Techno Ranger

by Thomas Sewell

  Pulled my wireless Bluetooth hand controller from a breast pocket. Pushed the power button.

  Two green LEDs on the controller lit up. Showed both motors active.

  Designating this board as primary, I put the secondary into 5-meter follow-mode. I'd loaded an expert system into the board's waterproof miniaturized computer. It'd track the relative position of both boards. Adjust the speed and direction of its propeller. Stay as close to exactly five meters away as possible.

  Sometimes, I love modern technology.

  I balanced on my knees. Used the speed-trigger on the hand controller to accelerate. Leaned a bit left to aim for Michelle.

  Ten seconds later, I guided the secondary next to her. Released the trigger to stop both.

  Activated my waterproof bone conduction earpiece. Grinned. "Attention all intelligence officers. I'll be your sunset cruise director this evening, please board at the promenade deck."

  Slender, and relatively young for her level of responsibility within the CIA, Michelle also spent her teens in San Diego. We lettered in Track and Field together at Fayelyn High School. Her Track, me Field, mostly jumping.

  No way she ever beat me, even in practice. Might come close at long enough distances, but not in a sprint.

  Small chested, long legs, built for distance running, but not muscular enough for sprinting, while I placed at the CIF Championships in the 100 meter dash and the Triple Jump.

  More of a beach bunny than a surfer, she tentatively climbed up on the secondary board. Put into practice what I'd taught her in an hour-long familiarization session yesterday. Sat up. Laughed as she balanced.

  Flipped her hair around. Flung water at me.

  Tapped her own earpiece to switch on its microphone. "Exotic and fun. Water landings aren't nearly as rough as hitting dirt."

  How'd she convince the Agency to let her join my demonstration mission? Her knowledge of at least one key participant gave her a leg up, but that didn't usually cut much weight with the bureaucracy. "Did you call in a favor, just to support me?"

  "Always willing to help an old friend, but there's more to it than that. Long story. Let's save it for the celebration later." She grinned. "Assuming you win this."

  I shifted closer to the center of balance on my board. "Ready? Final boarding call."

  She had a spare hand controller tucked away, just in case, but our plan was for her board to continue to follow mine and mimic its movements through the water.

  A hydrofoil, a wing-shaped curve, extended underwater from the central shaft of each board.

  The only thing she controlled with her body was how far to lean forward or back. Tilted the hydrofoil forward or back.

  The speed of the board, the hydrofoil's angle as it cut through the water, combined to set the height of the board above the waves. Its steerable electric propeller determined direction.

  Michelle got up out of the ocean. Leaned forward on her knees. Displayed a thumbs-up. Gripped the board's side rails in anticipation. "Let's go."

  Departure time.

  The Ranger defenders expected us, but I wanted the OPFOR to locate us on our terms, not theirs.

  Fast is smooth. I eased the trigger back on the wireless controller.

  Our boards made headway against the water.

  Centered my thumping heart with a deep breath. In one continuous motion I stood and balanced. Left-foot forward.

  Triggered more power.

  The board reached closer to half speed, 15 mph.

  Shifted weight toward my back foot.

  My hydrofoil's underwater wing pushed against the water. Lifted the board gradually a foot into the air. Held it up via the shaft. "Now flying."

  Michelle's eSurfboard faithfully followed mine, five meters back.

  Her knuckles on the side rails turned white. Didn't have the experience to stand up in this bumpy surf.

  Began to fall behind me. Board in the water. Too much drag.

  Sat back a little. Shifted her weight onto her knees and heels. Ascended. "Hell yeah!"

  We cruised through the waves. Only the torpedo motor and propeller encountered hydro-resistance.

  Without boards, tactical equipment, and body masses dragging in the water, we could move 50% faster than the latest underwater propulsion device (UPD) designed for Frogmen.

  The OPFOR outnumbered us. They could wait hidden underwater, but we enjoyed a definite speed advantage.

  Twenty-five inches above the water, I leaned left and then right to cutback. Ran my board perpendicular along the swells.

  Picked up even more speed.

  The sunset to our right would shine into the eyes of any coastal defenders.

