by John Ringo
But she still had three more to plant, not to mention anything she could pick up.
Getting the data out, though, that was another problem. She could leave the boat freely, small dinghies regularly ran back and forth to the nearby town, but she couldn't off-load any of the data loaded in her head as she was used to. However, Jay had given her a number of drop points if she had anything to report. "The old fashioned way" as he put it.
Juan Gonzales was a known cocaine trafficker. Convicting him, ah, that was the rub. As was getting anyone to extradite him given that the few witnesses willing to testify against him had all ended up dead. And he had very advanced measures to prevent exactly what Katya was, in fact, doing. While Juan was fully immersed in the partying, the several "security" men in the area were carefully watching most of the guests. Most. They had clearly been well-trained to ignore the girls. Otherwise one could be used as a distraction, right?
The one guy that had Katya nervous was the security chief. Michael Ritter was an Australian, a medium-height blonde guy with a hearty laugh and long wavy hair. Pretty good looking if you ignored the broken nose that had been inadequately set. An Australian SAS veteran, he now did "international security contracting." He'd been hired by Gonzales after a serious attack that had nearly captured the drug trafficker while in transit in Colombia. It still wasn't clear if the attack had been by the Colombian government, American special forces or competitors.
Gonzales had escaped but only barely. And his bodyguards had performed less than ably. He'd come to the conclusion that he needed a professional, versed in all the modern methods of security and countermeasures and Ritter was highly recommended. Despite being formerly on the side of Light in most people's eyes, he had worked in enough shady places it was clear he'd gone over to the Dark side. What the heck, with rare exceptions the money was much better.
The rest of the security, though, were Colombians. They'd been spiffed up and given new shoes but they were still boys right out of the jungle. Big and probably capable in a firefight but they weren't expert watchers. Ritter had the eyes. He saw everything and he saw through many things. He was the one to convince.
"So where are you from?" Gonzales said, waving for the girl to sit in his lap.
"North Carolina," Katya said, dropping lightly into the lap and then giving a little wiggle. "I go to ASU, you know? And I just figured why hang around for winter quarter? There's hardly anything going on. So I caught a bus down to Miami and a guy gave me a ride over here on his boat. But it wasn't nothing like this! This is just fine."
She was aware that the southern accent needed some work but she'd watched all the episodes of Dukes of Hazzard she could stand.
"I'm glad you like it," Gonzales said, grinning. "I keep it just for ladies like you."
"Well, thankee," Katya said. "But you know the one thing here that's wrong?"
"What?" Gonzales said, furrowing his brow. "Simply ask and it shall be yours."
"You're not having any fun!" Katya said, squeezing her tits together and pouring some of the tequila into the skin-lined cup. "Body shots!"
Gonzales grinned and leaned forward, sucking the raw tequila out of the crevice.
"WHOO-HOO!" Katya hooted, pouring in another shot.
This was a lot better than getting beat up.
* * *
Lilia frowned at the beeping. There were so many systems in the room and one of them was always beeping. But she couldn't figure out which one it was this time.
She spun back and forth in her station chair, looking for the source then, when it wasn't apparent, started hunting around the compartment.
"What?" Greznya said. She was compiling a report on known smuggling methods. Most of them related to drug smuggling, but people quite often tried the same methods without realizing they were reinventing the wheel.
"You hear that?" Lilia asked, turning her head from side to side.
"No," Greznya said, looking around. But Lilia was a top voice analyst for a reason; she had phenomenal ears.
Lilia finally tracked the sound to a case, one of the many they'd used to bring the gear over. It was third down in a stack. After she'd gotten to it she popped the latches and looked at the laptop sized device. A blue light was flashing on the edge and every few seconds it let out a "beep."
"Low battery?" Lilia asked, lifting the box out of the foam cocoon. The fact that she'd been able to detect the beeping through the foam was testament to her hearing.
"No," Greznya said, coming over and taking it from her. "You weren't on the Balkans op."
