by John Ringo
“Very confusing,” Vil said. “I wish that the Kildar had assigned Sawn’s team to this. I love the boats, don’t get me wrong. I think we will do well. But it is all very confusing. Sawn is… was better at confusing.”
“Was?” Randy asked.
“He… bought the farm you say,” Vil replied. “In a battle about a month ago. And much of his team bought the farm or are recovering. Was very bad battle.”
“Wait,” Randy said, his eyes wide. “That sniper shot on TV?”
“Yes,” Vil said, nodding. “Lasko. He is magic. Black magic. Nearly three kilometers. Impossible shot. Right through the X ring.”
“Damn, that was your guys?” Randy said. “Bet you’re glad you weren’t there.”
“I lost two men,” Vil said. “More in hospital. Tuul is still home recovering. Clarn probably should be; he took a chest shot at nearly point-blank range. Two units of whole blood are the only reason he’s here.”
“Oh,” Randy said. He’d kept up with the discussion of the battle on the boards. The questions about it were still raging. Nobody could believe that the group had survived the reported correlation of forces. Or that the sniper shot had been made at the range that it looked like on TV. That was damned near two miles. But here he was sitting next to one of the guys who had been in the battle. If Vil had questions, Randy had as many.
“Well, you’re doing fine with the electronics,” Randy said. Vil had figured out the complicated navigational system for a treat. He was still learning to read the markings, but the controls he had cold.
“These are not complicated,” Vil said, sighing and gesturing at the console. “We work with satellite communications, battlefield computers, GPS, all of that very much. Water. These boats? The society? Father of All, they are complicated.”
“Father of All?” Randy asked.
“Is our way of saying God,” Vil replied. “The boats are starting to move.”
“Yeah,” Randy said, standing up. “Okay!” he yelled. “Weigh anchor!”
“How are we to weigh it?” Clarn yelled. “Where is the scale?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Randy said, grabbing his hair.
“I’m getting a base,” Mike said. “Not just the yacht. For one thing, the Keldara are hot bunking.”
The run from the cut to Nassau had been fast. The passage had lower waves than the Florida Straits so he’d cranked the boat up to the maximum he felt he could run given fuel usage, which went way up at max speed. At ninety miles an hour, the run had gone quickly.
“We need some sort of confirmation on what’s going on,” Britney said. “If you get a base near Nassau and it’s all happening down around Andros…”
“I’m not going near Andros,” Mike said, chuckling. “My pilots won’t go near Andros. Not on a bet. They, through a remarkable coincidence, are the pilots who were flying the FAST in when the nuke went up. Kacey still bitches about that. Only bird she’s ever dumped.”
“She’s very… cocky,” Britney said.
“Pilots usually are,” Mike replied. “Good ones. But in her case it’s justified. None of the Keldara saw her take out the bunkers that got — Well, anyway, there were some Rangers watching. Words like ‘unbelievable’ and ‘awesome’ were the minimum they used. Apparently she just went insane. You can… do incredible things when you’re out of your mind.”
“Seen it,” Britney said, grinning.
“That wasn’t as far as I’ve gone,” Mike said. “The Keldara are still whispering about the Charge of the Kildar in the last battle. I don’t really remember it. But even Adams was impressed and he’s hard to impress. And then…”
“You collapsed,” Britney said. “It happens. Post-combat reaction can be as bad as postpartum depression. As I said, lots of counseling. And, hell, that’s why I got my bachelors in psych.”
“Great,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Just what I need. A shrink.”
“Frankly, you probably do,” Britney replied. “But I’m not going to analyze you. We’ll talk, when you feel up to it.”
“Nassau,” Mike said, pointing at the island on the horizon. Boat traffic had definitely picked up and the Cigarette jumped over a series of waves from the wake of a freighter. “And that freighter could be the very one we’re looking for.”
“No,” Britney said. “If they’re already moving things in, it’s not. The one we’re looking for is somewhere up there,” she added, pointing north.
