by John Ringo
"What should I do?" Pam asked nervously.
"Not much," Mike said. "Maybe rinse down the rods with fresh water, then put them away; we should have done that yesterday, but I got sort of caught up. Then fold the kites and put them away. They go in the locker forward of the rod locker." He grabbed a shirt and bathing suit, heading for the closed bridge. He first checked the text message system and shook his head.
"What's going on?" Courtney asked, coming up from below.
"There's a tropical depression forming," Mike said, pointing to a weather map. "It's over in the Gulf, but the storm track is for it to cross the peninsula and come this way."
"Is it a hurricane?" she asked as Pam came in the bridge.
"No," Mike said. "It's a storm, but a small one." He thought about the different waters around and shrugged. "We can dodge it. But we'll have to dodge south. We might try to run the Gap over to the Deeps and the Tongue of the Ocean. But I'm not sure about that because the storm might catch us in the Gap and that would be bad. Or we can just run straight south to hook around Andros. I'd rather do that, but we're still probably going to get some effects."
"Define effects," Pam said.
"Rain," Mike said. "Maybe lots. Some winds. Like a thunderstorm, but going on for a day or so. Nastier in a small boat, and this is a small boat make no mistake, than in a house. You might want to take some scop; we're liable to pitch a good bit."
"You want to go south, go south," Courtney said.
"I'm game," Pam said. "I could use some help with the rods."
They headed south at max speed, but Mike pulled into a protected, and empty, harbor just after dusk. After dinner he set up a scene where Pam was tied watching as he played with Courtney and "taught" her. He finally took Courtney after he'd brought her to orgasm and he held back, continuing to screw her much longer than she'd expected. She had gone into a continuous quiver when he entered her, but as he continued to take her she orgasmed again.
Still, he'd held back, and when he left her he started on Pam, spread-eagling her alongside Courtney and playing with both of them until Pam orgasmed and he took her as well, then went back to Courtney.
The storm had caught them at anchor, and as it built up the boat began to rock and the two girls seemed to climb to some other plane. They were blindfolded and gagged and the rocking motion left them both quivering uncontrollably by the time Mike, finally, came into Courtney and called the scene.
They spent the night cuddled up in a ball in the main cabin as the storm raged outside. He got up from time to time to ensure the anchors were holding, then went back to the warm bundle in the bed.
* * *
"It's wild outside," Courtney said at breakfast, looking out at the sheets of rain running down the windows.
"It is that," Mike said, looking at the weather instruments. The wind was blowing about thirty knots, steady, with gusts to forty. "This is going to get interesting."
"Up to you, Mike," Courtney said. "I trust that you're not going to drown us."
"No," Mike said calmly. "But you might get seasick. Strongly recommend the scop."
"Where is it?" Pam asked.
* * *
"This is cool," Courtney said, staggering onto the closed bridge and looking out the windows. The rain was so solid there really wasn't anything to see even with the wipers going full blast. "What are you doing? Driving on GPS?"
"Mostly," Mike said, gesturing at the instruments. There were even more than on the flying bridge, and larger, giving the closed bridge something of the look of flying a plane. "Keeping an eye on the radar and the sonar, too. Watching the weather map update. I think we'll probably be out of this by the time we get to Andros."
"It's rough," Courtney said, holding on to a stanchion and then making her way to one of the seats.
"It is that," Mike said. "Seas are about nine, ten feet. I'm staying to the outside of the islands, rather than trying to run the Gap. We'll just hook around the south of Andros and head over in the direction of Long Island. I'll keep going tonight and we'll be clear by tomorrow morning. But there's not really anywhere to dock down there, a few outlying keys, but no really good harbors." He frowned and shrugged. "It's a bit . . . lawless in that area. Lots of drug running goes through there. And there are . . . well, I'd hate to dignify them with the description 'pirates,' but there are people that occasionally attack boats."
"And you'll do what about that?" Courtney said, her eyes wide. "Throw a whip at them?"
"There is far more than a whip on this boat, Courtney," Mike said, glancing at the radar. "But I think I'll be on watch for a couple of days."
