Jack Scarlet

by Dan McGirt

  The SEG squad leader and two of his men crumpled to the floor. Needler stun rounds delivered precise doses of citosoporonol, a fast-acting anesthetic chemical that could knock out a grown man in seconds.

  The rest of the SEG squad sprinted to the rail and trained their weapons on the water below, seeking a target.

  Jack and Galahad were gone.

  “Bogies in the water,” reported the squad’s second-in-command.

  Wailing sirens and claxons broke the night. Exterior floodlights snapped on, illuminating the water beneath and around the platform. Sun-bright spotlights swept the wave tops in all directions. Uniformed men burst from the crew quarters like ants swarming from a disturbed nest, running to their stations with well-drilled efficiency. The Sikorsky chopper lifted off. Crew and security teams piled into the patrol boats and the larger crew boat. Deepfire was fully mobilized against the intruders.

  Three fathoms down, Jack and Galahad swam hard for the PUPs.

  “That went as I expected,” said Galahad over the comlink. Radio silence was pointless now.

  “At least we know it’s SEG,” said Jack.

  “And SEG knows it’s us,” said Galahad.

  “Time to hit the panic button.” Jack depressed a raised stud on his dive belt. The action triggered a low frequency beacon signal to his PUP unit, summoning it to his location. Galahad did the same.

  “We’re no closer to that missing ship,” said Galahad.

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  The muffled thrum-thrum of high-speed propellers grew louder, then faded as a patrol boat passed overhead. Jack and Galahad angled deeper into the water.

  It proved a timely precaution as a SEG trooper on the patrol boat hurled overboard a metal cylinder the size of a coffee can. Per its preset, the portable depth charge exploded twenty feet down, sending a boom like a cannon shot through the water, along with a powerful pressure wave that slammed Jack and Galahad end over end. A secondary shockwave bounced off the surface of the water and inflicted an almost immediate additional jolt.

  Jack felt like a weather balloon had inflated inside his skull. His ears rang as if he’d stuck his head inside a church bell. He reoriented himself in the water. He could still tell up from down. Barely. Now where was Galahad?

  “Gal? You with me?” Jack switched on his chest LED to give his partner a point of reference in case he was more shook up and scrambled than Jack. He risked painting a target on himself for another depth charge attack, but the greater risk was that Gal was disoriented and swimming straight down or, worse, had lost consciousness. “Gal? Come in, buddy.”

  A gloved hand emerged from the murk and clasped Jack’s forearm. “They’re...playing rough,” said Galahad.

  “Vomit in your mouthpiece?”

  “A little.”

  “They’re trying to make us surface.”

  “Or blow us apart.”

  “That was to get our attention,” said Jack. “Felt like an eight hundred gram charge. It’s the next that will blow us apart.”

  “You know what eight hundred grams of depth charge feels like?”

  “It’s what I use in the obstacle course at the Dome.”

  The Dome was Jack’s private offshore marine technology lab near Pacific City. There he developed and tested aquatic inventions such as the PUPs, the durafiber dive suits, undersea robotics, and secret projects for the Navy. It was also where Jack regularly trained for underwater actions. Had there been more time, he’d have planned and practiced their entry to Deepfire there.

  The mechanical whine of the first patrol boat’s engine grew louder as it came about for another pass, now joined by the second patroller.

  “Do we go up and say hello?” said Galahad.

  “They’ll give us a minute to think it over. PUPs should be here by then.”

  “Sooner the better, man.”

  On cue, the sleds announced their arrival with a flash of LED headlights and a ping! on the com channel. Jack and Galahad mounted their vehicles and grasped the controls.

  “Good to go?” asked Jack.

  “Roger that,” said Galahad.

  “We better surface and dodge those boats if we don’t want to be fish chowder when they drop a bigger charge.”

  “I do not want to be fish chowder,” Galahad affirmed. “Let’s go.”

  The PUPs angled upward, gathering speed as they approached the surface. The twin sleds burst into the air side by side and switched to surface mode as they splashed down. A steering strut popped up and the saddle of each PUP reconfigured to let its rider switch posture from prone to upright.

