by John Ringo
“Turn upside down?” Vil said, frowning.
“Exactly,” Randy said. “It’s easier than it sounds. You have to keep your hand on the throttle, throttling up and back, anyway. You hit a wave, you jerk forward, you push the throttle forward, thing goes from a thousand RPMs to three thousand in an instant. You’re all of a sudden looking at sky then water then darkness. So we need to hit the cut at slack tide. It’s about twenty minutes from here if we hurry. Slack tide is in three hours. When slack hits, everybody who’s been too terrified to do the cut comes barreling through. So you’re going to have to be good enough in two hours and forty minutes to survive the traffic jam. Either that, or we’re staying here overnight.”
“We can do that if necessary but it is not preferred,” Vil said. “So we must hurry. Any other problems?”
“Oh, loads,” Randy said. “But one’s really bugging me.”
“What?” Vil asked, seriously.
“I got this sinking feeling that not one of you knows ‘Margaritaville’ by heart.”
“How much is this one?” Souhi asked, picking up a Garmin GPS from the display.
The kiosk was in the Straw Market in Nassau, an outdoor market that mostly sold woven straw products that were “locally” produced even if many of them had “Made in China” stickers. However, besides the ubiquitous straw hats, donkeys, dolphins and every other conceivable shape, it also featured cheap T-shirt outlets, various souvenirs and, notably, a fair selection of boating gear. This particular shop specialized in navigation systems and had a pretty good selection of new and used on display.
“For you, two hundred,” the Pakistani shopkeeper said. “Very good model. State of the art.”
“Too much,” Souhi said, setting it down. “How about another?”
“This one is less,” the Pakistani said, shrugging and pulling out a cheaper model. “Not as nice. For you, since we are friends, one thirty.”
“I have a trade,” Souhi said, pulling out a similar model and setting it on the counter.
“You want my children to starve,” the Pakistani said, picking it up and keying it on. He sorted through the menu, then shrugged, tossing it carelessly on the counter. “I give you twenty dollars in trade. It is old and worn.” The device was practically brand new.
“Thirty,” Souhi said, picking up the new GPS. “One hundred even.”
“Done,” the Pakistani replied.
Souhi counted out the money in twenties and handed it over.
“My children will go hungry,” the Pakistani said, putting the cash in his box.
“But they will live to see wonderful things,” Souhi said, pocketing the new GPS.
“This is wonderful,” Katya said, looking around the stateroom.
The sun had set and the gathering had moved indoors. In Katya and Juan’s case, much farther indoors to his bedroom.
Katya was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only a string bikini patterned in the American flag, bouncing up and down and, frankly, jiggling.
“You are wonderful,” Juan said, somewhat thickly. He’d had quite a few body shots between tits and navel. Also a rather professional lap dance. “Do you know you look just like Britney Spears?”
“Before she shaved her head?” Katya asked, grinning. Damned right she knew she looked like the American tramp. She’d slid inserts into the pouches in her cheeks and done her makeup carefully. Juan’s weakness for blondes, and that one in particular, was part of his dossier.
“When she was younger,” Juan said, sitting down next to her. “You look very much like her.” He leaned over and pulled her bikini down. “I have always wanted to be sucked by Britney Spears.”
“Then you just make like I’m her, honey,” Katya said, whipping off the top and standing up. “I’m your Britney tonight, baby!” She swung the top around and wiggled her hips. “You want Live in Las Vegas or Baby Hit Me?”
“I wish you had a school girl outfit,” Juan said, panting as he dropped his pants. “Come here and suck me, you little slut. You know you want to.”
“Oh, yeah, baby!” Katya said, dropping to her knees.
The guy was flaccid from being so drunk but she could take care of that. She was also pretty sure that he wouldn’t notice the difference between one highly trained professional giving him a blow-job and the sort you usually got from college girls. On the other hand… Hey, that meant she didn’t have to give him a good blow. Excellent.
The position, however, gave her a chance to slip one of the bugs under the bed. As she slowly and somewhat inexpertly fellated him, she slipped one out and placed it. That’s two.
