A Deeper Blue

Chapter Three

“Hey, Master Chief,” Vanner said as Adams strode into the suite. “What you get at the meeting?”

“Dick all,” Adams said, walking over to the fridge. He was followed by Lieutenant Himes who was looking around the room with interest. “You got anything?”

“Sort of,” Vanner said. “I arranged for an intel dump, but it’s not complete. Our clearances are ‘under review.’ It’s a bunch, though. The girls are sorting it at the moment. I looked at the analysis and, frankly, it’s shitty. These guys either don’t keep up with the players or are incompetent as hell. I did pick up one item that’s sort of funny, in a way.”

“What?” Adams asked. “I could use some funny. LT, you want a beer?”

“Sounds great,” Lieutenant Himes said, taking off his BDU top.

“The original data on this came from Al-Kariya,” Vanner said, grinning. “Well, him and his laptop.”

“Al who?” Adams asked, pulling out two ceramic bottles and opening the wax tops expertly. He handed one of them to Himes and flopped into one of the chairs.

“That Al Qaeda money guy we picked up in Chechnya,” Vanner said. “The one we rolled into the bird all wrapped up like a Christmas turkey.”

“Wait,” Himes said, holding up the beer bottle. “You’re the guys who were in that battle with the Chechens, right? Jesus, that sniper shot. Everybody’s sure that came from some guy bellied down closer. I’ve been running that vid over and over again looking for him.”

“Nope,” Adams said. “Lasko. The guy’s pure magic with a rifle. Damn near three klicks. Yeah, that’s us.”

“Damn,” Himes said, sitting back and taking a sip. He pulled the bottle back from his lips and held it up with a stunned expression. “DAMN. What the hell is this stuff? It tastes sort of like Mountain Tiger but it’s… Fuck, it’s better!”

“It is Mountain Tiger,” Vanner said, chuckling. “It’s just that the stuff we sell in the U.S. is our crap. The Keldara bitch unmercifully when that’s all they get to drink. So whenever possible, we bring the pure quill. And that’s…” He looked at the casting on the bottle and shrugged. “Hell, that’s Mother Kulcyanov’s brew. It’s not a patch on Mother Lenka’s.”

“I think I’m gonna like this detail,” Himes said, grinning. “And I begin to understand why they’re such good shooters if this is what they’re protecting. But…” He stopped speaking when the side door of the suite opened and a fucking vision walked in the room.

“What’cha got, Grez?” Vanner asked as the intel girl walked over with a document.

“Do you Americans even use face-matching software?” Greznya asked angrily.

“Probably not,” Adams said, burping. “Be accused of racial profiling or something.”

“Zaman Al-Sabad,” Greznya said, dropping the picture on the desk. “He is an Al-Qaeda member who specializes in shipping. He arrived on a flight from Mexico this afternoon under a false name, Farhad Nejat. There’s a picture, though, from the customs’ security cameras.”

“Lots of people,” Himes said, frowning. “Lots of faces. It would take forever to do facial matches on them all.”

“Not if you do a visual sort for Islamic looks,” Greznya said scathingly. “That only turned up about two hundred. We hit this one on the first pass. He’s not even disguised! He’s on your own terrorism watch list for the All Father’s sake!”

“Racial profiling,” Himes said. “That, right there, would get the data thrown out of court. Even if it didn’t, the defense attorney would use it and if you got the right jury it would get the guy acquitted.”

“Americans are so stupid?” Greznya asked, confused. “Every major terrorist attack on your people has been by Islamic males between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five. Paying particular attention to such people simply makes sense. When a person that looks Islamic comes through the Keldara region you can be sure that we take a closer look. What is that thing about if it walks like a duck?”

“Welcome to the land of the free,” Adams said sourly. “You’ve watched CNN, surely. Liberals aren’t going to admit that until the Islamics have cut off their balls and put them all under jizya.”

“No wonder the President called us,” Greznya said, shaking her head. “He is not even covering his trail. There is a record of him, under his false name, reserving a hotel room here in Miami.”

“The who?” Himes asked.

“Well, now, ain’t that interesting,” Adams said, ignoring the question. “Daria found us an out-of-the-way warehouse, yet?”

“Not yet,” Vanner said. “But we can lay in some collection on his room, put in a trail.”

“Yeah, but can we do a quiet snatch?” Adams asked.

“Where’s the hotel?” Vanner asked.

“It’s something called a Best Western,” Greznya said. “Just south of here near the junction of your turnpike and a road called U.S. 1. I have a map. The layout is for exterior rooms. He has a room on the ground floor towards the back.”

“Uh,” Himes said, holding up his hand.

“You got a problem with any of this, LT, you just take your beer and go to the other room,” Adams said.

“Actually,” Himes said, “I was hoping I could go along. I haven’t done an entry in a few months but I figure it’s like riding a bicycle…”

The Best Western was just north of the long stretch of marsh that separated the keys from the Florida mainland. Near the turn-off for Everglades National Park and convenient to the Keys, it was often packed on weekends.