  Geysers of spray erupted two hundred yards behind the PUPs – the blasts from a pair of portable depth charges notably more powerful than the warning shot Jack and Galahad had endured.

  “Guess they got impatient,” said Galahad.

  “Let’s boogie,” said Jack. “Those patrollers are faster than they look.”

  “And the bullets even faster.”

  Each patrol boat had a mounted 12.7mm machine gun – French for .50 caliber – at the bow. The craft were four-tenths of a mile behind the PUPs, bearing west. Jack and Galahad turned north and pushed the cyclone thruster directional waterjets powering the PUPs to full speed.

  “We can outrun those RHIBs,” said Jack. “Maybe.”

  “And the helo?”

  The Sikorsky held station just off Deepfire. The whomp-whomp of its rotors echoed across the water.

  “One thing at a time,” said Jack.

  Jack and Galahad ran dark beneath the stars, trusting the limited night vision of their HUDs and the guidance of their instruments. The RHIBs turned and gave chase, 150 hp outboard motors revving hard. The SEG troopers were disciplined – they wouldn’t fire those mounted machine guns haphazardly. But when they did open up, it meant they had a clear target.

  “Game plan?” asked Galahad.

  “Draw those chasers off a couple miles and submerge. With luck we’ll exceed Deepfire’s DDS range and lose them.”

  “Why is ‘with luck’ always part of your plans?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  The bark-bark-bark of a 12.7mm gun punched the air. Red tracers streaked through the night and hot rounds stitched the waves to Jack’s left as a line of searching fire marched across the water toward him.

  The second RHIB gunner opened up, laying out fire to Galahad’s right. They weren’t going for the kill, so what was the play?

  “Trying to box us in!” said Jack. “Don’t let them!”

  He veered hard to starboard. Galahad cut to port. They crossed paths, crossed back again, and diverged in a wide Y from their previous course.

  “Looks like they love me better,” said Galahad.

  Both RHIBs peeled right and stayed on Galahad’s tail.

  “Must be your winning personality,” said Jack.

  Jack held his course. The pursuit boats had cut between him and Galahad. How were the RHIBs sticking to them in the dark? They were well clear of Deepfire’s nimbus, almost a mile from the platform now. Either the boats were running IR scopes or Deepfire had polarimetric radar, good for scoping compact, fast-moving objects like the PUPs.

  Jack debated – turn back and run interference for Gal, or make for open water and trust his friend to take care of himself? The crew boat, slower than the RHIBs, was also on course to intercept Galahad. SEG was opting for a divide and conquer approach, taking them out one at a time.

  Or maybe not. The Sikorsky banked out of its hover and closed the distance with Jack. A high-intensity Nightsun searchlight snapped on; the bright beam slashed across the water. Jack zigzagged to evade the sweeping light. There was no going back for Galahad now.

  Sorry buddy – I’ve got my own problems here.

  The S-61 was the civilian variant of the old Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King, developed for antisubmarine warfare by the U.S. Navy. This helo wasn’t armed, but there would be a sniper aboard – or two, knowing SEG. It might be time to dive and take his
chances with more depth charges.

  A chime in Jack’s ear announced a hail from MARISA.

  “Go,” said Jack.

  “San Marcos coast guard has visual on me. A helicopter gunship has overflown and is hailing. I rather suspect a warning shot is next.”

  Helos, helos everywhere. “Evade. Get to international waters with all speed. Do not engage.”

  “If I pull back I shan’t be able to extract you.”

  “We’ll manage, MARISA. Go!”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  This is going sideways fast, thought Jack.

  The night lit up straight ahead. Jack marked two vessels at range three miles, coming in fast.

  He knew what they were: Type 022s. Fast-attack missile boats made in China. The San Marcos coast guard had him in their sights.

  8: Wave Functions

  Jack did the math – estimated speed, distance, angles of approach, armament. He was well in range of the Type 022’s close-in weapons system – a six-barreled 30mm Gatling gun mounted in an enclosed automatic turret on the bow of each vessel. If the CIWS got target lock, five thousand rounds per minute would end this pleasure cruise fast. The PUP was optimized for underwater use; the surface configuration was an afterthought, a technical flourish, one of Jack’s idle brainstorms. Facing down high-speed hunter-killer catamarans was far outside the little sea sled’s specs. Running full speed was also draining the battery fast. Soon he’d be dead in the water in more ways than one.

