Chasing the Lost

by Bob Mayer

  Of that, Riley had no doubt. Tricare, the military’s healthcare program, was overwhelmed by all the veterans reliant on its services. He was sure there was a deeper story, but he didn’t have the time or inclination to delve further right now.

  “I understand,” Riley said. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Good luck.”

  Riley clicked the phone off. He walked back. Kono had the con, Gator was forward, the twin fifties back in place. Sarah and Erin were belowdecks.

  “Anything I should know?” Chase asked.

  “Your cop, Parsons, is in debt to Farrelli,” Riley said.

  Kono cut the boat to the left, and Riley grabbed the edge of the cockpit to keep from falling.

  “Why am I not surprised,” Chase said. It wasn’t a question. “Why’d you call him?”

  “Referee the meet.”

  Chase nodded. “Good idea.”

  “But—”

  “Yeah,” Chase said. “He can’t do it.”

  “What about your deep-black Fed?” Riley asked.

  “I don’t see why he’d want to get involved,” Chase said.

  “The drugs?”

  Chase shook his head. “I doubt it will interest him.”

  Riley checked his watch. “We’ve got five hours. We should be hearing from Farrelli soon. But we have to keep all our options open.”

  “I’ll give it a shot,” Chase said. He went forward, past Gator, who had the fifties trained shoreward. But the Ranger was finally wearing down, his eyes droopy. He’d been up all night, pulled security through the morning while everyone else slept, and now it was catching up to him. Chase had seen it happen to Rangers more often than not, who’d been trained to drive past the limits of human endurance and further. But the human body could only drive itself so long, and then nature took command.

  Chase found Cardena’s listing and hit the call.

  “Horace, Horace, Horace.” Cardena’s tone was that of a nun chiding a child who’d been caught passing a note in class. “Lots of noise on your end.”

  “I’m on a boat.”

  “It could be that,” Cardena said.

  “What else do you hear?” Chase asked.

  “This and that, that and this,” Cardena said.

  “I’m trying to arrange a sit-down with Karralkov soon to get the boy back,” Chase said.

  “So alternative means did not work?”

  “They did not.”

  “Shame.”

  “You can scratch seven of his muscle,” Chase said.

  “I’m sure their mothers in Kiev will miss them and grieve mightily in the Russian way of grieving,” Cardena said. “They are very good at it. Although, technically, Kiev is in the Ukraine. However, they still grieve in similar ways.”

  “I also have several hundred kilos of Mister Karralkov’s heroin. I thought that might interest you.”

  “‘Several hundred kilos?’ Horace. You know how many kilos come out of Afghanistan every day?”

  “This isn’t Afghanistan. This heroin was on US soil.”

  “Touché for Horace,” Cardena said. “At least you didn’t make the headlines. Yet. And you are calling me because...?”

  “I’d be open to any help you might be able to provide,” Chase said.

  “That’s not my style,” Cardena said.

  Chase took a deep breath. “Please? There’s a child’s life at stake.”

  “Strange, how you talked about the Russians and the heroin first,” Cardena said. “You’ve still got a lot to learn. So much more than you have any idea about. One would think you’d have learned your lesson in Colorado. Just keep it out of the news, Horace.” The phone went dead.

  Chase resisted the urge to throw it overboard. He made his way past the dual fifties, going behind Gator, rather than crossing his field of fire, because even though it was obvious the big man was asleep, his hands were still on the triggers.

  As he climbed into the bridge, Kono throttled back. They were in the middle of Port Royal Sound. Hilton Head was to the south and Parris Island to the north, with Port Royal north of it. They could see any boat approaching for miles in all directions.

  Sarah climbed up from below, Erin behind her.

  “What do we do now?” Sarah asked.

  “We wait,” Chase replied.

  * * * * *

  “Check in with Walter,” Chase told Sarah an hour later.

  The tension was growing more palpable on the patrol boat as the time slipped by. It was developing into a gorgeous January day, the sun bright in the sky above. It was a bit chilly on the water, but there was hardly any wind, and just the slightest of swells in the water.

