A Deeper Blue (ARC)

by John Ringo

  The NCOIC of the Little Creek shipyard had been fixing FAST boats, and various other small, fast, lethal vessels for the last twelve years. There wasn't a thing he didn't know about high-performance engines and how to coax every last bit of energy out of them. And he'd done some travel, oh, yeah. FAST boats were complex machines and where the FAST boats went, there went their maintenance crews. A shipping container and a dock was all they needed. And the shipping container was a type that would fit on an aircraft.

  The Team didn't just work FASTs, either. They supported not just the FAST unit but every other spec ops group on the East Coast. Delta, for example, wanted a lower profile than FASTs. They tended to train and operate in Cigarettes almost purely but Ed had ended up working on just about every civilian boat on the market. Hell, he'd flown out to Rota one time to fix a sailboat's engine for some guys who sure didn't look military. He wasn't as good with diesel but he could hum the tune and once he got to fumbling around in the guts of a machine he could generally make it purr.

  But the travel orders on the latest job were pretty worrying. NCOIC, team of five technicians, one container with assorted materials, specifically long range tanks. Civilian clothes only. No mention of rank. Commercial bird to Nassau. Transportation from there to be arranged by a contact to meet at airport.

  "Agreed, Senior Chief," the lieutenant commander said. "Delta probably. Maybe some of the CIA operations guys. But, hey, it's the Bahamas. Get moving. They want you in the air in six hours."

  * * *

  Allen Barksdale, a brown-haired, brown-eyed slightly overweight dentist from Cleveland on his first island adventure, sat down on one of the benches that lined Nassau Harbor and pulled out a package of Ritz crackers. He bit into one then threw the remainder into the air.

  Seagulls poured from everywhere, filling the air with their raucous cries. One swooped down ahead of the others, plucking the morsel out of the water and flying off. It was attacked by a dozen others but they banked away as another cracker flew through the air.

  The man tossed two more crackers in the air then slid his right hand down onto the seat to lean forward, watching the loathsome birds. He could feel the package. A handful of crackers and the birds were now swirling all around him. Another lean and the GPS was in hand, slid into the pocket. Another handful.

  The dentist leaned back, setting the Ritz box down and pulling another package out of his pocket. He opened the container of Alka Seltzer and tossed one in the air. A seagull immediately caught it, midair, and quickly swallowed the small morsel. Kurt tracked it through the throng until the bird suddenly staggered in mid-air and then fell to the water, shrieking piteously for a moment then going still to lie, wings spread, on the surface of the bright green waters.

  Kurt Schwenke grinned and stood up, wandering through the cloud of birds towards his hotel.

  * * *

  "I want to buy some candy Ali!" the boy said, grinning, the white teeth standing out against his black skin.

  "You are a thief, Robert," Ali said, waving him away.

  "I want a candy bar," the boy said, holding out his hand. "I have money this time. Really!" The money was a small bill and some change. There was a suspicious bulge under the bill.

  "Okay," Ali said, taking the money from the boy's hand and giving him a Snickers Bar. "But you must have the money, yes?" He handed back change. In fact he handed back more money than he'd been given.

  "I will, Ali," the boy said, grinning as he bit the Snickers.

  "Now get out of here you thief! I have real customers to attend to!"

  * * *

  "He could kill us for this," Katya moaned as Suarez stroked her belly.

  "Ritter and Juan are both gone," Suarez said, dropping his pants. "The boat is nearly empty. And what is life without a little danger?"

  It had taken Katya two days to arrange the assignation in the computer room. She wasn't sure if the bug would even be able to pierce the walls but it was worth a shot. Besides, at this point she'd bugged the main bathroom, Juan's office, the main saloon and Juan's bedroom. This was the only place left worth dropping one of the transmitters.

  She leaned back in the reclining computer chair, stretching her arms over her head and moaning as the Mexican went down on her. The bug slid under the console and stuck with barely a flick of the finger. It was away from Suarez' main station, just in case he was a nose picker. The little rotter probably was. He'd clearly been watching the video of her fight with that American bitch; God knows he'd mentioned it often enough.

