Dead Water

by Russ Snyder

  Styles paused and sipped his beer and then continued, "I smacked some asshole captain who ordered soldiers into an area where I had just observed enemy occupation. He insisted that drones showed the area clear, ignored me, and we lost many men. I lost my temper and slapped the shit out of him. One thing led to another, and I was offered a full pension if I left voluntarily. I had my twenty in. I was disgusted with the way things were being run over there, so I thought it best to just walk away."

  His father nodded. "It sounds like you did the right thing---walking away, that is."

  Styles was impressed on how fixated his dad was. "When I arrived back in the States, I immediately got picked up by two secret service agents who took me to Washington."

  He paused to take a long drink from his glass of beer.

  "The man who commanded me the most met me and took me to see the president, President Williams. I didn't know that he and Starr---that's my commander---went back as far as they did friendship-wise. President Williams had made a decision, along with Starr's input, to try a different approach to fighting terrorism. He wanted his own personal assassin. Starr, who had found out about me getting bounced out of the marines, thought I would make a good fit."

  Styles noticed his father nodding again. "We had a meeting, and I agreed. What started out as just Starr and me has turned into a four-man team, and I admit it is working well. It was hard for me; I've never been a team player, and it took a lot of adjusting on my part, and I'm sure the others, as well, and we have jelled. We make a good unit. The team consists of a pilot, Starr, a woman who can do magic with a computer---honestly, Dad, I've never seen anything like it---and me. Remember the terrorists who got taken out in Indianapolis over Memorial Day? That was us. We've also taken out targets, all at the direction of President Williams, in Europe and the Middle East."

  He paused again and took another sip of beer.

  "With the death of President Williams, everything has changed. Our team has been hidden under the DPO, the Department of the Presidential Office. President Lamar is going to eliminate that group. President Williams had written us a letter that was only to be read if he became incapable of fulfilling his duties as president. He thought it was imperative that we continue as a group, to continue with what he had us doing, and he thought that Lamar wouldn't go along with it. He felt we would have to go dark, do this completely on our own. We've talked about it and agreed that is what we are going to do. We believe strongly in what we are doing, and I can tell you that we have prevented serious damage from being done to our country." Styles was impressed at how intently he could see his father listening to every word.

  "Where this involves you is this. Once we go dark, I can never have contact with you again. Ever. It would put you in danger. I won't do that. There is one option. You can choose to go dark too. Phillips---she's the hacker---can set up a sort of witness protection thing for you. She would give you a new identity that could never be compromised. That way we can keep in contact. You would have to leave everything you know, are connected with, everything, behind. No pension, no insurance, no nothing. Of course we would replace that, but still, walk away and never look back. You would be relocated any place you choose. I know you are enjoying a relationship with your girlfriend; I'm not sure about that. I haven't talked to Phillips, but if this ends up being a joint decision between the two of you, I'm sure she could go with you. I don't need an answer right now; you have a few days to think about it. I wish my situation hadn't come to this, but it has, and I have to accept it."

  David Styles looked at his son, his eyes wet. "Marvin, we both know that until recently, we were never close. I've always loved you, make no mistake about that. It's just after the loss of your mother, I just, I guess I was just afraid to show love again. That is why it took me so many years to even consider letting another woman into my life. Your mother is irreplaceable, but I've finally learned to live with it. I'm finally able to enjoy the company of a woman without feeling that somehow I'm disrespecting your mother."

  "Dad, Mom would want that."

  "I know. It just took a very long time for me to realize that. Marvin, I'm not going to risk losing what took us way too long to establish. I need to talk to Sara, and make no mistake; I have grown extremely fond of her. To the point of I'm thinking about asking her to marry me. I need to explain the situation to her. You say you think she could join me?"

  "I'll make it happen. Count on it."

  "Regardless of anything else, I'm not losing you, so count me in. I only hope I can convince Sara. I don't like having to make a choice, but if I have to, you are my son." For the first time since the death of his wife over three decades earlier, David Styles saw tears in his son's eyes.

  Bernard Backersley was about to tear his remaining hair out. In thirty-six hours, his response team had been bested by an unknown entity. His team leader, a man who Backersley considered all but invincible, was lying in a hospital and not going anywhere anytime soon. His cyber unit had been attacked and rendered all but useless, though Myra Banks was working virtually nonstop to get them back up and running. She had spoken very little to him since the computer attack. He had asked her once about Darlene Phillips and had only gotten a "Fuck off" in return. He knew better than to push it.

  Martin Larrow, his team leader in Oregon, was on his way to his office. Two minutes later, Backersley's secretary had announced Larrow's arrival, with Backersley instructing her to usher him into his office.

  "Sir," Larrow stated upon entering.

  "Sit down, Marty."

  Larrow made himself comfortable in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in Backersley's office.

  "Tell me about the event at Ryyaki Ali's estate," ordered Backersley.

  "You know most if it already."

  "What is Randall's condition?"

  "Pretty bad. He's looking at probably six weeks in the hospital, at least two months' healing time, and rehab after that. He took a pounding. I doubt most men could have survived."