  Sarah put on the headset for the boat’s marine radio.

  “Walter. Anything?”

  She listened for almost a minute, then took the headset off.

  “Walter says the funnel has passed twenty million, and that volume will get faster as we get closer to kickoff. Walter made up his own next proof of life question and he got the right answer, so Cole is still alive.”

  Chase nodded. “Karralkov still wants to make a deal. That’s good.”

  “Where is Walter?” Riley asked.

  “He’s not far away. On his boat and heading this way.” Sarah looked at the time. “I can’t stand this waiting. When is Farrelli calling back?”

  Ignoring the others, Chase took her into his arms. “It’ll be all right.”

  * * * * *

  The call didn’t come until four-forty-five, by which time, Sarah had almost worn a track into the wooden deck of the patrol boat, back and forth from the stern to cockpit, innumerable times.

  Riley’s phone buzzed, cutting across the sound of the waves lapping against the hull of the Fina. Everyone stared at him, including the now-awake Gator, who’d even come back from the forward turret as the clock ticked down, relinquishing his beloved guns.

  Riley walked to the very rear of the boat and hit accept.

  “Yes?”

  “Hey, Dafooskie. Where are you hanging out?”

  “On the water.”

  “Convenient,” Farrelli said. “Karralkov will meet you on his boat at the following grid coordinates out in the Atlantic, just past the territorial water boundary. Are you ready to copy, or you gonna remember them?”

  Riley signaled for something to write with, and Kono tossed him a marker from some hidden compartment on the bridge. “Go.” Riley uncapped it with his teeth and wrote the numbers down on his arm.

  “Anything else?” Riley asked, spitting the top out.

  “It’s not exactly the sit-down I’m used to,” Farrelli said, “so I won’t be participating.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “You on that crazy man Kono’s boat?” Farrelli asked.

  “How’d you guess?”

  “He does some runs for my restaurants,” Farrelli said. “I saw his boat a couple of times, and I think there’s a lot more to it than meets the eye.”

  “There might be.”

  “Good luck. Don’t worry about my ten percent. Worry about staying alive.”

  The phone went dead.

  “We’ve got a meeting to attend,” Riley called out. He gave Kono the coordinates. The Gullah punched them into his GPS.

  “Due west,” Kono announced, and then punched the throttles.

  Sarah tapped Riley on the arm. “Should I send the coordinates to Walter?”

  Riley glanced at Chase, then shrugged. “Sure. Everyone might as well be in on the endgame.”

  * * * * *

  “Sail ho, off port bow,” Kono yelled, his voice carrying above the roar of the engines. Riley peered through the cockpit glass.

  Kono pointed. “Ship yonder. Exactly in place.”

  “I don’t see any sail,” Riley said, but he did spot a smudge on the horizon.

  “It expression,” Kono said. He gestured with a sweep of what was ahead. “We past US law now. Open ocean. People mostly don’t know, but still lots of pirates roami
ng the seas.”

  Chase came up on the other side of Kono. Gator brought the twin fifties around to point directly at the smudge that was now coalescing into a ship that Chase recognized.

  Karralkov’s yacht, the Shashka.

  “Sarah,” Chase said. “Where’s Walter and his boat?”

  Sarah put the headset on. After a few moments, she took it off. “He says he sees the yacht, too. Coming in from the east.”

  Chase nodded. “Riley, take the right-side machine gun. We’ll present that side to Karralkov. I’ll take the 203. That gives us some firepower.”

  Riley had grabbed Kono’s high-powered binoculars and was peering at the yacht. “He’s got some firepower, too. I see—”—Riley paused as he adjusted the focus—“three M-60s on mounts. A Mark-19 grenade launcher forward. And at least a half-dozen guys with automatic weapons.” He pulled the glasses away and glanced past Kono at Chase. “The Mark-19 tips things a bit in his favor. We can put a lot of bullets in that boat, but they’re going to be pounding us with high explosives.”

  Gator yelled back from the turret, the engine noise dying down as Kono slowed the Fina and began to make a long arc to present the right side of the patrol boat to the yacht. “I can pick ‘em off outside the range of MK-19 with my Barrett.”

