Techno Ranger

by Thomas Sewell

  Maybe we run the rest of the way? Steal that Petty Officer's boat?

  I shrugged at Michelle. "Doesn't work. Feel like a run?"

  With the right equipment, I could override the electronics in a boat. Back in high school, I'd done that enough with cars around here.

  "Even if we made it on foot, you'd fail your real mission."

  She was right. If we ditched the eSurfboards because they malfunctioned, even if we beat the Rangers to the USS Midway, the observers would rightfully fail the test run anyway.

  The Midway wasn't the objective. Just the criteria to prove my eSurfboard was better in many circumstances than the existing Spec Ops waterborne options.

  "Pretty soon a pair of pissed off Rangers will come over the crest of that boat ramp and shoot us. Any ideas?"

  Could use a good idea right about now, otherwise my whole tech test would be a failure.

  I'd never make the 1LT promotion list.

  Michelle pulled the spare controller out of her wetsuit's breast pocket. "Try this?"

  Duh! I leaned over. Snagged it out of her hand. Pushed the power button.

  Beautiful emerald lights. The power was on again. "I could kiss you!"

  "Easy, dude. You gave it to me in case of an emergency, remember?"

  I tapped at her controller. Designated my board again as the leader. Put her secondary board into 5-meter follow-mode. "Gotta go now."

  She knelt. Held on.

  I stood. Pulled the accelerator.

  We flew across the bay, steady as rocks above its more level water.

  No longer bounced up and down by ocean swells, Michelle stood up on her board. "More fun this way!"

  Crack! Crack! Blanks behind us at the boat ramp.

  No lasers found their targets.

  Well away from the pursuit, I didn't look back.

  We flew in formation under Coronado bridge. Six-foot one-inch tall, standing on a board two feet above the water, I had plenty of clearance under the bridge girders while I dodged between a pair of the concrete pilings holding it up.

  She pointed at a coast-guard-orange buoy. It bobbed on the other side of the bridge. "Isn't that a speed limit sign?"

  Technically, we should travel a lot slower. "That's for civilian boats, not for uh, military vehicles. Ignore it."

  We waved at the line of bare-masted sailboats anchored for protection in the bay. Cut between them and the Coronado Skatepark on the peninsula's inner coast.

  When I skated there as a kid, pretty sure I didn't expect to see myself as an adult speed past at 30 mph two-feet above the bay.

  The path of our boards bent along the curvature of the peninsula as it widened. We rounded a corner.

  Pedestrians strolled with babies. Trailed pairs of dogs on leashes. Stared and pointed at us standing above the water. No visible means of propulsion.

  Past the corner park, we had a straight shot diagonally across the bay to the USS Midway.

  Four-acres of flight deck. As tall as a twenty-story building. Just another mile of open water to go.

  No way our opponents' slower propulsion devices could catch us from either direction. I changed the music to play "Little Deuce Coupe" in our earpieces.

  Time to relax.

  At Pier K, ahead on the left, just before an active aircraft carrier in port, two Rangers unloaded UPDs from a yellow pickup truck. Only half a mile from the Midway. Could easily beat us there.

  Occasionally, I forget Ranger dudes aren't newbs.

  I pointed at the new Rangers for Michelle's benefit. "When the dudes behind us radioed to the ambushers where we'd gone, two of them must've hitched a ride across the island rather than swim around it."

  "That sucks. Was a good plan."

  "Maybe not good enough."

  "I'm sorry, Sam."

  Not ready to give up yet.

  "Those sea walls protecting the carrier will slow them down. No need to panic quite yet. May still make it. After all, they don't know what we've got."

  Pulled tight on the accelerator trigger. Maybe I could ease another smidgen of performance out of our batteries and motors in these calm conditions.

  At least go down trying.

  The Rangers worked as a team. Tossed their UPDs over the sea walls one at a time. Helped each other scramble over.

  Guess they'd done it before the other direction. Must get lots of practice infiltrating fortifications.

