A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

  "So why won't rendezvousing offshore work?" Mike asked, leaning back.

  "You said you'd lived down here," Britney said. "You've seen those big balloons they have a couple of places in the keys and such?"

  "Yeah," Mike said. "They're radar balloons, I know that. But one boat . . . There are a lot of boats around here, Britney."

  "Sure are," Britney said. "The daily take is over forty thousand tracks including all flights. But the tracks are all dumped to a supercomputer, continuously, that has pattern recognition software. If a boat that heads inshore to the U.S. waters meets a boat that is from outside territorial waters or just coming out of Bimini or the Cut or whatever, that incoming boat is tagged. And the Coast Guard, nine times out of ten, does a 'safety inspection.' Boats running down the coast, outside territorial waters, have a lower tag rate. They could be going anywhere. Boats going out and coming in, lower still. Fishermen go out and come in every day, thousands and thousands of them. No way you can stop them all."

  "So what's going on?" Mike asked. "Any theories?"

  "Sure, lots," Britney said. "Some of Gonzales' boats have been stopped and found to contain illicit substances. Those are seized. There's some of his and a bunch more of other cartels' sitting in the Hollywood boat yard awaiting auction. Others were empty. They might have already gotten rid of their cargo; they might have just been testing the system. The Colombians do that, too. It's a real cat and mouse game. If you want the number one theory, they're dumping them, somewhere, and then other people pick them up."

  "Run a boat out," Mike said, musingly. "Do a dive. Hey, it's in the middle of nowhere, but maybe the guy found a new reef to spearfish . . ."

  "Exactly," Britney said.

  "Hard as hell to figure out," Mike said. "Even with the radar and supercomputer. Boats have got to cross tracks all the damned time. If you're smart you drop a small buoy and the diver on the spot. The diver goes down, does his thing, comes back up, signals the boat. The current has already carried him away from the track. The boat comes back, picks him up, moves on. There's a bunch of problems, though."

  "There are?" Britney asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "They're going to need to follow a general track," Mike said, still looking at the ceiling. "So they're going to have to have orders on what track to follow. And they're going to need to know approximately where to drop on the track. Last, they're going to have to tell somebody where, exactly, they dropped. And that information is going to have to be passed to whoever is fishing the shit out of the water. That's bi-directional information flow. And you're not going to be able to do much of it via straight transfer. That is, if somebody picks up a phone and says 'The cookies are at x coordinates,' eventually somebody is going to pick that up in an intercept. Then your shit gets fished up by a sheriff's dive team."

  "Congratulations," Britney said, chuckling. "You figured out what it took DEA about six months to do. They're looking for the information exchange method and trying to write an update for the coding but they're having a hard time."

  "Yes, I think I understand," Greznya said, her eyes distant. "Yes, that would be very hard coding. And you would have many many false positives."

  "Because boats turn like that all the time," Mike said. "You get a hit on the sonar. You see a school of tuna and go chase it. Your divers are doing a drift dive. Hell, you lose your damned hat! The weak point is the information transfer. There's some part of that that will tell us where the motherlode is."

  He sat back and looked at the ceiling for a moment.

  "Any way we can get intel on suspect tracks?" Mike asked, picking up his tea without looking and taking a sip. "Especially ones coming in from north of the Bahamas?"

  "The data stream we're on has them all the time," Britney said, frowning. "Why?"

  "We need some equipment and I think it's training time," Mike said. "I'll consider the conundrum of Katya at another time. In the meantime . . . Greznya, get me . . . Vil and the pilots. Britney, want to take a trip to the Keys?"

  "New girl," Ritter said, sitting down next to the computer console.

  "Pretty," Suarez said. "But aren't they all?"

  Enrico Suarez was a graduate of the University of California, San Diego. He'd gotten a bachelors in computer programming, then gone to Stanford for his masters. However, as much as he could have made in Silicon Valley, he knew he could make more working for the cartels. A few friends had gotten him introduced to other friends until he found someone who was willing to meet his, very high, price.

  The nice thing about working for the cartels was that they didn't care exactly how you got information, they just wanted to make sure they had it and nobody had theirs.

  Suarez did various jobs for Gonzales, but one of them was "vetting" the various visitors that came on his boat. Frankly, it was easy.

  He keyed in the name Alicia Patterson and let the computer search. Quickly enough it came back with the information that Alicia Patterson was a sophomore at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Her home address was listed in Highlands, North Carolina. She was listed as a former student at Highlands High School. Her grades at Highlands had been much better than those at ASU. She was not attending this quarter but was shown as permitted for qualified admission the next; she was right on the edge of academic suspension. There were four photos. One was a very old security photo from a company that maintained a database for parents who were afraid their children might be kidnapped. The second was from her driver's license. She had had three speeding tickets in the last year and was right on the edge of suspension for that, too. The third was from her ASU student identity card. The fourth was a very old and grainy photo of her in a local newspaper database. She was one of six winners of her elementary school spelling bee.

  "That her?" Suarez said, smirking.

  "That's her," Ritter said, nodding.