  “Negative. We’re here to negotiate,” Chase said.

  “Any sign of Cole?” Sarah asked, grabbing for the binoculars.

  Riley let her have them. She spent several anxious moments scanning the Shashka, then lowered them in disappointment.

  “How close?” Kono asked.

  “Let’s get in tight to the vest,” Chase said. “What’s arming range for the Mark-19 rounds?”

  “Seventy-five meters,” Gator said.

  “Go for forty meters off our starboard,” Chase ordered Kono.

  “Aye-aye.”

  A voice echoed out of a loudspeaker. “Halt at two hundred meters.”

  “That’s Karralkov,” Chase said. They could now see details. The machine guns. The grenade launcher aimed right at them. The armed men. A figure on the open, top bridge of the yacht with a megaphone.

  “Fuck him,” Riley muttered.

  “Steady on course,” Chase said to Kono.

  With a loud ratchet, Gator pulled back the charging handles on both fifties.

  Riley left the cockpit and went to the starboard side M-249 machine gun. He pulled back the cocking arm, insuring a round was chambered, and flipped the safety off.

  “Shashka,” Riley read as the stern of the yacht became readable.

  “His girlfriend?” Gator wondered.

  “Shashka is a type of sword,” Riley said. “Cossacks carried them.”

  “Cool,” Gator said. “Cossacks were badasses.”

  “Got another boat past the target,” Kono announced.

  Looking beyond the Shashka, a smaller cabin cruiser was approaching at high speed, bow wave spread high.

  “Walter,” Riley said.

  “Hold at two hundred meters!” Karralkov yelled through the megaphone. His order was already moot, since they were now about a hundred and fifty meters off his after, port side, and still closing and coming parallel.

  The Mark-19 was trained hard about, aimed right at them.

  All the machine guns were also trained at the Fina.

  “Gator,” Chase called out in a calm voice. “If it comes to it, you take out the Mark-19. Riley, you’ve got Karralkov on the bridge, and then work aft. I’m going to start with the M-60 below the bridge and work forward. If we have to fire that ship up, remember, they probably have Cole belowdecks, so let’s aim high.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Erin asked, Riley’s HK in her hands.

  “Where’d you get that?” Chase demanded.

  “Don’t get shot,” Riley yelled at her. “Get behind the cockpit wall.”

  The distance was down to one hundred and fifty meters. Karralkov yelled something in Russian and the MK-19 chugged, spewing a string of forty-millimeter grenades.

  “Hold fire!” Chase yelled.

  A series of plumes blossomed in the water in front of the Fina as a dozen grenades exploded on impact with the ocean.

  “Fuck him,” Gator said and he fired, a string of fifty rounds, every fourth one a tracer, arcing just past the Shashka’s port bow.

  “Cease fire, damn it!” Chase yelled. “Gator, keep it under control.”

  The two ships were a hundred and twenty meters apart.

  Karralkov yelled something in Russian, and the MK-19 gunner suddenly swung the weapon around to the starboard. The distinctive chugging noise on the automatic grenade launcher went on a bit longer. They could all see the tiny dots of the string of grenades rise into the air and head toward the oncoming cabin cruiser.

  “Oh, my God!” Sarah screamed as the first couple of grenades hit short, but then the boat was ripped to shreds as at least a dozen forty-millimeter grenades went off on it. The echoes of the explosions rolled across the waves. The MK-19 swung back around to aim at the Fina, which was now ninety meters away.

  “I am serious!” Karralkov yelled. “Halt!”

  “Hold weapons!” Chase yelled. “Gator, hold! He needs the heroin. He won’t fire on us.”

  Riley’s hands were tight on the M-249, not as optimistic as Chase. He expected to see a string of grenades coming directly at them. At this range, there would be no missing.

  Eighty meters.

  Seventy meters.

  They were inside the arming range for the grenades.

  Riley and the others all breathed a sigh of relief.

  That lasted for all of a second.

  The screech of a rocket engine from above ripped into their ears.

