Jack Scarlet

by Dan McGirt

  The lights of Deepfire receded in the distance as the helicopter streaked north. Jack flew just above the dancing wave tops to minimize their radar signature.

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Galahad.

  “Link up with MARISA and ditch the helo.”

  “And this guy?”

  “We’ll drop him off somewhere.”

  “Did we get anything out of this jaunt except a stolen helicopter?”

  “We know Deepfire is a SEG op. We know LiquiOil is not prospecting for oil there – wrong setup. We know whatever they’re doing involves a BOLD unit – a boron laser drill. And we know they don’t have Sandpiper.”

  “That thing we saw on the video ate Sandpiper.”

  Jack nodded, grim-faced. “You may be right. But if I must deliver that bad news to Jeff and Marian, I want to be able to tell them why it happened and who was responsible.”

  “That tentacle was a what, not a who. Like something off Dinosaur Island.”

  “Maybe,” said Jack. “But I suspect a connection between what we saw on the video and SEG’s Deepfire operation. It can’t be coincidence.”

  “You know what it was?”

  “Only a hypothesis,” said Jack. “I’ll have to analyze the video more thoroughly to be sure. And figure out what SEG is doing on that platform.”

  “They’re not asking us back for another look, man.”

  “No. But everything leaves traces. If they’re drilling, there is seismic data. I can back source the laser drill components, tap IUSS records, and so forth.”

  Galahad nodded sagely. “Exactly what I would do.”

  Jack laughed. “Well, you’ve always been—uh-oh.”

  “Uh-oh? I don’t like uh-oh. I’ve had enough uh-oh for one day.”

  “Here comes more.” Jack pointed to a pair of rapidly approaching points of light on the horizon. And above them glowed the red and white running lights of another helicopter.

  “I’m guessing not friendly.”

  Jack tapped the radar scope. “The transponder code on that bird is San Marcos coast guard.”

  “And those would be the Chinese missile boats,” said Galahad.

  “None other. Helo is probably the same one that tagged MARISA.”

  “The fun and games never end.”

  Jack banked hard to the west. The approaching craft adjusted course to intercept. “We’re almost in range of their CIWS.”

  “This never happens when I fly first class,” said Galahad.

  “If San Marcos scrounged ship-to-air missiles for those tugs, we’re already in range,” said Jack. “Better get a life jacket on your patient. This could get dicey.”

  “So caring. Say, who smashed this guy’s nose anyway?”

  “That would be me,” said Jack.

  A fiery red flash bloomed from one of the oncoming fast-attack boats and streaked their way.

  “Incoming!” said Jack.

  “Guess they did spring for the missiles.”

  Galahad calmly strapped an emergency life vest onto the unconscious pilot – who really should have been wearing one already. LiquiOil safety standards were slipping.

  Jack flew a zigzag pattern, staying between twenty and fifty feet above the water. In any of his personal aircraft it would be child’s play to evade, jam, or neutralize the missile. But the civilian S-61 was a lumbering beast, with no hope of dodging a sophisticated ship-to-air missile. He could only hope San Marcos had gone cheap on hardware, maybe with bad Pakistani knock-offs, as Gal had suggested earlier.

  He glanced back. The missile came straight on and had already closed half the distance. Jack stopped the evasive flying and went for maximum speed.

  “Get ready to jump!”

  “I knew you’d say that.” Galahad slid the left side door open. The Gulf zipped by in a black blur. He dragged the pilot over in a fireman’s carry and braced himself as best he could, waiting for Jack’s signal.

  “Wait for the bounce!” said Jack.

  He jammed the stick and slapped the helo’s boat-like hull against the water’s surface. The whole chopper shuddered in protest as it chopped through the waves. Like a skipping stone it rebounded into the air, touching down again eighty yards farther along.

  “Go!”

  Galahad jumped without hesitation.

  Chod! Forgot my dive mask!

  Jack locked the helo into a climb, then scrambled to the door and dived. The unmanned Sikorsky rose briefly and was losing stability when the missile slammed into it. The payload exploded, ripping the helo apart. Hot rotor blades whizzed in all directions, some landing a quarter mile away.

