by John Ringo
He wasn't sure where they were going but he hoped that nobody got in their way.
* * *
"We will go very slow," Vil said. He'd donned the standard team headset as had the other drivers. "Very very slow."
"Where are we going?" Clarn Ferani asked.
"A bar," Vil said.
* * *
Randy Holterman sat at the Caribbean Sports Bar and Grill and considered whether he was making one fucking huge mistake.
The former PO had been a FAST boat driver with the Norfolk Underwater Support Group up until about a year before. The reality was that while FAST was the shit, the guys they were supposed to support, SEALs and very rarely Delta, hardly ever used them anymore. Most of the ops that Norfolk supported were in Europe and Africa. And nobody had used a FAST in operations in a couple of years.
So when his reenlistment date came up he got out and turned his car south for Florida.
His rep as a former FAST driver had gotten him a gig as a mate on a dive boat which gave him time to get his civilian captain's license. The combination had him doing gigs as a part time captain, filling in for guys who had been around for a while. He'd figured out the deal, you worked your way up in the local community, you learned the fishing waters and eventually made enough to get a boat. Maybe you got picked up by some guy with money who had the sense to know he needed a captain. You networked. You built customers. In the meantime, you got a lot of water time which was the name of the game.
Randy was an easy-going guy and he got along with the customers so he was doing well there. But he was a long way from his own boat. Not a good one. He wanted either a good solid yacht or a fast fisher. And that was serious money. You had to show you had a business before you could get the financing on one. Randy figured five years.
Then he got a call.
"Captain Randy, the fish are here, where are you?"
"Randall Holterman?" the woman had asked. Foreign accent, Slavic probably.
"That's me," he said, trying to figure out which payment he was behind on.
"Mr. Holterman, my employer would like to retain your services for up to two weeks. Are you available?"
"I don't know," Randy said, thinking about his schedule. He had lots of things going on over the next two weeks; you stayed busy or you got poor quick. But nothing he couldn't slide to somebody else if the money was right. "That would depend upon the nature of the job and the price. If he wants to go fishing for a couple of weeks. . ."
"That is not the nature of the job," the woman had said. "He has some employees who need training in handling small boats. Fast boats."
Randy's alarm bells started ringing hard at that. There was only one group in south Florida that had multiple fast boats and people that needed to learn how to use them. Racing teams, well, they didn't need trainers. And nobody had multiple boats and needed a trainer except druggies. Randy didn't really give a shit about the running, but he also didn't want to end up with a Colombian neck-tie, also known as having your throat cut and your tongue dragged out of the hole to hang down in front.
"Not interested," he said.
"I suspect you think we are drug runners," the girl had said. "Very far from the case, Petty Officer. We obtained your name from your service record, not from 'the street' as you would say. The vig, as my employer would put it, is twenty thousand dollars. It can be in cash if you so desire. Oh, and at the completion of our stay here, one of the boats is yours."
"What kind of boats?" Randy asked.
"I do not know," the girl said. "I am only told they are very fast 'cigarette' type boats."
"Jesus," Randy said. Anything along the lines would set her "employer" back a hundred and fifty, two hundred big ones. The pay was peanuts compared to getting a boat like that as a fucking tip. "You're sure you're not drug runners?"
"Quite," the girl said, chuckling. "We are in, as you say, the other war."
Randy frowned at that and then nodded.
"Which side?" he asked. There had to be a catch.
"The side of the angels, Petty Officer," the girl said, placatingly. "Truly, we need your expertise. Are you in?"
I'm going to regret this.
"I'm in."
So here he was, eating a cheeseburger and nursing an overpriced but really fucking good Mountain Tiger beer while watching the sun slowly sinking towards the yard arm. Two o'clock in other words. Whatever you could say about the gig, whoever these fuckers were, sitting on a dock, eating a burger, beer in hand, watching the intercoastal on a balmy day in a Florida winter, well, that weren't bad.
He didn't know who, exactly, he was meeting. Not even any names. No names at all, in fact. All he'd been told was that there would be five boats, "fast boats". Five turning up all at once, well, he'd be able to figure out who that was.
And sure enough, here they came, motoring along in a straggling line and really slow. Not even idling. Lug speed, that spot where a boat still wasn't planing but it was digging up one monster wake, nose pointed at the sky. It was just. . . ugly.
But, Oh, My, God, the boats! A couple of them were in rough shape, one was a Cig 36 circa 99 if he was right, and the Nordic had seen better days. But the lead was a practically mint fucking Fountain Lightning 42! He'd nearly fainted when he saw one at a show; the fucker smoked. Reggie Fountain made "the fastest, safest boats on the water." Just ask him. Not to mention some of the most luxurious. Forget two hundred bills, the Fountain was closer to three quarter mil and worth every penny. God, if only he got to choose. He didn't even care if it had the full racing pack. Fuck selling it, too.
He walked down the dock, beer in hand, then set it down as the drivers tried to dock. They acted like they'd never driven a boat before. No clue about sail area, no clue about dual engines. The guy driving the Hustler powered up when he should have backed and slammed, hard, into the pilings. Ouch. Jesus Christ, they were fucking cherries. Real, "What's a throoottle?" cherries. He could tell. Christ. Oh, this was so gonna suck.
