A Deeper Blue

Chapter Sixteen

“Marathon, Marathon, Charlie Three One Five,” the coast guard pilot said. “We have a suspicious fast mover, fifteen miles east of Largo. Has been hailed, refuses to heave to. Request fast vessel for intercept, over.”

“Charlie Three One Five, Marathon,” the base said. “Roger on fast mover. We have it and you. Negative on support. All fast boats outside support area.”

“Fuck,” the pilot muttered, looking over at his co. They’d just tanked before taking off and had another hour’s fuel.

“Marathon, Marathon. Fast mover turning east towards Bahamas. Request pursuit.”

“Roger, Charlie Three One Five,” the headquarters said a minute later. “Pursue to PNR, over.”

“Roger,” the pilot said, banking the Lynx. “We got a hard lock?”

“Rog,” the co said, looking at the Forward Looking Infrared readout. “I don’t think he knows we’re back here. He’s headed for the Cut.”

“Good,” the pilot said. “It’s nice and narrow in there. But I’m not sure we’re going to get him with cargo. He’s already headed home.”

“Fuck cargo,” the co said. “There’s going to be residue. What’s the status on Bahamas?”

“Marathon, Marathon,” the pilot said tiredly. “Any chance of Bahamas intercept?”

Mike leaned out the door of the Hind, holding onto the fast-rope and watched the speeding Cigarette below.

He was trying to decide whether to stay in the helo or be in on the boat intercept. There were benefits and detractions with each. With the boat intercept, it was more likely he was going to get to kill someone. On the helo, on the other hand, he could control the intercept better.

“We got a track on this thing?” Mike asked.

“It’s almost to the cut,” Irina said, looking at her computer screen. “But I’ve got another track that looks as if it’s following it. Air track.”

“What the fuck?” Mike asked. He walked across the interior of the bird and squatted down, looking at the screen. The take from the balloon radar had been filtered to only vector on the track and items immediately around it. Sure enough, about four miles back there was a blue icon of an air track, following along neatly.

“Shit,” Mike said, looking at the icon. “It’s fucking 315.”

“Excuse me, Kildar?”

“It’s a Coastie, a Coast Guard helo,” Mike replied. “They were the bane of my existence when I lived here. Turned out they were under orders to keep an eye on me. I always wondered why they showed up every time I moved. And now they’re chasing our track.”

He thumbed his throat mike for internal.

“Dragon, we have a complication.”

He was glad he’d stayed on the helo.

“Marathon, fast mover is in Bahamanian waters,” 315’s pilot said. “Continuing pursuit. Any data on Bahamanian intercept?”

“Negative, 315,” the headquarters said unhappily. “All vessels out of area. You are cleared to continue pursuit into Bahamas territory.”

“We’re about bingo on fuel,” the co-pilot pointed out. “I mean I know this is fun and all…”

“It’s frustrating is what it is,” the pilot said. “But we can tank in Bimini if we have to. They’ve got pretty good av-fuel.”

“What the hell?” the co said. He was getting a feed from the radar balloon as well, a much more complicated one, and he now shook his head. “I got fast movers. Air and sea. Five sea, one air. Closing on the track.”

“Marathon, Marathon,” the pilot said, then unkeyed the mike. “What do I say? ‘What the fuck, over?’ ”

“Dragon, close the helo,” Mike said.

It was not long before Before-Morning-Nautical-Twilight, the “darkest before the dawn” and lowest ebb in the human system. Four AM in other words. With the moon down the ocean was pitch black, barely reflecting a welter of stars.

Kacey poured on the power, banking away from the approaching terrorist boat so as not to blow the op and swinging north to get behind him.

“Coast Guard 315, Coast Guard 315, this is Dragon Flight, over,” Mike said. They had full codes and encryptions for everyone running in the area in the U.S. government. And Vanner had been very complete in his commo gear selection.

“What the fuck is Dragon Flight?” the pilot of 315 asked.

“How the fuck do I know?” the co said. “But they’re coming in on encryption nine.”

“Dragon, Dragon, this is 315…”

“315, you need to exit this AO. You are not cleared for the operation that is ongoing. Over.”

Mike unkeyed the throat mike and wondered what response he’d get.

“Fuck,” the pilot said, frowning. “Fucking black ops bastards. That’s our track.”