  Michelle's board followed mine. We flew down the Point Loma coast above the waves. Crest-hopped at 30 mph.

  Any faster and we'd both bounce off. My wetsuit actually dried out in the wind.

  Tapping a button, I fired up "Surfin' USA" in our ears. Nothing like the Beach Boys to get your motor running.

  Michelle cocked her head. "What's that?"

  It wasn't in the specs. My boss might tank my next fitness review if he found out before my tour of duty ended, but I'd programmed an extra feature into the earpieces. When no other sound was transmitted, they acted as miniature mp3 players.

  I grinned. "Just a little music to keep things chill."

  We swept along to the rhythm. Cruised over the water.

  Became the king of the waves. Stretched my arms out wide. "Yeah!"

  Even if my plan didn't work, this was still the most fun I'd had all year.

  Two minutes later, we passed the end of Point Loma. Cruised the ocean due west of the opening into San Diego Bay.

  Tidal flows out of the Bay shifted the current. Pushed us away from land.

  I course corrected back.

  San Diego Bay forms a crescent shape to the north and east of Coronado Peninsula. Over centuries, the ocean shaped Coronado into a curved war club. The thin 250 meter wide handle at the south end connected to the mainland.

  The only open channel into the Bay rounded off the two mile wide northern head of the war club.

  Opposite the middle of the thickest portion was our objective on the other side of the Bay. A permanently docked aircraft carrier turned into a Museum exhibit.

  The USS Midway.

  The Midway closed to the public at 5pm. A perfect stand-in for one of the real carriers in the Bay, without the naval disruption their use in an exercise would cause.

  From Zuniga Point, a rocky breakwater extended over a mile out as a spike from the war club's head. The only way into the Bay via water.

  Our defenders would surely guard that passage.

  No amount of extra speed would avail us if we rode right into their blazing guns.

  I-MILES sensors on our shoulders, chests, and boards would register any hit from the laser designator on their weapons.

  That'd wipe out the exercise. Send me back to run a recycled project. Waste a year of my combat engineering platoon's time. Kill the impending potential promotion to 1LT I was about to reach the requisite Time-In-Grade for.

  We must evade the enemy to achieve my plans for the next couple of years.

  All true, but really, I needed to prove to myself that a foster kid surfer could succeed as a military engineer.

  Damp ocean spray in my face and the watery reflections of the sunset off to my right tried to distract me.

  Focus on the plan.

  We'd cleared the Point. Any Rangers in the channel entrance threatened us.

  I slowed us down. Shifted more left and right. Drew random length curves in the sea.

  Continued to make southern progress. With the bounce of the waves, the changes in distance, any long-range sniper couldn't track us in his scope for long.

  Staring into the sun wouldn't help.

  They'd expect us to turn in at this point. Instead, I sped right past the channel mouth.

  Something rose a few inches out of the water at Zuniga. A trio o
f Rangers in full tactical scuba and weapons. Ahead and to our left.

  Their rifle cartridges banged at us.

  Michelle instinctively ducked at the noise. Wobbled on her board. "Sam! Aren't they a little close?"

  Flashes of laser light crossed the ocean spray. Announced a sniper. He created a stable shooting platform from the breakwater's black rocks.

  Unmoved by wind and wave.

  The other two defenders pushed individual sleek black UPDs into the water. Grabbed the controls. Sped off on an intercept course between us and Coronado.

  They'd want to funnel us closer to their firepower. Herd us back to the channel ambush.

  Probably anticipated a shooting gallery once we entered the channel. Setting up that classic naval strategy, Crossing-the-T.

  No such luck. Didn't even bother to unsling my long gun in response.

  On a less stable platform, buoyed up and down by the ocean waves, I wouldn't hit anything not right in front of me.

  Have you ever tried to aim while bouncing up and down in the water at high speed?

  "Don't worry, all part of the plan."

  Out-Of-Position, I called their strategy.

  The deflection angle from the sniper increased, so I straightened out more. Increased our speed.

  The Rangers in pursuit couldn't hope to keep up.