* * *
"Vil, we suck," Clarn said as he rebounded off the pier. "I think I just broke my boat."
"We have to learn," Vil said. "Remember what the man said, there is no such thing as too slow." Vil was taking him at his word, barely creeping into the slot.
* * *
A bit of a crowd had come out of the bar. Fast boats were pretty common in the south Florida area, but five at once was somewhat unusual. As was a group with such bad boat handling skills driving them. Randy seriously didn't want to do the introductions with people wandering around looking at the boats. But that was how it was going to go.
The Fountain was driven by a tall, really handsome guy. Hell, all ten of the group were damned good looking. Randy wasn't a slouch, but these guys were drawing the girls for more than just the boats. The rest stayed in the boats as the guy clambered out. Randy had handled most of the line work with just a toss from the rear from the throttler.
The tall guy walked over and Randy held out his hand.
"Randy Holterman," Randy said.
"Petty Officer," the guy said. In Russian. Shit, somebody had been reading his service record. Randy had picked up the language thinking it might be useful. It had turned out to be about as useful as tits on a hog except for picking up the occasional Russian girl that hung around South Florida. "Lieutenant Vil Mahona, Georgian Mountain Infantry."
"Hello, Lieutenant," Randy said. "My Russian is poor now."
"It will come back to you," Vil replied. "Few will be able to understand us, yes? Oh, if asked, we are the Mountain Tiger Racing Team. I am team leader."
Randy bent down and held up the bottle.
"This Mountain Tiger?" he asked, wrinkling his brow.
"That Mountain Tiger, yes," Vil said. "We are here to learn to drive fast boat."
"Mountain Tiger speed-boat racing team," Randy said in English, shaking his head. "Is that anything like the Jamaican bob-sled team?"
"I do not know," Vil answered in Russian. "I do not k
now what bob-sled is. Jamaica. . . Is an island in the Caribbean, yes?"
"Yes," Randy said, grinning and shaking his head.
"Well, let us talk," Vil said, turning and waving to the rest of the team. "I see they serve our swill here. Let us find out how bad it is after travel."
* * *
Chapter Eight
"This is suck," Danes said in English, holding up the bottle. "Is shame upon our name. Is insult to Fera, Goddess of Beer. Is Mother Lenka knowing how bad this is?"
"Yes," Beso said, belching. "Have you not heard her cackling about it?"
"I have," Vil said, shaking his head. "Has been asking me to find reviews on internet. Have not seen her so happy since cutting up Chechens in pass. Is laughing so hard tears are coming out of eyes. Mother Lenka. Laughing." He took a swig and winced. "World is coming to end."
"Guys, this is good shit," Holterman said, taking a sip. He couldn't figure out what they were complaining about. Mountain Tiger was expensive as hell but it was the shit. It made the best German beer he'd ever had taste like Budweiser.
"It is swill," Vil said, in Russian. "Fit only for pigs. Our pigs would turn up their noses. When we get to Bahamas, we will show you what good beer tastes like. But that is for later. We are needing to take boats to Nassau. You are coming with, yes?"
"Sure," Randy said. "They said I'd be traveling. I've got a bag. But there's a problem."
"Which is?" Vil asked.
"Well, there's about a thousand," Randy said, shaking his head. "You guys are obviously clueless about boats. Okay, it's my job to make you less clueless. But there's one of me and ten of you. There's five boats. I can only be in one place at a time. That's problem one. Problem two is that all those boats don't have the same range. I didn't look close but they all look stock. Some of them are going to have more gas than others. If you're planning on doing long runs, they're going to need extended range tanks. On the way over we can tank at Bimini. But if you're going to be doing distant running. . . you need more tankage."
"Where can we get those installed?" Vil asked.
"The problem is not where," Randy said, shaking his head. "The problem is when. The boatyards around here have a month or more backlog."
"Can we do it in the Bahamas?"
"Same problem," Randy said. "They're backed up, too."
"Where can we get this job done, quickly," Vil asked, sighing. "Think outside the box, yes?"
"Any boat yard that has the parts and the time," Randy said, shrugging. "The parts. . . some of them could be custom manufactured by a boat yard. Others you could order from the manufacturer if they're in stock. But you need people that are capable of doing this stuff with boats. And they're scarce."
"Would your Navy have such?" Vil asked, cocking one eyebrow.
"Well, yeah, up at Little Creek they've got a mobile yard, but. . ." Randy paused and shook his head. "Don't tell me you guys can. . ."
"We will see when we get back to base," Vil said. "Next problem."
"Timing," Randy said, glancing at his watch. "I can't figure out whether you guys are more of a menace in the intercoastal or offshore, but if we're going offshore we need to clear the Bal Harbor cut. Now, you seem like fine people, but Bal Harbor any time but slack tide is a ball-buster. There are standing waves run twenty feet high. If you fuck up with one of these on those waves, you can do a somersault and pancake. You get me?"
"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 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 off of the display.
The kiosk was in the Straw Market in Nassau, an outdoor market which 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 starve," 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 further 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?"
"Pregnant?" 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, were 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 w
asn'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."