The Gift of the Dragon

by Michael Murray

  Munificent cruise ships lay docked around them, with one sailing out of port, blowing its horn, distracting his men. Achille would have preferred to have this briefing in a quiet room, but according to Price the meeting between Grant, Sangerman, and Northwin would be taking place tonight.

  A chorus of affirmatives came back from the team.

  “Okay, well, then you know this Northwin is holed up on a big yacht. It’s a converted German Navy corvette. That means one-and-a-half-inch steel hull. We know they have automatic weapons, and brass thinks they might have RPGs.” Nate spat as he said the word think. “They are to be considered armed and dangerous. Many of his people are former military.”

  “US military?” Braden said that. A good man. Talkative, always wanted to get more information.

  “Many are, yeah. Most of them honorable discharges. We are hoping they will cooperate with us.” Achille sat down. Himself, he didn’t have much faith in hope. “It gets worse. We are expecting two of the most unwanted will be on board: Callan Grant. Alice Sangerman. Bad people.” As some of the men spoke, Achille held up his hand. “This is the working plan. We’ll drop fire teams one and two on the shore first, here.” Achille pointed at his map, at a spot on the Miami River seawall below the Intercontinental Hotel. “Braden’s team will set up off the front of the Endurance. Howett’s team will set up off the back.”

  “Stern, sir.”

  “Yeah, to the former squids and members of the yacht club like Howett, the stern. For us mortals, the back.”

  “I’m just a simple fisherman, sir.”

  “Right.” Fanatical would better describe Howett’s passion for catching and eating fish. Someday, I have to take up his offer to go out after striped bass.

  “Once the shore teams are in place, we’ll come up alongside Northwin’s yacht and announce our presence. I’ll be on the horn. I’m going to ask them to lay down their weapons and turn over Northwin, Sangerman, and Grant. The Coasties will have gunner’s mates on their MB240s, but we won’t be using those unless we encounter serious resistance.”

  “A two-forty won’t penetrate that boat’s hull anyway.” That from Brown, a former SEAL. He would be leading the onboard fire teams.

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t think it will come to that. Before I tell Northwin to surrender his boat, I’ll check with the shore teams. Howett, send me two clicks when you are in position. Braden, three.” Achille looked around at his twenty men. “Keep alert. This should be a simple in and out with the perps. Northwin’s men are all paid good salaries but not enough to go to jail or die for their boss. Everyone on board is a suspect. Grab them, cuff them, and let me and God sort them out. We’ll move in at o-dark-hundred. Any questions?”

  There being none, Achille gave the Coast Guard chief petty officer the OK signal. The crew cast off the mooring lines, and the Chief blew one long blast on the horn as he left the dock for the two-mile journey from the Coast Guard station at Terminal Island to the mouth of the Miami River.

  Ian

  Ian smiled as the Cessna left the land behind, heading east over the Atlantic Ocean. He flew the fake flight plan of a private plane going from Fort Pierce to West End Airport on Grand Bahama. Meanwhile, Dennis Stepanof, Ian’s pet computer genius back at Apple Creek’s Information Security Division would make sure the Cessna was reported landing back at Tampa as expected.

  The ISD had formed out of a need to protect Apple Creek’s digital infrastructure from hackers and other web-borne attacks. The ISD fought back by catching and then hiring the best black-hat hackers they could find. Not only were these people very good at devising ways to protect against the attacks of the sort they had once led, but they could also provide incentive to less-than-eager customers of Apple Creek’s computer security services when needed. Sometimes a well-timed shutdown of a company’s web presence with a massive denial-of-service attack was needed to convince a customer that ISD’s high-priced, secure web-hosting services were worth the money. Of course, those attacks had to be covered up so no one could trace their origin. In Stepanof, ISD employed one of the top experts at getting into information networks undetected and planting false data streams, erasing existing ones. He had become one of ISD’s most valuable people. After I extracted him from his “employment” with the Russian mob!

