A Deeper Blue pos-5

by John Ringo

  “The area around the release has been evacuated, the majority of the material has been secured and the area is being decontaminated. No civilians were hurt by the release. I have been informed by experts on the scene that the release was very small and that once they are done there will be no threat to human activity in the area. It is expected that Tavernier Creek will be reopened sometime tomorrow. The Florida Bureau of Fish and Game has ordered a suspension of fishing in the area as a precautionary measure. However, given the small fish-kill, it is likely that there was very little contamination of the waters.

  “This shipment is not the only one that we believe to be coming into the U.S. The entire U.S. government, as well as allied and friendly governments, has been actively attempting to prevent this terrorist operation from being successful. This was the reason for the increased terrorism alert and for the recent activity by law enforcement organizations in South Florida. During this operation, two more barrels were recovered without incident.

  “I am asking the people of South Florida to keep an especially sharp look-out for suspicious activity and anyone who has any suspicion or knowledge of this terrorist operation to contact the FBI tip line or any local law enforcement agency. VX nerve gas is lethal in very small doses and a terrorist attack using VX could be more devastating than the attack on the Twin Towers. I will now, briefly, take questions.”

  The President pointedly ignored an old lady in the front row who was practically hopping up and down in her seat and pointed to the man sitting next to her.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” the CBS reporter said, being first chosen. “The operation appeared to be by a special operations group. Was this an American Army unit, such as Delta, and would that violate the laws against posse comitatus?”

  “First of all, we never discuss operational details,” the President said, sighing. “You know that, Larry. Second, posse comitatus doesn’t come into it. This is a direct attack by a foreign group on the U.S. and falls under the War Powers Act. I am free to use any force I have at my disposal to stop it, be they military or law enforcement.”

  “Mr. President,” the second reporter asked. She was a leggy blonde from Fox and not technically the one who was supposed to be next in line by seniority but the President had learned to pick his reporters carefully. “There was a brief flash in the camera shot of what I am told is a Russian attack helicopter. My informant was unaware of any U.S. group that uses those helicopters, at least operationally. Could you comment?”

  “Not at this time,” the President said, pointing to the next reporter.

  “Mr. President, some of the special operations unit appeared to have been struck by the hazardous material we now know to be VX,” the reporter said. “Can you comment on that?”

  The President paused and thought, then shrugged.

  “Only in the abstract and there I’d be glad to,” the President said. “What I’m going to say will seem callous to some people, but ninety-nine percent of the soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors in the armed forces would agree. The duty of a soldier is to place himself between danger and the people he or she is sworn to protect. If you’ll pay close attention to that video, you’ll see that the boat deliberately drove between the wreck where the VX was possibly being released and the civilian yacht. They placed themselves, in fact, very much in harm’s way. That was their job, their mission. And, yes, several were injured by the gas. By doing so, they saved the lives of the people on that yacht. Think about that the next time you’re reporting on the actions of our soldiers. They deliberately placed themselves in a position where they could be exposed to nerve gas to save the lives of civilians they’ve never met. No further questions.”

  “Dude, you are sooo blown,” Randy said as Mike walked into the house.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Mike said.

  “How bad are the guys hit?”

  “Yosif’s pretty bad,” Mike replied, walking over to the bar and pulling out a bottle of Elijah Craig. He paused, then poured a small amount in a glass and tossed it back. “He’s at Homestead and is going to stay there for a while. The rest of the guys barely got a brush. Shouldn’t be any long-term damage. The stuff’s not very good as a skin contactant in low densities and they were washing down even as they headed to the Coastie base.”

  “You still planning on doing an op tonight?” Randy asked.

  “I dunno,” Mike said. “Ask me in a couple of hours.”

  “Kildar,” Greznya said, walking into the room. “Phone. The President.”

  “Shit,” Mike said, looking at the bottle, his jaw working. “I got it.” He turned away from the bottle and headed to the secure room.

  “First of all, sorry,” Mike said when he had the headset on.

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later,” the President replied calmly. “And at least now people know. Good job on finding these.”

  “But now they know we know their methods,” Mike said. “They could change and then we’re up shit’s creek, pardon me, sir. I need to find the mother lode. The only way to do that is to intercept one of their boats and get the driver to talk. The last boat we got, the one we got these coordinates from, the driver shot himself. We’ve got the GPS off the boat but he’d shot that, too. My people can’t get anything off of it. The one guy I’ve got who could…”

  “Is still in the hospital,” the President said. “Mike, you don’t have to go this entirely alone. Send us the GPS. I’ll make sure that top people get to work on it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said. “I’ll get with Admiral Ryan on getting it into U.S. hands.”

  “Where do you think it is?”

  “North of Grand Isle, somewhere,” Mike said. “Probably moored below water level. But there’s no way to find it. If you got every damned sub we’ve got down there and Yankee searched, you couldn’t find it. It’s a needle in a haystack. We’ve got an op planned for tonight that might get us the location. That is if I can get my boats back fast enough. I hadn’t planned on going to Largo last night.”

