A Deeper Blue (ARC)

by John Ringo

  But, what the hell, a charter was a charter.

  "Where do you want to go?" he asked as he took off.

  "Down I-4 towards Disney," the leader said as the helo gained altitude. "I am a pilot as well. Would you mind if I rode up front?"

  "Sorry, FAA reg against it," Mark said. He felt a cold circle on the back of his neck as the man slid into the co-pilot's seat.

  "You'll forgive me if we ignore that," the man said, strapping in and putting on the spare headphones. "My bird."

  * * *

  The three Mercedes had obviously been souped up since they were, marginally, keeping up with the GT. The problem was the traffic. Mike was having to find the gaps and the Mercedes were following him through them. They were outdistancing the cop cars for that matter.

  He didn't flinch as the first rounds struck the GT but he did snarl.

  "Those motherfuckers just shot my car," Mike said. "They are so going to pay for that."

  "Okay," Dunn said. "I've convinced them that you're one of the good guys. Bad guys shooting at you helped. What are we going to do about the guys trying to kill you?"

  "That's handled," Mike said. "Lydia, you there, dear?"

  "Yes, Kildar," Lydia said.

  "Tell Dragon it's time."

  * * *

  "Dragon, Dragon, Keldara Base. Kildar is southbound on I-4 south of 535. Three black Mercedes in pursuit. He requests having his back scratched, over."

  "Got it," Kacey said. "ETA three minutes."

  The Hind had been loitering southwest of Bayhill in an area that was still undeveloped. She'd mostly been hovering over palmetto scrub and scaring the hell out of the armadillos and feral hogs that made a home of the inhospitable scrub.

  Now she powered up and headed east. Time for the Dragon to eat.

  * * *

  The body of the former pilot tumbled into the triangle of grass at the intersection of the Beeline and I-4 as the helicopter dropped down and accelerated.

  "We cannot get up to this car," the leader of the hit team said over the radio. "You might have to take him out."

  "We are on our way," the Colombian pilot said. "It will take about a minute to catch up."

  * * *

  "You just missed the exit for Disney," Britney pointed out as Mike blew past US 192.

  "I know," he said, sliding into the emergency lane again and staying there. The suspension really didn't like it. "I'd rather keep on track. We've got friends headed in."

  "Dragon?" Britney asked. "You know we're on national TV, right?"

  "Life sucks sometimes," Mike said.

  "Kildar, Keldara Base."

  "Go."

  "Be aware that police now report a stolen helicopter headed towards your position."

  "Life really sucks sometimes."

  * * *

  Once past the exit for Celebration and World Drive the traffic opened up a bit. Mike poured on the gas, weaving through the tourists headed for Tampa, the three Mercedes falling further and further behind. But Britney had rolled down her window and now, fighting the airstream, looked behind them.

  "Bell Ranger, low on the right, coming up fast," she said, sticking her head back in and tightening her seatbelts. "What are you going to do?"

  "Drive," Mike said then braked. "Dragon, Dragon, heading north," he said, skidding sideways into an emergency crossing.

  As he accelerated into the northbound lane one of the Mercedes tried to cross the median and rolled over. Another got stuck. The third followed him through the emergency crossing but, with lower acceleration, fell further behind. Not a lot. They were definitely souped to the max. However, Mike could see the Bell Jet Ranger now and it simply pivoted. The doors were open and he could see the machine-guns carried by the passengers. Tracers flew past the GT as he ripped through the gears and back up to full speed, twisting through the traffic. A line of bullet holes appeared in a CCC truck ahead of him as he drove under the fire.

  "Dragon?" Mike asked.

  "I see them," Dragon replied. "Look up and left."

  Mike glanced that way and grinned. The Hind was dropping down like a peregrine on a dove. On the other hand, it wasn't real close.

  "You know there are two birds following you, right?" Dragon said. "I think one of them's a TV crew."

  "Shoot the one that's shooting at me. I'm not sure I could get all deniable about shooting a TV crew. Again."

  Rounds cracked through the roof and into the backseat as Mike slid into the shadow of another tractor trailer and braked, hard. He rolled along there for a second, but that let the Mercedes catch up and one of the passengers leaned out the window holding an automatic carbine. Rounds started to slam into the rear of the car. Which was where the engine sat, so that was bad.