"That's Katya's box," Julia said from across the room. "What the hell is it doing?"
"I don't know," Greznya said, sliding a USB cable between the box and her computer. She brought up the communications software then punched in her security code. Immediately, the data screen started to scroll.
"The reason it was beeping was that it's memory was getting full," Greznya said.
"We dumped it after the last mission," Julia pointed out.
"Yes, but it's been receiving for the last two days."
* * *
"Katya's here?" Mike asked.
"Yes, sir," Greznya replied. "She is currently a guest of a man with a boat not far from us. Close enough that we've been getting her take for the last two days. We didn't know that. Sorry."
"Who?" Mike said, frowning.
"Juan Gonzales," Greznya said, sliding over a folder. "Suspected cocaine smuggler. Known for all practical purposes, but nobody will arrest him due to lack of evidence."
"Interesting," Mike said.
"We've been worried about drug smugglers hooking up with Al Qaeda for a while," Britney said. "One of the reasons we've got the Narc Shop. But if he's actually working with them, well, that's a first."
"And one that we're going to discourage," Mike said. "Very directly. We know anything about his methods?"
"Various," Greznya said. "Sometimes he'll send shipments in hidden in containers. Some has been caught, others. . . presumably not. He's used planes in the past. A current method involves fast boats. They come in from offshore and drop bundles off. They've been caught with the bundles but Coast Guard and DEA have never figured out how they make rendezvous. And they don't know where the cocaine comes from. The boats don't have the range to make it all the way from Colombia."
"Lots of islands around," Mike said. "Famously. Lots of ways to transfer it, too. But transferring in closer. . . They probably rendezvous with boats off-shore."
"Won't work," Britney said, walking across the office. "Greznya asked me to sit in on this one."
"Lt. Harder has experience in this area," Greznya said.
"I thought you were Army?" Mike said.
"South American desk of SOCOM," Britney replied, sitting down and crossing her legs. "We do a lot of counter drug ops. I spend more time in the DEA database than Harmony."
"So why won't rendezvousing offshore work?" Mike asked, leaning back.
"You said you'd lived down here," Britney said. "You've seen those big balloons they have a couple of places in the keys and such?"
"Yeah," Mike said. "They're radar balloons, I know that. But one boat. . . There are a lot of boats around here Britney."
"Sure are," Britney said. "The daily take is over forty thousand tracks including all flights. But the tracks are all dumped to a supercomputer, continuously, that has pattern recognition software. If a boat that heads inshore to the US waters meets a boat that is from outside territorial waters or just coming out of Bimini or the Cut or whatever, that incoming boat is tagged. And the Coast Guard, nine times out of ten, does a 'safety inspection.' Boats running down the coast, outside territorial waters, have a lower tag rate. They could be going anywhere. Boats going out and coming in, lower still. Fishermen go out and come in every day, thousands and thousands of them. No way you can stop them all."
"So what's going on?" Mike asked. "Any theories?"
"Sure, lots," Britney said. "Some of Gonzales' boats have b
een stopped and found to contain illicit substances. Those are seized. There's some of his and a bunch more of other cartels' sitting in the Hollywood boat yard awaiting auction. Others were empty. They might have already gotten rid of their cargo, they might have just been testing the system. The Colombians do that, too. It's a real cat and mouse game. If you want the number one theory, they're dumping them, somewhere, and then other people pick them up."
"Run a boat out," Mike said, musingly. "Do a dive. Hey, it's in the middle of no-where, but maybe the guy found a new reef to spear-fish. . ."
"Exactly," Britney said.
"Hard as hell to figure out," Mike said. "Even with the radar and super computer. Boats have got to cross tracks all the damned time. If you're smart you drop a small buoy and the diver on the spot. The diver goes down, does his thing, comes back up, signals the boat. The current has already carried him away from the track. The boat comes back, picks him up, moves on. There's a bunch of problems, though."
"They are?" Britney said, raising an eyebrow.