  We outpaced them. Flew above the waves. Curved around them. Closer to Coronado

  The pair wallowed through the surf. Turned this into a stern chase. Clawed in and out of the ocean. Lost distance.

  They had to stay near the surface, lest they lose sight of us. They knew we had to turn back to the channel entrance at some point. Then they could either intercept us again, or if we evaded, push us into the ambush surely waiting at the narrowest part of the northern channel into the Bay.

  Surprise occurs in the mind of your enemy. I switched the music in our ears to play "I Get Around."

  Three miles past the channel entrance to the top of the stick part of Coronado is Gator Beach, where the tadpoles in BUD/S roll around in the sand. Just 300 meters wide. Tight next to the Naval Amphibious Base (NAB).

  Five minutes later, we hit Gator Beach's shallow sand.

  I powered off the eSurfboards with my controller. We each grabbed one out of the water.

  A combined 55 pounds of equipment, mostly batteries built into the board, wasn't ideal for me to carry across the sand, but I could easily do the third of a klick across the peninsula.

  Hopefully, the SEAL referees wouldn't hold it against us that we ran on their sacred sand right past WARCOM.

  Michelle kept up with her own 25 pound load. Carried just the weight of the eSurfboard. Held it in her right hand. Gripped the torpedo tube motor in her left so it stayed balanced.

  Her Aqua-shoes slapped the sand past a white wooden life guard tower. Pounded the concrete sidewalk behind me.

  We fast-walked along Avenida Lunar. Fenced in WARCOM parking lot on one side. Fifteen-story beach condos on the other.

  Our waddle down the street probably looked ridiculous to the couples here to enjoy the sunset, but the mission was going well.

  Half a block later, Avenida Lunar ended in a T-intersection. Silver Strand Way, a four lane California-style divided highway.

  Checked both ways for traffic. Started to cross Silver Strand. Got hung up on the concrete center divider.

  Waited for a waddle-sized gap in the speeding cars.

  Waddled for the other side!

  Crossed a saltwater washed parking lot. Powered down the Glorietta Launching Ramp. It created just the right depth to enter the Bay.

  A Petty Officer in dress uniform gaped at us from the deck of an open motorboat tied to a floating pier on the right. A Captain's gig. You'd think he'd be used to odd goings-on near WARCOM.

  I pictured the pair of Rangers behind us, pulling their 90 pound UPDs ashore in a fury of practiced motion. Realizing that to chase us, they'd have to haul a lot more weight.

  Their fastest solution would be to carry one UPD at a time together.

  Right now, they must be radioing their teammates hiding from us in the northern channel. Their teammates who waited in the perfect ambush position, now on the other side of the USS Midway from us.

  They were all slower than us. Now they had farther to travel.

  Rangers who give up don't pass RASP, but these guys could move like Olympic athletes in their outdated gear and they still wouldn't catch us.

  A car honked back on Silver Strand Way. Our pursuit's turn to play Frogger.

  Time to depart. I slid into San Diego Bay. Home once again.

  My powered-off board rode steady on the water, protected from the ocean waves by Coronado. The Bay contained a bit of tidal power, but the surface only rippled compared to the rough ocean we'd left behind.

  Michelle floated in behind me.

  We knelt and balanced on the eSurfboards.

  Limbs clear of propellers, I hit the power button on my controller to fire up the electric motors again.

  Nothing happened. Sometimes, I hate modern technology.

  * * *

  The sniper team Schnier'd stuck at the end of Zuniga Point reported over the tactical radio feeding Bishop's headset, "Contact, two o'clock. 500 meters. Harper plus HVT. Movin' fast."

  They put up a ruckus, firing their I-MILES gear, so Bishop knew where to squint into the sun to find 'em.

  Made out Harper and his surf-momma as they skedaddled above the waves on some weird contraptions. Bishop'd never let his teenage stepdaughters wear a tiny wetsuit like that. Wouldn't fit. They'all took after their Samoan mother.

  Harper looked happy cruisin' the waves, for someone fixin' to get whupped by Army Rangers. Too afeared, though. He'd already veered off-course. Angled away from the only channel into the bay.

