at her seat.

  "You can sit on Randy's lap," Vil said, gesturing.

  "Okay," the fifteen year-old said, plopping down and wiggling to get comfortable. Or for some reason.

  "Oh, thanks so much, Vil," Randy said, grimacing.

  "As I was saying," Vil continued, "about Illya. . ."

  "What were you saying about Mopsy?" Martya asked, her eyes narrowing.

  "I was just saying that if Randy was interested in a. . . companion for the evening," Vil said, grinning. "As he's assuredly going to need one after you're done with him, minx."

  "Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail," Martya said, giggling. "I didn't understand it until I read the story."

  "Shhhh," Stella said, her finger to her lips. "We don't speak of Cottontail."

  "So how is she?" Vil asked.

  "Getting screwed and beaten as usual," Stella said, sighing. "Doing very well, in other words."

  * * *

  "Jeeze," Mike said. "Greznya, Stella and Irina are here. Who's holding down the shop?"

  "Olga," Daria said, leaning past him and pulling out another beer. "Greznya is going to go relieve her in a bit."

  "What's the word on Vanner and Adams?" Mike asked.

  "Vanner is out of ICU and under observation," Daria said. "He's doing fine but still unconscious. Adams is ready to be released."

  "That's your first run, then," Mike said, looking at Thomas. "Take. . . Daria and part of Oleg's team over to Miami and pick up my wayward second in command."

  "He get arrested by the shore patrol?" Thomas asked, grinning.

  "No, actually," Mike said. "He got shot up by either some Colombians or terrorists who were aiming for me."

  "Shit," Chatham said. "Sorry."

  "Not a problem," Mike said.

  "That's something that Greznya wants to talk to you about," Britney interjected.

  Mike looked at Chatham then shrugged.

  "Go."

  "The answer is Colombians."

  "Now that's damned interesting," Mike said. "Dash my eyes if it's not."

  "You're hanging out with Brits too much," Britney said, rolling her eyes. "And there's more. Florida State Patrol pulled over two Colombian mules. Regular drug stop. But, lo and behold, what did they find?"

  "A blue barrel?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "No," Britney said. "But close. Heroin. Very high quality. Damned near pure. And the mules were known associates of your friend."

  "Oh, that explains so much," Mike said, looking at the far wall.

  "Not to me," Chatham said, taking a sip of beer.

  "No, it wouldn't," Mike said, still looking into the distance. "And, sorry, it must remain a mystery. Thomas, are any of your pilots current in, oh, something along the lines of the Beaver?"

  "The amphib or land version?" Thomas said, winking. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Know Beavers well, wet or dry."

  "Daria, dear?" Mike said.

  "Find a Beaver for rent," she said. "Somewhere in south Florida or the Bahamas. Can it wait until after the party?"

  "Assuredly," Mike said, watching Vil and Randy get up to leave. "And we'll have to keep the party running long into the night, apparently."

  "Can I ask one thing?" Daria asked.

  "Sure."

  "What is a Beaver?"

  She seemed rather pissed when both the men snorted in unison.

  * * *

  "See the buoy?" Randy yelled.

  "Yes," Vil shouted back. But he had to admit that seeing it was only half the problem.

  Night Vision Goggles are wonderful things but they have one serious flaw; they given the user virtually no depth perception.

  The trick to getting some idea of range is called "pointing." Effectively, the NVG user moves his or her head from side to side, getting a slight angle on the scene with each "point." The problem being that while that is hard to do in, say, a low-flying helicopter, it's much harder in a fast moving boat. The motion of the boat throws the head around to such an extent that it's nearly impossible for the brain to process the images. Vil knew the technique; he'd sometimes practiced it in combat training on land. But he was finding it hard to manage even though there were virtually no waves.

  He had to guess the point to make the turn and very nearly crashed into the buoy, swerving only at the last minute. And this wasn't even full speed.

  "Don't worry about it," Randy yelled. "I don't know many FAST drivers that can manage real high speed at night. Not in tight quarters. It's more art than science. Swing it around and try again. . ."

  * * *

  Two hours later the group of boats were gathered by the rock circuit.

  "Okay," Randy said, calling across to the group. They'd turned their navigation lights off, which was a huge no-no, but they had to have time for their eyes to dark adapt. "We are not going to take this at high speeds. You're going to find it hard enough to do at low speeds. You'll each do it twice, low speed first then slightly faster. Vil?"

  "Okay," Vil said, glaring at the view. Almost none of the clues that showed where rocks were by day were apparent at night. In the fuzzy image of the goggles he could barely see the ripples on the water's surface. But he engaged the power and started forward. Suddenly he realized the rock that had nearly gotten him the first time, the one that had been on the left side, was right in front of him. He was sure it was the same rock. He turned right, nearly clipping the rock, then back to the left only to have another one confront him. He couldn't see far enough ahead to figure out a route. He slowed down more, picking his way through the rocks.

  "You're way off course is the problem," Randy said, pointing to the compass. "You're supposed to be going north. You're headed west."