  Ian would fly part of his second flight plan, head out over the Gulf Stream, and then turn around, fly just above the waves, and head south for Miami. Once he made it outside US air-traffic-control space, Stepanof would work with an air traffic controller at West End who made much more money from Apple Creek in one night than his regular employer paid him in a year. No alarm would be raised.

  Ian looked at the weather forecast. Even when there were no hurricanes, late summer thunderstorms often hovered around Miami as warm wet air rose from the hot waters of the Gulf Stream and hit cooler air above. On this night, there were several good-sized squalls. Though Stepanof would cover them if they were spotted by radar, to play it safe, Ian would follow the old path of smugglers coming into Miami in small planes, hugging the waves, and dodge from squall to squall. Plus, it’s more fun this way!

  In the pilot’s seat slept the plane’s original pilot. Rewriting the part of the plan that called for his death, Ian had decided to give Top Gun a chance at survival. He could use a good flier on the team he would need to build to take over physical security from Laird Northwin. José also dozed in the back of the plane. Ian popped several tabs of Modafinil, a “smart drug” developed by the Air Force to let aviators stay awake for several days. On a long mission, Ian ate them like M&Ms, crushing them up so they worked faster.

  This will be a long one. After the two missions tonight, Ian would ditch the plane off Gun Cay in the Bahamas, fifty miles east of Miami. He and José and Top Gun would parachute down and be picked up by Ian’s boat. With Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money” roaring in his ears, Ian guided the Caravan down so close to the waves that the spray blowing off them meant he needed to turn on the wipers to keep the windshield clear.

  Callan

  Several hours after meeting McReady, Callan emerged from the cabin of his boat dressed in a white tracksuit, with a fake beard covering his jaw, and a blue gym bag. He had come to Miami prepared to spend several days or longer looking for the best way to get onboard the Endurance, but since he had found it right away, he sprang into action. Earlier, he had booted up his laptop, and researched the Folie. Most large yachts have a story on the web, and so did the Folie. Explorer Yachts built her in 1991 based on a standard design for an eighty-three-foot expedition yacht. He found the complete deck and cabin layout online, and that cemented his idea into an action plan.

  Now he retraced his steps past the bow, where McReady appeared to be napping, and down to the middle of the boat, where the midships mooring cable emerged from her side and ended at an oversized cleat on the edge of the city sea wall. Callan knelt down and took out his folding Black Sable knife, one of the sharpest and strongest knives made. He quickly sawed partway through the cable until he hit the thin electrical wire of the hawser alarm. He cut that. Leaving his duffel bag, he then jogged off. He stopped at a distance and watched. The cut wire in one of the three thick hawser lines that bound the yacht to the shore should set off an alarm on the boat.

  Soon he saw McReady put out the gangplank that connected the yacht to the seawall and hurry over it. Then he saw him kick the cable and pick up the duffel bag. Inside, Callan had placed a fifth of Jack Daniels and a thousand dollars in cash. McReady took the duffel bag and went back aboard the yacht.

  Callan spent an hour or so wandering along the waterfront, snapping pictures, playing tourist. Using a telephoto attachment for his iPhone, he casually took shots of the Endurance and its surroundings from several angles. He saw the guards pretending to lounge. To his practiced eye they looked to be in a relaxed alert mode, not actively expecting anything. As he jogged back by the Folie, he saw with satisfaction McReady working the ship’s crane, lowering his Har
ley to the sea wall. Callan went into the nearby Miami Chophouse restaurant and ordered a steak and a club soda. After a bit, he heard the throaty roar of the Harley starting up and watched from the window as McReady rode off in a puff of smoke.

  “Money well spent,” Callan said to himself as he finished his steak. Then he left a hundred-dollar bill on the table and headed back to the City Marina. He walked to his Fountain with the bounce in his step of a happy man as he whistled Coldplay’s “Viva la Vida.”

