A Deeper Blue

by John Ringo

  "Dragon, move to take-down position," Mike said.

  The helo sped up and Mike gestured to Lasko to open his door.

  "Lasko," Mike said. "Two outboards. Don't hit the barrel."

  "Of course not, Kildar," Lasko said, thumbing his mike. "Who do you take me for? Shota?"

  Lasko leaned out the door of the Hind and lined up the port engine. He could see a man crouched by a blue barrel at the rear of the boat. The man looked up at him and made a gesture with his hand that was as ancient as any human culture, a thumb thrust up between index and middle finger.

  Lasko could care less. All he wanted to do was make the shot. He targeted the port engine and stroked the trigger. The boat almost immediately swung hard to port, then corrected back and began weaving.

  That was okay, let it weave. He waited, then stroked the trigger again. Target.

  Abdullah cursed as the second engine went out.

  "Fire back!" he shouted.

  A man passed up an AK to one of the people on the boat and Lasko leaned back.

  "Mannlicher!" he shouted, holding the Barrett behind him like the proverbial Great White Hunter switching from elephant gun to lion in the midst of a charge.

  Mike grinned, handing him the 7mm while taking the Barrett. Then Lasko leaned out as rounds started to crack upwards.

  He found the man with the AK and swung the barrel down as rounds flew past. One of his rounds cracked into the man's knee. The Kildar wanted them alive and it wasn't like taking someone down at two miles.

  He continued to track around, taking down one target after another. The boat was rocking in the waves, still moving slowly to port and the targets weren't exactly standing still to be shot. Not to mention the movement of the helo.

  So what?

  Abdullah dropped, screaming and clutching his shattered knee. The sniper was unreal. He had fought the Americans in Afghanistan and even they could not have shot four men in four rounds in under four seconds through the damned knees! From a helicopter, no less.

  He reached for the AK that Jamal had dropped and tried to raise it but even as he did it was snatched out of his hand, the breech destroyed by another round.

  Farid crouched by the barrel in horror as the first of the boats came alongside. He was the only one who had, so far, not been shot. It could only be because they did not want to hit the barrel.

  He didn't want them to hit it, either.

  As men in battle armor and strange digi-cam uniforms jumped over the side of the boat, he raised his hands, slowly, and put them on top of his head.

  They said Guantanamo was a nice place, three square halal meals and even some pretty female guards . . . .

  "North contact," Mike said. "Close it, Lasko. Vil, head for the Largo Coast Guard station. Give the commander, and the commander only, the location of the WMD. Keep the driver. Find out anything you can fast. Turn the others over to the Coasties."

  "Hello," Dmitri said, sitting down by the man who had been on the deck by the driver's seat. "My name's Dmitri. What's yours?"

  The man spat out a curse in Arabic and Dmitri shook his head.

  "That's not very nice of you," he said, taking the butt of the MP-5 and slamming it into the man's bandaged knee. He waited for the screaming to die down, then smiled. "My cousin was just killed by some Islamic motherfuckers like you, so you'll excuse me if I don't give a shit about your opinion of me or my gods. Now, what is your name?"

  "Abdullah," the man gasped. "Abdullah Al-Egypti."

  "Well, Slave of God who is Egyptian," Dmitri said, "I'd like to know what you did with the other barrels."

  "Go to . . . hell," Abdullah said.

  "Wrong answer," Dmitri said, slamming the butt down again. More screaming. It was most distressing. There were boats moving around, now.

  "We leave them," Abdullah said, panting in pain. "We have a drop point sent to us. We leave them behind stores. In woods. I have the next drop points," he said, gesturing with his chin at his pocket. "Please . . ."

  Dmitri fished in the man's pocket and came up with a scrap of paper. It said "Behind Largo Seven-Eleven. Behind Pizzeria."

  "Thank you," Dmitri said, smiling. "See how easy that was?" He thumbed his throat mike. "Vil, we still have the Kildar?"

  "I can uplink," Vil said, hitting a switch on a dash-mounted satellite communicator. "Freq four."

  "Kildar, Kildar," Dmitri said. "Alpha team. Intel update."

  Admiral Ryan nodded as he took down the communication.

  "Thank you, Kildar. I have a Coast Guard boat on the way to tow in the Scarab. You're sure the WMD is not active?"

  "Positive. We're going to drop all these guys with the Coasties. Make sure that they know that they're not to talk to them or even listen to them. And my boats need to fuel."

  "It's taken care of," Admiral Ryan said, nodding. "Your other contact . . ."

  "Is nearly inshore," Mike said. "And the sun's up."

  Jeff Hopkins looked up at the sky and sighed. It was going to be a good day to fish.

  Jeff had been born and raised in the Keys. He'd never gone to college but he always found one thing or another to keep him from leaving the increasingly expensive area. He'd been a boat mate, a guide, worked construction. Presently he was selling boats at Key West Boat Sales in Key Largo.

  The problem with that job was it was so damned constant. He rarely got a day off.