  “Understood,” the President said. “I’ll say it again, you did good. And if you need anything that will stop this stuff, ask.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said, thinking hard. “I’ll get with Admiral Ryan.”

  “I’ll call him, personally, and ensure that he knows that whatever you need, you get it,” the President said. “Getting those barrels is the first good news in this entire thing we’ve had.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” Ryan said, his head down, rubbing his forehead. “I have to say that I agree. And I’d say that even if you weren’t the President. Yes, sir. I will, sir. Thank you, sir. Goodbye.”

  He hung up the secure phone and looked at his aide.

  “Get me the Kildar.”

  “Kildar,” Mike said when the call was transferred. He had a sandwich in one hand and a glass of tea in the other. He was chewing.

  “This is Admiral Ryan. What do you need?”

  “Hang on,” Mike said, swallowing and taking a drink. “Sorry. Long night. Can any fast birds from the Ronald Reagan land on a thirty-five-hundred-foot runway? I’ve got a GPS that’s all smashed up but it might still have something we can get from it. I’ve got an op going down tonight that, I hope, will tell us where the mother lode is. But if not, the GPS might.”

  “An F/A-18 can. Barely. If it’s lightly loaded with fuel.”

  “I’ll send you the coordinates of the airport,” Mike said, taking a sip of tea. “Other than that, we’re good. I’ll get back with you if we find out anything on the op.”

  “Roger,” the admiral said. “Good luck tonight.”

  “Kildar out.”

  Mike woke up at the sound of high-performance aircraft engines overhead, opening his eyes in slits. The fighter passed overhead, twice, clearly checking out the really short runway.

  Mike got up, wincing at the pain in his joints, and pulled on a bathing suit. Then he checked the time. Three hours’ sleep; that would have to do.
r />   He wandered out the door of his room, then down the hallway, scratching at his belly and yawning. The F/A-18 was headed back around and he walked out the side door to watch it come in.

  The bird had every flap up, coming in at a steep angle of attack. It hit, hard, then stood on its brakes. The bird stopped about fifteen feet from the end of the runway but, what the hell, there was a slight coral rise there that would have probably stopped it before it went off the end of the runway. Of course, depending on how fast it was going it could have either bent the nosewheel into a U or jumped it into the ocean.

  The jet shut down its engines and one of the Keldara walked up, opening up a step point and clambering up alongside the canopy. He handed over the shot-up GPS, then climbed down. Mission accomplished.

  “Let’s hope they get something,” Daria said.

  “I think we probably will tonight,” Mike said, stretching out his back. He felt like he’d been beat to crap. “How’s Yosif?”

  “Conscious,” Daria said. “Doctors are testing his reflexes and psych profile today. They say that, so far, there are no ‘gross signs of degradation.’ ” She was clearly quoting and said the phrase in English.

  “I need to talk to Chatham,” Mike said, walking back towards the lounge. “Any idea where he is?”

  “Down by the beach,” Daria said. “Watching your harem have fun.”

  “And that’s what it’s all about,” Mike said as jet engines spooled up to max power in the distance.

  The F/A-18 pilot had no clue what he was carrying. The thing was in a box. It could have been a snake for all he knew.

  But the mission was the shit. There were tankers stacked from here to Langley. His job was to bust ass, top speed, to Washington. “Make a record,” the captain had said.

  He piled on the power until the brakes were practically smoking, then released. It wasn’t as good as a catapult launch, but he had more runway. Halfway down the runway he kicked in the afterburner. Keeping it on the ground, he nosed up at the last possible moment and damned near his stall speed. The bird, though, kept gathering speed as the wheels came up, then more as he closed the flaps. When he had enough velocity, he pointed it at the sky.

  He was at three thousand feet when the left engine snuffed out. It sent the bird into an immediate flat spin with not damned much altitude.

  He powered down on the right engine, fighting the spin, until a glance at the altimeter told him it just didn’t fucking matter. Then he reached over his head, pulled down the grab bar and punched.

  Mike looked up at the change in the engine noise and began cursing, luridly.

  “Eject, eject, fucking eject!” Chatham said, walking up behind him.

  “Fuck the pilot,” Mike snarled. “That’s my god-damned intel going into the sea!”

  “Fuck the pilot, huh?” Chatham said angrily.

  “Yeah,” Mike replied. “Because the lives of maybe five million people just went…” The pilot ejected and his zero-altitude chair rocketed upwards to high enough for his chute to deploy, safely. But he was limp in the chute. “… into the drink…” he finished as the bird smashed into the water. “FUCK!”

  He began sprinting for the dock but Randy was ahead of him, the Cigarette started to pull out and Mike leapt off the dock, landing in a sprawl in the back.

  “Go!” he shouted, grabbing the handles of one of the backseats.

  Randy hammered the throttles and the Cigarette practically leapt out of the water, then settled down, swinging around to the east as he cleared the breakwater. The water there was shallow, but he’d spotted a deeper cut. Now to find out if it was deep enough.

  The propellers scraped across the sand, picking up the rear of the boat, but it kept going, Randy powering back and forth until they were over the bar. The pilot was still in the air as the Cigarette gained power speeding towards his probable point of impact.