  The lead edge of the Sikorsky’s searchlight beam found Jack. He cut hard right to skip out of the light, hit a cresting wave, and was briefly airborne. The PUP smacked the surface hard. Jack fought to stay upright. He cut donuts across the choppy saltwater to remain in darkness as the light from above quested for him. Jack prayed any snipers in the helo didn’t have night scopes.

  But they probably did.

  While he danced around in circles to avoid the eye in the sky, the Houbei-class boats closed by more than a mile. In another couple of minutes they’d be on top of him.

  Was it too late to dive again?

  Too late and too soon. His pursuers would pepper the area with depth charges—and not the send a message kind.

  Or did they want him alive for interrogation? That would be the smart play.

  An orange-red flame plumed out from one of the attack boats as a Draconia Techtronics DT-9 Hound short-range anti-ship missile streaked toward Jack.

  So much for taking him alive.

  ***

  The PUP skipped across the waves, bucking and leaping like a bronco beneath Galahad as he fled the two RHIBs on his six. This sled was overpowered for its lightweight construction – Jack loved his carbon nanotubes and polymer fiber laminates and bolting damn rockets onto everything he made. Or, in this case, super waterjets, but it amounted to the same thing: lots of power, lots of speed, far less stability than one might prefer—typical Jack Scarlet design.

  The helo was dogging Jack. Then MARISA came on the line. Galahad heard the AI’s exchange with Jack. Bottom line: no ride home. The PUPs might get them to international waters, but not with LiquiOil’s little private navy all over them.

  These odds needed evening out. Jack might not like it – he could be squeamish about inflicting casualties – but the hoyat was fouling the fan blades. Better to leave a few bodies in their wake and get away than to die playing loop and hoop with these SEG kamenaye.

  Galahad cut hard to starboard, turning back toward the Deepfire platform and the laggard crew boat as it angled to flank him. One of the RHIB gunners on his tail squeezed out a burst from a 12.7mm as Galahad crossed his sights, but let up once there were friendlies downrange.

  Just what Galahad wanted. Crew boat ahead, RHIBs behind. So long as he was between them, they’d hesitate before triggering on him. Or so he hoped.

  Galahad pointed the PUP at the crew boat, sighting for its prow. The vessel was used to transport personnel and supplies to and from Deepfire. A two-level superstructure was set fore; aft was a broad open deck. It was making twenty-five knots or so – respectable speed, but the PUP could run circles around it.

  At best, the crew boat had Galahad as a blip on radar. More likely, it changed heading per directions from a command center on Deepfire. Either way, Galahad counted on those aboard not having true visual on him in the dark.

  The rising wind whipped up six-foot waves. Galahad tried to take them at an angle, not straight on; he nonetheless misjudged his approach a couple of times and almost capsized. Every impact of the PUP’s light hull slapping down against the surface made the craft wobble and tilt crazily. If he kept up this speed, he was sure to flip sooner or later.

  Time to dive, die, or do the unexpected.

  Like get a bigger boat.

  Galahad feathered back the throttle as he reached the next swell, then revved into it hard while bringing the PUP’s nose up. The PUP slid up the front of the wave and grabbed air like a frolicking dolphin.

  The rear of the sled fishtailed as he landed, but Galahad brought it under control. Satisfied with his test jump, he banked hard for the rapidly approaching crew boat.

  The waves were tall enough, the PUP fast enough if he kept her steady.

  The RHIBs were closing fast, the howl of their engines cutting through the crash of the waves.

  Timing was everything.

  Galahad climbed the crew boat’s port bow wave as a rising swell amplified it. He goosed his power and caught air, standing in the saddle and leaning hard over the PUP’s nose as it flew up, taking him almost vertical. It was a jump of fifteen feet, maybe more. At the apogee, Galahad threw his weight to the left, turning the lightweight PUP in mid-air. The PUP’s smooth hull clanged on the crew boat’s metal railing just aft of the forecastle and tottered there. If the sled fell back, Galahad would wipe out. Game over.