“Harder,” Juan said, grabbing her hair and pushing. “Faster!”
She kept her suction down but sped up. He wasn’t coming this way. She wanted him to keep her around, though, so she’d have to figure out something.
“My jaw’s sore,” she said, pulling back. “Lemme get on top.”
She pushed him back on the bed and pulled off her bottom, then slid his still slightly flaccid member into place.
“Touch these,” she said, bringing his hands up to her breasts as she pumped up and down. “You’re fucking Britney now, babe!”
“Sing to me…” Juan panted. “I want it all…”
Katya started singing one of the vocalist’s better known songs, trying like hell to remember the words. One of the harem girls was a big fan but Katya didn’t really care about music. She hummed through most of it. All she could really remember was the chorus because it pissed her off so badly. She’d been smacked around enough in her time.
“I want to fuck your ass off,” Juan said, rolling her over. “Little slut!”
Then he hit her. Hard. A solid slap on the face. Katya hadn’t been expecting it and it nearly broke her out of cover. Her first response was to sink her fingernails into him and start pumping the bastard full of poison. But that would truly fuck the mission. It took her a moment to figure out the response that some American college girl in the same situation would have. In the meantime, he’d backhanded her as well, cursing the singer all the time.
“Ow!” Katya said, raising her arms. If he’d been a pimp, if she was in her usual cover as a whore, she would have just taken it. But that was the wrong response for her current cover. “Wait! Stop!” she pleaded. Damn, why was she always getting hit?
“Little ass-shaking bitch!” Juan shouted, slapping at her again. “This is what you deserve!”
“Please stop!” Katya whined. She had to dig deep for that act. She hadn’t begged since she was… She really didn’t want to go there.
Finally he came and pulled out almost immediately.
“I like you,” Juan said, pulling her up by her hair. “You’re going to stick around.”
“I just want to leave,” Katya said. “Please…”
“Just try,” the Colombian replied. “You’re going to stick around. And you’re going to make yourself up just the same way. You’re going to be my Britney and I’m going to fuck your ass off. I’m going to fuck your ass. And you’d better learn to suck better, too. You’ll go when I tell you to. You’ll call your parents when I tell you to. And you’ll tell them you’re having a great time. Or you won’t be going home. You got that?” He shoved her back onto the bed, releasing her hair. “Little party sluts like you, they get what they deserve.”
“Please,” Katya pleaded, tears in her eyes. The fucker was, some of them were real. It was the surprise. Now that she knew what was coming, she’d be able to handle it.
“Yeah, you go on begging,” Juan said, pulling on his pants. “Just like that little bitch should beg.”
After he’d left, Katya got up and shuffled to the bathroom of the suite, got a towel to control the drips and went back to the bed. She lay down on her side, still sniffling although tears were, finally, fake, and fumed.
This motherfucker was purely going to die. But first she was going to fuck him over. Big time. And before he died she’d make sure he knew it. Just befor
e he died.
“Hello, Gloria, is Daria, how are you?”
Gloria Chatham shook her head. They’d just done a charter for the Kildar. Two big planes. Now Daria was calling again.
“Hello, Daria,” Gloria said. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“Very well,” Daria said. “I am in Bahamas. You know Bahamas?”
“I do,” Gloria said. “I wish I was in the Bahamas.”
“Well, perhaps you can get time off, come down with plane,” Daria said. “Kildar is needing Gulfstream. Two weeks at minimum. May be longer. Two crews. You have?”
“I do,” Gloria said. “Captain Hardesty is on another charter at the moment, but…”
“Perhaps send crew and half,” Daria said. “Have Captain Hardesty come down later. We will pay plane fare and that. Have quarters ready. Nassau Airport, yes?”
“We can do that,” Gloria said. “I’ll send two crews and when John gets free he can come down and relieve one of the pilots.”
“Very good,” Daria said. “We pay for both ways, of course. Usual fees?”
“I don’t know,” Gloria said. “Are we going to get our plane back?”