  The waters to the east were deeper, slightly. The props hit another underwater obstruction and Mike winced.

  “Try not to break my boat, okay?” Mike yelled.

  “I’m trying,” Randy said. “You ready?” The pilot had come down and his Mae West automatically inflated on impact.

  “I’m good,” Mike said as the Cigarette started to slow. “But swing wider on the way back, okay?”

  “You’ve got a repair group,” Randy pointed out.

  “Yeah, and a doctor,” Mike replied.

  The Cigarette came alongside the pilot and Mike snagged him by the back of his harness, pulling him over the side. The guy had a ripped-up leg and a big smacked spot in his helmet. He was breathing, though.

  “Go,” Mike said, laying the pilot out on the deck. He’d have put a cervical collar on if he could. But wasn’t much they could do until they made it back to the island.

  “The pilot has a concussion,” Dr. Arensky said. “No apparent gross damage to the cervical area but there’s only so much I can do with the X-ray machine I have here. He needs to be evacuated.”

  “Kacey,” Mike said. “Load him up and take him to the carrier.”

  “Okay,” the pilot said. “I hate to ask this but am I going to get any crew rest at all?”

  “Tammy can take the Hind out and drop him off if you’d prefer,” Mike said. “You can do your Dragon thing tonight.”

  “The Hind’s going to need some TLC, too,” Kacey said. “But, yeah, Tammy can take him. Valkyrie and all that.”

  “Works,” Mikes said. “Go get some rest. I need to go find Chatham.”

  “The pilot is unconscious but doesn’t appear to have sustained any critical injuries,” Mike said when he got down to the beach. He flopped in one of the chairs and grimaced. “My op just did, but not the pilot.”

  “I’m finally putting two and two together,” Chatham said. “I actually did that when the news mentioned a Hind helicopter.”

  “So now you know why that bird going down was so fucking important,” Mike said. “He had a GPS onboard that, while fucked up, might have led us to the source of the VX. He’d have had to use it to find it and even if the track was deleted, you can often get stuff off computers that just… lingers. Unfortunately, my top guy for doing that is in the hospital. I’ve got, I figure, one more shot at getting the intel. The op tonight. And it’s going to be a very slim chance.”

  “I’m not sure we’re going to make it on time,” Vil said, shaking his head.

  “And only two boats,” Dmitri said. “But we will do the mission, yes?”

  “I hope that the Kildar has an idea, because I’m clueless.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I am getting tired of this helicopter,” Creata said.

  “Be glad you’re not with Vil,” Mike said, shaking his head. “They’ve been going flat out in cigarette boats since yesterday.”

  “That would be worse, yes,” Creata admitted. “I think I have the track. It’s a fast mover, not ours, headed for the target freighter.”

  “I need a vector,” Kacey said, dropping lower to the waves.

  Creata fiddled with the controls for a moment, then nodded.

  “Turn to nineteen degrees,” she said, yawning. “Sorry. Range… one hundred kilometers.”

  Souhi was getting very tired of this round-robin. The brief rest in the hotel had done nothing but make him look forward less to this trip.

  The sun was setting as they headed northwest towards the tanker. At least the weather was good. And there were no other boats around. He’d heard about the other boat so he kept looking behind him. But, so far, nobody.

  The radar tech on the Ronald Reagan was watching the activity with interest. Everyone on board had heard the news and the captain had added some additional items. And now everybody knew the reason they’d been steaming up and down the coast for the last week. But the tech suspected she was the only person onboard that was actually doing anything about it.

  A P-3 radar craft was circling high over the area, sending its take back to the Ronald Reagan and not even looking
at it itself, supposedly. She knew the crew was probably sneaking a peek.

  And there was stuff to watch, now. A single track had exited the Abacos chain and was headed for the freighter. Another track had exited not long before but they turned east and were now doing a slow figure-eight. The tech did some calculations and determined that they would, probably, be below the horizon of the fast mover.

  As she watched, two more tracks came into the area, surface fast movers, then a helo came up from the Abacos, flying not far off the water and fast. It was going faster than a Super Cobra. And no transponder. Interesting…

  Mike opened the door and slid out, holding onto the rope secured to his STABO harness.

  There had been two choices. Try to capture the ship and then take down the cigarette from it or take down the cig and take the ship from it. Taking down a ship is hard, especially in the initial assault. SEALs trained in it, extensively, but the Keldara had not. Mike was unsure about taking it down at all, but if they did it would have to be by surprise.

  Which meant capturing the cigarette and, even more important, the driver. The driver, obviously, was going to be the only one who knew where the mother lode was.

  He reached the end of the harness, hanging a mere fifteen feet under the helo and spinning like a top. Spreading his arms he stabilized, then held his right arm out.

  Pavel was having more trouble but Mike could tell he was grinning behind his balaclava. Oh, hell, so was Mike. He was having a blast. But he wasn’t going to let it interfere with the mission.

  They linked hands as the helo banked, turning to come in behind the blacked-out cigarette.