"They're going to need to follow a general track," Mike said, still looking at the ceiling. "So they're going to have to have orders what track to follow. And they're going to need to know approximately where to drop on the track. Last, they're going to have to tell somebody where, exactly, they dropped. And that information is going to have to be passed to whoever is fishing the shit out of the water. That's bi-directional information flow. And you're not going to be able to do much of it via straight transfer. That is, if somebody picks up a phone and says 'The cookies are at x coordinates' eventually somebody is going to pick that up in an intercept. Then your shit gets fished up by a sheriff's dive team."
"Congratulations," Britney said, chuckling. "You figured out what it took DEA about six months. They're looking for the information exchange method and trying to write an update for the coding but they're having a hard time."
"Yes, I think I understand," Greznya said, her eyes distant. "Yes, that would be very hard coding. And you would have many many false positives."
"Because boats turn like that all the time," Mike said. "You get a hit on the sonar. You see a school of tuna and go chase it. Your divers are doing a drift dive. Hell, you lose your damned hat! The weak point is the information transfer. There's some part of that that will tell us where the motherload is."
He sat back and looked at the ceiling for a moment.
"Any way we can get intel on suspect tracks?" Mike asked, picking up his tea without looking and taking a sip. "Especially ones coming in from north of the Bahamas?"
"The data stream we're on has them all the time," Britney said, frowning. "Why?"
"We need some equipment and I think it's training time," Mike said. "I'll consider the conundrum of Katya at another time. In the meantime. . . Greznya, get me. . . Vil and the pilots. Britney, want to take a trip to the Keys?"
* * *
"New girl," Ritter said, sitting down next to the computer console.
"Pretty," Suarez said. "But aren't they all?"
Enrico Suarez was a graduate of the University of California, San Diego. He'd gotten a bachelors in computer programming then gone to Stanford for his masters. However, as much as he could have made in Silicon Valley, he knew he could make more working for the cartels. A few friends had gotten him introduced to other friends until he found someone who was willing to meet his, very high, price.
The nice thing about working for the cartels was that they didn't care exactly how you got information, they just wanted to make sure they had it and nobody had theirs.
Suarez did various jobs for Gonzales, but one of them was "vetting" the various visitors that came on his boat. Frankly, it was easy.
He keyed in the name Alicia Patterson and let the computer search. Quickly enough it came back with the information that Alicia Patterson was a sophomore at Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina. Her home address was listed in Highlands, North Carolina. She was listed as a former student at Highlands High School. Her grades at Highlands had been much better than those at ASU. She was not attending this quarter but was shown as permitted for qualified admission the next; she was right on the edge of academic suspension. There were four photos. One was a very old security photo from a company that maintained a database for parents who were afraid their children might be kidnapped. The second was from her driver's license. She had had three speeding tickets in the last year and was right on the edge of suspension for that, too. The third was from her ASU student identity card. The fourth was a very old and grainy photo of her in a local newspaper database. She was one of six winners of her elementary school spelling bee.
"That her?" Suarez said, smirking.
"That's her," Ritter said, nodding.
"Her grades are taking a nose-dive," Suarez said. "Did she say how she got down here?"
"Something about a bus," Ritter said. "I guess she boat-bunnied from there."
"Bet she doesn't go back," Suarez said. "Fins and all that. Small town girl. Hits college, gets into partying. Takes off. . . Boat-bunny material par excellence."
"Good," Ritter said, standing up. "I felt it was convenient her showing up right now."
"She's for real," Suarez said. "No question. It all checks."
* * *
"Ali's Bargain Palace!"
Jay listened to the scratchy connection for a moment then nodded.
"Yes, Hamid! I need the t-shirts very much! I must have by Tuesday! Yes. Good. In'shallah!"
He turned back to the two tourists from Dubuque who were looking over the selection of cheap t-shirts and even cheaper, if very overpriced, souvenirs.
"All very good, mon!" Jay said in an Arabic imitation of an islands accent. "Very good. You look good in this one," he said, pulling down a shirt with a large shark surfacing and handing it to the very large woman.