  "Pursue." Schnier ordered in response.

  Their sniper kept firing. His two teammates dove into the water behind their UPDs. Chased after Harper. Vanished from view. "They're running. We'll cut 'em off."

  Schnier popped his red mop of hair up out of the water a few meters away. Looked at Bishop and grinned, "Harper's all hat and no cattle. They'll herd 'em around, doncha worry."

  "Not worryin'. Just observin'."

  Schnier nodded. Turned back to prepare for the upcoming battle.

  A few moments later, their radios crackled again, "Harper's beached. Left the water."

  Left the water? Bishop couldn't recall anything in the agreed rules which required the teams to stay in the water. Could Harper get to the Midway that way?

  Schnier frowned. "Keep after him."

  "In pursuit." The chasing Ranger team grunted and gasped. Must've left their mics active. "Leaving one UPD behind."

  Bishop laughed. Coughed. Spit out more water. Turned his UPD toward Coronado.

  Schnier's whole platoon was stuck here in the channel. Waiting in ambush for someone who'd never intended to come this way.

  Schnier spun through the water right beside him. "Dad gum it! Harper might could make it."

  Three of his men trailed behind their own UPDs.

  Bishop agreed with Schnier's military assessment.

  Schnier and his men pulled ahead.

  Bishop's UPD must not be as fast. Had nothin' to do with his muscles, nor swimmin' ability.

  The four of them reached a pile of rocks leaving the water. Not even a beach.

  Schnier and his trio rolled their UPDs up onto the rocks. "Two men per."

  Slung his rifle. Demonstrated. Grabbed one side of his now above-water propulsion device.

  Trailing behind, Bishop crashed his UPD into a square boulder. Left it there. Crawled out of the water.

  Dry land!

  Schnier shook his head. "You gonna help?"

  "Just here to observe." Bishop stood. From the added height, a road paralleled the shore. Not too far away, maybe thirty meters.

  The only sign of life a yellow pickup truck parked next to a weird Navy building built into a dirt be
rm. Miguel's Handyman Services and a local phone number on its side.

  In pairs, Schnier and his three rangers carried two UPDs.

  Bishop trailed along behind them. What was Schnier's plan? Couldn't hope to walk across the miles to where Coronado hit the bay again.

  Schnier found Miguel on the other side of his work vehicle. A stocky Hispanic man, but with Bishop's darker skin tone. "We need your truck."

  Miguel's accent sounded south of the border, "My truck? No way."

  Schnier explained something in Spanish. Miguel shook his head. Their voices rose. Schnier won.

  At least, Schnier and his men loaded two of the UPDs onto the truck's roof rack, designed for construction materials.

  Miguel strapped them down. Pointed a pair of fingers at the ripped upholstery in his cab. "Dos."

  Schnier gestured for one of his men to climb in.

  Got in after him. Closed the door. "Pier K."

  Miguel took the driver's seat. Fired up the engine. "Kah muelle." K dock.

  Bishop put his hands on the rim of Schnier's open window, "No ride for Top?"

  "You're just observin', right? Vehicle only transports combat forces."

  Bishop sighed. A first lieutenant on his first tour with the rangers, bless his heart, outranked a first sergeant. Despite the first sergeant's decades more seniority.

  He lifted his hands from the door. "Send the truck back for us."

  Schnier yelled into the wind as they drove away, "We'll get 'em, come hell or high water."

  Bishop walked after them with Schnier's other soldier, a lowly spec-4. Sand ground at every joint inside his shorts.

  Dagnabbit, that truck better come back.

  Chapter Three: You Don't Know What I've Got

  I pounded on the side of the controller. Shook the water off the case. Tried the button again.

  Still nothing. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

  Technology blows.

  Instead of relying on the guys from the Agency who do secure classified transport to ensure no damage, I should've double-checked everything myself before we got on the Navy whirlybird.

  Stupid.

  No way we could swim to the USS Midway. Not fast enough to evade the Rangers about to catch up to us.

  We'd made it to land. Coronado Bridge crossed the bay a mile away. Its tall concrete curve connected the fattest part of the peninsula to downtown San Diego.