by John Ringo
"Hello," the man on the phone said. "I thought you should know that your friends are arriving today."
"Is that so?" Kurt said. "Then I think we should make plans to receive them well, don't you think?"
"Arrangements have already been made," the man said. "I was just informing you. They will be well taken care of."
"Wonderful," Kurt said, hanging up the phone. "Just perfect."
The meeting room featured a long table with seats at it and along the walls behind. Most of the seats were filled when Adams arrived.
"This way, sir," Himes whispered, leading Adams to one of the chairs, then taking the one behind him.
"Who are you?" the guy next to Adams asked, leaning over. He was a heavy-set guy wearing a FEMA jacket. In fact, most of the people in the room, males and females, wore jackets denoting their agencies. Maybe he should have Mike make up jackets for the Keldara so people would know who they were. No, fuck Mike. After this one he was gone.
"I'm not sure I get to tell you that," Adams said.
"Or you'd have to kill me?" the man joked.
Adams turned and just stared.
"Been there, done that."
"Oookay," the man said, turning back to the table.
"This meeting is in order."
The man at the head of the table was a Navy admiral. Adams vaguely recognized him but he wasn't a SEAL admiral, not that there were many of those. Flyboy, if Adams recalled.
"We need to start by signing the standard form," the admiral said, unsealing the briefing document in front of him with a letter opener.
Adams looked at the folder, puzzled, for a moment then pulled out his Spyderco folding knife and slit open the top. Inside was another envelope with a form on the front. He perused it for a moment, shrugged, then signed the bottom.
"Collect them," the admiral said when everyone had finished signing the forms. It was apparent that some of them had taken the time to read the fine print. Slowly.
His aide circled the room, picking up the forms, then took them back to the admiral. The admiral then proceeded to read each of them.
"CBP," the admiral said, looking over at the representative from Customs and Border Protection. "You have an objection to Clause Two?"
Adams had long before learned the technique of sleeping at the drop of a hat. He wasn't sure how long it was before someone poked him the back.
"Mr . . . . Adams?" the admiral said.
"Sir?" the master chief replied, sitting up.
"You're heading the . . . Georgian contingent?" the admiral asked. "I see that you have clearance for this briefing but I'm not sure what your part in all of this is."
"We're just here to help out, sir," Adams said. "We have both a team of intel specialists and a team of shooters. If you localize anything, we can take it down. Guaranteed."
"Excuse me?" the FBI rep said, leaning over to look down the table. "What did you just say?"
"I think it was pretty obvious," Adams replied. "I mean, why else did we fly all this way?"
"We have two tac teams, highly trained tac teams I might add, standing by," the FBI rep said. "If anything needs to be 'taken down' it will be licensed officers of the United States government."
"Fine," Adams said, pulling out a cigar. He wasn't much of a smoker, but there were times . . . "Then I'll just sit here and nap."
"There is no smoking in this room," the admiral snapped.
"Admiral, you wanna check where my authority comes from?" the master chief replied, lighting up. "Because I could give a rat's ass if this is a non-smoking area. Or what anyone in this room cares about it."
The aide leaned forward and whispered in the admiral's ear at which point the officer nodded.
"Sorry, Mr. Adams," the admiral said. "Smoke your cigar by all means. In fact, smoke a dog turd if you so wish."
"Those things will kill you, you know," the FEMA rep said. But he wasn't waving the smoke away, which was something.
"I've got the life expectancy of a gnat anyway," Adams said, tapping an ash into the water glass in front of him.
"They're not that great for me, either," the FEMA rep pointed out.
"Yeah, well, I don't really care about your life expectancy much, either," Adams said. "And it would go up a bit if you'd lay off the fatty foods, Heart Attack Boy."
"Gentlemen and ladies, open your briefing documents, please," the admiral said. "The situation is this. We have highly credible intelligence that Al Qaeda is moving a shipment of VX gas into the United States."
"Fuck," Adams whispered.
"You didn't know?" the FEMA rep asked. He didn't seem too put out over the "Heart Attack Boy" thing.
"All I got was that it was WMD," Adams whispered back.
"VX, as most of you know, is a binary nerve agent," the admiral said, reading off notes. "That means that it has two chemicals that are combined to make VX in the field. In systems such as artillery shells they get combined after they're fired but the materials can be combined up to a week before use and still retain full potency. Each of the chemicals is dangerous by itself, defined as Class Four Hazardous Material. However, when combined they are lethal in very small doses. It's referred to as odorless and tasteless. What that actually means is that if you taste it or smell it you're already dead.
"VX, like all nerve agents, works by interfering with neurotransmission. I'm sure I'm covering old ground for most of you but the first sign of exposure is involuntary muscle movement, dizziness and nausea followed by convulsions, respiration failure and death. What it does not do, despite the movie about the stuff, is bubble your skin off. Twist you up like a dying bug? That it does.