  "Shit," Vil said, spinning to the right, dodging a rock and then seeing what looked like open water ahead of him. Suddenly he felt a scrape on the bottom and the boat lurched to a stop.

  "You're aground," Randy said. "That flat patch of water was a shoal."

  "Father of All, this is impossible," Vil said, pulling off the NVGs. The green light from the goggles had partially blinded him but he rapidly got his night sight back. There was a quarter moon and it actually gave him better vision, for this, than the NVGs. "I can see better this way."

  "Tonight," Randy said. "But not if there's no moon, which is the best time to do an op in one of these. And not if it's overcast. NVGs are the only way, then."

  "Fine," Vil said, putting the goggles back on and settling them. "Try to back off?"

  "Yep," Randy said. "Then do a pivot turn right. That will get you out of this mess. There's some deep water right behind you and to your right. Take that back south, pivot left when you see more open water
that way and start over."

  "Yes, sir," Vil said. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Mike sat under the quarter moon, his feet dangling off the end of the dock, and watched the play of the light on the water. He was a little drunk which bothered him. He remembered his recent drunk way too well. But he was on a mission. Getting drunk and maudlin would not be a good thing.

  It was hard to avoid the latter, though, given the former. He'd always been a pretty maudlin drunk. And he couldn't help but think how much Gretchen would have enjoyed this. Of course, like most of the Keldara women she would probably still be back in Georgia. Well, Stella was here, but. . . Oh, crap. No, never mind. Yeah, Stella was not going to be door gunning. She was here for intel, not as a crewchief. No dust-off Hind. That might be a problem. No, they could use Dragon. He belched.

  His thoughts were disjointed. Flashing golden hair and pale skin. A Hind firing a gatling gun right at him. Blue eyes clear as the stars. Tracers smoking in his chest. A ravaged body. He lay back and looked up at the sky. What did it matter? One little death. VX that could kill thousands. To the stars, what was the difference? We were all less than fleas on the back of a dog.

  He closed his eyes and set the beer bottle down. To have just one day. . .

  * * *

  Vil was exhausted. It had been one long damned day.

  So he was taking his time making his way into the harbor. He didn't want to ding the boat any more than he already had. He'd made it through the course the second time, faster, without getting actively lost and off-course. But right now he was wondering if he could find the dock.

  So he was somewhat surprised when a figure sat up on said dock. He clutched at his chest, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there, then recognized the Kildar in his NVGs.

  "Oh. . .crap," he muttered. "Why the hell did they leave him alone?"

  "What?" Randy said, leaning down.

  "The Kildar. . . is not well," Vil said. "I'll explain later."

  * * *

  Mike sat up and gasped shaking his head to clear the nightmare. He'd been dancing with Gretchen, slow dancing, but she'd suddenly only been a torso. Still talking, still smiling, her guts hanging down and she was so heavy. . . Stella and Vil danced by, elegantly, two rotting corpses, the whole room was filling with a heavy green fog and he was trying to get them out of the caravanserai but it was a ship, a merchant freighter, filling with VX. . . the Keldara dropping around him and he was the only one that survived, always the only one. . .

  Mike stood up, beer bottle in hand and shivered in the wind. The temperature had really dropped and all he was wearing was shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. But he'd been cold before. He felt, sometimes, as if he'd never be warm again.

  "Hey, Vil," he said, cheerfully. "How'd it go?"

  * * *

  Vil recognized the tone. Fuck, he thought. Who was stupid enough to leave him alone?

  "Went pretty good," Randy said. "Pretty good. For their first few days, they're coming along great."

  "Good, good," Mike said. "I know it's correct and traditional to clean gear after you use it, but why don't we take one night off. Scrub down in the morning?"

  "Sure," Randy said. "Not a problem. Guys, see you here at dawn."

  "I could do with a beer," Clarn admitted, stretching his back as he climbed out of the driver's seat. "Then, I think, bed."

  "I think I may skip the beer," Vil admitted. "I have a room almost to myself somewhere in this place and I intend to find it. Are you coming up, Kildar?"

  "Nah," Mike said. "It's a nice night, I think I'll just stay here."

  Vil followed the other Keldara up to the estate wondering what to do.

  * * *

  Mike was afraid to fall asleep, now. He wondered that he'd done so earlier; one of the reasons for the two month bender was the dreams. When he was drunk enough he didn't dream. The problem was, he wasn't drunk enough, yet.

  He started to get up and saw a silhouette coming down the dock. Light dress, too light for this wind, and blonde hair. Britney.

  "Hey," Mike said, jovially. "Enjoying the party?"

  "It's winding down," Britney said. "You were missed."

  "Ah, I wasn't in much of a partying mood," Mike said, setting the empty bottle on one of the pier posts.

  "You were the life of the party for a while there," Britney said. "What happened?"

  "I just wanted to come out and look at the water," Mike said turning back to the view. "I'd missed it. More than I realized. Don't you ever just look at the water?"

