by John Ringo
This Beaver had been configured for amphibious operations, with pontoons that featured small wheels for strip landings. It would be perfect for use in the islands. Although with a Gulfstream and two helicopters, Thomas wasn't sure what the Kildar needed it for.
"I'll need to call my. . . supervisor," Chatham said. He didn't need a Super Beaver, that was for sure. "That was more than we were looking at. I'll get back with you. By the way, do you take cash?"
* * *
"I got the materials," Oleg said as Mike, pushing Adams in a wheelchair, approached the Gulfstream.
"Good," Mike said. "You ready to walk, yet, cry-baby?"
"I'm fine," Adams said, standing up and then swaying. "God damn."
"I've got you," Oleg said, grabbing the master chief's arm. "I was the same way. It is not something to be ashamed of."
"I'm not ashamed," Adams said. "I'm pissed."
With Oleg's help he was loaded on the plane. Mike climbed onboard, followed by Greznya who had clearly been weeping.
"You okay, Grez?" Adams asked, grimacing in pain as he settled in the seat.
"I am, in fact, very good, Master Chief," the girl said then burst into tears again.
"Vanner finally popped the question," Mike said, grinning. "Hey, Grez, how you fixed for a dowry?"
"Thanks to you, Kildar, just fine," the girl said. "And I hate to say it, but the one condition that Patrick put on the marriage is that I not enter the Rite."
"Fine by me," Mike said. "I was wondering when he'd finally get off the stick. Damn, that boy can be slow sometimes. Besides, he's good genes, too. The Mothers should be well satisfied."
"Damn," Adams said. "Color me clueless."
"Like I said," Mike replied. "You weren't hired for your brains."
* * *
"Daria!" Mike yelled as soon as he was in the house.
"Here, Kildar," the girl said, walking into the main room.
"Where are we. . ."
"The boats have been surveyed," Daria said, almost simultaneously. "The senior chief says they are all in good working order but he is 'tuning' them. They have most of the materials they need to install the extended range tanks. He assures me they will have them installed by dusk. They are being painted as well. Some of the Keldara are assisting in that. Vil's team is considered 'marginally prepared' by Mr. Holterman. Mr. Chatham has found a plane meeting your requirements but it is unavailable for rental. They want a bit over a half million dollars for it."
"Buy it," Mike said, walking across the room towards the secure room that had been set up.
"The captain of the yacht says that he's ready to move when you are," Daria continued. "Gear has been moved to the yacht. The Hind is fueled and back onboard. Yosif's team is ready to board. To refuel the boats off-shore the yacht will need to take on aviation gasoline in Nassau. It is available and the captain is aware of the necessity."
"Anything I'm missing?" Mike asked.
"Lunch," Daria said. "It's being laid on right now. I suggest you eat before you board the yacht, although there is food there as well."
"Thanks, mother," Mike said. "I'll take that under advisement. It's a pretty long run."
"You should also sleep," Daria noted. "It's going to be a long night."
"I'll take that under advisement, too," Mike said, frowning.
He walked in the secure room and shook his head. Greznya had beaten him there and most of the girls were crying.
"This is what I get for setting up an intel shop of nothing but women," Mike said.
"Daria!" Irina said, ignoring him. "Sergeant Vanner has asked Greznya to marry him!"
"Oh, that is wonderful news!" Daria said, running over and hugging the girl.
"He is so weak," Greznya sniffled. "He is so tired."
"He'll be out here in a few days," Mike said. "You can feed him up. He'll get better. Trust me, I know."
"He knows," Britney said, nodding. "Boy does he know."
"Quiet, you," Mike said. "I hate to break up the party, but do we have anything new?"
"It turns out the Ronald Reagan had already identified a probable contact," Irina said, wiping her eyes. "A freighter is tracking back and forth north of Grand Island. They have launched a plane to keep an eye on it."
"Excellent," Mike said. "Sort of."
"Sort of?" Irina asked. "I will not ask. We also have gotten information from Jay." She handed Mike a form. "He believes he has a lead."