  "Do you think whoever attacked him was trying to kill him?"

  "Actually, no. I think if that were the case, he'd be dead. I think because Randall is Randall, it took that much to put him down. If I may ask, how are we doing on getting our cyber unit up and running?"

  "Soon, but not soon enough," Backersley answered testily.

  "Where do I go from here?"

  "Keep on your FBI contact. Find out everything you can. I want to know who beat us to Ali's estate."

  "Yes, sir. I'll be in touch the moment I learn anything."

  "Do that."

  37

  T-Plus 12 Hours

  "So no one else has this video?" Styles asked Phillips.

  "Somebody has something, but no one has this infrared version. The only reason President Williams had it was because we gave it to them. I'm not giving this to anyone."

  From all appearances, the people on the yacht Oceaneer were relaxing on holiday. Two men could be seen fishing. Three women were sunbathing. Other individuals could occasionally be seen going about yacht business. Anchored within fifteen miles of the spot where the American president had just been killed, there weren't the emotional feelings that might have been expected. It was this observation that had roused Darlene Phillips's suspicion.

  J. C. had piloted the group back to their home airbase, where the group transferred to their chopper. While on the ground. they had been able to pick up five hours of much-needed sleep.

  "We need to come up with an idea on how to get aboard that yacht," Starr declared.

  "Without drawing a lot of unwanted attention, either from the yacht or any onlookers," Phillips added.

  "You know the adage about how sometimes the best place to hide is out in the open?" Styles queried. "Maybe an open approach is our answer. I've thought about going in after dark and other scenarios, but this idea has me intrigued."

 
; "That being ...?" responded Starr.

  "What if we faked being the Coast Guard? Somehow we come up with a small Coast Guard boat; under that guise, we board them, and the rest is history."

  "Who would go?" Phillips probed.

  "Starr, you, and me. We'd have J. C. monitoring all radio communications with interested parties."

  Nodding, Starr remarked, "You know, that's not half-bad. Anyone watching might show a curious interest, but I wouldn't think much more. Assholes on the yacht aren't going to start any shit with the Coast Guard. Yeah, it gets us on board where we can take control. I like it."

  Phillips added, "I should be able to finagle any paperwork making us appear legitimate. I second the idea."

  "That's it, then. Phillips, start doing your magic and see where we might borrow a Coast Guard boat. Since it's an international port, it shouldn't be too much of a problem," Styles directed. "Okay, let's go inform J. C.!"

  Phillips had researched the activities of the Coast Guard and was well versed on their plan of action. They were conducting a second stringent investigation of the boats in the area but were behind the curve on information regarding the Oceaneer.

  Starr had gone to a local army/navy surplus store and bought clothing that would pass for Coast Guard attire.

  "I've got the perfect boat, guys. It went in for repairs at a local service yard and is scheduled to be picked up tomorrow. We'll grab it early. I've already got the paperwork ready, including a full set of orders to carry with us."

  "I'll retrieve the boat myself. Marv, you don't look military enough," Starr said, chiding him about his appearance.

  "Fine by me," he said without looking up. "We'll be decked out and waiting for you at the dock. I'm glad this is a civilian facility. We shouldn't be bothered."

  Christman had landed the team's helicopter after swapping over from their jet near the service yard in an area where they were unobserved.

  Starr walked straight toward the office while the other three offloaded the gear they intended to bring. All of it was contained in duffel bags, with Styles, Phillips, and Christman shouldering AR-15s. Phillips was also carrying two medium-size metal briefcases containing three of her laptops. They were on the dock less than ten minutes when service yard employees brought the twenty-six-foot center console equipped with twin Yamaha two-hundred-horsepower outboard engines and tied it off twenty feet away from where the group was standing. Without giving them a second look, they hurried away as the three started loading the boat. Four minutes later, Starr joined them.

  "Who's running the boat? Probably look weird if 'White'," Christman said, referencing the officer in command, "pilots the craft."

  Styles agreed. "I'll run it, or J. C., you can. Doesn't matter to me."

  "I'll take it. I'd feel better with your attention on everything else."

  Six minutes later at exactly eight in the morning, the foursome was heading out into the harbor.

  Phillips had inserted all the proper requirements into the local Coast Guard computers if anyone might happen to check. Unless delved into deeply, their cover would hold.

  Styles, using binoculars to scout the area, saw one other Coast Guard boat heading off in the opposite direction. "We don't seem to have a lot of company other than where the helicopters went down, which was on the opposite side of the bay. Lot of activity over there."

  "That area will be closed off for a while," remarked Starr.

  Within fifteen minutes, they were in sight of the Oceaneer.

  "Okay, guys, game faces on," Styles directed.

  Rather than use the radio that would be overheard, the decision had been made to hail the large yacht by bullhorn.

  "Oceaneer, this is the United States Coast Guard. Prepare to be boarded," Starr instructed in a no-nonsense tone.

  Two crew members appeared from the rear of the main salon, located middeck on the triple-decked craft. Both walked over to the rail.

