by John Ringo
"Wonderful," Mike said, nodding. "I've been wanting to hit it, too. Anybody else on the teams swim?"
"Most of mine," Yosif said, shrugging ruefully. "It's not considered . . . important to the Keldara."
Mike blinked and considered that for a second. Every team had its specialty except Yosif's. They were just rounders; they could do patrol well enough, entry well enough, shoot well enough, but they didn't have a niche like, say, Pavel, whose team was the shit for anything involving altitude, be that air ops or mountain.
Mike, with some subtle prodding, had chosen the team leaders. But the teams had fallen out on their own in a process remarkably similar to the way that kids chose ball teams in school. The team leaders had tended to choose people that were like them. Oleg was a bull so his team was bulls. Vil was more subtle, his team was subtle. And so on. Yosif's, from Mike's perspective, had been the leftovers. But if they were, in fact, the strange ones who enjoyed swimming . . .
"Ever swim underwater?" Mike asked.
"Yes," Yosif said, cocking his head. "Do you?"
Mike snorted and then had to laugh out loud. He'd put a bathing suit on under his shorts so all he had to do was take them off along with his shirt. In about ten seconds he was over the side.
He hadn't hyperventilated and it had been a while since he did a breath-hold. But, Christ, he'd been a swimmer long before he joined the SEALs. All the breath-hold training he'd gotten had just added understanding and refinement. So he didn't have much trouble impressing a Keldara.
He followed the bottom, given that there were boats moving overhead, and headed for the shore about fifty meters away. It was a long damned swim for not having prepared and, he realized, being really out of shape for it. But he made it to the shallows and then popped up, standing up and taking long breaths. When he was sure he'd vented all the CO2, he headed back.
The return was harder. His muscles had warmed up and were pumping CO2 into his system at a higher rate. That was what caused the strangling "I have to breathe" sensation when doing a breath-hold, too much CO2 not too little oxygen. The chemical sensor was actually a small bundle of special cells called peripheral chemoreceptors attached to the carotid arteries in the neck.
He let some of the breath out on the way back—getting some of the air out of his lungs reduced the need—then popped back up when he came to the landing platform.
"Kildar, are you well?" Yosif asked, running down the stairway.
"Fine," Mike said, taking more deep breaths to vent the air. "God, I'd forgotten how much fun that is."
"That was a long swim," Yosif said, his eyes wide.
"Yosif, I think that most of the Keldara have figured out I used to be a SEAL, right?" Mike asked. "You do know what SEALs do, right?"
"Oh," Yosif said, shaking his head. "I suppose worrying about you in the water is . . . silly."
"A bit," Mike said. "Yosif, you and your team are going to be doing some special training. And, unfortunately, I'm the only one around who can give it. So we'd better get started. But first I need to see Daria. We're going to need some gear."
Kahf put his regulator in his mouth, sucked on it a couple of times to make sure his air was on, and rolled over the side of the moving boat.
The container had very dim strobes attached to it. In these waters, from the surface, they looked more like a school of phosphorescent jellyfish than a container moored seventy feet down.
Kahf had to fight some current on his way down. That was going to be a pain. The currents in the area, not far from the Gulf Stream, tended to swirl randomly. One day there'd be none, the next it could be high and from about any direction.
He made it to the container, though, breathing somewhat hard, and then paused. He slid a small device out of his buoyancy compensator and slid it down into the container on a lanyard. It stayed green. Good.
Swimming head-down he got to the first rank of remaining barrels. Bracing himself with a fin stuck between two of them and blowing out all the air in his BC, he pulled a mesh bag off his side and started pulling out items. First there was a long rope, which he dropped to settle against the barrels. Then he pulled out a nylon harness and clipped the bag back on his BC.
The harness went around one of the barrels and clipped together. It was a pain to get on but he had plenty of time. He was wearing double 105 cf tanks, over-pressured to 4000 PSI, and NITROX. The boat wouldn't be back for over two hours and he could stay at this depth for longer. Of course, he'd have to decompress, but the way things were set up that wouldn't be hard.
He uncoiled part of the rope and attached the barrel to an already tied-in loop knot. One down.
Working faster now, he fitted another barrel and another until he had four. Only then did he release the ties holding the pre-weighted barrels in place.
Now was when he was going to have to use up some air. First he tied down the rope with a quick release. Then he attached four large float bags to the rope and inflated them from a spare hose attachment on his regulator. His air supply dropped noticeably but he still had plenty. Last, he grabbed onto the ties that had held the barrels down, wrapped the rope around his body and released the tie.
The bags wanted to jump to the surface but that would be bad. Instead he belayed them up until the rope was taut. Then he undid it from his body, grabbed the barrels and went for a short ride.
The rope was fifty feet long. The top of the container was at seventy. He slid out of the opening, easily missing the side and popped up twenty feet. A glance at his dive computer indicated that was not an issue. The computer said he'd need to decompress at twenty feet and ten but he had loads of time. Then he checked the watch built into the computer. Loads, the boat wouldn't be back for over an hour.