  Jack, submerged, felt and heard the muffled boom! of the blast. He surfaced as the burning husk of the S-61 hit the water a final time, some five hundred yards away. It listed to port and began to sink, surrounded by a slick of burning oil, fuel, and engine fluids.

  Turning away from the wreck, Jack sighted the flashing orange glow of Galahad’s beacon, three hundred yards out.

  “Still alive?” asked Jack over the com.

  “Despite your best efforts.”

  “And our unlucky pilot?”

  “He floats.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.” Jack started swimming.

  “Worst recon ever, kemo sabe,” said Galahad.

  “Moldova was worse,” said Jack.

  “Other than Moldova. That goes without saying. Don’t even bring up Moldova.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Chod! I could be on the porch of my cabin right now in the CRAZ, enjoying a beer, watching the moon rise over the hills, hearing the crickets, the night birds, and the coyote. But no. I am here, treading water in the Gulf of Mexico, many miles from land. And soon the sharks will come. May they eat you first.”

  “There are no sharks, Gal.”

  “I am certain there will be sharks. However bad things are when I accompany you on one of these festive outings, it can always get worse.”

  “The coast guard will get here before any sharks do.”

  “San Marcos coast guard, man. They’ll shoot us.”

  “Likely,” admitted Jack. “But if they don’t, I have a plan.”

  11: Welcome to San Marcos

  The island of San Marcos was eighteen miles from end to end and no more than ten miles across at its widest point. Running north to south like a curved spine were a range of forested hills San Marcans called the Alamo Mountains. Sheer cliff faced much of the eastern shore. West of the Alamos, the terrain sloped down to meet a deep natural harbor and several lagoons. Corbett City, the capital, lay on the harbor. Jack visualized in his mind’s eye every map, chart, and satellite photo of San Marcos and the surrounding waters that he had ever seen, recalling the placement of the airport, public marina, coast guard stations and army bases, radio and television broadcast facilities, presidential residence, an exclusive casino resort, roadways, and other features of interest – including the small military police station to which he and Galahad were brought after surrendering to the San Marcos cast guard last night.

  “The charges against you are serious, Mr. Jack Scarlet,” said the uniformed man seated across the heavy wooden table from him. Jack suppressed a grin. A steel table, bolted to the concrete floor, would have been a wiser furnishing choice for this interrogation room. This table was movable, which meant it was a potential weapon against the two San Marcan soldiers flanking the door. Each held a shock baton.

  The officer opened the blue legal folder and pretended to refer to the papers inside. “Terrorism, sabotage, piracy, espionage, aggravated assault and battery, murder, mayhem, kidnapping, criminal trespass, weapons possession, unauthorized entry into San Marcos territory – the list is extensive.”

  “You forgot littering,” said Jack.

  The officer’s face darkened and his ears turned red. He hadn’t introduced himself, but he wore the insignia of a major in the San Marcan army. His name tab read anson. Jack figured him for army intelligence.

  “Do you
think it is a joke?”

  “Your charges are irrelevant,” said Jack. “I’m a United States citizen. The Republic of San Marcos lacks an extradition treaty with the U.S.”

  Major Anson scoffed. “We have no need for extradition. You are here, in my custody.”

  Jack was unimpressed. “For now.”

  “You are a spy and saboteur for the American ISA,” said Anson. “You can go before the firing squad. Did you know that? I can have you shot today.” Jack made no response. The major flashed an unconvincing smile. “Or, if you cooperate, confess, detail the nature and purpose of your activities, you can live instead.”

  “Then, I’m happy to confess,” said Jack.

  “Oh?” Anson did not conceal his surprise.

  “I confess that I am not an agent of the ISA.”

  Though he had on occasion provided technical assistance to the CIA’s successor organization as an unpaid consultant, Jack had never been on the International Security Agency’s payroll.

