Punching Tickets: Book Five in The Mad Mick Series

by Franklin Horton

  Conor caught Doc Marty snickering and turned his attention toward him. "Keep it up, Doc. I'm not so old as I can't toss your ass out the back of this truck."

  Doc cut the laughing but winked at Barb. He enjoyed seeing Conor take abuse.

  The three were barely seated before the driver punched the accelerator and they were off. Beneath the dark canvas they couldn't see what was going on around them, but the driver had not been joking about the nature of the drive. He was constantly switching from heavy braking to heavy acceleration, then swerving around obstacles in a way that forced his passengers to hold on with both hands.

  "Jesus," Doc said. "They must have recruited this guy from NASCAR."

  "No shit," Conor replied.

  It took several nerve-wracking minutes for them to reach their destination. When they did, the driver got into the brakes so heavily that Conor expected to hear the Oshkosh's six massive tires squeal in protest. The passengers hung on so they didn't end up on the floor.

  The cab door slammed and the driver came around back. "Everyone alive in there?"

  "Yeah, no thanks to you," Conor growled, rounding up his gear. "What racing circuit did they find you on?"

  The MA One laughed. "I was once an ambulance driver."

  "Same bloody thing," Conor said.

  Barb hopped down alongside the MA One and the two of them passed all the gear to the ground. When the team was unloaded, they looked at the master-at-arms, wondering what was next, but his assignment was apparently done.

  "You folks have a good evening," he said, throwing them a wave and jogging off toward the cab of the running truck. "Stay safe."

  Conor smiled when he was out of earshot. "At least he didn't salute. It's always so awkward when they do that."

  "They just do it out of habit," Doc said.

  "Forget him.” Barb was scanning the area around her. “Where the hell are we?"

  They were in a dark corner of the base, dumped in what looked like a graveyard for Conex shipping containers and derelict equipment. Containers were stacked all around them, forming a high maze that left barely enough room to navigate vehicles. Conor pulled a tiny flashlight from his shirt pocket and played it over the containers around them.

  There was a squeal of metal-on-metal and one of the heavy doors began to swing open. Light emerged from the widening gap, sweeping across the peeling paint of adjacent containers and the cracked asphalt of this neglected region of the base. When the door was fully open, Ricardo stood there in the eight-foot by eight-foot door to the container, dressed immaculately as always. He threw open his arms in a welcoming gesture.

  "Good evening, my friends! So glad you could join me. Please, bring your gear and step inside my office."

  Barb looked at Conor, eyebrow raised. This was new territory for her. Conor wasn't as surprised. He'd seen and done a lot of weird things in his day. He hauled his pack off the ground and headed into the container.

  Ricardo gestured at Barb and Doc Marty, neither of whom had moved yet. "Please, please. Join us."

  The two grabbed their gear and stepped past Ricardo, then the dapper man swung the heavy door shut behind them and latched it from the inside. Conor was already sprawled out on a leather sofa, his legs crossed. He didn't need an engraved invitation to make himself comfortable.

  The interior of the shipping container was done in rich wooden paneling, the floor an exotic hardwood. The ceiling was white and there were several LED fixtures attached to it. None of those were illuminated, Ricardo opting for the more comfortable sconce lighting along the walls. Besides the leather couch, there were plush chairs, including a leather recliner.

  "Please excuse the conditions," Ricard said, taking a seat at a small contemporary desk. "The place has a certain college dormitory feel to it, but there's only so much you can do with such limited space."

  Conor raised a doubtful eyebrow. "You're selling yourself short, my friend. This is rather upscale accommodations in my world. There have been many times I'd have killed for something this nice."

  "You'd have killed anyway," Doc quipped.

  "It's always hard to secure meeting space on a base like this.” Ricardo glanced around at all of them. “There's too much red tape involved, even for something as hush-hush as our little project. Then there's the paper trail. I find it easier just to provide my own offices."

  "So you have this thing flown around the country?" Barb asked, joining her father on the couch.