He reinflated his BC and slid up the rope to the loop at twenty feet. Once there he adjusted his buoyancy, clipped himself in and lay back to enjoy the peace and quiet, bobbing lightly up and down due to the bags at the top. He'd have to be careful; he could very easily fall asleep. It wouldn't kill him, when the regulator slipped out he'd just get some seawater in his mouth and maybe lungs and cough a lot. But it would be a pain. And this was just too pleasant after being slammed around in that damned boat for two days.
"Okay, this is just too much fun," Mike said, sliding out of the water like, well, a seal. "I feel like I'm playing."
"You may," Yosif said, climbing out on the dock next to him and gasping for air. "I don't. I thought this was going to be fun . . ."
"Try doing it in twenty degrees," Mike said, referring to the temperature in Celsius. "This is the shit."
Yosif's team had been doing cross-overs, swimming one way, surfacing for a breath and then swimming back, for nearly an hour, and one by one they all managed to clamber onto the dock. And they were all gasping as if they'd just finished a marathon.
Cross-overs were deceptively exhausting. At first they were easy. This section of the harbor was barely wider than most pools and had concrete walls on both sides. Mike had shown them how to push off and you could coast most of the way on a push. And you weren't actually underwater all that long. But you were only allowed to come up for a fast breath and then you had to dunk back down and do it again. And again and again and again.
The muscles in the body quickly ran through their anaerobic energy stores, and those caused lactic acid generation anyway, then they had to switch to aerobic. Aerobic exercise released CO2 as the body converted O2 molecules into energy via ATP in the mitochondria. CO2 caused the "desperate for a breath" reaction. And the short bobs were never enough to get rid of all the CO2, much less get enough oxygen.
Doing it over and over again was debilitating in the extreme, worse than a fast run of the same time duration. The Keldara were only able to survive it because of two factors: they were all runners thanks to Mike's training, and they were from a high-altitude environment. They had grown up with about two thirds of what most people considered normal oxygen and their bodies had reacted by producing an abundance of r
ed blood cells. Those were able to scavenge extra oxygen from their short breaths and carry more of the CO2 to their lungs to be expelled.
And, of course, they were very hardcore and were not about to disappoint the Kildar.
Mike had managed to scrounge swim goggles for all of them from the well-appointed yacht and from the estate. Now they pushed them up or off, sprawling in the Caribbean sun.
"You guys are going to have to do better than this," Mike said, shaking his head. "I thought you were swimmers!"
"Kildar," Yosif said, finally getting his breath. "The pool we swim in is perhaps the size of a large bathtub. I have swum across the river on a bet. This is . . ."
"I know," Mike said, relenting. "But, seriously, if we have to do a water insert, you're the guys who are going to have to do it. I'm going to set up a lesson plan because I'm going to have to head back to Nassau." He paused and considered something then nodded. "The master chief is probably about done with his hospital time and, frankly, this would be a good place for him to convalesce. He can oversee it. He'd consider it refreshing. Just don't let him try to swim!"
"Yes, Kildar," Yosif said.
"You guys give it fifteen minutes," Mike said. "Then I want you to swim over to that point," he said, pointing across the vaguely curved island to a point about a quarter of a mile away. "Stay along the sides. Yosif, drag that rescue buoy," he added, pointing at the device that was hanging by the harbor. It was cigar shaped and had a harness that went across the chest. "If anybody can't make it, call the swim and swim in. Let them hold onto the buoy. I don't want anybody dying. But the guy who calls the swim . . . He gets to work with the women in the kitchen tonight."
"Yes, Kildar," Yosif said, grinning. "I don't think anyone will call the swim."
"Guys, if you're going down, call the damned swim," Mike said, looking at the team. "Yosif, Edvin," he added to the assistant team leader, "it's your job to make sure everybody makes it. On second thought, Edvin, you carry the buoy. Stay near the back. Don't drown yourself."
"Yes, Kildar," Edvin said.
"Work on the sidestroke I taught you," Mike said. "Pull, breathe, kick, glide, repeat. Every four or five strokes look up to make sure you are heading the right way, otherwise just follow the shoreline. We can easily add fins as soon as they get here. Stay with your swim buddy. Repeat after me: Stay with your swim buddy. If you don't, life will get interesting."
* * *
"Well, this is interesting."
"What?" David Levin said, looking up from his computer.
David had been a kid in New Jersey, planning on working at the chemical plants around Trenton just like his dad, when he saw his first Jacques Cousteau show. One show was all it took.
His parents hadn't had the money to pay for the, back then, incredibly expensive sport of SCUBA diving. So when he'd turned eighteen he'd hitchhiked to Florida and found a dive shop that needed somebody to work in their back room for just enough to survive and, oh, yeah, they'd throw in dive lessons.
Twenty-seven years later he was the owner of Diver's Headquarters, one of the largest suppliers of dive gear in South Florida. With ten locations and a warehouse jammed with gear that was sold not only through brick and mortar stores but also on the internet, he was a "mover" in the international dive community. He had decades of experience in what did and did not work in sport diving and was frequently consulted by manufacturers when they had a new system, light, fin or suit they wanted to sell.