"The best method of insertion is via the eyes followed by inhalation, especially through the sinuses, and then skin contact. The material is not a gas at normal temperatures so it is normally distributed as droplets. One droplet, smaller than a drop from an eyedropper, on the skin is lethal. For that matter, it only takes a few picograms in the eyes. That's smaller than you can see.
"There is a cargo container of VX believed to be bound for the South Florida area," the admiral continued. "Insertion method is unknown at this time. We have located and seized the suspect ship but it was empty of all such cargo. The crew has admitted, under questioning, that it veered from the sea-lanes and that there were others aboard who left sometime during that change of course. The numbers are unclear. The ship is a tramp freighter owned by shell companies probably connected to Al Qaeda. That is where we're at."
Adams actually managed to stay awake through most of the meeting. He wished he hadn't, but what the hell. And the situation was definitely under control. Definitely. The FBI had two thousand agents in place or on the way. The Coast Guard was redeploying. The CIA was "hot on the trail." The FBI was "developing leads." Customs and Border Protection had the ports "locked down solid." FEMA was "fully prepared," courtesy of the guy in the seat next to him. The Coast Guard was "all over the situation." Hell, the Navy had a "solid lock on all action items."
"And what do the Georgians have for us?" the admiral asked after about an hour of ritual chest-beating.
"Dick all," Adams said. He'd finished off the cigar long before and was wondering when the damned meeting would end so he could get a beer and wash the taste out. "Oh, we do have a top-flight intel team that doesn't give a rat's ass how it collects the intel. And one of the best WMD experts on the face of the earth. And a group of shooters who could probably wipe your Fibbies in about two seconds. And a record of doing this sort of shit and succeeding. Other than that? Not much."
"If you violate privacy there's no way we can get a conviction," the FBI rep pointed out, angrily.
"These guys are all going to Guantanamo, anyway," Adams said. "Who cares? You do, that's who. So you're going to go around 'developing leads' right up until you hit that constitutional protection thing. Then give it to us."
"Chief Adams," the FBI rep said diplomatically. "This is the United States. There are laws. While I'm sure you
're very good at what you do, if you do any of those things, federal and local law enforcement would be forced to detain you pending charges."
"Fine, fine," Adams said, holding up his hands. "In that case, got nothin'. We done? I need a beer."
"I think we're done," the admiral said. "Could I speak to you, Mr. Adams?"
"I need a beer, too," the FEMA rep said, getting up and taking the documents he could exit with. "But good luck. My job is just to clean up the mess. This is too much mess to want to think about."
"I'll do what I can," Adams said. "Hey. You want some real beer?"
"Sure," the FEMA rep said, frowning.
"Get with the LT and we'll arrange a meet," Adams said, standing up. "Don't worry, you'll like it."
He made his way through the crowd to the admiral, who was talking to the CIA rep. Another guy wearing a DEA jacket was apparently part of the pitch.
"They're not used to smuggling into the U.S.," the CIA guy was saying. "It's almost sure to be containers. We'll probably catch those with the sniffers, but I think the main angle of attack is on the shipping company. They are going to have transferred to another ship."
"So what do you need?" the admiral asked.
"More support," the DEA guy replied. "Especially from the FBI. They're trying to find the inside groups. Let's stop it before it gets here. Seriously, South Florida used to be a smuggler's haven but we've got it locked down pretty tight these days. I don't think they're coming in here. I think the ship was a feint; they're probably going through Mexico. The ship probably transferred on an out-island or at sea and another ship is carrying it to Mexico. And to crunch the numbers, run down those leads, we need to get the FBI to quit dicking around with opening doors all over Miami. The guys they're talking to my guys already know. They do drugs, not VX. Hell, they're ruining a dozen cases and stepping all over us!"
"I'll talk to the FBI," the admiral said. "But you guys are the outside. So get outside. If it's not coming in here, find out where it is coming in. You should be arranging that right now, not moaning to me. So go do it."
The two left, leaving Adams alone with the admiral and his aide.
"Master Chief," the admiral said, sitting down and waving to a seat.
"I wasn't sure if the admiral remembered me, sir," Adams said, taking the seat.
"I didn't," the admiral said. "I finally read the briefing document. But there are problems."
"Aren't there always," Adams said.
"I don't particularly like the way the FBI rep phrased it, but he was on point," the admiral said. "This is the U.S. We have laws. And, face it, we own the waters around this area. So I'm not sure what you're here for."
"I'm not sure, either, sir," Adams said. "But we're here. Turn us loose."
"And that's the other problem," the officer said, sighing. "Your intel group. I suppose you want to go around tapping phones and listening for intercepts and trailing suspects. The FBI can do all of that and I would suspect better. And they'll do it legally. Slowly, unfortunately. The fastest I've ever personally heard of one of them getting Title III clearance was seven days. And that can only be used for drug cases. FISA . . . longer. However, what you would be doing is illegal. As would be the case if you fire a weapon in anything other than self-defense. Now, given your pull, you could probably escape justice. If we could keep it off the news. You see where this is going?"