  "Oh, yeah, baby," she moaned, glancing at the computer. Stuck on the underside of the keyboard was a strip of tape with a long series of numbers and letters on it. She looked at it in astonishment for a moment then remembered to moan. "Oh! Oh!"

  She looked at the numbers and letters, trying to burn them into her memory. Oh, hell, she didn't need to.

  * * *

  "Oh, my," Julia said, watching the take from Katya. "Would you look at this?"

  "That is interesting," Lilia said, holding her finger up to her lips.

  "The internet is a wonderful thing," Julia nodded. There was no way to ensure that the room was secure. The windows, alone, guaranteed that. The computer was, however, a secure console. Surrounded by a metal cage, nothing could be remote detected from it. Words were something else.

  "I didn't even know you could do that with a donkey," Lilia said, batting her eyes.

  "I'm sure you've tried," Julia shot back, writing down what was obviously a password. She wasn't sure what they could do with it, but it was interesting.

  * * *

  The inshore waters of the Abacos chain are renowned among boaters. With strong offshore breezes from the Atlantic, but protected from the swells, they are perfect for sailing. By the same token, they are perfect for all sorts of boating and had, literally, thousands of miles of beaches and coves, a lover's paradise.

  They also had thousands of rocks and shoals, which was today's lesson.

  "Watch the water," Randy shouted, pointing to a disturbance up ahead and to the right. "You can see where the rocks are jutting up. Not always, but usually even if they're slightly submerged. And if you hit one going this speed. . ."

  "Airborne," Vil shouted back, grinning. He knew the thrill of battle and the thrill of doing really well in a video game or the Ondah contest. None of them really matched the thrill of taking a fast boat and cranking it up to max power.

  "Okay," Randy shouted. "There's a series of them up here. Wide spread. You figure them out."

  Vil knew the instructor wasn't going to let him slam into one of the rocks. Among other things, they'd both probably be killed. But he still knew he had to get this right. He could see the first one, almost straight ahead. He banked left then saw another that way. To the right looked clearer but he wasn't sure he could turn back fast enough.

  He realized that was the reason for the hours they had spent turning around the buoys back at the base. He knew, instinctively, that he didn't have the turn radius to make it back to the right but he could slalom through the two rocks successfully.

  He continued the left turn for a moment then banked hard right, the boat skipping across the water, dangerously close to the second set of rocks, then banked back hard left to line up again.

  Movement on the water like a shoal. No, a skein of fish jumped out of the water ahead of the fast moving craft, some of them clearing the nose and slamming into the low windshields, splatting like overlarge bugs.

  Vil ignored the distraction, continuing to weave. He'd learned that distractions were death. Learned the hard way.

  * * *

  The guy was doing good. Before he'd set up this test, Randy had carefully navigated the same course, years of experience filing away all the functional routes through the jutting reefs. Vil was taking the simplest, admittedly, but he was proving he could spot the rocks and shoals.

  Rocks and shoals were the proverbial bane of the Navy. The very term was used for any sort of trouble
and had been the nickname of the long defunct Navy Manual For Court-martial. If you got into trouble with your NCOIC, you'd hit "rocks and shoals." Same for wife or girlfriend. Actual rocks and shoals had ended more than one promising Navy career.

  If the guys all passed this test they'd made it through the very basics. This was the easy stuff. Doing the same thing at night? That was another thing. Doing it at full speed would be suicidal, but even at any sort of high speed it would be tough. But they'd do the run tonight if everyone passed. Slowly.

  Tomorrow, they'd be back on the ocean. Randy had kept their crossing slow and easy. But the Atlantic beckoned just beyond the nearby islands to the east. Let them face the monster at full speed. If they could cross the rollers as well as Vil was doing in the shallows, ah, then glasshoppah. . .

  Randy looked up, briefly, as a shadow passed overhead. It was a small business jet. Nothing that had anything to do with him. He went back to making sure they both didn't die.

  * * *

  Mike watched as the golf carts pulled up to the main entrance of the estate. Besides the four pilots, there was a woman with them. Maybe in her fifties but looking younger. Brunette and busty although there had to be some modern medicine involved.