“Yeah, but ain’t shit we can do about it,” the co pointed out. The helo could outrun the cigarette boat, but stopping it was another issue. If they were stupid they could drop down in front of it. If they wanted to get run over or shot to shit. The Coast Guard helo had one pistol on board. The cigarette, assuming it was a Colombian, was probably bristling.

“Dragon, Dragon,” the pilot said. “Negative. Our track. Let Bahamanian authorities handle it.”

“Dumbass,” Mike muttered then keyed the mike. “No intercept vessels in area.” He paused. “Trust me, we made sure of that. We didn’t figure Coasties would pursue this far. You have to be bingo and we’re not going to retank you. Now Bank Off.”

“Arrogant fuck,” the pilot said. “Negative, Dragon. Our track.”

“Stupid bastard,” Mike muttered. “Okay, 315. Be aware that you are now placing yourself, by your own recognizance, in a high-level security op. Feel free to watch. You talk, you go to Marion. Do not pass go.”

“Boss, maybe we shouldn’t…” the co said nervously, then looked at the radar take. “The other helo…”

Had swung in behind and now blew past them like they were standing still. With dual miniguns and spare tanks mounted on the pylons, it was closing on the cigarette from behind at about twice the cig’s speed. Dim silhouettes perched in the doors could be seen holding weapons. Sniper rifles.

“That’s not one of ours,” the co said, confused.

“No, that was a fucking Hind,” the pilot replied. “Who in the fuck uses a Hind?”

“I thought they were pretty… piggy,” the co said. “That don’t look piggy.”

“No, it doesn’t,” the pilot said, speeding the Lynx up to try to catch the barreling Hind. It was pointless; the normally sluggish Russian attack bird had clearly been upgraded; it was leaving the Coast Guard Lynx in its wash.

“This sucks.”

“Oorah!” Mike shouted at the team in the bird.

“AER KELDAR!” Pavel shouted back, giving him a thumb’s up. He was leaning out, holding onto the other fast-rope. Perched in a harness in the door was Braon Kulcyanov, his team sniper.

Perched in the door next to Mike was Lasko Ferani, the Keldara’s top sniper. Admittedly, this was a clap shot; Mike could have done it just as easily. But there was no reason to just keep Lasko around for the occasional Hail Mary when there were other missions he could do.

“Dragon, Dragon, slow down a bit,” Adams said, watching the converging tracks. There were ways to do it by computer but that was too complicated. He’d watched this sort of thing enough to figure it out by eye and it was clear that Dragon was going to get to the cig before it should. “About ten knots.”

“Hah!” the Lynx pilot said. “Now we’re catching up!”

“Yeah,” the co said. “But why?”

“There it is,” Tammy said, tapping her FLIR readout. Not that Kacey could see it since she was in a completely different compartment.

“Got it,” Kacey said, dropping the helo slightly closer to the deck. Most cigarettes didn’t have radar. But she didn’t want one of the terrorists looking behind them.

That wasn’t likely. Sayid Al-Yemani was exhausted as was his crew. All he could think was how much he was looking forward to a few hours’ sleep in the hotel in Nassau. Farid and Abdul were both half asleep since it was the first calm water they’d hit since the Abacos, which was over twenty-four hours before. None of them were looking behind them.

“Dragon,” Adams said, watching the converging vectors. “Bank left.”

Mike held onto the rope as the bird banked, the water flashing by underneath, lit by the stars. He’d doffed his NVGs and now was trying to spot the cigarette by Mark One Eyeball. Soon enough it was easy; the boat was leaving a green phosphorescent wake that was distinctive.

He leaned down and tapped Lasko’s shoulder, pointing towards the boat. But the old tracker had already acquired the target.

He stroked the trigger of the Barrett twice, sending a single round into each of the engines of the cigarette.

“Target is slowing,” Mike said, thumbing his throat mike. “Converge.”

“There,” Beso said, pointing ahead. It was hard to tell how far away the boat was but it had to be close. Seeing much beyond five hundred meters with the NVGs was tough.

“Got it,” Vil said, looking left and right. He could make out the shapes of the other converging boats. Everybody was well spread.

“Viking, Viking, Keldara Three.”

“Go, Three.”

“Converge… now.”

“Uh?” Farid said, his eyes flickering open as the boat slowed. “What… ?”

“The engine quit,” Sayid snarled, turning around. Prophet’s Beard, it was smoking! “Fire!” He snatched at the fire extinguisher and started making his way towards the rear just as the sound of helicopter blades penetrated his battered consciousness.