* * *
By the next morning they were clear of the wind and rain, but the storm to the north was still kicking up the seas to nearly six feet.
"I managed to make coffee," Pam said, coming up to the bridge with a travel mug. "I didn't make a huge mess."
"Not much fun being battened down, is it?" Mike said, smiling as he took it from her and set it in a holder.
"It's cleared up at least," she said, looking around. "Except for the clouds."
"They'll clear off by, oh, tomorrow," Mike replied, shrugging. "I won't be happy until we're down to the south of Andros, though."
"The pirates Courtney was asking about?" Pam said, looking off to port. "There's clear water over there," she said, pointing.
"Yep," Mike said. "And see the breakers between us and that clear water? That's the great Bahama Banks. You can't get a cabin cruiser in there. You can't even get a cigarette boat in most of it. It's an area where conditions are just right to form calcium carbonate from sea water and carbon dioxide. Major carbon dioxide sink. There's an old land-form that supports it. And it's mostly extremely shallow. There are a few channels in it, but they move and nobody tries to chart them. Also a few very small keys. They're technically uninhabited, but some of them are used as layovers by drug runners and some have the 'pirates' on them. Really just criminals with small boats that try to sneak out and pick up . . . well, the occasional passing yacht like us. They've generally got very small boats, though. What you'd probably call a john boat. I doubt even they would try in these conditions. But I'm keeping a close eye on the radar. And an eye out in general—sometimes they don't show very well on radar."
"That's scary," Pam said.
"I have various methods to convince them we're not a good target," Mike said. "Just going up on deck with a fake rifle will usually make them veer off."
"And do you have a fake rifle?" Pam asked nervously.
"Yes," Mike replied.
"What about a real one?" Pam asked. "In case they don't scare off?"
"No comment," Mike said. "The Bahamas is very down on guns. One of the reasons that criminals find local yachts easy pickings since plenty of guns come in with the drugs."
"I noticed that the customs guys didn't actually search the boat," Pam said.
"They generally don't," Mike said. "But they're very down on guns, nonetheless. Using one to defend yourself is nearly as bad as getting picked off by pirates. Nearly."
"What do the pirates do with the boat?" she asked, gulping. "And, uhm, the people on board?"
"You don't want to know," Mike answered.
"Thought so," Pam said with a sigh.
Chapter Eleven
Mike allowed Pam and Courtney to spell him in the late morning, as the waves moderated, and caught a few hours of sleep. By the time he got up in the afternoon, things had really started to calm down, but there was still solid overcast. He looked at the tropical satellite update and the general storm tracks. There was another depression forming off Africa, but other than that it looked pretty clear.
He was munching a sandwich for supper, watching the sun go down in the west with Pam sitting next to him, when the sat phone rang. He'd called in to the OSOL last night, giving his location and destination to the duty officer. It was a pain in the ass, but if it was the price of being armed, he was willing to pay it.
"Jenk
ins," he said after putting in the optional headset. Nobody but OSOL had the number, so it had to be them.
"Pierson," the colonel said. "Go scramble."
Mike punched in the code, watched by a puzzled Pam.
"Go scramble," he said.
"Mike, what is your position, exactly?"
Mike frowned and glanced at the GPS.
"24, 33, 93 by 78, 46, 21, more or less," Mike said. "Why?"
"Hang on," Pierson said, then sighed. "Mike, you have a presidential request to go operational."
"What?" Mike shouted. "Pam, could you go below?" he said, more calmly. "Hang on, Bob." When she was gone he said: "What?"
"Mike, we have a fixed location on WMD in movement," Pierson said tightly. "Specifically a nuke, probably refurbished Russian in origin. It's located at a key in the outer Great Banks, but it's going to move by tomorrow morning about four-thirty. We'd forward punched all our teams, trying to intercept it in Europe or the Mideast. We've got no spec ops that can deploy to the Bahamas before about 0600 tomorrow. If it moves, we'll lose it and have to reacquire. You're in position. It's less than forty miles from your current position."