  "Sometimes," Ricardo admitted. "But I have several of them. I lose count exactly. Maybe two dozen scattered all over the world. I have a guy in California who does them for me. Each one is distinctive. My favorite is the one he did in shag carpet like a 1970s hippie van. It has beaded curtains, black lights, posters, all the trimmings. Cool, but perhaps not very professional."

  "I might need this guy's number," Conor said, impressed. "I'd love to outfit one of these as a mobile team room."

  Ricardo smiled and pointed a finger at Conor. "I can hook you up. Remind me when the mission is over."

  "So what's next?" Conor said. "You've got us here."

  Ricardo nodded. "Our friends at the Saint Macallan Collective have secured the cooperation of the SEAL commander at Little Creek. They can't participate in the direct action of the operation, but they're lending us a Mark V Special Operations Craft and five special warfare combatant-craft crewmen to deliver you to your destination."

  "Which is?" Conor asked.

  "Cumberland Island near the Georgia-Florida border. It's only accessible by boat. There could be some people staying there but it should be mostly uninhabited. The surveillance team has been in place there for several weeks and they've had no issues. The patrol boat will drop you and your gear off in a zodiac. You'll have a briefing packet containing all the info we've received from the asset on the ship, as well as a detailed blueprint of the Shandong."

  "So are we operating from land or water?" Conor asked, an eyebrow raised. "I was hoping for the opportunity to board the ship and do some recon before we strike."

  "You won't have to make multiple boardings," Ricardo explained. "Our asset on the ship says it's fully-crewed but they're only utilizing a single deck of luxury staterooms for the VIP guests. The staffers are housed on the deck below that. Entire decks of staterooms are unoccupied. The plan is to coordinate your boarding with our asset on the ship. She'll arrange to leave a key to one of the unoccupied staterooms in a location where you can find it. That gives you a base to operate from while you conduct your recon."

  "That all sounds manageable but has any thought been given to how we'll board the ship? I'm assuming they're running radar that would detect the approach of a boat."

  Ricardo flashed a grin that immediately put Conor on guard.

  "What's that smile all about?" Conor asked.

  "I've discussed this with our friends at Little Creek. They recommend a late-night approach by paddleboard."

  "That gets us to the ship, but how do we get on the ship?" Doc Marty asked.

  "The REBS Magnetic Climbing System."

  "What in the holy hell is that?" Conor asked. "Never heard of it."

  "The system consists of two magnetic handholds and two magnetic boots. A harness ties it all together. You climb by turning the magnets on and off as you advance up the side of the ship." Even as he said it, Ricardo was watching Conor with amusement.

  "That the most ridiculous science-fiction bullshit I ever heard," said Conor. "Has anyone ever tried it?"

  "The SEALS use it. It allows a diver to approach and board a ship undetected. Do you have a better idea?"

  Conor frowned. "Not short of roping out of a chopper with an assault team."

  Ricardo shook his head. "That's out of the question. The security team would prevent that."

  "Do I need proof-of-death photos?"

  "No, our asset aboard the ship will take care of that. The Saint Macallan Collective intends to publicize this as a news story so the traitors can't sweep it under th
e rug. They want to broadcast their message to the world so other traitors know the risk of selling out the United States. It's the same thing the U.S. does when they kill a high-value terrorist. It lets the rest of the terrorists know that there's no safe place to hide."

  "What about an escape plan?" Conor asked. "How do we exfil after the job is done?"

  "No exfil arrangements have been made since we don't know how this will go down. You'll have to coordinate with the land-based surveillance team when the job is complete and make arrangements through them. Your experience in creative escape and evasion make you ideal for an operation like this."

  Normally Conor would prefer a more solid plan for how he was getting home alive, but he understood that wasn't always possible. Sometimes the nature of operations made the final-hour a dynamic situation that was impossible to plan for. "I appreciate the confidence, though I'd feel better if we could just call in a chopper for a ride home. Although I understand that's not always possible. When do we leave?"