  A little bit after sunset, Callan started the motors of the Fountain and eased it out of the City Marina. He idled the big black and white fishing boat back along the path he had walked on foot earlier, past Bayfront Park, around the towers at Chopin Plaza, and up the Miami River. Hidden by the dark night, the Fountain now carried two large, dark nylon bags on the fiberglass top over the cabin. One hundred yards behind the Folie, with the bulk of the yacht shielding him from the view of the guards on the Endurance, Callan turned on his Raymarine autopilot, and it began to execute a course he had carefully set. As the precision GPS steered the boat, Callan climbed up on the hardtop, nine feet above the water. The three outboards grumbled quietly as the Fountain idled up alongside the Folie. Callan smiled to see that McReady had left minimal lights going on the big yacht. Maybe he hoped she would get stolen so he would have an excuse to move on from his unhappy nest.

  As Callan’s boat came amidships on the silent Folie, Callan tossed the bags up. He heard them thump softly on the upper deck. Then he leaped down, cut off the autopilot, and, taking the wheel of the Fountain, he turned sharply back toward City Marina.

  It took Callan twenty minutes to get the boat squared away and walk slowly back to a spot near the Folie. Everything looked quiet. Then he walked all the way past the Folie and the Endurance, staying to the far side of the wide sidewalk along the water’s edge. Even at the late hour, many pedestrians were still about, traveling from one of the waterfront restaurants and bars to another. It satisfied Callan to see no alarm raised and no one investigating the bags he had left on the Folie. A few shapes moved around on the Endurance’s deck, but for the most part she lay still, with lights shining from several cabins. A warm wind blew softly from the ocean, bringing the scent of living and dead things into the city.

  Callan followed a crowd of college age kids leaving a restaurant called Zuma and walking along the waterfront, admiring the moored yachts. He noticed that one of the kids wore a Miami Marlins shirt. “Hey, how do you think the Marlins will do against the Reds next week?”

  “They’re going to dominate the Reds!” The kid smiled at Callan. “Well, they will if they can get on base. Who are you for?”

  “Marlins, of course! The Reds are going to get killed!”

  This led to a lively discussion of the players and how Cincinnati would not be able to stand the heat, giving Callan a good reason to keep his head turned away and be in the thick of the crowd as they walked past the Endurance.

  Callan let the conversation lapse and hung back as the group passed the Folie. He quickly ducked into a deep shadow behind the large hedge that grew where the waterfront sidewalk turned back toward the land. A sign on the narrow path behind the hedge read, “Walkway for marina customers and their guests only.” He dodged around that, seeing the other side was blank. That is the side meant for me!

  Glancing quickly around and seeing no one paying attention, he crouched down and then leapt quickly up, vaulting himself over the Folie’s midship rail and onto the vessel.

  Ducking low behind the solid splashguard that ran along the rail, he waited for any alarm or the sound of someone shouting.

  Nothing. “Thank you, Mr. McReady,” Callan whispered. He loved it when people were predictable. He remembered from his study of the boat’s layout that access doors opened into the main cabin on either side. Staying low to stay in the shadows of the splashguard, he moved to the ocean-facing side, where no one could see him work.

  Looking through the cabin window, he noted the flashing red light of an alarm in standby mode in the dark cabin. McReady had turned on the interior alarm. Callan recalled from his research that the ship carried old-style Kirkwell alarms. These sent an outgoing call before activating the alarm system itself. The idea was to get the security company working on the break-in before alerting the thief. A problem with these systems was that if the call didn’t go through, the alarm didn’t go off at all. Since there were no phone lines connected to the Folie, and he hadn’t seen a satellite transmitter, the call would have to be made over a cellular network. Callan pulled out his XT6000 cell phone jammer and turned it on.

  It took him a few minutes to get through the ship’s door lock. He watched the alarm for a while. It flashed but did not go off. He walked up to the control room and looked over the helm, nicely finished in polished maple, with a plethora of gauges and an old-style hooded radarscope. Twin engines powered the Folie, and each had a key of its own. Each engine also had separate Twin Disc electronic controls, meaning he could shift the boat into gear electronically. Perfect!

  Lying down on his back, Callan opened the access panels. His smile widened as he saw the simplicity of the wiring. People did not generally steal large yachts. At maximum speed the Folie could make about fifteen miles per hour. Not something you could take off in quickly. Also, an eighty-foot vessel is hard to hide. That left little reason to make a mega-yacht difficult to hot-wire.