"What's the threat level?" Mike asked.
"Low," Pierson said. "Okay, not great for one guy. Seven currently sitting on the device. At four-thirty, more or less, there's a cigarette boat coming in for it and there should be five more on the cig. But you should be able to get in position and take down the two groups separately."
"Thanks for the morale boost, buddy," Mike snorted. "And where is it, by the way?"
Pierson gave him the coordinates and Mike blanched. "That's inside the Banks, Bob! How the hell am I supposed to get there? Wade?"
"Mike, work the problem," Pierson said. "They've got a way in and out, find it."
"You're not Navy, Bob, that's for sure," Mike snorted, dialing up his charts, for what they were worth. "Okay, I think I can see what they're using. There's a narrow channel that leads up to a cluster of keys. Crap, they're not even named. And that channel is not very deep or wide. And who knows when this chart was last updated. I could end up stuck on a mud bank in pirate central."
"I'm looking at the satellite image," Pierson said. "There are five keys, more or less in a star pattern. On the center one is a small block building. The key is shaped sort of like a kidney, the inside pointed south. The block building is on the southwest side. Our information is that the device is on that key."
"I see 'em on the chart," Mike said, shaking his head and spinning the wheel to port to turn the boat northwards. "I'm already past the Gap. And they'll be able to see me from the horizon if I close inside of ten miles or so." He thought about it and shrugged. "I've got the Zod. It's marginally doable."
"You'll do it?" Pierson asked.
"I'll do it," Mike said. "WMD in motion? Of course I'll do it. I just didn't think I could actually get there in time."
"The President also noted that the reward for stopping a WMD attack is five million," Pierson pointed out.
"I've got plenty of money, Bob," Mike snorted. "But tell the President thank you."
"Hurry," Pierson said.
"I already turned around," Mike said. "Call me if there's an intel update."
"Will do," Pierson said. "The reinforcements are FAST Three, coming out of Rota. I'll give you a contact frequency. What's your call sign? I think your usual would be a bad idea."
Mike thought about that then shrugged. "Use 'Winter born,'" he replied.
* * *
Mike looked up at the sky and frowned. Crescent moon tonight. "Please, clouds, hold," he muttered, then set the autosteer and went below.
"Mike, what's going on?" Pam asked.
"Something's come up," Mike said, thinking about what to do about the girls. This really was pirate central. Be a hell of a thing to go grab the nuke and lose the girls. "Either one of you know how to use a pistol?"
"I do," Courtney said. "My dad taught me."
"What kind?" Mike asked.
"Some kind of automatic," Courtney said.
"Semiautomatic I hope," Mike said. "Ladies, there's some sort of U.S. Code that covers what you're about to see," he said, pulling out a pair of pantyhose.
"You're a cross-dresser and it's covered by U.S. Code?" Courtney giggled.
"No," Mike said. "I'm about to open Bluebeard's Stateroom," he said, humming a tune. "That is what is covered by U.S. Code."
He got the key and opened up the room and waved for them to look.
"Uniforms?" Courtney asked, stepping inside and sitting on the bed. "You're still a SEAL?"
"Not exactly," Mike said, unlocking the weapons locker. While it wasn't exactly packed full with weapons, it was close, and the gleam of lethal black was a sight to see.
"Holy shit," Pam whispered.
"There's something going on nearby," Mike said. "What it is I can't specify. I was asked, as a favor, to look into it," he said, squatting down and pulling out a pair of team shorts, which he laid down beside the panty-hose. "We're going to have to actually run into the Banks, and then I'll have to leave for a while. I'll be back in the morning. But you guys will be sitting ducks while I'm gone," he added, pulling out a silenced .22-caliber pistol and a .40-caliber Sig. "Which one do you want?"
"I don't want either one," Courtney said, her eyes wide. "I don't want you to go."
"That's . . . not an option," Mike said.
"Why don't they send . . ."