  He'd managed one, finally, and was damned well going to get some fishing in. It was just about dawn, perfect fishing time.

  He coasted his Mako 26 around the corner of Tavernier Creek, moving carefully. Idiots would come roaring down the cut and if you didn't watch out you'd get run over. He could do the run about six times as fast as he was currently going but not if some idiot swung wide on the corner.

  He powered up on the straight, then slowed, slightly, as he approached the next turn. Lined with twenty-foot mangroves, Tavernier Creek snaked back and forth several times before opening out to the ocean. There was no way to see a boat or hear one coming over the sound of his own motors. So he was only half surprised to see a Scarab, going flat the fuck out, come screaming around the corner way over on his side.

  The AK in one of the men's hands, though, was another thing. And so was the helo, some sort of strange aircraft with pylons on the side, that came over the mangroves at about ten feet off the tops.

  He pulled the boat off to the side and powered down as the spray from the Scarab covered his front and the wind from the helo battered him.

  "Fuckin' drug dealers," he snarled.

  He started to power up when he heard more engines, going flat out. He put on just enough power to stay in the lee of the turn and was glad he did when a Cigarette, closely followed by a Nordic, came screaming by. He had to admit that they did a pretty good job, actually staying on their side of the damned channel despite doing damned near seventy.

  "And there goes DEA," he muttered. The guys in the boat were wearing battle armor and balaclavas. "Figures." The helo must have been DEA, too.

  He cut the engines for a second as the wash rocked the boat, listening. Nope, nobody else.

  Fine. He could still get his fishing in.

  Lasko was just lining up the engine as the boat cleared the cut but it turned, hard, to the right, engines screaming. He started to line it up again, then lifted the Barrett as the boat suddenly went airborne. From his seat he could see that the water was only inches deep on that side; the boat had "run aground" but so hard and fast it went vertical instead of sticking.

  "Oh, fuck no," Mike said as the Scarab launched fifteen feet into the air and rolled. It hit upside down in the shallows and the back of the boat broke. Fuel began spilling out, leaving a slick of rainbow on the green waters. "JTF, JTF, we have a HazMat situation, over!"

  * * *

  When Arvidas saw the upside-down Scarab he banked left and slowed, looking for the channel markers. It was pretty clear that the water to the right was shallow; he could see the flat water and line
of small breakers that indicated a shoal. Clearly the terrorists had not been as well trained.

  A boat was screaming in from the north, following a poorly marked channel that, when Arvidas checked, wasn't on the chart. It had a blue light going, though: local police.

  "Marine Patrol vessel approaching Tavernier Creek, respond over," Mike said. "This is Dragon Flight, helo in service of the U.S. government in your vicinity. Respond, over."

  "Dragon Flight, this is Marine Patrol Four-Eight."

  "Marine Patrol Four-Eight, this is Dragon Six. Vessel you are approaching is a HazMat condition. Stand clear. Stand clear."

  "Roger. Acknowledge HazMat."

  "Fuck," Officer Norman Funk said, pulling back on the power of the Mako 24. He'd just had a HazMat class a few months before and the one rule they were drilled on over and over was Stay Far Away. "Dragon," he continued. "What is the nature of the chemical?"

  "Marine Four-Eight, that is restricted. Highly lethal, over."

  "It's that shit they said would look like drugs but was a HazMat," his partner said. "The stuff those Commercial guys got hit with up on the turnpike. Terrorists?"

  "Probably," Norm said. "Roger, Dragon, acknowledged."

  "Marine Four-Eight, please secure area. Our boats are bingo on fuel."

  "Roger," Norm said. "Area is secured. Marine Patrol Headquarters this is Marine Patrol Four-Eight."

  "Four-Eight, Headquarters."

  "We have a HazMat at west entrance to Tavernier Creek. Request immediate response," he continued, speeding up to run down a boat headed towards the wreck. "And we're going to need more boats to close the area."

  "We were monitoring and had already been informed, Four-Eight. Three-Six and Two-Five headed to secure east entrance. Monroe County Two-One and One-Five en route to your location. County HazMat inbound to Tavernier Marina. Be advised, material is airborne and extremely toxic. Maintain three hundred yards separation, minimum. Stay upwind as much as possible. We are broadcasting that Tavernier Creek is closed for the foreseeable future."

  The damned fishing boat, a Cape Horn 20-foot center console, was totally ignoring him, of course. He cut in front of them and hit a long blast on his horn and they finally stopped.

  "What's up, officer?" the man driving shouted. He had a lady, probably wife, and kids onboard.

  "We've got a hazardous materials situation here!" Norm shouted. "You need to back away from here. Fast!"

  "We got another coming in from the north," his partner said.

  "Back off and stop any boats coming this way!" Norm shouted. "Get over by the point!"

  "Yes, sir!" the man said, powering up and turning hard to the south.