  Gator instinctively pressed the triggers on the twin fifties, a warrior swinging his sword on his way to Valhalla.

  A Hellfire missile flashed by, a deadly blink, tore into the Shaska, and then detonated.

  Kono spun the wheel as the blast hit the protective glass.

  Erin dove to the deck.

  Chase had time to wrap Sarah in his arms and turn his back to the explosion.

  The blast wave knocked Riley back from the machine gun, tumbling him across the Fina and overboard.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Riley regained consciousness via the very painful process of inhaling seawater. Gagging, he flailed about for several vital moments, his body armor taking him under.

  He unbuckled, unzipped, shrugged off the weight, and kicked for daylight.

  The pain in his lungs was unbearable, but he continued to kick and claw for the surface, and finally broke into sunlight and oxygen. He gasped for air, every breath painful and grateful. He stared up into the light blue, savoring the sunlight. He saw a glint of light on something metal, far overhead, and knew immediately what had happened.

  He kicked over to the metal ladder welded into the side of the Fina. Clambering onboard, he surveyed the immediate area. All that was left of the Shashka was a debris field, along with an oil slick. The remains of Walter’s boat were even less visible.

  Kono was struggling to his feet, dazed, but hands groping for the controls that he’d instinctively shut down as he collapsed. Chase was unwrapping himself from Sarah. Erin was looking out from her oversized body armor, her head barely poking out, like a red-headed turtle.

  Forward, Gator was slumped over in the turret. Riley ran forward. He grabbed the big man and pulled him back. Carefully, and with every ounce of strength he had, Riley pulled Gator out of the turret and laid him flat on the forward deck.

  “Erin!” Riley called. “Get your kit. We’ve got a bleeder.”

  A splinter of wood protruded from Gator’s neck, and dark blood was oozing out around it. Riley knew not to try to do what most would: pull the wood out. It was the only thing keeping Gator’s carotid from pulsing out all his blood. Riley pressed both hands around the wooden spike as Erin, having discarded the body armor, came forward.

  “Bandage it in place,”
Riley ordered. “Tight.” He considered the wounded Ranger, then he pulled a pair of zip ties off Gator’s MOLLE vest and, with great difficulty, managed to cuff Gator’s hands to his belt, so that if he regained consciousness, he wouldn’t pull the wood out himself.

  Sure Erin was on-task, Riley quickly moved back to the cockpit.

  “Nearest hospital?” he demanded of Kono. “We have to drop Gator ASAP.”

  “Parris Island,” Kono said, already getting the Fina restarted. “Hide the guns.”

  Riley looked over the deck, and knew that hiding the guns was only going to help a little. The bullet-resistant glass around the cockpit was shattered, but it had held structural integrity, and most likely saved those behind it. There was debris from the Shashka strewn all about the deck.

  “Cole!” Sarah shrieked. She was standing, staring over the side at the debris field. “Where is Cole?”

  Chase was shaking his head, trying to clear it. “He’s gone, Sarah.” Chase glared at Riley. “What the hell?”

  Riley jabbed a finger upward. “Predator strike. That was a Hellfire.” He removed the starboard M-249 and shoved it belowdecks.

  Sarah was wailing that they had to stay, that Cole could be alive in the debris, but Kono had them heading toward Parris Island. Riley had seen it before: she’d gone past the breaking point.

  Riley took care of the port machine gun.

  Chase held Sarah in his arms, trying to comfort her, but Riley could hear no coherent words. The abrupt ending to their quest, in a way they could never have foreseen, had all of them in shock. He didn’t even bother asking Chase for help with the dual fifties, breaking them down himself and just shoving them in the bottom of the cockpit, which was splattered with Gator’s blood.

  They roared up to the dock at Parris Island where an ambulance was idling, alerted by Kono’s radio call. Several young Marines waited there, supervised by an old Gunny Sergeant.

  Kono pulled up perfectly, bringing them to a halt. Chase finally let go of Sarah to help Riley lift Gator and bring him to the side, where the young Marines waited with a stretcher.

  “What the hell happened to you?” the Gunny asked as four Marines struggled to carry Gator to the ambulance.