"Also very good," Mike said, nodding. "Anybody seen Dr. Arensky?"
"He is in an out-building," Daria said. "The other side from the harbor."
"I know it," Mike said. "Okay, Irina, who's on for tonight?"
"Myself and Creata," Irina said.
"Okay, be at the yacht in thirty minutes," Mike said then paused at a frown from Daria. "Make that forty five. And get some lunch."
* * *
Mike walked in the door of the small coral building and paused. Most of the interior was filled with plastic sheeting.
"Tolegen?" Mike called. He could see a shape through the plastic and assumed it was the doctor.
The interior was very cool and smelly. There was an acrid stench that was overlaid with various fruity odors. Mike didn't recognize any of them but "cloves" came to mind.
"Ah, Kildar," the Russian scientist said, pushing aside some of the plastic. "Welcome to my laboratory." He said it the way any good mad scientist would: Lab-oooor-a-tory. Roll the Rs.
"Just can't keep from tinkering?" Mike asked.
"I have never had a chance to study some of the properties of tropical fauna," the Russian said. He had a Petri dish in one hand and a glass beaker filled with a yellowish substance in the other. "There are some very vile poisons to be found in tropical species. I wonder if you're ever going to go to the Australia area?"
"At this rate I'd put it as 'likely,'" Mike said, sitting on the edge of the room's desk. There was a small chemical lab set up on a table on the side. While it was incredibly, almost unbearably, neat, the desk was littered with papers. "Got a question for you; can you come up with something that will incapacitate a large number of people. I'd prefer not to kill them because I'm going to need to ask some questions. But just unconscious or very sick would do."
"Easily," Tolegen said, frowning. "But how large an area? If you're talking about a lot it would be logistically difficult."
"A small freighter," Mike said. "I'm not sure of the cubic footage. I can probably get that for you. But I'd like something that's pretty potent and portable. Getting it onto the freighter is going to be the bitch."
"That is harder," Arensky admitted. "Very high potency, but not killing. Sarin for that area. . . With a good distribution system, which a freighter has, you could do it with a tank the size of one of your SCUBA tanks. There is one substance, a Russian product, that will act as a hallucinogen. Would that do?"
"Probably," Mike said. "But I've got to be able to get something out of them."
"Oh, it is very fast acting but also very briefly effective," the Russian said. "The effects pass in no more than thirty minutes. Inhalant so if anyone realizes what is happening they need only put on a breathing apparatus. I'm going to need some chemicals that are not here. You will also need a container and a distribution system. I can make both from available materials but it will be the equivalent of two of your SCUBA tanks. In fact, that is exactly what it will be. . ." he added, looking distant.
"That's perfect," Mike said. "Get with Daria on what you need. I'm going to need it by tomorrow night."
"If I can get the materials, rapidly," Tolegen said, nodding. "Yes, that will work. It is easy enough to make. If you know how," he added, grinning. "You don't want them killed?"
"No," Mike said, walking out. "I'll take care of that."
* * *
"Oh, hello Juan," Mike said.
He had been wandering the Straw Market, just poking around. Anastasia had wanted to take a look around and it was a good enough way to build the fact that
he was, in fact, in town.
"Mr. Jenkins," the Colombian said, nodding back.
Gonzales was clearly taking some of "his" girls out shopping as well. Katya not being one of them. He also had four large suited Colombians with him, earbuds in place and eyes scanning the crowd.
Mike had brought pretty much the entire harem, including Martya, all dressed in identical Mountain Tiger outfits. Anastasia was wearing a sun-dress. The group was being shadowed by seven of Oleg's team, with Oleg in the lead, suited up in shorts, t-shirts and Mountain Tiger jackets that poorly concealed their body armor and weapons. They were wearing Invisio Bone-Mics, the absolute state-of-the-art in interpersonal commo. They also, individually, out-massed any of the Colombians by at least twice.
The two groups eyed each other like competing wolf packs as their principals sparred.
"I see you decided to show back up," Gonzales said.
"Just went out to show the girls the out-islands," Mike said. "Getting covered in nude teenagers is a bit much for even Nassau."