“Sir, got a strange track,” the radar tech said.
The deck officer for the CIC of the aircraft carrier Ronald Reagan walked over and looked at the screen.
“Whatcha got?”
“Freighter,” the tech said. “Sierra forty-two. I only bring it up cause I saw it yesterday. And the day before. It’s just cruising back and forth.” She highlighted the track, then brought up a previous day’s track. “Same general position. It’s doing a long figure eight, just running back and forth.”
The CIC officer didn’t know why the carrier battle group, which normally was doing “power projection” somewhere in the Middle East, was stuck patrolling up and down the Florida coast. But he did know that they were told to report anything “suspicious” to higher.
“Could be a Lloyds Looper,” the tech said, shrugging.
And that was the problem with it being “suspicious.” It really wasn’t. Freighters were a business, which meant that most of the time they should be going from point A to point B, preferably filled with cargo. But under certain circumstances, related to obscure insurance rules, circling around in the middle of nowhere made more financial sense. Six ships had been detected, shortly after the Iraq war kicked off, circling in the Indian Ocean. After debating it for a while, spec ops teams descended on them in the middle of the night. No illicit cargo was found in them. In fact no cargo was found in them. It turned out that for insurance reasons, it was more profitable for them to stay at sea, waiting for their next load, than to tie up along shore. Even burning as much diesel as they did.
The term had become “Lloyds Looper” even though Lloyds was no longer the only insurer of freighters in the world.
“Keep an eye on it,” the deck officer said, shrugging. “If it stays there we’ll drop the data in the net and put up a Viking to keep an eye on it. Good eye, PO.”
“Thank you,” the young lady said, smiling. Then she got back to work. All the “Atta-girls” in the world could be erased by one “Oh, shit.”
“Oh, shit,” Mike said when he looked at the invitation.
It was just after the rapid tropical dusk when he’d pulled up alongside the yacht. And the first person who confronted him was Anastasia with an open envelope in her hand.
The message was simple:
You are cordially invited to a small party onboard the White Line. Festivities begin at eight but feel free to turn up earlier. Casual dress. Up to seven invited.
“That’s Gonzales’ boat,” Mike said, blinking. He was sunburned and sore from being beaten around in a Cigarette all day. And now this.
“And it is nearly eight,” Anastasia said. “But I would recommend a shower.”
“If I’m going,” Mike said. “This guy may be connected to the people that shot up Vanner and Adams. And I need to be briefed in on what’s been going on. And why seven?”
“I asked about that,” Anastasia said, dimpling. “I met a very nice lady in the market, a local who sells baskets. She has much knowledge of the local customs and we’d chatted yesterday. So I dropped by after we got the message. The White Line is a noted party boat, yes? But only pretty ladies and the… better class are invited. And the better class… Well, they generally bring a guest, a partner, female or male, and a few… assistants.”
“Oh,” Mike said, nodding and chuckling. “I can bring up to five bodyguards.”
“Yes,” Anastasia said. “I would recommend Oleg, Shota…”
Either of the two could have been NFL linebackers.
“Telling me my job, are you
?” Mike said. “Yes. Oleg and Shota. Tell Oleg I want him in shorts. Oleg, Shota… you, Britney and Greznya. Tell Greznya to get dressed, then head for my stateroom. Anything else?”
“Daria wishes to speak to you,” she said.
“Tell her to come on in the bathroom,” Mike said. “It’s not like she’s never seen me naked.”
“Kildar?” Daria said, walking into the large bathroom.
The Kildar was in the shower, soaping his short hair.
“Hey, Daria, whatcha got?” Mike called.
“I have found a land base,” Daria said, looking at her notes. “A villa on a private island in the Abacos. That is the area you wished, yes?”
“Yes,” Mike said.