  They moved to an interception course to meet us just before the Midway's prow. A rope ladder wavered as if to invite us from the bay up to the netting above.

  They'd arrive before we did.

  I held us on a steady course. Straight through the tidal flow.

  They swooped in a curve to the side. Released their UPDs. Treaded water.

  No way to get around them, so I unslung my M4.

  The two OPFOR readied their similar carbines for our arrival. No range advantage based on weapon-type in this engagement.

  This time, however, I had more of the fixed platform advantage. Even in just the tidal motion of the Bay, they couldn't help but bounce up and down a bit.

  Have you ever tried to aim while bobbing up and down in the water? We were still far out of their effective range with that level of interference.

  I held the controller with my left hand. Supported the foregrip of my carbine with them. Selected semi-auto with my right hand, which took my weapon off safe.

  Finger straight outside the trigger guard. I targeted the closest Ranger.

  Focused through the scope. Relaxed.

  Took a slow breath. The sight's reticle crossed my target. I pressed the trigger straight back.

  Two blank cartridges cracked in my ears as I double-tapped the closest Ranger.

  The I-MILES laser instantly shot out. Popped him center mass. Lit him up.

  He raised his weapon horizontally as a casualty.

  The second Ranger desperately sprayed his own blank rounds and laser beams at us.

  Not even close.

  With my rifle tucked into my shoulder, a steady seven feet above the surface of the bay, I reset my aim. Nailed his halo of helmet sensors.

  Two down. Game over.

  I selected SAFE. Slung my long gun.

  We surfed past the pair, each dead in the water. Rippled them with our wake. The closest was a red-headed 1LT.

  I shrugged as we passed him. "Sorry, Bro."

  He shook his fist at us, but I bet his heart wasn't really in it.

  Michelle gave them a delighted smile and a princess wave of her hand. Beating the pretend bad guys is fun.

  A few seconds later, I released the accelerator.

  A rope ladder dangled from the net below the prow. We coasted into it. "Thank you for enjoying our sunset flying cruise. Please board the carrier at the flight deck."

  She giggled. I fought desperately to hide a grin. Might make 1LT after all.

  * * *

  Michelle's adrenaline from her impersonation of an HVT eventually wore off; left her hollow. Now her real work began. Was she up to persuading Sam to transform his life plans?

  She wanted independence. Freedom from the career bureaucrats in Langley, but she had to go along to get ahead for now.

  Back at WARCOM, she chose a shoulderless tie-dye sarong and black sandals to get out of her mostly air-dried wetsuit.

  The others must preserve some semblance of their military uniforms, but she was under no such restriction.

  She preferred a smooth, silky, flowing feel, which emphasized all the right assets to improve her social interactions with the local soldiers and sailors.

  While Sam and the defeated Rangers talked through their endless post-battle analysis with the SEAL observers, she excused herself to use a private video conference room in the base's Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF).

  Had her own report to make.

  Locking the conference room door behind her, she activated the in-use light outside.

  Settled into an oversized blac
k and gray conference room chair in front of a video teleconference screen. Stared into a pair of microphones and a camera.

  Nothing but the best government procured equipment for Special Operations Command (SOCOM).

  Wire mesh built into the walls created a Faraday cage. Prevented any electronic leaks.

  Two-inched of acoustic material on each wall dampened sounds. Prevented any audible leaks. As a bonus, no echos.

  Her heart pounded in the dead silence.

  She typed a CIA IP address into the telepresence system's tablet computer. From the DOD's secure network, she could reach the CIA's comm-net.

  Bee-boo-bah-beep.

  The Korea Mission Center's SCIF near the nation's capital appeared on the screen. The Assistant Director for Korea, Edward Metcalf, leaned forward in his chair.

  She ignored his hulking athletic build. Back channels claimed he used it to make others underestimate his organizational savvy.

  Neck-length tight dreads didn't fit with his Burberry pinstriped cashmere suit.

  He didn't bother to fake a smile, but his deep bass voice created a sense of warmth anyway, "How's my favorite Berkeley non-diversity hire?"