“NVGs OFF!” Mike shouted. “Dragon, spot NOW!”

Sayid was blinded by the sudden light, holding his arms up to shield his eyes. For a moment he couldn’t think, then he reached for the portable GPS with the drop points on it. He had to fumble for the damned thing; he could barely see in all the light.

Vil banked the Cigarette alongside the boat and backed, hard, as Yosif’s team started scrambling over to the other boat.

Sayid got his hand on the GPS and tossed it over the side just as the boat started filling with men in body armor and carrying weapons. He knew what else he had to do, drawing his pistol and triggering two rounds into the mounted GPS. Then he placed the barrel under his chin and fired a single round.

“Fuck,” Mike muttered as the driver shot himself. He’d seen him toss something over the side as well. “Dragon, pull to the starboard side of the boat. Now!”

As the helo pulled across, nearly over Vil’s Cigarette, Mike quickly dumped his body armor and attached vest. Then he dove out of the helicopter.

He could barely see without a mask, but there was plenty of light from the helo’s spot. He could see an out-of-focus shape, descending rapidly, and he followed as fast as he could in his uniform and boots, frog-kicking and swirling with his arms. The damned thing was falling fast, though. Then it seemed to pause and he realized the depth here wasn’t more than twenty feet. The GPS, a small dark shape, was clearly outlined on the white sand bottom. He grabbed it and headed back for the surface.

But his uniform was weighing him down. Getting back up was a hell of a lot harder than getting down. He put the GPS in his teeth and doffed his top, then pulled off his boots. Now he could swim.

Creata gripped the fast-rope and dropped through the air as the helo balanced over the terrorist cigarette boat. Creata wasn’t normally a data stripper. Stella was the top expert at ripping out electronics in the middle of a firefight. Creata, whose small stature and gentle appearance had landed her with the nickname “Mouse,” was a cracker. Not the electronic kind, the safe kind. She’d been trained to open one safe for the Balkans op and managed it with finesse despite having to kill a guard that her security had missed, much to their everlasting chagrin. Since then she’d been taking advanced classes in what the FBI referred to as “black bag” operations. Lock-picking, safe-cracking, quiet electronics insertion: those were Mouse’s specialty.

But she could hum the tune of ripping out some electronics and there were only so many girls along on this venture. Needs must and all that.

The two surviving terrorists were being tossed across the gap to Clarn’s Hustler as the dead body of the driver was being loaded into Vil’s Cigarette. She landed on one of the seats, stumbling slightly, then sat down in the driver’s seat. Taking a look at the configuration she rolled under the console and pulled out a power screwdriver. Four screws secured the console-mounted, shot-to-shit, GPS. She had the screws off in seven seconds and the GPS out in another ten. Not bad for a cracker.

She tossed it to Clarn, then jumped the gap to the Cigarette.

“Don’t think we’ll get much,” she said, shrugging, as she buckled in.

“That’s up to you guys,” Clarn said as the rest of the team scrambled onboard. “Anything else?”

“Nothing we saw,” Genrich said, setting his weapon into a deck-mounted rack. “We’re clear.”

“Then we’re out of here,” Clarn said, putting the Hustler into drive.

Vil turned, his MP-5 coming up to ready position as a hand came over the side of the Cigarette. He held his fire, though, since the mission was to capture as many of the terrorists as possible. He was glad when he saw the head of the Kildar come over the side, drop something on the floor, then slide up with a kick.

“Damn,” Mike said, breathing hard. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

The fast boats pulled away as the light from the helo went out. The cigarette rocked on the waves for a few moments then went up in a flash of fire. In a second, all there was left to indicate that a small battle had happened here was a bit of gasoline burning on the surface. In seconds that was gone.

“They just blew it the fuck up,” the co said, shaking his head. “That’s a quarter of a million dollars just went sky-high.”

“315, this is Dragon Flight, over.”

“Go, Dragon.”

“This mission is classified, codeword Thunder Child, security level Ultra Purple. Need to know is restricted to CJCS and above. Your participation will be reported to appropriate persons. No one in your chain of command below CJCS has need to know. Do you acknowledge, over?”

“Acknowledged, Dragon,” the pilot said. “We’re out of here.”

“Roger, 315. Suggest next time you mind your own business.”