  "Dragon, these motherfuckers are shooting my GT," Mike pointed out. "This is not happy making."

  "Almost there, Kildar."

  He accelerated out of the cover of the truck as the Mercedes tried to drive alongside, rounds bouncing into the interior of the GT. Again, he was able to accelerate away much faster than the Mercedes could manage but the Ranger just dipped its nose and kept up. It had swung over to the right and rounds cracked through the hood. But they were going to find the range sooner or later and either take out the engine or Mike and Britney.

  Another set of rounds cracked right past Mike's head, one tracer flying by his nose and burying itself in the driver's door, then there was a tremendous explosion off to his right. Glancing that way, he saw the flaming wreckage of a Jet Ranger crashing into the fields surrounding the Kissimmee River.

  The Mercedes, finally noticing that Mike had top cover, cut across the lanes and into the median. As it bounced into the grass four laser-like lines of fire tracked across it and the Mercedes burst into fire, rolling into the oncoming lane. Cars dodged it successfully. Let the local sheriff's department handle that.

  "Okay, Dragon, thanks," Mike said. "Move to secondary loiter point."

  "You're welcome, Kildar," Dragon replied. "Dragonflight, out."

  * * *

  "Jesus Christ," Fisher said as the smoking GT pulled into one of the VIP slots in the employee parking lot. "You really fucked up your car, Mr. Jenkins."

  " Other people fucked up my car," Mike said, sourly. "Of course, most of them are dead, now. I'd call it even but I really like this car."

  "Yeah, I saw," Fisher said. "Was that a Hind on the TV?"

  "Shit," Mike said with a sigh. "It was a news bird, huh? I hope they didn't follow me here."

  "They tried to follow the Hind," Fisher said. "But they lost it. That's one fucking fast Hind."

  "It should be for what I paid for it," Mike said, pulling a large backpack out of the front boot. There were some bulletholes in it so he checked the contents but they were all fine. He pulled out the body armor and slid off his shirt then slid the armor on. The extra bulk was hardly noticeable under the Hawaiian shirt, the pattern of flowers breaking up the outline. He did have to button it up one button, though. A Desert Eagle .50 slid into the waistband of his shorts. It was, also, well concealed by the long shirt. Heavy but the stopping power was nice.

  "What do you want me to do?" Britney asked.

  "Stay out of the way," Mike replied then held up a hand to forestall a reply. "I know, I've been dragging you around into nasty incidents all day. Why stop now? Because my teams have this covered and I don't want you to get hurt. It stopped being a game back there on I-4. So. . . Head back to the hotel. Please."

  "Okay," Britney said.

  "Just that?" Mike asked. "'Okay?'"

  "How about, 'I'm really tired of being shot at and being around poison gas,'" Britney replied with a grin. "I'm fine with sitting this one out. I'll go catch a ride." With that she headed for the employee entrance.

  "Smart girl," Fisher said.

  "Smarter than me," Mike admitted. "Say, I don't suppose Disney has a fantastic car rebuilding shop?"

  "The studio guys do," Fisher replied. "Want me to talk to them?"
<
br />   "Please. And ask them if they could redo it in black and silver. Maybe with a tiger face on the hood?"

  * * *

  ". . .asking that everyone keep an especial lookout for any unusual activity," the Sheriff for Orange County said to the room full of reporters. "I would now like to introduce Lieutenant Bob Dunn, head of the Orange County Anti-Terrorism Task Force. Lt. Dunn?"

  "Thank you, sir," Dunn said, stepping up to the podium and blinking at the bright lights. "I've got a short statement about the events that have just occurred. Two major weapons of mass destruction attacks occurred in the Orlando-Orange County area. The first was by use of a stolen spray truck. The intent appeared to be to drive down the north end of International Drive. There was a short release near Sand Lake that, unfortunately, caused several deaths. That area is now closed off and we don't have a full casualty list as yet. Due to the nature of the attack, we are having to approach the area cautiously. When we do, and next-of-kin have been informed, we will release the casualty list. Currently there are only five confirmed casualties but, unfortunately, we are certain that there will be more. Two terrorists are among the confirmed dead.