  Callan’s plan required the engines to run in gear for about five minutes and then shut down. That should prevent anyone from being alarmed; large yachts moored in saltwater would often run their engines for short periods to ensure the running gear worked properly and to clear it of marine growth. He pulled out a black box with connectors for wires. The box contained both a timer that would break a circuit after a set period and a radio-activated switch. He wanted to be in the water before firing up the vessel. Callan spliced connectors into the Folie’s wires so that he could start the engines using his modified Uniden waterproof radio. Once started, the timed switch in the box would keep them running for five minutes and then shut them down.

  With the box all set up, Callan retrieved the rest of his gear from his bags: a wet suit and small scuba tank. A heavy-duty underwater welding kit with an Aqualance rod that could cut through two-inch steel in under a minute. A heavy battery for the welding kit. Big mechanical suction cups with handles. Air packs for the battery so he would be able to move it underwater. A kit of tubes, stoppers, and fast drying underwater caulking, and a small medical kit. He put this all in a rubber bag with bladders on it that he would inflate with air from his scuba tank to lighten the load. Staying low, he dragged this gear to the stern side of the Folie, facing the ocean. A few boats were passing by, but he could see their green and red bow lights coming from a distance and duck.

  The last thing he took from his bag was a large cylinder wrapped in rubber padding. This he held very carefully. It contained dangerous stuff.

  He studied the plastic-coated copy of the specifications from McAlister one last time. If McAlister had given him the wrong specs, then he would be drilling in the wrong place. Callan shrugged. “So it goes,” he whispered. Tonight he would either be rid of his adversary or finally be dead. Laird Northwin had chased Callan Grant, destroyed one of his most profitable business ventures, and served as McAlister’s cat's-paw to try to recover the tablet Callan took from Moore. Tonight, payment for all those things would come due! Northwin would be eliminated, and Franklin McAlister would learn that he needed to deal with Callan as an equal.

  Or maybe as a boss!

  In the metal cylinder, Callan had enough tabun gas to wipe out a brigade. Slowly. A nerve agent developed by a German company as an insecticide in 1936, it was a colorless gas with a faint odor of oranges. Callan had selected tabun for his plan because it incapacitated a person quickly but it killed slowly. And it had a known antidote. He needed Northwin alive. For a while. Callan needed to find out why Northwin hunted him and whether Faith had sp
oken truly when she had said that Northwin was holding Alice Sangerman on his ship.

  If he held Alice, then either Northwin had the key or Callan could find it by questioning her. Callan would have almost half an hour to get an antidote into Northwin. The rest of the people on the ship would not be so lucky, however. They would drift slowly from unconsciousness to death with little pain. Northwin will die slowly, with pain.

  Being heavier than air and relatively volatile, the tabun gas would sink to the deck of the ship’s interior and flow down into the bilges through the extensive drain system on the old North Sea–built ship within ten minutes of being put out from the ship’s ventilation system in an airborne mist. He would have to keep his mask on for that time, but then would be able to move about the ship freely. First, I need to take out the three guards on deck.

  Callan slipped quietly over the side of the Folie, swam about ten feet away from the vessel’s stern and turned the Uniden radio on. The Folie’s twin diesels started up, filling the water with a soft throbbing. He keyed the Uniden twice and smiled behind his mask as the Folie’s engines shifted into gear and thrashed the water into white foam at her stern. McAlister’s specs showed underwater motion detectors and passive sonar sensors for detecting divers. Now the water between the Folie and the Endurance filled with foam and mud from the Miami River bottom. Callan pictured motion alarms going off on Endurance and being turned back off when the person on duty noticed the Folie testing her engines. Callan bet that Northwin didn’t expect an underwater attack here at one of the world’s most expensive marinas, right in downtown Miami.

  If the alarms did not get turned off, Callan expected lights and shouts from the Endurance. He waited for them, but the ship remained silent. Looks like I bet on the right horse – the lazy one!