  "What do you want?" the older of the two men yelled back.

  "General inspection of craft and documentation," answered Starr.

  "That has already been done."

  "It's going to be done again. We are boarding your vessel."

  In emphasis, Styles and Phillips unslung their AR-15s, holding them across their chests.

  "I will get the captain."

  "You do that. Make it quick."

  J. C. brought the boat to the rear landing platform and expertly guided it right next to it. Styles, with two lines in hand, jumped off and tied up the boat, with Phillips still holding her assault rifle at the ready. The boat secured, Starr and Phillips joined Styles on the landing deck. Styles had his rifle back in hand. Starr was standing between them with a large clipboard in hand. All three had cross looks upon their faces. Christman, with the motors shut down, was busy checking radio traffic.

  The man who had met them at the rail returned with the captain of the boat, a man in his midforties and of heavy build. Two blonde women had come out on the deck above to observe the scene.

  Styles muttered low, "The women are European, the men Middle Eastern."

  The captain came down to greet them. "What is this about? We have been thoroughly checked out, and there are no problems. Why must we go through this again?"

  "Because I said so," snapped Starr. "I want to see your ship's documents, passports of everyone on board, and I want everyone in your salon in ten minutes. Anyone who is not there is leaving with us. Now!"

  "Follow me," the captain retorted, grumbling.

  "What is your name, Captain?"

  "Madid."

  "Unusual name for a boat registered in Greece."

  Captain Madid turned and faced Starr. "I'm not aware that a captain has to be from the country that his vessel is registered."

  "I didn't say he did. I just made an observation. Is there a problem here?"

  "No. No problem."

  "Captain, the sooner we complete our task, the sooner we'll be off your boat."

  "That is fine with me."

  Starr, Styles, and Phillips stood impatiently in the large, lavishly decorated salon as Captain Madid ordered his first officer to immediately have everyone join them.

  "Be sure they bring their passports."

  "Yes, sir," the first officer said as he left to find everyone.

  "How many people are aboard, Captain?" probed Starr.

  "Eleven. Five are crew members, and six are guests."

  "Is the owner of this vessel aboard?"

  "No. He was kind enough to give this cruise as a wedding present."

  "Wow. That is one hell of a wedding present."

  "I agree."

  "If I might inquire, what is the relationship between the owner and who he gave the boat to?"

  "His brother-in-law; he was married two weeks ago."

  "How long is this cruise to last?"

  "I've been instructed to take up to two months. They have a list of locations they would like to visit."

  "Where have you been prior?"

  "We spent five days in the Bahamas. This is our second stop. From here, we are to depart for Miami."

  Two couples entered the salon holding passports. The captain directed them to sit on one of the three large leather sofas. With three glass walls encompassing the salon, the view was magnificent. A wet bar, large flat-screen television mounted on the front wall, a computer station: it was lacking for nothing.

  "Have everyone hold on to their passports until everyone arrives. We'll check them one at a time," Starr ordered.

  "As you wish."

  Over the next fifteen minutes, all but one arrived.

  "Captain, Roberto is down in the engine room performing some maintenance task. He said he would be up in twenty minutes," the first officer reported.

  Starr looked at Styles and nodded an
d then looked at the first officer and stated, "Take him to this Roberto. Get his ass up here right now!"

  "Yes, sir," Styles responded with Phillips hiding a grin. Styles followed the first officer out of the room.

  "I apologize for the inconvenience; however, under the present circumstances, all foreign-registered vessels are being double-checked. We'll get this over with as quickly as possible," Starr stated.

  Walking over to the far-left person sitting on the left side sofa, Phillips stared hard at the woman and commanded, "Passport." The woman handed it over. Phillips studied it intently, particularly the photograph, made some notes on the clipboard she was carrying, and then returned it. One at a time, she went to each individual and repeated the process. She had slung her AR-15 across her back.

  Phillips, after studying the passport of one man, walked over to Starr. "Remember the video we captured of two guys helping a third out of the water?"

  "Yeah."

  "This is definitely one of the two guys."

  Starr grabbed the passport and walked over to him. Looking intently at the passport and then back at the man it belonged to, Starr ordered, "Stand up and turn around."

  The man pretended not to understand.

  "Rifles at ready," Starr ordered, and in an instant, he and Phillips had their ARs at the ready. "Captain, tell this man to stand up and turn around, or I'll shoot him where he sits. Do it."

  Captain Madid spoke to the man in an Arabic language.

  Slowly, the sitting man stood, glaring angrily at Starr, and turned around.

  Starr took a long wire tie and secured the man's hands behind his back, turned him around, and pushed him back on the sofa. "Don't move!" Starr ordered.

  Captain Madid spoke to the man in Arabic.

  Phillips drew down on Captain Madid. "Starr, there's a knife under the cushion behind him."

  Starr cracked the man in the side of the head with the butt of his rifle, grabbed him by his shirt, and threw him on the floor. He reached in between the cushions and came out with a sheathed knife. He turned to Captain Madid.