Katya was in, they'd checked her CV and apparently hadn't had any questions since the hacks had only gone to that point and then stopped. If they'd had any questions they would have searched deeper. Finding Robert's trojans in the NC DOT database, the ASU student database and the Highlands Courier would have been hard, but the search would have been obvious.
Robert was expensive but, like Jay, a patriot and very good. The NSA had been idiots to let him go over one little unauthorized hack. Especially since the take had proven him right.
God damn the Clinton Administration.
"Very good!" Ali Hamedi said as the couple walked away. The Midwesterners looked as if they didn't care much for Islamics.
Good for them. Neither did "Ali Hamedi".
* * *
"What is this place?" Britney asked as the white Lynx settled onto the helipad.
"Islamorada Harbor," Mike said, nostalgically. Things had been. . .simpler once upon a time.
The harbor was tucked inland about a quarter mile from the water, the only access a half-natural, half man-made cut. For Mike, it was one definition of home.
"Thanks, Kacey," Mike said over the intercom. "You good on the way home?"
"We'll have to tank again," Kacey replied. They'd had to stop in Bimini as it was. "And again on the way back. No externals on this bird. But we're good."
Mike waved and climbed out of the helicopter, followed by Britney. The weather was still cool so they were both wearing windbreakers and jeans. Mike's had a snarling tiger face on the breast pocket and the name "Kildar" embroidered on the back over a much larger embroidered tiger.
So somebody was after him. That was just fine by Mike. Next time let them shoot the right target.
He made his way to the marina's offices, sniffing the air. It was a good day to go fishing; the recently passed cold front would bring the fish up a treat. And it was perfect sailfish conditions. Unfortunately, he just didn't have the fucking time.
He opened up the door to the grimy interior and grinned. "Hey, Sol."
"Mike!" the man said, standing up and coming around the corner. He shook Mike's hand then gave him
a bear hug. "Man, where you been?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Mike said.
"You disappear and then some DEA guys bring your boat back," Shalatin said, shaking his head. Sol Shalatin was a short-coupled, barrel-chested man, a former Navy bosun who had a part interest in the marina. The money was a guy in Michigan who'd made his fortune in bio-tech then settled back to enjoy it. Part of that was buying a marina, partially because they were pretty good money makers but more so that he had an in on the Florida boat and fishing trade.
Sol ran the place, working his ass off most of the time but loving every minute of it. However, he'd worried about his friend, the former SEAL who had disappeared.
"Christ, they actually used DEA?" Mike said, shaking his head. "Great."
"Oh, they didn't wear the jacket or anything," Sol said. "But after you've been down here for a while you know. They were dressed like gang-bangers, you know? But they were. . . too straight. And bangers wouldn't be returning your boat; they'd be selling it."
"Captain Don's been running it, though?" Mike asked.
"Yeah," Sol said, shrugging. "Keeps it in good shape."
"Don's a good man," Mike said. "But I'm here about the Late."
"Tied up on D-43," Sol said. "Don's used that for a few charters, too. I've made sure it's up. Just put in a new fuel injection system, bottom's recently painted. You got the bill."
"I'm sure," Mike said, smiling. "I spend most of my time lately signing checks."
"Hey, where were you for that nuke that went off?" Sol asked. "You remember, about a week or so after you left? And where'd those two chicks with you go?"
"Uh, they caught a ride home," Mike said. "You know boat bunnies. And I was. . . Hell, Abacos I think. Yeah. Abacos. That day. I got the news a few days later in Nassau."
"Okay," Sol said, nodding slowly. "Just asking. Cause, you know the newsies. They get everything wrong. There was one news report said that the FAST that was supposed to have been the ones that found it got there. . . too late. That it was actually a one man operation, a CIA agent. And the fucking terrorists were using cigarettes. Then, well, there's this cigarette turns up, two more DEA guys, by the way, say that it belongs to my old SEAL buddy. And guess what its name is? Too Late."