  Ricardo checked his Rolex. "Immediately. I have Hardigg cases sitting outside with rations and some other goodies. I'm also going to give you a new encrypted satellite phone."

  "Can I order pizza with it?"

  Ricardo ignored the joke. "Emergency use only. I can also supplement your ammunition if you let me know what you need."

  "Explosives?"

  Ricardo chuckled. "How did I know you'd ask that? But yes, all your favorites are in the cases outside, along with a selection of your usual triggers. If you decide you need something I've not included, the surveillance team you're embedding with has secure long-range comms. They can request it and I'll make arrangements to get it to you."

  "Eh, I'm not high maintenance. I can usually work with what you give me. That's the creative part of the job."

  Doc Marty adopted a poor Irish accent. "A bleedin’ artist, I am."

  Conor ignored him. "Well, if you're ready for us to move, let's get on with it. I'll need subsonic ammo in .300 blackout and 9mm. As far as how much, how about enough to kill a shitload of people if things go south."

  "I'm not sure how much ammo defines a 'shitload', Conor, but I'm sure we've got you covered."

  11

  Cumberland Island

  Coast of Georgia

  There were probably times that cruising in a fast boat, powering down the Atlantic Coast in the moonlight, would be the stuff of dreams. Not in the middle of winter, though. The marine air was bitter cold and quickly drove Conor, Barb, and Doc Marty into the cockpit. The crew was helpful, but no one was conversational. Ricardo had explained that the military could only assist in support roles that were easily camouflaged within their existing routines. Like the government itself, leadership within the military had differing allegiances.

  The modern military was distinctly different than the military of decades past. There were now commanders in all branches and at all levels that didn't hold the devout patriotism of their predecessors. In fact, they'd turned patriotism into a bad word. America was now a nation of competing ideologies and that divide had worked its way into the leadership of the military. The Saint Macallan Collective was concerned that if word of their operation spread too far, even within the ranks of the military, the traitors would learn of their plans. The traitors might go into hiding or try to boldly stamp out their rivals. Everything had to be kept low-key and compartmentalized.

  The patrol boat was running dark. Conor's team was seated in the cockpit, trying to stay out of the way as the crew went about their business. After several hours of running, the boat slowed and one of the crew attempted to raise the surveillance team on the comms.

  "There!" another of the crew said, pointing out into the dark.

  Conor couldn't tell where they were in relation to the shore, but several of the crew were wearing nightvision devices. He had to assume that one of the surveillance team was signaling them with an infrared device. The patrol boat slowed, bobbing on the water.

  One of the crew approached Conor. "Sir, we'll take you ashore in the zodiac. We've scanned the shore with thermal and don't see any signatures beyond the two-man team you're designated to rendezvous with. We'll have to take you one at a time because of the quantity of gear. Who's first?"

  Conor nodded at Doc. "You go. Take your gear and one of the hard cases. Barb will go next. I'll bring up the rear."

  Conor's team charged their weapons and flipped their nightvision into place. The crew assisted in bringing the hard plastic footlockers containing the team's gear to the rear of the patrol boat. Two of the crew were already aboard the zodiac. Like Conor's team, they wore the latest in nightvision gear, a hybrid of conventional nightvision and thermal. The coxswain, the pilot of the craft, started the outboard while the other crew member took a position at the bow of the inflatable.

  Conor loaded one of the Hardigg cases onto the zodiac and assisted Doc in boarding. Under other circumstances, Conor would have given Doc shit for the awkward boarding but it wasn't the time. Besides, Conor probably wouldn't negotiate any more gracefully. He was a landlubber in every sense of the word. He'd much rather be working in the dirt than on the water.

  When Doc was kneeling on the aluminum deck plates of the zodiac, the outboard accelerated and disappeared toward the murky outline of the shore. In his optic, Conor could see the hazy signatures of the boat, the motor, and two tiny figures on the shore. When they heard the outboard racing back, Conor leaned forward and spoke to Barb.

  "When you hit shore, offload your gear and stick with Doc. I'll be there in a moment."