"It's an e-mail," Joe Barber replied. David had hired Joe when the kid came in the door trying to sell him some orange solvent cleaner. The kid was clearly underage and Dave suspected, and later confirmed, that he was a runaway. But the kid had been such a hard seller, Dave offered him a job on the spot. On the phone, and back then they got a lot of phone-in orders, there was no way anybody would know the kid was underage. And there were ways to make the paperwork disappear.
Once he hit eighteen, Joe had worked his way up fast, first as a top floor salesman, then a store manager, then back to the phones and now internet and finally to manager of the whole direct sales division. Dave had seen that gleam in the runaway and known he had a player on his hands. Dave had been married and divorced three times but nary a kid despite trying. Maybe it was the chemicals in Trenton. But he sort of had a son in Joe, who was, everybody knew, his heir apparent.
"Don't keep me guessing," Dave said.
"Lady in the Bahamas wants thirty sets of gear," Joe said, wonderingly. "Everything from fins to tanks. All top line. Zeagle regs and BCs, Pro wetsuits . . . Everything listed by model. She's asking if we can supply it overnight or even for delivery late today. They're willing to pay to charter a plane."
"Do we have the systems?" Dave asked.
"Not in the warehouse," Joe replied, tapping at keys. "We'd have to scrounge the stores. She wants thirty ZX Zeagle Flathead VI. We've got, total, twenty-seven."
"Get ten from Zeagle's warehouse," Dave said. "They're just up in Hialeah. Tell them we need them delivered today and don't fuck with us. Hell, get the entire shipment if you can. Tell the lady the plane will take off tomorrow before first light and be there at first light. Private strip, right?"
"Yep."
"Tell her there's going to be some extra costs with such a rush shipment," Dave added. "Figure out what it's going to cost us. Add fifteen percent. See if she geeks."
"Whatever the market will bear?" Joe said. "I'll add twenty."
"Good boy."
Chapter Twelve
"I should have charged you through the nose for this," Don said, gruffly, shaking Mike's hand. "Long time."
Don Jackson was a tall man, heavy of body with white hair, and skin that was bright red from the sun. He never seemed to really tan but he never seemed to really burn, either.
Besides running a charter business, and a tobacco distribution system and a few condos and rental boats—the guy was just a compulsive businessman—Don ran some special shipping interests. Oh, not smuggling, just niche shipping. Don ran landing craft.
Landing craft were, in general, a horrible way to ship cargo. They were capable of sailing in almost any sea but their engines drank fuel and they couldn't carry all that much compared to their fuel costs.
However, landing craft had one great benefit; they could take the cargo anywhere there was a beach and roll it right out.
Don's landing craft had done various jobs over the years, generally for the very rich. You wanted a party for a hundred on an otherwise inaccessible tropical island? Don could roll off a container containing, literally, everything from soup to nuts. Bring your own cooks, though.
He'd participated in multiple movie shoots as well. Movie makers generally wanted somewhere "unspoiled" for shoots. Unspoiled just as often meant inaccessible. Don had developed a reputation among the guys who arranged things like that for being there on time, guaranteed. In the islands, that was pretty unusual. The Bahamas ran on "Bahamas Time," which was less precise than "In'shallah," which was orders of magnitude worse than "mañaña." There was no time on earth less precise than "Bahamas Time."
Don didn't work on Bahamas Time. A New Yorker who had been south long enough that the accent was barely noticeable, he still ran on New York time. If he said he'd be there at ten am you could set your watch by it.
"That's one heavy ass container, Mike," Don continued, as the mover, basically a small tracked bulldozer converted to pull containers, started pulling the containerized cargo off the landing craft's ramp and up the white sand beach. "And you know what?" he added. "When we checked in with Bimini customs, they looked at the manifest and just waved us through. It wasn't sealed or bonded but, you know, they just didn't seem to care. That's lax even by Bimini standards, Mike. I could have been carrying a container packed with coke for all they knew."
"Going the wrong way to be coke," Mike pointed out. "How you been?"
"The arthritis is starting to kill me," Don admitted.
"Too many fast women," Mike said, drawin
g a snort. Don had been married for damned near fifty years.
"So what's in the container?" Don asked.
"You don't want to know," Mike said. "You're not even asking about my associates."
The Keldara were scattered around the estate getting it in gear but many of them had stopped to see the arrival of the container. Even the boat class had stopped to watch it being rolled up the sand. If Mike were to put one word on their expressions, that word would be "avid."
"They look like a bunch of extras," Don said. "You doing movies these days?"
"Nope," Mike said. "Well, not often. I collect a few."
"Was talking to Sol after you up and disappeared," Don added. "Interesting coincidence you going and disappearing, then that nuke going up in Andros."
"I swear you guys are like a couple of old women," Mike said, shaking his head. "Next you'll be accusing me of being the guy who killed Osama."