  Three hours later in the Eastern Time Zone, he could've just had her email a report. Clearly found this call more important than he'd be willing to let on.

  Maybe the clothes she'd chosen earlier weren't the best choice. Wasn't usually this self-conscious.

  "Evening, sir. Mission went according to plan. My little bit of sabotage passed unnoticed."

  Sam's power controller wasn't as unreliable as he thought, but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He'd just chalk it up to a random component failure.

  The CIA's technical branch was every bit as good as the Pentagon's. Even better when it came to micro-electronics surgery.

  The room's telepresence system used its stereo microphones to locate her and zoom the main camera at her face.

  He nodded. "The target's reaction?"

  "Convinced I saved his demonstration and his career. Perfectly positioned for the next phase."

  "Assuming that's true, I look forward to your work under the Chief of Station in Seoul as the new military attaché. It'll do his Yale ass good to have an up-and-comer push him. Maybe he can get back to DC and not waste away in Southeast Asia."

  Assuming that's true? Metcalf graduated from Harvard and never resisted an opportunity to flaunt his pedigree.

  Insecure men could be useful, but they so annoyed her at times. "It's a sure thing, sir."

  "Better be. I've groomed a local protege in Seoul. Interested to see how you two stack up against each other, especially if we need to fill the Chief's shoes. First you need to earn your own ticket on Korean Air."

  He made a throat-cutting gesture to an aide off-screen. The video conference session ended.

  She hoped she'd sounded more confident than she felt. Her boss's boss, like most people, looked out for himself.

  Wouldn't trust him even if he claimed to be her friend, but if she could align his interests with hers, she'd take advantage of this opportunity.

  After all, she fully intended to be the youngest CIA Station Chief in Agency history. She'd bow and scrape to D.C. as required to run her own Station. To no longer be forced to kowtow to some local halfwit.

  Michelle wiped the last call record from the telepresence tablet. Her instructors at The Farm taught her to never leave loose ends lying around.

  * * *

  A SEAL bonfire on Gator Beach is more like an attempt to repopulate the stars with embers. The SEAL observers built it from a tepee of telephone-pole sized logs once we'd completed our post-exercise banter. To get their tactical gloves on my eSurfboards for their own future use, they rolled out the fish tacos.

  Good intelligence.

  Sun long gone, the moon hung low over the water; provided just enough light to spot infiltrators from the ocean.

  Previous occupants abandoned a weathered rowboat upturned in the sand, so I guess they weren't worried about serious theft.

  The bonfire threw shadows behind the wooden lifeguard shack, another obvious approach. At least the base and the street had security lights on.

  For a beach next to a top secret amphibious facility, we weren't actually that secure.

  On the other side of a tall dune and a privacy fence WARCOM built a nice grassy picnic area, but I guess they'd prepped for the mission aftermath and knew I'd prefer to hang out at the beach.

  SEALs prepare well. Trust and rely on each other. Felt like a family who welcomed distant in-laws to dinner.

  Nice to hang out with them and the Rangers, if only for one night. That's the kind of team I'd love to join.

  Once I finished saving off the collected data, there was nothing for me to worry about until I returned to my platoon with the test results. Then, I'd need to finish a pile of reports about this trip.

  Without as much to do, the Rangers reached the party ahead of me. Appeared from the burnt aluminum and dark glass in the fire they'd already tossed back a few.

  That hot-headed 1LT Schnier, who led the Ranger defenders, loudly pointed me out as I arrived, "There's the smug hombre what swam over the land. Thought this was 'posed to be an underwater test."

  We won, so I shrugged. No need to make more waves.

  "One of this board's advantages is its lighter weight and better balance. Just a little demonstration of those enhancements."

  "That board y'all rode must be hot stuff if it let a Big Army fella like you slide past a platoon of Rangers."

  Ignoring his implications, I went for modesty. "Well-designed."

  "Where'd ya learn to infiltrate places like that?" 1SG Bishop, the 75th RRC's wickedly wise top NCO, asked.

  A nice enough dude. Not like my background was a secret.