  Barb gave a nervous bob of her head. Conor didn't interpret the gesture as fear, but jitters from the adrenaline pumping through her body. She was in new territory here. Conor was probably the only one among them who had trained for this, but it had been early in his career. He was older, slower, and a little rusty at operating on the water.

  They deposited his daughter onshore and a few minutes later the small boat was back. Conor passed over the last of their gear and dropped himself into the inflatable. He knelt on the deck plates and fought to steady himself as the small craft powered away from the patrol boat. Although the Georgia coast was warmer than it had been at his home, the salt spray on his face was chilly. Through his splattered goggles, the glowing figures on the shore steadily grew brighter. Then the outboard dropped to an idle and the inflatable coasted onto the beach with a hiss of sand beneath the craft.

  Conor climbed over the side and hauled his pack to shore. By the time he turned back to the inflatable, people had already offloaded the last of his gear and were hauling it to shore. The bowman shoved the inflatable back into deeper water and climbed over the nose. The outboard accelerated as the coxswain steered the zodiac back toward the patrol boat.

  Conor turned his attention to the two-man team that had met them on the shore. In their dark clothing, night vision goggles, and bump helmets he couldn't get a look at their faces.

  One of the men grabbed up a Hardigg case and gestured toward the woods. "Let's get to our camp in case anyone noticed us out here."

  Conor shouldered his heavy pack. Barb and Doc Marty did the same, each of them taking a heavy Hardigg case in the hand that wasn't carrying a rifle. They'd have to drag them, which would be awkward.

  "How far?" Conor asked.

  "Not far," the man replied. "Once we get a couple of hundred feet into these woods our light isn't visible from the shoreline."

  A couple of hundred feet wasn't a significant distance under normal circumstances. It presented a little more of a challenge in an eighty-pound pack, carrying a rifle, wearing nightvision, and dragging a footlocker along behind them. It wasn't long before they were breathing hard from the effort. With the sound of crashing waves growing distant behind them, Conor spotted a glow in the trees ahead of them. Soon they straggled into the circle of light cast by a small fire.

  Doc dropped his backpack and sat down on the footlocker he'd been towing. Barb did the same. Conor powered down his optic a
nd unfastened his helmet, wiping a gritty sleeve across his forehead. The two men who'd met them on the shore had their backs to Conor's team as they doffed their own helmets and leaned their rifles against the trunks of trees. When they turned back toward the fire, Conor saw a face he recognized.

  "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered.

  The long-haired, bearded man threw his arms open wide. "Conor Maguire!"

  Conor strode across the sand and gave the man a hearty hug. "I didn't even pick up on the accent. I should have recognized you."

  "I'm like you, Conor. I've been away from Ireland and out in the world so long I can nearly turn it off if I need to."

  Conor turned to Barb and Doc Marty, gesturing at the man at his side. "This is Terry McGuirk. Ricardo apparently had the poor judgment to put two Irishmen on this op. Terry, this is my daughter Barb and my friend Marty."

  Terry nodded at Doc. "Him I've met, but I've not had the pleasure of meeting this young lady." Terry stepped around the fire and extended a hand. "Terry McGuirk. Nice to meet you Barb. I've had the misfortune of knowing your dad for many years."

  "My apologies," Barb said.

  Terry moved on, shaking Doc's hand. "Good to see you again, Doc."

  "Likewise," Doc replied.

  Terry retreated back around the fire and introduced his companion. "This is Siman."

  The young man appeared to be in his twenties and spoke with an Eastern European accent as he made his way around the circle, shaking hands.

  Terry took a seat on a log. "In reference to your comment about Ricardo putting two Irishmen on this job, we're not working for Ricardo on this project. I'm freelancing for an old contact in one of the alphabet agencies. I haven't worked directly for the government since 9/11. I was surprised they knew how to find me, but they must be keeping tabs on us old triggermen."

  "You bring in Siman or did they?" Conor asked.

  "He's one of their freelancers. This is the first job I've worked with him but he seems capable. I believe most of his experience is in the old Soviet-bloc nations."