  It was getting on towards evening and Mike was glad the plane had made it in. The strip had lights but there was no way to do traffic control. Day landings were much safer under those conditions. Especially since the strip was a bit short for a Gulfstream. Putting it down at the very beginning of the strip was more or less a necessity. Doing that at night was. . .tricky.

  "Thomas Chatham," the first pilot said. Also older, perhaps older than the female, big and beefy with a florid expression but very sharp eyes. "Chatham Aviation."

  "Pleasure to finally meet you," Mike said. "Mike Jenkins."

  "The way it usually goes with customers as good as you is that I host," Chatham said, grinning. "But I thought I'd pop by. If that's okay."

  "Not a problem," Mike said, as the lady walked up. "Lots of room."

  "And my lady wife," Chatham said. "I believe you've spoken on the phone."

  "Gloria?" Mike asked. "Glad to finally be able to put a face to the name."

  "Same here," Gloria said, shaking his hand. "But the one I really would like to meet, sorry, is. . ."

  "Daria's inside," Mike said, gesturing to the entrance. "Let's get out of the wind."

  "Winds were a bit tricky coming in," Chatham said as they walked in the entrance. The main living quarters of the old lighthouse had been gutted more than once and were now the front entrance, a vast room filled with comfortable furniture and bric-a-brac the back wall being mostly one large, heavily constructed, window.

  "He's going to start doing the thing with the hands again," Gloria said, holding up both of hers palms down and twisting them back and forth. "The Zero was right on my tail. . ."

  "It was a Mirage," Thomas said, smiling.

  "You were in the Falklands," Mike said.

  "Just before I got out," Chatham admitted. "Harriers, of course. Went to BOAC just before it went tits up. But even for as short as I'd been there, there was a nice severance package. I'd set a bit of money aside so I bought an airplane. Well, the bank and I bought it."

  "And here you are on an estate in the Bahamas," Mike said, smiling. "What would you like?" he added, waving to the bar on one side of the room. "Daria's around here somewhere. . ."

  Mike paused as Tinata, wearing only a purple and green string bikini, walked into the room.

  "Tina, darling, could you ask Daria to step over here?" Mike said.

  "Yes, Kildar," the busty red-head said, dimpling prettily. "And if you want to join us, some of us were going down to the beach."

  "Love to," Mike said. "But if you could hold off and get a couple of the girls in here for a bit, I'd appreciate it. Company."

  "Of course, Kildar," the girl said, smiling. "We love company."

  "Nice," Chatham said, whistling. "She looked. . ."

  "Young," Mike said. "Just about seventeen, she thinks. I hope that doesn't shock you, Gloria."

  "In fact, I am unsurprised," Gloria said with a wry smile. "Sorry."

  "The story of why I have a harem of teenaged girls, some of whom are too young for even me to bed, is a long one," Mike said, stepping behind the bar. "And it will be shorter for some Mountain Tiger. Who's not on call?"

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  They'd never made it to the beach. Mike had ended up trading war stories, those he could, with Thomas Chatham. Britney had turned up and sat in on that one, occasionally passing on a story she'd picked up that wasn't classified. Daria, Anastasia and Gloria were in a colloquy in the corner, laughing rather frequently. The rest of the harem had swarmed into the room as soon as they heard there were visitors, the poor dears just didn't get out much, and were now surrounding the other three pilots who were looking pole-axed.

  Mike looked up as Oleg stumped into the room. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt but he still smelled like cordite.

  "Kildar," the team leader said in Keldara. "We've set up the shoot facility and we're knocking off for the rest of the day. Mother Savina asks when you want dinner and where?"

  "In here," Mike said. "Ask her if buffet will work. Grab a shower and come join us along with the other team leaders. Ask Greznya as well and tell her if they've got the time a couple of the other girls. Oh, and the pilots."

  "Yes, Kildar," Oleg said.

  "Hey, Oleg," Mike said, looking over the side of the bar and pulling out a bottle from a bucket of ice. "Have a Mother Lenka special. You look like you could use it."