"Real SEALs?" Mike said, slipping a magazine into the Sig and setting it on the floor. "Better the .40. Never get in a gunfight with a weapon that doesn't start with at least point four. Very good rule. They're all running around Bosnia and the Middle East kicking doors. The terrorists got inside of our net. I'm in position. I took the contract."
"You said you were a contractor," Pam said. "You didn't exactly say that you were still selling widgets."
"Well, I lied about selling widgets, frankly," Mike said, shrugging. "I never sold widgets. The boat, the rest, all came from contracting."
"That's a lot of money for a contractor," Courtney said, her eyes wide.
"You get paid a lot of money for what I do," Mike said, shrugging and starting to assemble his gear. "If I manage this mission, the vig is five mil. Again, this is all secret. The only reason I'm telling you is that you're going to have to see some of it and I've been wanting to really impress you. This is my big chance. When I get back all shot up, you'll be less impressed," he added, looking up. "Pam, could you go get that big case of maxipads and the case of tampons, please?"
"What do you need these for—padding?" Pam asked when she came back in.
"No," Mike said, taking a handful of each and putting them in gallon Ziploc bags. He sealed them with as little air as possible and set them to the side. "Could you ladies go topside and watch our position? When we get to N24 40.656 W78 46.228—it's marked on the GPS—come down and tell me. And, of course, keep an eye out for unfriendly locals."
Mike continued to assemble what he considered essential gear for the mission until Courtney came down. He'd been pretty sure they were at the entrance to the channel when the boat slowed.
"We're pretty close," Courtney said. "There's breakers off to the east. Close."
"The edge of the Banks." Mike sighed, getting up and stretching; his joints ached from the weather change and sitting on the floor. "Now comes the fun part."
The wind was still blowing pretty steadily from the northeast and it was fairly cool up on the tuna tower. But it was the only place he might be able to see if the channel marked on the map was imaginary or not.
"There it is," Mike said, pointing to a break in the surf line. He eased the boat over and blanched at the narrowness and depth of the channel. "We're going to go aground, I just know it." He pulled up the tide tables for the area and nodded. "Tide's making, so if we do go aground, we'll be able to float off. But I'll need to find a deep hole to set this thing or we'll be screwed when the tide goes out." He flipped a switch and th
e speakers started to boom with heavy bass.
"More Goth?" Courtney asked, sighing.
"I'm going to take you to a Goth concert, someday," Mike said, grinning. "You'll have a blast. And I need to get my head into mission mode. And in this debt, a better world is made . . ." he whispered. "In the fury of this darkest hour, we will be your light. You ask me for this sacrifice and I am Winter born . . . I hear the angels call my name . . ."
Mike carefully negotiated his way into the channel, which widened out a bit beyond the entrance, and then began the process of trying to find his way through the maze.
Much of the channel marked on the maps was gone, storms and currents having torn down the walls of the channel and created shoals where clear water had been. But by luck as much as anything he was able to make his way through. He realized after a bit that it must have been dredged once upon a time and wondered why. Possibly for a salt extraction plant, long defunct. Now it was a ruined remnant of civilization in an uncivilized area.
Finally, well after dark, he reached the crop of keys that he'd spotted on the chart. There was a small open area on the northeast side of the islands, well out of sight of the target, and he dropped anchor while watching the area carefully for signs of life. This seemed like a natural spot for the local criminals to use for a base, but when he swept the islands with a thermal imager there weren't any hot spots. He still intended to circle the keys before he went in.
He'd kept navigational lights off as he approached and had the girls turn off all the interior lights, both so they wouldn't betray their presence and to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Now he slipped below, using a blue lens flashlight to make his way to the weapons room. Pam and Courtney were in the darkness of the lounge and, having run out of things to talk about, were now sitting on the couch and looking nervous.
"When I'm gone," Mike said, "lock the doors and hunker down. If anyone but me comes to the boat, just tell them to go away. If they don't, just put a round through the door. If that doesn't work, get in the Bluebeard Room; it's got reinforcing that's not exactly noticeable and the door is armored. They won't be able to take the boat anywhere, so just let them take whatever they want to take. I can replace anything except you two," he added with a smile.