  "Her grades are taking a nose-dive," Suarez said. "Did she say how she got down here?"

  "Something about a bus," Ritter said. "I guess she boat-bunnied from there."

  "Bet she doesn't go back," Suarez said. "Fins and all that. Small town girl. Hits college, gets into partying. Takes off . . . Boat-bunny material par excellence."

  "Good," Ritter said, standing up. "I felt it was convenient her showing up right now."

  "She's for real," Suarez said. "No question. It all checks."

  "Ali's Bargain Palace!"

  Jay listened to the scratchy connection for a moment, then nodded.

  "Yes, Hamid! I need the T-shirts very much! I must have by Tuesday! Yes. Good. In'shallah!"

  He turned back to the two tourists from Dubuque who were looking over the selection of cheap T-shirts and even cheaper, if very overpriced, souvenirs.

  "All very good, mon!" Jay said in an Arabic imitation of an islands accent. "Very good. You look good in this one," he said, pulling down a shirt with a large shark surfacing and handing it to the very large woman.

  Katya was in, they'd checked her CV and apparently hadn't had any questions since the hacks had only gone to that point and then stopped. If they'd had any questions they would have searched deeper. Finding Robert's trojans in the NC DOT database, the ASU student database and the Highlands Courier would have been hard, but the search would have been obvious.

  Robert was expensive but, like Jay, a patriot and very good. The NSA had been idiots to let him go over one little unauthorized hack. Especially since the take had proven him right.

  God damn the Clinton administration.

  "Very good!" Ali Hamedi said as the couple walked away. The Midwesterners looked as if they didn't care much for Islamics.

  Good for them. Neither did "Ali Hamedi."

  "What is this place?" Britney asked as the white Lynx settled onto the helipad.

  "Islamorada Harbor," Mike said, nostalgically. Things had been . . . simpler once upon a time.

  The harbor was tucked inland about a quarter mile from the water, the only access a half natural, half man-made
cut. For Mike, it was one definition of home.

  "Thanks, Kacey," Mike said over the intercom. "You good on the way home?"

  "We'll have to tank again," Kacey replied. They'd had to stop in Bimini as it was. "And again on the way back. No externals on this bird. But we're good."

  Mike waved and climbed out of the helicopter, followed by Britney. The weather was still cool so they were both wearing windbreakers and jeans. Mike's had a snarling tiger face on the breast pocket and the name "Kildar" embroidered on the back over a much larger embroidered tiger.

  So somebody was after him. That was just fine by Mike. Next time let them shoot the right target.

  He made his way to the marina's offices, sniffing the air. It was a good day to go fishing; the recently passed cold front would bring the fish up a treat. And it was perfect sailfish conditions. Unfortunately, he just didn't have the fucking time.

  He opened up the door to the grimy interior and grinned. "Hey, Sol."

  "Mike!" the man said, standing up and coming around the corner. He shook Mike's hand, then gave him a bear hug. "Man, where you been?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Mike said.

  "You disappear and then some DEA guys bring your boat back," Shatalin said, shaking his head. Sol Shatalin was a short-coupled, barrel-chested man, a former Navy bosun who had a part interest in the marina. The money was a guy in Michigan who'd made his fortune in bio-tech, then settled back to enjoy it. Part of that was buying a marina, partially because they were pretty good moneymakers but more so that he had an in on the Florida boat and fishing trade.

  Sol ran the place, working his ass off most of the time but loving every minute of it. However, he'd worried about his friend, the former SEAL who had disappeared.

  "Christ, they actually used DEA?" Mike said, shaking his head. "Great."

  "Oh, they didn't wear the jacket or anything," Sol said. "But after you've been down here for a while you know. They were dressed like gang-bangers, you know? But they were . . . too straight. And bangers wouldn't be returning your boat; they'd be selling it."

  "Captain Don's been running it, though?" Mike asked.

  "Yeah," Sol said, shrugging. "Keeps it in good shape."

  "Don's a good man," Mike said. "But I'm here about the Late."

  "Tied up on D-43," Sol said. "Don's used that for a few charters, too. I've made sure it's up. Just put in a new fuel injection system, bottom's recently painted. You got the bill."

  "I'm sure," Mike said, smiling. "I spend most of my time lately signing checks."

  "Hey, where were you for that nuke that went off?" Sol asked. "You remember, about a week or so after you left? And where'd those two chicks with you go?"

  "Uh, they caught a ride home," Mike said. "You know boat bunnies. And I was . . . Hell, Abacos I think. Yeah. Abacos. That day. I got the news a few days later in Nassau."

  "Okay," Sol said, nodding slowly. "Just asking. 'Cause, you know the newsies. They get everything wrong. There was one news report said that the FAST that was supposed to have been the ones that found it got there . . . too late. That it was actually a one-man operation, a CIA agent. And the fucking terrorists were using cigarettes. Then, well, there's this cigarette turns up, two more DEA guys, by the way, say that it belongs to my old SEAL buddy. And guess what its name is? Too Late."