  "Yes," Britney said, stepping up to stand in the shelter of his bulk. "And the stars. It was one of the things I thought about when I was in that damned bunker. That I'd never see the stars again."

  "Flashbacks getting any better?" Mike asked.

  "More like I've gotten better at handling them," Britney said. "I work in a shield room in the basement of the SOCOM building. They have to pump in sunlight. Trust me, I've gotten better at handling flashbacks. Including in the middle of meetings. You?"

  "Not so good," Mike said. "Didn't think I'd ever have the problem. Some people don't. I never did. They suck."

  "So do the nightmares," Britney said, shivering.

  "Those too," Mike admitted. "We need to go in. You're freezing."

  "You know what I'd rather do?" Britney asked.

  "I am as ignorant as an apple," Mike said.

  "Go for a ride in the Too Late," she said, gesturing at the boat.

  "I thought you'd had all you wanted of Cigs?"

  "There's not a ripple," she pointed out. "What I was tired of was being beaten to death in one."

  "Okay," Mike said.

  The keys were still in it; it wasn't like anyone was going to steal it. The Keldara had, without even asking, set up a perimeter patrol. Anybody trying to steal one of the boats was going to be facing a group of highly trained commandoes and some serious questions.

  "Did you dream?" Britney asked as Mike slowly motored out of the harbor.

  "Yeah," Mike admitted.

  "Dream or nightmare?"

  "That would be the latter."

  "Yeah," Britney said. "There's things you can do about that, you know? It doesn't always work, but I've been doing it for a year and a half. It's called dream management. You teach yourself to control your dreams. Sounds impossible, but it's not."

  "And when the guy's coming towards you with the key?" Mike asked. "What do you do?"

  "Usually I can turn the dream off before that point," Britney admitted. "I change it to a meeting or something. When I can't, well, I have somebody come in and break things up. Guess who?"

  "You're welcome," Mike said, gunning the boat as they passed the breakwater. The time was between the land breeze and the sea breeze, the stillest part of the night. There was barely a ripple on the water and the Cigarette seemed to float above the water.

  "I've been through a lot of counseling," Britney shouted. "Some strange stuff, too. Stuff that actually works. There's this thing they do where you flick your eyeballs while you think about what's bothering you. I shit you not. And it actually helps. One of those weird brain chemistry things. The point is, Mike, you don't have to just fucking suffer."

  On the way over Mike had never really opened the Cigarette up. Now, he glanced at his gauges, made sure everything was solid and opened the engine up full bore.

  The difference between seventy miles and hour and a hundred does not seem that great. But in a boat arrowing a bare meter over the water, it is.

  "Holy shit," Britney shouted, snatching at the grab points on the seat. The boat seemed to be a rocket headed into darkness. She knew there wasn't anything in the way, to the south of the island was open water, but if they hit so much as a piece of floating debris she was afraid the boat would go airborne.

  They'd gotten far enough away from the island that they were hitting a light chop, ripples from Atlantic waves to the south. The boat started to leap like a gazelle over the waves, the e
xtended props staying down below the water but the rest of the boat catching air and coasting through mid-air for bounds of twenty or thirty feet.

  "If you're trying to frighten me, you're succeeding," Britney shouted.

  Mike didn't answer, just leaned forward and touched a control on the dashboard. The boat turned slightly to the left, staying mostly down this time, barely kissing the waves as it screamed through the night. The moon had set and the only light source was the stars, glimmering off the surface, and yellow and green flashes of phosphorescent jellyfish, revealing their presence to predators while calling for a mate.

  Another touch of the controls and it was straight again, jumping the light waves, the air filling the world with sound.

  Suddenly, he pulled back on the throttles and hit the quick release on his straps.

  "Lieutenant Britney Harder, I would very much like to screw you."

  "I was wondering when you would ask," Britney said, pulling her sundress up over her head.

  They made love under the stars, the boat rocking on the light waves, no words, no analysis, just a desperate coupling of two ravaged souls reaching for one moment of peace.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  "Track 738," Greznya said, pointing to the screen.

  The Kildar was looking. . . odd this morning. It would only be noticeable to someone who knew him well but it was clear to Greznya. He looked tired and the Kildar very rarely looked tired, no matter how long an op had gone on. Given that this one had been fairly easy so far, it was. . .strange.

  "It came into range of the balloons from the north, somewhere north of Grand Island," she continued, tracing the track. "Very high speed run down to the waters off Key Largo. Then it turned and headed over to the Bahamas cut. It was lost from radar while in the Cut."

  "And it never slowed off Largo?" Mike asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

  "No, Kildar," Greznya said. "But it matches the profile perfectly."

  "So the boat is somewhere inside in the Bahamas," Mike said, frowning. "Along with a billion others."

  "Yes, Kildar," Greznya said.

  "Okay," Mike replied. "Let me think about this for a while."

  * * *

  Mike left the intel shack, yawning. Fucking dreams. Even screwing the ass off of Bambi hadn't helped. He wasn't sure it had helped her, either, but at least she understood where he was at.