  He leaned hard athwartships and the PUP balanced on the rail. Two SEG troopers at the bow turned, startled by Galahad’s sudden appearance behind them. They vanished from view as the PUP slid aft, skating down the rail. Once clear of the superstructure, Galahad threw his weight hard inboard and the sled flew toward the open deck. The front of the PUP smashed hard into a third SEG trooper’s chest, hurling him back against a fourth man. Both went down hard. The PUP bumped over their bodies and slid across the deck before coming to rest against the starboard bulwark.

  Galahad made a rolling dismount and tumbled aft, ending in a crouch on the fantail. He’d feel the bruises tomorrow, assuming he was still around to feel anything. He put eyes on the two SEG men. One wasn’t moving; the other rose to one knee and scrambled to get hands on the NP5 subgun hanging from his tactical sling. Galahad launched himself across the deck, tackled the trooper, drove him back. The merc kept his grip on the gun, trying to bring the muzzle around against Galahad’s gut. Galahad ended that attempt with a windpipe-crushing jab to the throat. The SEG man wheezed and coughed up bloody phlegm. A sharp strike to the nose and he stopped moving.

  Galahad yanked the KH from the unmoving trooper’s limp hands and rolled behind his body for cover. The gun was still attached to the merc’s tac sling. Galahad lacked time to liberate it, as one of the two men from the bow peered around the aft corner of the superstructure, seeking a shot. The merc’s eye was drawn first to the PUP shifting on the fantail deck.

  Too late, he saw Galahad, who brought up the NP5 to squeeze off three quick shots. The rolling deck and his awkward grip on the gun made him miss his man. One round went wide into the night, two caromed off the superstructure, driving the merc back.

  Gal tracked right and put three more rounds across the starboard corner, knowing the second trooper would be there, hoping to flank him. A flash of movement as the man ducked back proved Galahad correct.

  He released the NP5 and sprang to his feet, keeping low and lunging around the port corner. Inevitably the two mercs would lean out in unison to catch him in a crossfire now that they knew his exposed position on the open deck. Which was a good reaso
n not to stay put.

  Galahad met the first trooper as he made his move to fire. Gal’s left hand caught the subgun’s barrel, pushing it up and away even as the merc squeezed the trigger. His right hand grasped the webbing on the trooper’s chest. Gal used his strength and momentum to lever the man off his feet and over the rail. The SEG trooper bounced off the hull and hit the water headfirst.

  Meanwhile, his comrade put a three round burst into the space Galahad had occupied a moment before. One slug embedded in the inert trooper’s helmet, sending a shockwave through his skull that ensured he wouldn’t awaken anytime soon, if ever.

  Galahad scrambled up the side of the superstructure and onto the small upper deck behind the wheelhouse. A passing glance revealed two men inside. He ignored them for the moment, crossing to starboard side as he palmed his needler pistol.

  The last merc came on cautiously, NP5 at high ready. Too late, he sensed Galahad above and raised his muzzle. Galahad fired. The needler’s magnetically propelled stun dart easily penetrated the merc’s Kevlar armor. The SEG man crumpled to the deck like a discarded marionette.

  Galahad pivoted. Through the wide rear window of the wheelhouse he saw the pilot at the helm, facing front, and a wide-eyed crewman staring right at him as he spoke excitedly into the radio.

  Galahad shot him first. The needler’s round punched a neat hole in the glass and stuck in the man’s chest. He went slack-jawed, dropped the mic, and pitched back against the console behind him before sliding to the deck.

  The pilot turned, open-mouthed. Whatever he meant to say went unsaid as Galahad’s second shot pierced the window and struck home. The fast-acting drug did its work and the pilot fell against the wheel, knocking it hard to starboard.

  Galahad yanked open the wheelhouse rear door. He stepped over the unconscious seamen and took the helm. This tub was nowhere near as smooth a ride as Marisa, but for now the rush of action suppressed any seasickness. Gal started a turn, bringing the boat around to the north.