“It has fourteen bedrooms, a private landing strip capable of handling a small jet and underground refueling tanks,” Daria said. “Also servants’ quarters. Enough room for the Keldara to ‘spread out.’ I have contacted a company to ensure they are fully fueled for both diesel for the generators and aviation fuel for the boats. The same company is delivering food and other supplies. The shipping company’s boat with the container has been diverted. I contacted Chatham Aviation and requested a Gulfstream and two crews.”
“That wasn’t on the list,” Mike said, sounding puzzled.
“You are probably going to be flying back and forth from here to there,” Daria pointed out. “A Gulfstream is faster than the Lynx.”
“You’re a gem, Daria,” Mike said.
“The boat has been reprovisioned,” she continued. “We have bunker fuel for a four-thousand mile run and sufficient provisions. I had a call from Vil regarding the boats he picked up, though.”
“How’s that going?” Mike asked.
“They are on their way,” Daria responded. “They have had some problems, but they are on their way. However, all of the boats are not set up for long range operations…”
“They need tanks,” Mike said, sighing and stepping out of the shower. He picked up one of the supplied towels, which was so thick it was almost a nuisance, and started drying off.
“Yes,” Daria said, turning away politely. She had, in fact, seen him naked several times. But right now she didn’t need the distraction. “I contacted a number of boat yards in the area and none of them could get free even when I suggested a large sum of money for a rush job. Apparently—”
“Nassau is awash in money,” Mike said, nodding. “And do you have a fix?”
“Possibly,” Daria said. “But it will require calling Colonel Pierson.”
“Fix it,” Mike said, shrugging. “Fast.”
“I will do so,” Daria said, making a note.
“Good girl,” Mike said, pecking her on the cheek and wrapping the towel around his middle. “I’m sorry I’m not bringing you to the party. I can dump Britney if you wish.”
“No,” Daria said, shaking her head. “I have been in the lion’s den. I do not wish to go back. Thank you. I will go take care of these issues.”
“Okay,” Mike said, striding out into the bedroom. “Thanks. Oh, hi Greznya.”
“Hello, Kildar,” Greznya said, blushing slightly.
“Hey,” Mike said. “Stay there,” he continued, walking into the closet and shutting the door. “Go.”
“I have a list of the probable people that are being invited to the party,” Greznya said. “Along with some background bio. Most of them are more or less legitimate businessmen or retirees. Mostly European but a few Americans. There are a few key members of the Bahamas government expected as well.”
“Not surprising,” Mike said. “I’ll look it over before I head over. Go.”
“I have had a brief conversation with Lieutenant Harder,” Greznya said, her voice slightly raised. “If your surmise is correct we should be getting some data. There is a carrier battle group patrolling the Florida coast. Only on their south end, though, do they get into the area where the freighter would probably be located.” She paused and looked at her notes. “We put the information about the two men into the law enforcement database that is being used for this mission. The current emphasis is on containers coming in. There is a note from CIA that that is the intended method of insertion.”
“Love to know the means on it,” Mike said, walking out fully dressed. “CIA usually can’t find their ass with both hands.” He paused and held his arms out. “What do you think?”
“What is that shirt?” Greznya asked, her eyes wide.
“It’s a Hawaiian shirt,” Mike said, looking down at the eye-searing monstrosity. It was mostly purple flowers with a red and yellow background. “It’s all the rage.”
“As you say, Kildar,” Greznya said. “If I am going with you, I had better change.” And put in some contacts, she thought. Eye shielding ones.
“Absolutely,” Mike said. “Meet us at the poop deck in ten minutes.”
“Why do they call it the poop deck?” Greznya asked, pausing.
“It’s where the poop heads used to hang out.”
Souhi was exhausted. He could barely think as he brought the cigarette up alongside the freighter.
The loop the boats were taking took nearly two days. Two days of constantly being banged around by waves, except the rare flat periods when they were interior channels. Run up from Nassau through the Abacos. Tank. Run up to the freighter, arriving under cover of darkness. Tank while riding alongside, not the easiest thing in the world. Pick up the cargo then run down the coast. Hope they had enough gas to make it to Nassau. If they were critically low on fuel they could stop at Nicoll’s Town, but that was an easy way to get detected. In Nassau they were given one night’s reprieve. Then they had to do it all over again.