“If you do not, Kildar will buy,” Daria said, obviously grinning. “But, yes, you get plane back. Is not problem this time. Promise.”
“I’ll get the plane rolling within the hour,” Gloria said. After she hung up the phone she raised her voice. “Thooomas!”
“Yes, dear?”
“Mr. Jenkins again,” she called. “Needs a Gulfstream in Nassau. Wants John when he can catch up. Tickets paid both ways and so forth.”
“Then send them first class,” her husband called back, somewhat angrily. “I swear, that man… I don’t think we should take any more charters from him!”
“The pilots love it and you know it,” Gloria said, getting up and walking to the door of her husband’s office. “James Bond and all that. Mister Super-Spy.”
“The man’s a menace,” Thomas Chatham said. “One of these days we’re going to lose a plane and a couple of pilots, mark my words.”
“There’s a reason you only hire fighter pilots, dear,” Gloria pointed out. “And they do get so tired of ferrying Mister ‘I made my money in stocks and bought a trophy wife’ around. Besides, it’s the Bahamas. I’d like to take off for the Bahamas myself.”
“Who’d tend the shop?” Thomas asked, waving his hands around.
“Maria, dear,” Gloria said. “Take one of the pilot slots. You’re always saying you don’t get enough stick time. And I could meet Daria. She seems like a lovely young lady.”
“You just want to meet Mr. Super-Spy,” Thomas said, grinning. “ ’My name is… Jenkins,’ ” he added, dropping his voice. “ ’Mike Jenkins.’ ”
“Actually, I think he’s just called ‘the Kildar,’ now.”
“This is the Cut,” Mike said, gesturing around.
“It doesn’t look like much,” Britney said. She could see it was shallow water in every direction, but other than that it wasn’t much to look at. There wasn’t even an island to mark it. Hell, there wasn’t even a buoy. “It’s not marked?”
“The current moves it around all the time,” Mike said. “The entrance, anyway. And the Bahamas government is not the greatest about channel markers, anyway.”
“You think this is where they’re going through?” Britney asked.
“If we’re not totally off base,” Mike replied. “And they’re going to have to tank somewhere north, before they load; there’s not many fueling facilities down here between Bimini and Nassau.”
“Do we have enough fuel?” Britney asked.
“Plenty,” Mike said. “Extended range tanks on this baby. It’s one of the cigarettes the muj were using down in the Andros.”
“You mentioned that one,” Britney said. “And to Sol.”
“He’d figured it out,” Mike said.
“We need to call in his tip on those two suspects,” Britney said. “Where were they?”
“Tavernier,” Mike said. “Between Largo and Islamorada. Got the cheapest gas in the area if you know where to look. Okay, time’s awastin’. Let’s take the cut.”
Chapter Nine
“Bal Harbor Cut,” Randy said, pointing at the entrance. The dark brown water rushing through the narrow, concrete-walled channel was humped up in head-high waves.
Bal Harbor Cut was one of the few openings in this section of the string of barrier islands that lined the Atlantic coast. About fifty yards wide it was deep enough to take a major vessel but too narrow. Not to mention the fixed bridge that crossed it. However, since it was the only way through to the ocean for miles, it was a busy place. Fishermen lined the fishing pier, a former bridge, that jutted out over it and a cluster of boats was gathered on the inshore side of the cut, where it opened out into the intercoastal waterway. The boats were mostly motoring in circles, occasionally dodging each other or backing and filling.
Randy had led the group of racers off to the south side of the entrance, grounded in shallow water. The tide was incoming so getting off shouldn’t be hard and he’d rather have to recover one of the racers than have one of the meat drivers smash one into some guy’s fishing boat. The boats had anchors out and he’d gathered all the guys on the Lightning.
“In about ten, fifteen minutes the waves will go down,” Randy said. “Then everybody and their brother will go running through. Those guys will go gunning for the exit. There’s going to be another group on the other side; they’ll be running to enter. There’s probably more people that are going to come running from around the corner. Arguably, boats like this could do the cut easy,” he said, pointing as a big Donzi came in through the cut, pitching up and down on the waves. “But until you’re a little more comfortable with the boats, I’d rather not.”