  "Coincidences are hell, aren't they?" Mike said. "But unfortunately, we've got a date to make."

  "We?" Sol asked, looking out the window. "Another hottie. You go, dude."

  "Britney," Mike said, walking outside. "This is Sol Shatalin. Great guy. Sol, Britney Harder."

  Shatalin didn't comment on the name, he just nodded.

  "Army?" he asked.

  "I was," Britney said, shrugging. "Just got out. Shows, huh?"

  "Right, pull the other one," Shatalin said, shaking his head. "MP or intel?"

  "Intel," Britney said, frowning.

  Mike shrugged. "Sol's got an eye."

  "Sollie's got eyes, Sollie's got ears, Sollie ain't got a mouth," Shatalin said, smiling. "I think Sollie's even got a current TS, for that matter. Not that I give a shit down here. People want to run drugs, that's their business."

  "A lot of people die because of those drugs," Britney said, her face tight. "Not just cops and gang-bangers and innocents on the streets, here, but innocents in Colombia and Venezuela and all over South America. And American troops I might add."

  "Then legalize them," Sol said, shrugging. "We've got enough problems as it is. In case you've got your nose stuck too far into the drug trade . . . Ensign."

  "Army, Sol, Army," Mike chided.

  "Sorry. Lieutenant," Sol said. "I thought you didn't give a rat about drugs, either, Mike. Shame on you."

  "Inside," Mike said, gesturing with his chin.

  "Okay, Sol, what do you hear?" Mike said. "Because, you're right, I don't. War on Drugs is stupid. Prohibition proved that. But this isn't drugs. So . . . What do you hear?"

  Sol went behind the counter and picked up the stub of a stogie and lit it slowly.

  "What is it?" Sol asked when the foul thing was finally smoking up the room.

  "That's not for dissemination," Britney snapped.

  "Fuck you, LT," Sol said, looking at Mike.

  "Sol, first, Britney's not a meat," Mike said. "Yeah, she's an LT. A cherry LT. But I knew her . . . Way back, Sollie, way back. I covered her back, she covered mine. So treat her with respect. And the answer is more fucking WMD. What type is not for dissemination. And, yeah, the Andros job? That was a one-man operation. Want to see the fucking spare assholes?"

  The scars from bullet marks make a puckered spot on the skin. They look very much like a small anus.

  "You sure about this?" Sol asked through the cloud of smoke.

  "Very," Mike said. "We don't know how it's coming in. But we're very sure."

  "New boats," Sol said. "Up in Tavernier Creek. Two of them. Scarabs. The kicker is . . . Well, usually when you see Middle Eastern types with those, it's a Saudi prince or something. They've got a captain, in other words. What the fuck do most Ay-rabs know about fishing? These are a few guys staying at the Hampton Inn. Bought the boats from Hanson's up in Largo. Cash. They only go out at night. Say that they like sword-fishing. Never have much luck, though. Like . . . none."

  "What's a Scarab?" Britney asked. "Sorry."

  "Big two- or three-engine fast fishing boat." Mike shook his head. "You don't use a Scarab for night sword-fishing. They're run and gun boats. They rock like a son of a bitch, there's no amenities . . . If you've got that kind of money you get a yacht like mine. If you don't . . . Hell, you get an older one or a supply boat. Something with a stand-up head, a galley, bunks."

  "Tell me something I don't know," Sol said, setting down the stogie. "And that's all I've got. And you didn't hear it from me."

  "Never," Mike said. "But thanks. I guess I better go get the Late. See you 'round, Sol."

  "You too," Sol said, pulling out a set of keys and handing them to Mike. "And keep your head down. You SEALs never learned the Navy rule about firefights."

  Britney followed Mike down through the docks until they got to the boat, then shook her head.

  "How long has this just been sitting here?" she asked.

  The Too Late was a recent model Cigarette. Although "Cigarette" had become so generic that, like Kleenex, it was used as a general term, it was also a brand. And in the case of the Too Late it was actually a Cigarette as opposed to one of the company's many competitors. At only thirty-two feet long it was smaller than some of the newer speed boats but it was still a monster. Painted black and silver, it looked as if it was straining away from the dock, ready to run.

  Most high-performance vehicles had their origins in smuggling: NASCAR was derived from bootleggers, and WWII PT boats were built by a company that had supplied booze smugglers during Prohibition. Cigarette boats were no exception. In the late 1940s the taxes on cigarettes, the things people smoked, were so extreme in Eur
ope that it made it economically feasible to smuggle them. Fast boats crossed the Mediterranean from Algeria and Malta, dropping cigarette loads mostly on the Italian and French coast. Later, similar boats were used for the increasingly popular sport of offshore racing. But their origins remained in a moderate sized cabin forward. Originally designed for small, valuable cargo, in most modern boats it had been converted into underway quarters ranging from spartan to, in the case of Fountain high-speed boats, almost ridiculously luxurious.

  "It hasn't just been sitting," Mike said, stepping off the dock onto the gunnel, then taking off his shoes. "A friend charters it sometimes. Shoes off when you board."