The crew of the freighter lowered a fuel hose. Zakharia Al-Shemari, the third member of the team, grabbed the hose, then pulled off a small, sealed box and dropped it on the deck. Then he laboriously dragged the hose to the hungry maw of the fuel tanks.
Kahf, moving slowly, picked up the box, then sat back down, holding it in his lap.
Souhi kept the cigarette as close to the freighter as he dared as the tanks filled. He had to fight the wash from the freighter, which alternately threatened to push them so far out they lost the hose, then drag them in to crash into the side of the freighter. And this was good weather.
Finally, the tanking was done, the hose retracted and he could pull away. As the crew strapped down he turned opposite to the freighter’s course and added power.
Kahf sat down next to him, still holding the precious box, and strapped in.
“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” the fedayeen diver said, bouncing in time with the boat.
“Only three more runs,” Souhi pointed out. “Where’s the next drop?”
Technically, Souhi was the only one who was supposed to know the key operational details so Kahf looked at him quizzically, then opened the small box. Inside was a scrap of paper.
“Twenty-four, fifty by eighty, twenty-seven,” Kahf said, then slipped the paper back into the box.
Souhi, still driving the boat, punched the coordinates into the GPS and then nodded.
“Off Largo,” he said. “Closer this time by a bit. A long run, though. First, to the pick-up point.”
The cigarette plunged across the big Atlantic rollers, headed east…
Chapter Ten
Mike pulled the Cigarette up to the landing platform and backed as he came alongside, reversing the starboard engine to bring the rear of the boat around.
The line handlers were much better trained than the Keldara, he had to admit. They scrambled aboard, picking up the mooring lines before any of Mike’s party could do more than stand up, and had the boat secured in an instant. However, they didn’t look Colombian. Indonesians at a guess.
Mike climbed out of the boat, showing his invitation to a big guy wearing an earbud.
“Mike Jenkins,” the Kildar said. “Pleased to meetcha. Nice boat.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said, nodding and gesturing to th
e ladder up to the yacht. “Welcome aboard the White Line.”
“Am I supposed to salute?” Mike asked, as he walked up the stairway.
The rear deck of the yacht was about packed with people already. Another man, much smaller and dressed in a white blazer, held his hand out for Mike’s invitation, read it briefly, then nodded.
“Michael Jenkins and associates,” the man boomed. He had a much more resonant voice than his appearance suggested. “Mountain Tiger Breweries.”
“And bearing gifts,” Mike said, gesturing to the crate that Shota was carrying. “The good stuff.”
The man waggled a finger at one of the waiters and the crate was hurriedly shuffled off to the bar.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Juan Gonzales said, walking over with his hand out. “A real pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Señor,” Mike said, shaking his hand affably. “And if I could introduce my friends?”
“And lovely friends they are,” Gonzales said, nodding.
“Britney Harder, Anastasia Rakovich, Greznya Mahona, Señor Juan Gonzales,” Mike said. “Juan, meet Bambi, Anna and Grez.”
“Please make yourselves at home,” Gonzales said, shaking hands. “My boat is your boat. Mr. Jenkins, there are some people that I think you must meet.”
“Glad to,” Mike said, grabbing Lieutenant Harder’s hand. “I think Bambi wants to meet them, too.”
“Of course,” the lieutenant said, smiling.
“Britney Harder,” Suarez said, shaking his head. “Second Lieutenant, SOCOM G-2, South America section. She’s one of their people for tracking people like, well, us.”
“Unsure of herself but combat trained,” Ritter said, nodding. “Look at the walk.”
“I can see,” Enrico said. “Anastasia Rakovich. Former harem girl of an Uzbek sheik. Jenkins’ domestic manager. The other girl, the two guys, I got nothing on them.”