  Major Anson’s eyes narrowed. “Your accomplice, the Indian, has already confessed. He is cooperating fully. So, you see, there is nothing to be gained by being stubborn.”

  Jack was shackled at the wrists and ankles with heavy gauge chains joined to a metal ring around his waist. He was barefoot and wore a bright orange prison uniform consisting of elastic pants and a loose-fitting short-sleeve shirt. The chains clinked against the table as he turned up his palms. “I have nothing to add to Galahad’s statement,” he said.

  “If he cooperates and you don’t, it will not go well for you,” said Anson.

  Jack pretended to ponder this prisoner’s dilemma setup. “So what is Gal saying?”

  “He admits you are ISA spies on a mission of sabotage.”

  Jack feigned shock. “Galahad told you that?”

  The major nodded, though a bit warily.

  “Then let me tell you something.” Jack leaned forward, speaking softly. He was gratified to see Anson lean in, which meant he was already in his head. “You’re a liar. The only thing Galahad would tell you is to go to hell, followed by some graphic and detailed descriptions of what he will do to you, your men, and your entire misbegotten chain of command. Does that sound about right?”

  Major Anson opened his mouth for an angry retort, thought again, and said, mildly, “He’s cooperating fully.”

  Jack laughed. “If the Taliban or the Illyrian mafia couldn’t break Gal, I doubt you clowns can. You haven’t had him in custody long enough even to get warmed up.”

  Anson sputtered, clenching and unclenching his fists. He took a deep breath and said, “You intentionally antagonize me, Mr. Jack Scarlet.”

  “True,” admitted Jack.

  “Why would you do such a foolish thing?”

  Jack jostled his chains. “Chains put me in a feisty mood.”

  “They are meant to do the opposite,” said Anson. “They are meant to impress on you that you are my prisoner. You are in my power.”

  “I’m not your prisoner,” said Jack.

  Anson forced a laugh. “The shackles say otherwise.”

  “You’re a major,” said Jack. “I’m a high profile individual. Decisions regarding my disposition are above your pay grade. So I’m not your prisoner.”

  “This is the famous Mr. Jack Scarlet arrogance, I see.”

  “I’m not arrogant. Just overconfident sometimes.”

  “Tell me why you and your confederate were at the LiquiOil offshore facility.”

  “Say please and I’ll tell you.”

  The major gave him a hard stare. Jack stared blandly back.

  “Please,” said Major Anson, as gruffly as he could manage.

  Jack beamed. “Since you asked so nicely. We are part of an extensive search and rescue effort to locate a missing scientific research ship, the Sandpiper, which disappeared several days ago. Confirm that with the United States Coast Guard.”

  Anson scoffed. “I have no doubt the American Coast Guard will confirm what you say – as the cover story for your ISA sabotage mission.”

  “Are we still on that?” said Jack. “Sandpiper was conducting oceanographic research under the direction of Dr. Cassidy Settles and her team. Are you holding them here?”

  Jack watched Anson’s eyes closely as he reacted to the sudden question. There was a flicker of surprise, a microexpression indicating confusion, then suspicion. The major’s face hardened. “I ask the questions,” he said.

  Jack bobbed his head in mock deference. “By all means.”

  “Why did you attack the LiquiOil offshore facility?”

  “We didn’t. We were looking for the missing ship.”

  “You entered San Marcos national waters without proper authorization.”

  “We were diving,” said Jack. “It’s easy to get lost underwater. Where is Sandpiper’s crew?”

  Anson frowned. Jack gave the major credit – this abrupt question didn’t surprise him quite as much as the first one. Based on his reactions, Major Anson didn’t know anything about Cassi or her crew’s location. Which, in itself, proved nothing. He was, after all, a mid-rank officer, only the first level of interrogation.

  Jack wondered if the major was truly as inept a questioner as he seemed. Interrogation was a mind game. Captors always wanted something from their prisoners. Compliance, at a minimum, but often there were additional goals – information, propaganda value. Sometimes they wanted to turn you, break you, make an example of you. Jack enjoyed the puzzle of figuring out the other side’s agenda.