  "Damn, this is getting out of control," Norm said as a boat came cruising through the channel from the east. The big yacht slowed when it saw the wreck and turned towards it. There was a Cigarette that way and they turned to intercept the yacht. Both of them, though, were way too close to the HazMat and downwind.

  "I hope this is a false alarm . . ."

  "You need to leave here!" Yosif said, waving to the yacht. "Go away!"

  "That boat . . ." the woman leaning over the side of the yacht said, pointing.

  "Is very bad place, ma'am," Yosif shouted back. "Go awa . . ." He froze as he suddenly felt a strong twitch hit his entire body. "Go . . ."

  "GAS! GAS! GAS!" Sergei screamed, clawing for his mask as Yosif fell to the deck. He could feel the twitching, too. He managed to get his mask on and cleared, then ripped out an atropine injector and slammed it into the inside of his thigh.

  The atropine injector, the brand name being AtroPen, looked a good bit like a small vibrator and nothing at all like a syringe. And despite what Hollywood might think, you didn't inject it into your chest. It was designed to be injected into the thigh. People basic trained in its use were instructed to inject it in their outer thigh. Experts in the field went straight for the inner thigh, which had more blood vessels and picked up the atropine faster, hopefully missing the femoral artery. It had a spring-loaded needle two centimeters long that first flew out like a spring-blade, penetrating cloth, skin and muscle then, in one massive pump, dumped two milligrams of atropine into the human system.

  Atropine was not an antidote for nerve gas, though. All it did was counteract the effects. He followed it with his 2-Pam injector. 2-Pam chloride neutralized most of the major nerve gas chemicals.

  The secondary effects of both chemicals, however, were severe.

  The yacht had turned away and was now lumbering up to top speed and headed south. The woman wasn't appearing to suffer any effects but there were houses in the area. The gas would be drifting towards them.

  "This is very ungood," Mike said as the crew of the Cigarette either dropped or started donning masks. He should have told them to do that immediately. But, fuck, they didn't even have MOPP gear. Another fuck-up on his part. They should have done the whole fucking mission in MOPP.

  "JTF, JTF, HazMat is active," Mike said with a sigh. "I have a team down." He looked out the door and blanched as a news helo approached from the north. "And we are so out of here."

  "This is Maria Consuella with Miami Five Live," the woman said. She had headphones on and was looking out the door of a helicopter. "We have a report that a major hazardous material spill has occurred near Tavernier Creek in the Keys as the result of what appears to be an antidrug operation . . ."

  "What a way to start the morning," the President said, shaking his head. Two cigarette boats were just speeding away to the east and there was a flash of a Hind helicopter, dropping down to treetop level and heading east as well. The camera, fortunately, did not track in on them but focused on the upside-down boat and the police boats that were gathering in the area.

  "They stopped four barrels," the DCIA said, shrugging. "Give them that. But, yes, it's pretty public."

  "We might as well go public, then," the President said, looking over at his chief of staff.

  "The press release is prepared," the COS said, nodding.

  "Call the networks," the President said. "Tell them we're requiring time under emergency broadcast regulations. Call all the cable groups, too. Tell them that we need everything."

  "Can you make base?" Mike asked.

  "Plenty," Kacey said.

  "Get high and head for base," Mike said. "Keep an eye out for planes. Try to keep completely out of sight. We're public enough as it is." He changed frequencies and sighed. "Vil, what's the status on Yosif's team?"

  "Kildar," Vil said. "Yosif was hit hard. So were two more of the people on that boat. They are headed for the station. We are just arriving." They were pulling into the dock even as he spoke and a crowd of Coast Guardsmen were gathered watching the spec-ops team pull in.

  "Tell the commander that we need to minimize this as much as possible."

  "That . . . is going to be hard."

  Coast Guard Captain Paul Howard looked at the gathering crowd and shook his head.

  "Bosun!" he shouted. "I see a bunch of people that need to find something to do!"

  "Everybody but the fuel crew, clear the area!" the senior NCO of the station bellowed. "I can find things for you to do if I have to!"

  The fueling crews caught the tossed lines and tied up the Fountain and Drone, then started pulling out hoses. The fuel was pumped over from the helo supply point but it was identical to what the cigarettes used.

  "Who's senior?" the base commander asked.

  "I am," a balaclava-clad figure said in a thick accent. Eastern European by the sound of it. The guy jumped up to the dock and saluted. "Team Vil, sir."

  "I've been instructed to keep this as quiet as possible," the captain said. "But that's going to be tough, given that it's broad daylight."

  "Could not be avoided, sir," the man said. "We had to intercept the shipment."

  "This the WMD we've been looking for?" the captain asked. "I was told to dispatch a boat to pick up a Scarab and beware of HazMat."

  "Yes, sir. That was the
boat we took down." His men were hoisting wounded, liberally strapped up with duct tape, onto the dock. "These gentlemen we turn over to your care. Also this," the battle-armored man said, handing over a scrap of paper, "is pick-up points for WMD. Should be giving to police. Maybe pick-up still happen. Maybe not."