He’d spent time with each of the boats, running the group through basic maneuvers and rules of the road. Most of it was common sense and, thank God, these Mountain Tiger guys seemed to have that in spades. They also were quick studies. Most of the minor mistakes they’d made so far was just stuff he hadn’t had time to cover. And they only made the same mistake once.
The problem being, the sea was an unforgiving mistress and there were a million mistakes you could make that were fatal.
“While staying right, stay as close to the centerline as you can,” Randy continued. “Avoid the rocks along the sides. Ignore the waves from the other boats, just take them head on. I’m going to wait until the beginnings of the outflow to start. Any questions?”
“Why is that water acting like a river?” Shanar Mahona asked after a moment. “Is the ocean, yes?”
“You guys don’t know what tides are, do you?” Randy said, backing up and realizing he had a long way to go with these guys. “Oh, Jeeze. Okay, the moon pulls up a bulge of water as it circles the Earth. That means the water rises as it passes overhead. More or less. Sort of. Right now it’s rising. In a bit it will stop at what’s called high tide. Also called slack. There’s slack low, when the moon is on the other side, and slack high. When it starts to flow out it’s called ebb tide, the tide’s ‘running.’ Coming in it’s flood tide. Everybody with me so far?”
“Yes,” Vil answered but the group generally nodded.
“Okay,” Randy said, trying to think how to put the rest. “That back there,” he said, pointing toward the intercoastal, “that’s a sort of big… basin that’s cut off from the ocean by islands. When the water starts rising it rises in the ocean easily, but there are only so many places, sort of like the necks on a bottle of beer, for it to get in. This is one of them. So it rushes in, really fast. The reason for the standing waves is too complicated to get into,” he added, grinning. “But that’s why it looks like a river.”
“My boat is floating,” Clarn said, pointing to the Hustler. “Because water is rising, yes?”
“Yes. Go over and start it up,” Randy said. “Run it in a bit more and tighten up the anchor.” The boats had been arr
anged practically touching but the Hustler and now the smaller Cigarette were both drifting out from the formation.
“Nice boats!”
The hail had come from a small dinghy with three teenaged girls in it. Young girls. Fourteen will get you twenty girls.
“Thanks,” Randy called back as the Keldara clambered over the side.
“They yours?”
“My boss’s,” Randy said. “We’re delivering them to him in the Bahamas.”
“Can we go for a ride?” the driver of the boat asked. She was a cute little blonde, the other two being nearly as cute brunettes.
“You’re way too young to be accepting rides from strange men in boats,” Randy said. “I’d love to, but we’ve got to hit the cut and then head for Bimini. And I don’t think your folks want you riding over to Bimini.”
“Damn,” the girl said. “Okay. Maybe another time.”
“You got any questions?” Randy said as Vil pulled the boat forward. Genrich was up front, pulling in the anchor line and securing it. The one thing Randy hadn’t had to teach these guys, thank God, were knots. Those they knew. Probably from climbing.
“A million,” Vil admitted in Russian. “Not all of them about boats. Was that young lady serious?”
“Yeah,” Randy said. “Stupid but serious.”
“Very stupid,” Vil said. “I will not speak to her morals, I know that the cultures are different. But… where I came from, until the coming of the Kildar, girls such as her were always escorted by men. Because of moral issues, yes, but also because they were often kidnapped and turned into whores.”
“Plenty of girls get snatched in the U.S. every year,” Randy said. “Boys too, but more girls. And they usually either disappear or end up as a rape/murder case. But… generally not by guys driving quarter-of-a-million-dollar boats. Oh, there are exceptions. A guy like that, identity unknown, is still the top suspect in a multiple rape murder over in Tampa. But mostly they’re safe; they’ve got too much to lose to screw some fourteen-year-old. So she figured she’d get a ride in a fast boat, which is always fun, get dropped off and motor on her way. Hell, she’s probably done it before. The waters around here are still safer on that score than about anywhere else in the world.”