  "Thank you, Kildar," Oleg said, grinning and breaking the seal on the bottle. "Miller Time, yes?"

  "For some," Mike replied.

  * * *

  Vil looked at the things laid out in the steamer, his expression extremely unsure.

  "They're lobster tails," Randy said, picking up two and putting them on his plate. "Grab a couple. I'll show you how to eat them."

  The party was in full swing as Vil settled on the couch. One of the Kildar's girls was talking to one of the pilots, her butt slid over to one side and he had to crowd the arm of the couch to avoid it. It reminded him that it had been a long time since he had "been with" Stella. Days, in fact, since he'd even seen her. His wife was carrying the Kildar's child. He knew that and did not mind, quite the opposite. But it had been. . . too many days since they last were. . . together. The smoothly rounded butt covered in the barest of bikinis, reminded him rather forcefully of that fact.

  "Hot butter," Randy said, setting a bowl on the coffee table. "You crack the underside and pull the meat out."

  Vil watched dubiously then followed suit, aware that it couldn't be any worse than combat rations. But when he tried the lobster, butter dripping down his chin, it was really rather good. Very good. And after a full day of hard driving he realized he was ravenous.

  Before he knew it the lobster tails, as well as the red potatoes he did recognize and the asparagus he'd at least seen before, were gone.

  "Let me," the girl said, she'd sat up shortly before and now took the plate from him. She was one of the Kildar's younger girls, unbroached.

  "Thank you. . . Martya," Vil said.

  "Anything in particular?"

  "More lobster if there's any left," Vil replied.

  "Is that girl as young as I think?" Randy asked as the little brunette walked towards the buffet.

  "Yes," Vil said. "Fifteen, I think."

  "And these girls are. . . the Kildar's harem?"

  "She is not yet. . ." Vil said then paused. "She is still virgin. The others. . .are not. For your culture they are young. For mine. . . Greznya," he said, gesturing to the intel chief who was talking with Gloria Chatham, "she is what you call 'old maid.'"

  "She doesn't even look twenty," Randy said.

  "Just turned," Vil replied. "She has much trouble with getting married. She was to be promised to a boy, Brone. He is killed
in fall. We have dowry system, you know this?"

  "Yes," Randy said, frowning. "I know what a dowry is, but, really?"

  "Really," Vil said, shrugging. "It is our way. Anyway, when her match is killed, dowry is spent on another girl. Not enough dowry for her. And not many men she can marry. There are more women Keldara then men. No one knows why but is happen every generation, yes? She was. . . Greznya has always been good on farm. She learns numbers and writing very well. She works hard. Normally, she would have been. . . She would have left. But she stayed. Then the Kildar came. Needed people to help with. . . many things. She works for Kildar."

  "Is she part of the harem?" Randy asked, confused.

  "No," Vil said, chuckling. "Good that you ask me that question and not her. Not sure I can say what she does for Kildar."

  "Got it," Randy said, shrugging. "Hey, I'm just the instructor."

  Martya came over and sat down with two plates heaped with lobster tails.

  "What are these?" she asked.

  "Lobster," Randy said, nervously. The girl should have been playing with dolls, not in a harem.

  But he showed her how to eat lobster and that was okay.

  "You are the man who is teaching the boats, yes?" Martya said, licking some butter off her fingers.

  Okay, maybe not so okay.

  "Yeah," Randy said, clearing his throat when it came out as a croak. "Yeah. I'm uh, teaching the guys how to drive."

  "Can I ride in boat?" Martya asked. "They look very fun."

  Randy had heard the question plenty of times, including from girls as young as this one. And he'd taken a few out, including quite a few that were significantly. . . okay, not much older. Because there was very little that could get a girl going as much as taking a ride in a boat that went very fast.

  "Uhm, maybe later," he said. "We're doing an exercise tonight."

  "Okay," Martya said, picking up the plates. "I hold you to that. You have to give me ride."

  "Oh, I'd love to give you a ride," Randy muttered. "In about. . . three years. And assuming your Kildar doesn't mind."