  He had studied the law enforcement, intelligence, and military interrogation methods and doctrines of every country in whose hands he was likely to find himself. He knew every trick and tactic for getting a prisoner to provide intel or incriminate himself. In countries with a strong rule of law and respect for human rights, navigating the situation was usually a matter of smiling and nodding until his lawyers showed up. In Russia, China, Iran, or other nations that had more flexible ideas about physical and psychological torture, he would play things a little differently. But the leaders of San Marcos, though hostile and corrupt, knew theirs was a small country huddled in the large shadow of the United States. They knew Uncle Sam could flick them aside without even blinking. They also knew the Scarlets were one of America’s richest and best-connected families. They would hesitate to do serious harm to Jack.

  To the contrary, holding Jack put the San Marcans in a quandary. The old “you’re an ISA spy” routine was a place holder, meant to scare him. If the San Marcos government was responsible, even indirectly, for Sandpiper’s disappearance, they’d be doing their best to cover that up. Having someone as visible as Jack Scarlet, world famous billionaire adventurer, investigating the ship’s loss was at best an inconvenience, at worst a disaster.

  Even if they knew nothing about Sandpiper, San Marcos was tied up with LiquiOil’s Special Engineering Group. SEG hated any attention to their activities, while Jack brought a global spotlight anywhere he went – if he wanted to. No doubt there were heated discussions taking place at the presidential palace about what to do with him.

  In the end, unless San Marcos wanted a world of trouble, all they could do was let him go. Jack simply had to wait – and pass the time by learning whatever he could about the Sandpiper crew. If there were survivors, San Marcos had them.

  But Jack now doubted he’d get any useful information from Major Anson. The officer ignored his question, saying, “I see that you consider this a game.” Anson pushed back his chair. “It would have been better had you cooperated, Mr. Jack Scarlet.” He stood and gathered up the blue folder. “I’m done here.”

  Jack smiled to himself. This is the part where they leave me alone for a while in this windowless room to increase my sense of isolation and helplessness, the better to deepen a psychological urge to cooperate. Considering Jack typically spent twelve hours a week in a sensory deprivation chamber while he worked through various scientific and technical problems, that wasn’t going to be a
n effective tactic. Not that he would tell the major that.

  “See you later,” said Jack.

  “We won’t meet again,” said Major Anson, pausing at the door with his back to Jack. “Open,” he said.

  The magnetic lock released. The door opened outward. Anson stepped aside as two more soldiers armed with shock batons entered, joining the pair already in the room.

  “Call when he is ready to talk,” said the major. “Only leave no marks on his famous face.”

  Anson left the room without looking back. The door clunked shut behind him. The four soldiers activated their shock batons. Voltage crackled.

  It occurred to Jack that he may have misjudged the situation.

  12: A Shocking Turn

  Four men. To beat one helpless prisoner.

  It seemed a bit much.

  Still, it explained why Jack was not secured to his chair.

  For a two-man beating, it was best to immobilize the victim so the assailants could alternate swings of their fists or weapons. But four men would get in each other’s way like that. The first thing they’d do is shove him to the hard concrete floor. Then all four could kick and cudgel him together.

  No point in waiting for them to get started. Jack slid out of the chair and scooted under the table. One of the soldiers barked out a harsh laugh.

  “No use hiding,” he said. “We’ll find you.”

  Kneeling, Jack got his back against the underside of the table. He thrust upward with his legs, lifting the table and turning it on its side with a heavy crash. Anson’s empty chair went skating across the floor. The soldiers swore and jumped back.

  Jack crouched. He rolled his left thumb across his right thumbnail, then pressed against the cuticle. A piezoelectric microscanner integrated into the keratinized polymer of the artificial nail recognized his thumbprint. This signaled microscopic reservoirs to release minute amounts of fluid into a series of nanoscale channels etched into the nail. Half a second later, the tiny droplets combined. A hissing white-hot flame an inch long erupted from Jack’s thumb. The polymer nail shielded the fleshy side of the digit from being instantly incinerated.