  I pointed across the bay to San Diego, "Snuck in and out of group homes and foster care around those hills. Used to surf with some of the SEALs. Ever roll with Jocko? Dude's a real bruiser. Owns a local MMA gym."

  Schnier shook his head at the name. No recognition. "Explains a lot. Still might coulda had ya."

  He pulled foil-wrapped Mahi Mahi grilled with brown sugar and pineapple out of the fire. Set it on an unburnt log. Blew on his fingers.

  "Least the SEALs know how to throw a shindig. Gotta remember this stuff for barbecues on the ranch once I get my twenty in."

  Credit where credit is due. "Where'd you dudes learn to hitchhike like that?"

  "Anyone who wears a tan beret knows to improvise when faced with an enemy in a faster ride."

  He shrugged, "Raised in the Republic o'Texas, so I spoke his language. Besides, government contractor on a Navy base? Couldn't say no. Welcome to Cali, right?"

  "Only tourists call it that." I wandered to find some food.

  Michelle arrived fashionably late.

  Regulations stuck the rest of us in a semblance of uniform, but she'd changed from her wetsuit into some kind of translucent sarong wrap thing. Pretty sure I heard a few low whistles from the back of the crowd, but she wisely ignored them, or at least accepted them as her due.

  Once the tale swapping, carbonated beverages, and Mahi Mahi tacos ran out, Michelle pulled me aside to chat alone. I had a gift for her, anyway, so was happy to comply.

  We sat opposite each other on a pair of the telephone-pole sized logs the SEALs ran into the surf with to train.

  She was officially an accountant with the CIA. If a government employee tells you they're a web developer with the CIA, they probably are. The accountants mostly aren't, even if their degree is in accounting and not in political science, like Michelle.

  Who ever heard of a government accountant fresh from a poly sci degree?

  Political analyst? Operations Officer, even?

  But accountant?

  Michelle leaned forward. Her sarong dipped toward the sand, her face hidden and revealed as the firelight danced across it. "How do you like your current deployment?"

  "After today? Better all the t
ime."

  "It's up soon, right? Do you plan another round with the engineers or to look for a different position?"

  "They can use me and I get to build a lot of toys to play with."

  She smiled. "At some point, if you want a real career as an Army Officer, get promoted to higher ranks, you need different types of experience, right?"

  Where was this heading?

  "Yeah, need a little time in command of a combat unit, to work on a joint operations staff, that kind of thing. Why?"

  She pressed her finger briefly against her lips. "Don't tell anyone, but I have a new job I'm starting; sort of with the Army, sort of with the State Department. Military Attaché in the Seoul Embassy. Officially, I'll help manage the defense procurement contracts with suppliers located in Korea. Sort of an accounting job.

  "When I talked to the people giving my interviews, I heard about another open position available, is all. Might interest you, with your promotion."

  A CIA accountant. Right. Well, maybe her idea could get me out from under my paperwork Colonel. Sticking with the wrong leader sucks.

  "What's the job? Designing stuff for use in Korea or to get built there? 'Cause I've worked hard to get my current engineering platoon to a level of competence I'm pretty proud of. I don't want to throw all that effort away."

  "You already passed Ranger training, right? Things are heating up in Korea.

  "The 75th Regimental Special Troops Battalion plans to send an MI platoon to support the RRC at Camp Kim. Support Major Williams, Schnier, and the others.

  "The current MI platoon leader will be promoted to Captain and transferred back to a Regular Army company in a few months. I work with people who know people in Military Intelligence. With their recommendation, you'd be a sure thing.

  "Apply to lead the platoon, get good experience in a two-year deployment, and we work together over there."

  She practically bounced off her seat. "Awesome, right?"

  "Slow down, there. Graduating from Ranger School just means I get a Ranger Tab to wear on my shoulder and maybe a few points in my promotion packet. Doesn't mean I have all the quals to join the 75th Ranger Regiment.

  "Military Intelligence? You know what an oxymoron is, right? Besides, I don't want to owe anybody anything to get ahead."