"We sit on our hands?" Adams asked angrily. "You want us to just sit on our hands?"
"I'll try to find something for you to do, legally," the admiral said. "But right now I'm not sure what."
"Yes, sir," Adams said, taking a deep breath.
"And Master Chief?"
"Yes, sir?"
"If you fuck me over on this I will put your ass in Guantanamo and throw away the key."
Chapter Three
"Hey, Master Chief," Vanner said as Adams strode into the suite. "What you get at the meeting?"
"Dick all," Adams said, walking over to the fridge. He was followed by Lieutenant Himes who was looking around the room with interest. "You got anything?"
"Sort of," Vanner said. "I arranged for an intel dump, but it's not complete. Our clearances are 'under review.' It's a bunch, though. The girls are sorting it at the moment. I looked at the analysis and, frankly, it's shitty. These guys either don't keep up with the players or are incompetent as hell. I did pick up one item that's sort of funny, in a way."
"What?" Adams asked. "I could use some funny. LT, you want a beer?"
"Sounds great," Lieutenant Himes said, taking off his BDU top.
"The original data on this came from Al-Kariya," Vanner said, grinning. "Well, him and his laptop."
"Al who?" Adams asked, pulling out two ceramic bottles and opening the wax tops expertly. He handed one of them to Himes and flopped into one of the chairs.
"That Al Qaeda money guy we picked up in Chechnya," Vanner said. "The one we rolled into the bird all wrapped up like a Christmas turkey."
"Wait," Himes said, holding up the beer bottle. "You're the guys who were in that battle with the Chechens, right? Jesus, that sniper shot. Everybody's sure that came from some guy bellied down closer. I've been running that vid over and over again looking for him."
"Nope," Adams said. "Lasko. The guy's pure magic with a rifle. Damn near three klicks. Yeah, that's us."
"Damn," Himes said, sitting back and taking a sip. He pulled the bottle back from his lips and held it up with a stunned expression. "DAMN. What the hell is this stuff? It tastes sort of like Mountain Tiger but it's . . . Fuck, it's better!"
"It is Mountain Tiger," Vanner said, chuckling. "It's just that the stuff we sell in the U.S. is our crap. The Keldara bitch unmercifully when that's all they get to drink. So whenever possible, we bring the pure quill. And that's . . ." He looked at the casting on the bottle and shrugged. "Hell, that's Mother Kulcyanov's brew. It's not a patch on Mother Lenka's."
"I think I'm gonna like this detail," Himes said, grinning. "And I begin to understand why they're such good shooters if this is what they're protecting. But . . ." He stopped speaking when the side door of the suite opened and a fucking vision walked in the room.
"What'cha got, Grez?" Vanner asked as the intel girl walked over with a document.
"Do you Americans even use face-matching software?" Greznya asked angrily.
"Probably not," Adams said, burping. "Be accused of racial profiling or something."
"Zaman Al-Sabad," Greznya said, dropping the picture on the desk. "He is an Al-Qaeda member who specializes in shipping. He arrived on a flight from Mexico this afternoon under a false name, Farhad Nejat. There's a picture, though, from the customs' security cameras."
"Lots of people," Himes said, frowning. "Lots of faces. It would take forever to do facial matches on them all."
"Not if you do a visual sort for Islamic looks," Greznya said scathingly. "That only turned up about two hundred. We hit this one on the first pass. He's not even disguised! He's on your own terrorism watch list for the All Father's sake!"
"Racial profiling," Himes said. "That, right there, would get the data thrown out of court. Even if it didn't, the defense attorney would use it and if you got the right jury it would get the guy acquitted."
"Americans are so stupid?" Greznya asked, confused. "Every major terrorist attack on your people has been by Islamic males between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. Paying particular attention to such people simply makes sense. When a person that looks Islamic comes through the Keldara region you can be sure that we take a closer look. What is that thing about if it walks like a duck?"
"Welcome to the land of the free," Adams said sourly. "You've watched CNN, surely. Liberals aren't going to admit that until the Islamics have cut off their balls and put them all under jizya."
"No wonder the President called us," Greznya said, shaking her head. "He is not even covering his trail. There is a record of him, under his false name, reserving a hotel room here in Miami."
&nbs
p; "The who?" Himes asked.
"Well, now, ain't that interesting," Adams said, ignoring the question. "Daria found us an out-of-the-way warehouse, yet?"
"Not yet," Vanner said. "But we can lay in some collection on his room, put in a trail."
"Yeah, but can we do a quiet snatch?" Adams asked.
"Where's the hotel?" Vanner asked.
"It's something called a Best Western," Greznya said. "Just south of here near the junction of your turnpike and a road called U.S. 1. I have a map. The layout is for exterior rooms. He has a room on the ground floor towards the back."
"Uh," Himes said, holding up his hand.