by John Ringo
"There it is," Tammie said, tapping her FLIR readout. Not that Kacey could see it since she was in a completely different compartment.
"Got it," Kacey said, dropping the helo slightly closer to the deck. Most Cigarettes didn't have radar. But she didn't want one of the terrorists looking behind them.
* * *
That wasn't likely. Sayid Al-Yemani was exhausted as was his crew. All he could think was how much he was looking forward to a few hour's sleep in the hotel in Nassau. Farid and Abdul were both half asleep since it was the first calm water they'd hit since the Abacos, which was over twenty four hours before. None of them were looking behind them.
* * *
"Dragon," Adams said, watching the converging vectors. "Bank left."
* * *
Mike held onto the rope as the bird banked, the water flashing by underneath, lit by the stars. He'd doffed his NVGs and now was trying to spot the Cigarette by Mark One Eyeball. Soon enough it was easy; the boat was leaving a green phosphorescent wake that was distinctive.
He leaned down and tapped Lasko's shoulder, pointing towards the boat. But the old tracker had already acquired the target.
He stroked the trigger of the Barrett twice, sending a single round into the each of the engines of the Cigarette.
"Target is slowing," Mike said, thumbing his throat mike. "Converge."
* * *
"There," Beso said, pointing ahead. It was hard to tell how far away the boat was but it had to be close. Seeing much beyond five hundred meters with the NVGs was tough.
"Got it," Vil said, looking left and right. He could make out the shapes of the other converging boats. Everybody was well spread.
"Viking, Viking, Keldara Three."
"Go, Three."
"Converge. . .now."
* * *
"Uh?" Farid said, his eyes flickering open as the boat slowed. "What. . .?"
"The engine quit," Sayid snarled, turning around. Prophet's Beard, it was smoking! "Fire!" He snatched at the fire extinguisher and started making his way towards the rear just as the sound of helicopter blades penetrated his battered consciousness.
* * *
"NVGs OFF!" Mike shouted. "Dragon, spot NOW!"
* * *
Sayid was blinded by the sudden light, holding his arms up to shield his eyes. For a moment he couldn't think then he reached for the portable GPS with the drop points on it. He had to fumble for the damned thing; he could barely see in all the light.
* * *
Vil banked the Cigarette alongside the boat and backed, hard, as Yosif's team started scrambling over to the other boat.
* * *
Sayid got his hand on the GPS and tossed it over the side just as the boat started filling with men in body armor and carrying weapons. He knew what else he had to do, drawing his pistol and triggering two rounds into the mounted GPS. Then he placed the barrel under his chin and fired a single round.
* * *
"Fuck," Mike muttered as the driver shot himself. He'd seen him toss something over the side as well. "Dragon, pull to the starboard side of the boat. Now!"
As the helo pulled across, nearly over Vil's cigarette, Mike quickly dumped his body armor and attached vest. Then he dove out of the helicopter.
He could barely see without a mask, but there was plenty of light from the helo's spot. He could see an out-of-focus shape, descending rapidly, and he followed as fast as he could in his uniform and boots, frog-kicking and swirling with his arms. The damned thing was falling fast, though. Then it seemed to pause and he realized the depth here wasn't more than twenty feet. The GPS, a small dark shape, was clearly outlined on the white sand bottom. He grabbed it and headed back for the surface.
But his uniform was weighing him down. Getting back up was a hell of a lot harder than getting down. He put the GPS in his teeth and doffed his top then pulled off his boots. Now he could swim.
* * *
Creata gripped the fast rope and dropped through the air as the helo balanced over the terrorist Cigarette boat. Creata wasn't normally a data stripper. Stella was the top expert at ripping out electronics in the middle of a firefight. Creata, whose small stature and gentle appearance had landed her with the nickname "Mouse", was a cracker. Not the electronic kind, the safe kind. She'd been trained to open one safe for the Balkans op and managed it with finesse despite having to kill a guard that her security had missed much to their everlasting chagrin. Since then she'd been taking advanced classes in what the FBI referred to as "black bag" operations. Lock-picking, safe-cracking, quiet electronics insertion, those were Mouse's specialty.
But she could hum the tune of ripping out some electronics and there were only so many girls along on this venture. Needs must and all that.
The two surviving terrorists were being tossed across the gap to Clarn's Hustler as the dead body of the driver was being loaded into Vil's Cigarette. She landed on one of the seats, stumbling slightly, then sat down in the driver's seat. Taking a look at the configuration she rolled under the console and pulled out a power screw-driver. Four screws secured the console mounted, shot to shit, GPS. She had the screws off in seven seconds and the GPS out in another ten. Not back for a cracker.
She tossed it to Clarn then jumped the gap to the Cigarette.
"Don't think we'll get much," she said, shrugging, as she buckled in.
"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. B
ut, 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."
* * *
"Tammie, 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 cat naps for the last two days. He'd developed the ability years before and knew he could keep going, and keeping 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 60 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 DC," 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 discrete 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 the 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, tra
nsfer 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?"