  "A second attack was attempted at Wet and Wild. That attack was prevented, fortunately without loss of life."

  He took a breath and, knowing that it would be bad politics to snarl, tried to put a good face on the rest.

  "Both of the attacks were stopped with the assistance of a special operations team working through the US Army Special Operations Command. As you are all aware, the Federal Government has been providing support during this crisis under the War Powers Act. Federal agents from the FBI as well as military personnel are involved in this investigation. With their support, both attacks were stopped. I will now take questions."

  "Lieutenant Dunn," the first reporter said. "There's a rumor that the special operations team was, in fact, the Georgian commando group called the Mountain Tigers. Could you comment?"

  "No," Dunn said, trying not to snarl but his jaw worked. "I cannot comment on the nature of the special operations team."

  "Lieutenant," the next reporter said. "About the car chase on I-4. The helicopter that took out the stolen chopper and the Mercedes was a black Hind, just like the one that was seen in the Keys. The US military does not use that type of helicopter. Was it the same helicopter?"

  "I honestly don't know," Dunn replied. "I am not privy to everything that is going on on the Federal side. You might want to ask them."

  "Lieutenant, was the car involved in the chase a Ford GT? Because only one of those has been sold recently in the Orlando area. It was sold to a corporation called Mountain Tiger Beer, Inc on Friday according to open records. Was that the same GT?"

  "I am not able to comment on that," Dunn said, angrily. "I don't know when or where the damned car was bought. For all I know the idiot. . ."

  The Sheriff stepped forward and nudged Dunn to the side with a nod of thanks.

  "All the attractions in the Orlando area, with the exception of Wet and Wild and those in the immediate area of the attacks, remain open. We are not going to let terrorists stop people from having fun. We are going to stop them from doing that. We're just asking that people keep a sharp eye out for potential threats. Report anything suspicious through the normal 911 center or to a local security person. Thank you for attending, no more questions."

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Will Carter sighed when he exited the monorail. The lines to get into the Magic Kingdom were insane.

  Will and his wife Dafney had brought their three children, Lindsey 11, Jason 9, and Allison 6, to Disney several times before. It was an annual pilgrimage from their home in Radcliff, Kentucky. Dafney's mother and father lived in a retirement community near Clermont, a town just west of Orlando. They came down on winter break because, normally, the lines were a bit better than at Christmas.

  But not this time. Even though there was a terrorism threat in the Florida area, it seemed as if everyone in the world had descended on Disney.

  The press of bodies on the monorail ramp slowly moved forward and he could see why it was so packed: Disney was obviously taking the terrorist threat seriously. Each of the entry points had a security guard on it and they weren't just checking bags but wanding each person. And "Mouse-trail" lines had been set up stopping about fifty feet back from the actual entry point. It was going to take forever to get through them but he was sort of glad to see that Disney was taking the steps; he didn't want his kids dying at Disney.

  "It doesn't look bad once we get into the park," Dafney said, laying a hand on his arm. She knew that her husband got frustrated waiting in line.

  "I can see," Will said. From the top of the monorail ramp you could just see into Main Street and it was apparent there weren't all that many people on the street. But getting there was going to be a nightmare. "I'll try to keep my cool."

  Some of the characters were out working the line. Maybe that would keep the kids from getting out of hand. . .

  * * *

  Mike walked along the line of security booths, watching the bag checkers. Most of them were following Fisher's orders, carefully checking not only the obvious contents but things that could be disguised. He saw one of the checkers pull out a can of OFF, identical to the one that he'd demonstrated to Fisher, and hand it to the person being checked. Of course, Mike wouldn't have bothered, given that it was a blonde teenager. But the girl, after a moment's confusion, sprayed some on her arm.

  Mike paused as another person came to a booth near the far right. The man was Middle Eastern in appearance, carrying a new backpack.

  "Konstantin," he said. The communicator was voice activated, so he didn't even have to press a throat mike. "Booth Four."

  * * *

  Konstantin Shaynav was already on the target. The man appeared nervous, but a lot of the targets had. He kept the crosshairs on the man's head, though, dialed back far enough that he could watch general actions.