"Of course," Gonzales said. Although the three boat-bunnies with him were pretty, the harem was orders of magnitude beyond any of the three.
"But, hey, girls like to shop, too," Mike said, shrugging. "I swear, even after you cover one of them in rubies, they want sapphires."
"Women are that way," Gonzales said. "They are always wanting more. It is a pity they cannot just be satisfied with what they have. But men are the same way, don't you think?"
"Some," Mike said. "Then again, some just want to make sure things stay the way they were."
"Change is inevitable," Gonzales said.
"Oh, absolutely," Mike said. "I mean, look at evolution. All those mutations occurring all the time. But you know what's neat about evolution?"
"What?" Gonzales said.
"Well, most of those mutations don't take," Mike said, removing his sunglasses and looking the Colombian in the eye. "You see, better species wipe them out because they thought that change was the way to go when it was just a short road to extinction. Only one out of a billion mutations succeed. Me, I'd tend to go for the conservative route."
"Some of us are more courageous," Gonzales said, his jaw working.
"There's a difference between courage and stupidity," Mike said, putting his sunglasses back on. "And most of those mutations only realize that after they're extinct."
* * *
Chapter Sixteen
"Marathon, Marathon, Charlie Three One Five," the coast guard pilot said. "We have a suspicious fast mover, fifteen miles east of Largo. Has been hailed, refuses to heave to. Request fast vessel for intercept, over."
"Charlie Three One Five, Marathon," the base said. "Roger on fast mover. We have it and you. Negative on support. All fast boats outside support area."
"Fuck," the pilot muttered, looking over at his co. They'd just tanked before taking off and had another hour's fuel.
"Marathon, Marathon. Fast mover turning east towards Bahamas. Request pursuit."
"Roger, Charlie Three One Five," the headquarters said a minute later. "Pursue to PNR, over."
"Roger," the pilot said, banking the Lynx. "We got a hard lock?"
"Rog," the co said, looking at the Forward Looking Infrared readout. "I don't think he knows we're back here. He's headed for the Cut."
"Good," the pilot said. "It's nice and narrow in there. But I'm not sure we're going to get him with cargo. He's already headed home.."
"Fuck cargo," the co said. "There's going to be residue. What's the status on Bahamas?"
"Marathon, Marathon," the pilot said, tiredly. "Any chance of Bahamas intercept?"
* * *
Mike leaned out of the door of the Hind, holding onto the fast-rope and watched the speeding Cigarette below.
He was trying to decide whether to stay in the helo or be in on the boat intercept. There were benefits and detractions with each. With the boat intercept, it was more likely he was going to get to kill someone. On the helo, on the other hand, he could control the intercept better.
"We got a track on this thing?" Mike asked.
"It's almost to the cut," Irina said, looking at her computer screen. "But I've got another track that looks as if it's following it. Air track."
"What the fuck?" Mike asked. He walked across the interior of the bird and squatted down, looking at the screen. The take from the balloon radar had been filtered to only vector on the track and items immediately around it. Sure enough, about four miles back there was a blue icon of an air track, following along neatly.
"Shit," Mike said, looking at the icon. "It's fucking 315."
"Excuse me, Kildar?"
"It's a Coastie, a Coast Guard helo," Mike replied. "They were the bane of my existence when I lived here. Turned out they were under orders to keep an eye on me. I always wondered why they showed up every time I moved. And now they're chasing our track."
He thumbed his throat mike for internal.
"Dragon, we have a complication."
He was glad he'd stayed on the helo.
* * *
"Marathon, fast mover is in Bahamanian waters," 315's pilot said. "Continuing pursuit. Any data on Bahamanian intercept?"
"Negative, 315," the headquarters said, unhappily. "All vessels out of area. You are cleared to continue pursuit into Bahamas territory."
"We're about bingo on fuel," the co pilot pointed out. "I mean I know this is fun and all. . ."
"It's frustrating is what it is," the pilot said. "But we can tank in Bimini if we have to. They've got pretty good av-fuel."