  "Bag's being checked," Dzintars, his spotter, said. "Can of spray. . . Shit."

  * * *

  Mike watched as the checker on Booth Four, an elderly woman that had a vaguely Jewish look, lifted a green spray can out of the bag then set it back in as she pawed through the contents. She had an expression that told him she was clearly pissed at the stupidity of the intense search.

  "Fisher," Mike said, gesturing with his chin.

  "What?" the man said. He'd been examining the lines and trying to figure out how to move the people through faster. There were two reasons it was on his mind. One was simple customer service. People had come to Disney to have fun, not stand in line waiting to get in. There were going to be massive complaints. The second was security related; he wasn't happy with that many people packed in together.

  "Booth Four. Spray can. Didn't get checked."

  The man had completed his check and nodded at the checker with a smile as he started to walk away.

  "Booth Four," Fisher said into his radio. "Stop him."

  Mike and Fisher walked forward as the security guard backing up the checker put his hand on the man's arm.

  "Excuse me, sir," the guard said. "We'd like your cooperation. . ."

  "You are stop me because I am Arab!" the man said, raising his voice. "This is prejudice against Arabs! I insist that you treat me as human! You kill Arabs in Iraq and you don't care. . ."

  "Sir, if you'll just calm down," Fisher said, stepping over to the irate customer.

  "Sir, if you'll just look at your chest," Mike said, much more quietly.

  "What?" the Arab said, angrily. Or at least he appeared angry on the surface. But his eyes weren't.

  "Look down," Mike said in Arabic. "And stay still."

  The man looked down and his dark face went gray at the sight of a spot of red light wavering over his heart.

  "Now," Mike said, still in Arabic, "if you'll just accompany us I'm sure that this can all be resolved quite quickly. And if you continue to prese
nt a problem to me, innocent of not, I'm going to splatter you all over the ground. Do you understand?"

  "Yes," the man said, his jaw working.

  "Slowly hand the bag to the security guard," Mike said. "Then step towards that door, slowly," he continued, pointing to a door marked "Cast Only." Two of the Keldara, wearing much the same clothes as Mike, including the extra bulkiness, were walking over. They flanked the man as, followed by the security guard, he was marched over to the door.

  Fisher had gotten a new security guard for Booth Four and went over to the checker.

  "Mrs. Meier," Fisher said as the entry supervisor hurried over. "You didn't check a spray can."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Fisher," the woman said, angrily. "But this is all so stupid! Nobody is going to put anything in a can of OFF."

  "Let the security guard do the checking on this one," Mike said. "I think that Mrs. Meier could do with a little demonstration."

  "Okay," Fisher said. "Mrs. Meier, if you could accompany us?"

  The threesome walked over to the door and went through. On the other side was a section sealed off with plastic sheeting. Inside the plastic sheeting, two of the Keldara were fitted with poison gas gear.

  The Middle Easterner was standing by nervously as the security guard, gingerly, removed the spray can. The two large Keldara still flanked the potential terrorist. The security guard put the can on a tray and slid it into the sealed area through an airlock.

  "Sir, if you would step in there," Mike said, politely. "And demonstrate that that is normal OFF in the can, I'd be very grateful."

  "I will not!" the man shouted. "You are picking on me because I am Arab! You will stop this now! I will protest to CAIR!"

  "Fine," Mike said with a sigh. He drew the Desert Eagle and pointed it at the man's head. "Once upon a time the .44 Magnum was the largest and most powerful handgun in the world. It was subsequently replaced by this one, the Desert Eagle .50 caliber, which can kill an elephant at short range. Admittedly, subsequent to that other more powerful handguns such as the Casull .454 have been developed but that is not entirely germane to our discussion since I am not currently pointing one of those at your head. I will, however, add that I'm having a very bad day. I've gotten shot at, gassed and done a rather nasty swim. My harem manager has been kidnapped and is being tortured at the moment. I'm tired and cranky and I haven't gotten laid recently. So. You can demonstrate that there is not VX in that can or you can be shot by a gun normally used to kill elephants. Your choice. I'm good either way."