"What the hell?" the co said. He was getting a feed from the radar balloon as well, a much more complicated one and he now shook his head. "I got fast movers. Air and sea. Five sea, one air. Closing on the track."
"Marathon, Marathon," the pilot said, then unkeyed the mike. "What do I say? 'What the fuck, over?'"
* * *
"Dragon, close the helo," Mike said.
It was not long before Before-Morning-Nautical-Twilight, the "darkest before the dawn" and lowest ebb in the human system. Four AM in other words. With the moon down the ocean was pitch black, barely reflecting a welter of stars.
Kacey poured on the power, banking away from the approaching terrorist boat so as not to blow the op and swinging north to get behind him.
"Coast Guard 315, Coast Guard 315, this is Dragon Flight, over," Mike said. They had full codes and encryptions for everyone running in the area in the US government. And Vanner had been very complete in his commo gear selection.
* * *
"What the fuck is Dragon flight?" the pilot of 315 asked.
"How the fuck do I know?" the co said. "But they're coming in on encryption nine."
"Dragon, Dragon, this is 315. . ."
* * *
"315, you need to exit this AO. You are not cleared for the operation that is ongoing. Over."
Mike unkeyed the throat mike and wondered what response he'd get.
* * *
"Fuck," the pilot said, frowning. "Fucking black ops bastards. That's our track."
"Yeah, but ain't shit we can do about it," the co pointed out. The helo could outrun the Cigarette boat, but stopping it was another issue. If they were stupid they could drop down in front of it. If they wanted to get run over or shot to shit. The Coast Guard helo had one pistol on board. The Cigarette, assuming it was a Colombian, was probably bristling.
"Dragon, Dragon," the pilot said. "Negative. Our track. Let Bahamanian authorities handle it."
* * *
"Dumbass," Mike muttered then keyed the mike. "No intercept vessels in area." He paused. "Trust me, we made sure of that. We didn't figure Coasties would pursue this far. You have to be bingo and we're not going to retank you. Now Bank Off."
* * *
"Arrogant fuck," the pilot said. "Negative, Dragon. Our track."
* * *
"Stupid bastard," Mike muttered. "Okay, 315. Be aware that you are now placing yourself, by your own recogniza
nce, in a high level security op. Feel free to watch. You talk, you go to Marion. Do not pass go."
* * *
"Boss, maybe we shouldn't. . ." the co said , nervously, then looked at the radar take. "The other helo. . ."
Had swung in behind and now blew past them like they were standing still. With dual miniguns and spare tanks mounted on the pylons, it was closing on the Cigarette from behind at about twice the Cig's speed. Dim silhouettes perched in the doors could be seen holding weapons. Sniper rifles.
"That's not one of ours," the co said, confused.
"No, that was a fucking Hind," the pilot replied. "Who in the fuck uses a Hind."
"I thought they were pretty. . .piggy," the co said. "That don't look piggy."
"No, it doesn't," the pilot said, speeding the Lynx up to try to catch the barreling Hind. It was pointless; the normally sluggish Russian attack bird had clearly been upgraded; it was leaving the Coast Guard Lynx in it's wash.
"This sucks."
* * *
"Oorah!" Mike shouted at the team in the bird.
"AER KELDAR!" Pavel shouted back, giving him a thumb's up. He was leaning out, holding onto the other fast rope. Perched in a harness in the door was Braon Kulcyanov, his team sniper.
Perched in the door next to Mike was Lasko Ferani, the Keldara's top sniper. Admittedly, this was a clap shot; Mike could have done it just as easily. But there was no reason to just keep Lasko around for the occasional Hail Mary when there were other missions he could do.
* * *
"Dragon, Dragon, slow down a bit," Adams said, watching the converging tracks. There were ways to do it by computer but that was too complicated. He'd watched this sort of thing enough to figure it out by eye and it was clear that Dragon was going to get to the Cig before it should. "About ten knots."
* * *
"Hah!" the Lynx pilot said. "Now we're catching up!"
"Yeah," the co said. "But why?"
* * *