At four o’clock in the morning on a Wednesday, the parking lot was nearly deserted. There was a large moving truck parked towards the back and a few tourist cars.

Vanner had elected to not even lay in a physical bug; they could get plenty of take from a laser mike. The laser bounced off the window of the room and reflected in tune with sound waves. By reading the vibration of the window, everything said in the room could be monitored. He’d put in a connection to the hotel phones as well and with Al-Sabat’s voice print, which they already had, they could filter for all the other calls out of the hotel. They’d also pinpointed his satellite phone.

The target had left twice, once to go to a local convenience store and the second time to the nearby Golden Corral for dinner. He had participated in a number of conversations, including some to overseas numbers, during the evening, up until one AM when his light finally went off. Most of them, with the exception of a call to his mother, had dealt with moving, buying and selling various goods. All of them could have been codes but, if so, Sabat would soon be explaining that.

“You two stay back and take security,” Adams repeated as the Ford Expedition started. “I don’t know why you talked me into this.”

“Because you like my stunning good looks,” Vanner said, grinning. He was, for once, all suited up, MP-5, balaclava and all. You could see his grin right through the mask.

“Because I’ve done this sort of thing before,” Himes added.

“I’ve got plenty of shooters,” Adams said. “You just do the door, then swing back.”

“Got it,” Himes said, cocking the shotgun.

The Expedition pulled to a stop and he unassed, charging the door. He could hear the assault team stacking up behind him so he pointed the shotgun at the lock and pulled the trigger.

The round was a breaching round, a standard twelve-gauge shotgun shell but with a projectile that was a frangible powdered metal slug that would destroy the lock but not over penetrate or result in dangerous fragments to the shooter. The round worked as advertised, destroying the lock and permitting Himes to open the door with one swift kick.

He rolled to the side, pointed outwards, and cocked the shotgun, ejecting the spent breacher and load a livie, then he took a knee.

There was a sound of brief struggle inside and he turned to the side.

“Never done this before?” he asked the intel specialist.

“Not for real,” Vanner replied. “I…” His eyes flew wide as the doors of the moving van rolled up and a similarly armed and armored group started to pile out.

“FREEZE! POLICE!” the leader of the tac team yelled. “Drop your weapons and get down. NOW!”

“Wait, we’re with—” Vanner said, puzzled by something about the man’s words, just as the first round cracked into his chest.

At the sound of the shouting, Adams turned to the door and saw the tac team running across the parking lot. He also saw them shoot Vanner and Himes, which was all he needed. Fucking cops don’t just shoot people down who have their hands up. Besides, most cops, even in Miami, don’t have accents.

He took a position alongside the door, not that it gave any sort of cover, and began returning fire, taking two of the tac team down with two shots. Suddenly, the three Keldara shooters were by his side and it turned into a general melee.

Adams rolled through the door, taking cover behind some tourist’s Taurus, then popped up, getting two more.

The tac team was taking cover around the cars as well so he took it to them, running to the rear of the Taurus and spotting another. Tango down.

The Keldara had spread out from the room as well and they swept right.

But neither group had noticed one of the shooters huddled alongside a minivan. The man stood up, aimed his AR-15 and fired five rounds at the master chief.

Adams felt the hit, like a punch in his side, and spun sideways, firing one-handed into the tac team member.

The man flew back, a 5.56mm hole in the center of his browridge.

“Master Chief,” Vil said, running over to where Adams was slumped against the Taurus.

“We need to unass,” Adams gasped. He was hit pretty bad but he was still functional. He’d been hit before. Not this bad, but he could still function. “Go to the air field we landed at. Get into the cars and go. Don’t speed.”

“Vanner is hit badly,” Arvidas said. “I think Lieutenant Himes is dead.”

“Fuck,” Adams said. “We got to go.”

“Fuck.”

Nielson rubbed his forehead angrily.

“Did they at least get Sabat?”

“According to the colonel I spoke to they are sure it’s not Sabat at all,” Vil said miserably. “Sabat is reported to have been at an office in Yemen for the last week. And we recovered documents from the room. They are… I guess you would call it a script. And he had a modifier so that his voice was similar.”

“It was a trap,” Nielson said.

“Yes,” Vil replied. “We are at the airbase in the town of Homestead. All of us. We have been given quarters and are… we are told not to leave. The master sergeant is at the hospital here, Sergeant Vanner is in another in Miami.

“Colonel, the man said one other thing. I think that this attack was supposed to get the Kildar.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll let him think about that one,” Nielson said. “In about two minutes.”

“What now?” Mike yelled.

“Open the door.”

Nielson strode in, his face twitching, and stood in front of Mike, arms crossed.

“Open the God-damned plate,” Nielson said.

“If that’s all you’ve got, get the hell out.”

“Open the GOD-DAMNED PLATE YOU WHINY ASSED BITCH! Is that good enough for you?”

“Fuck you,” Mike snarled. “Fuck you, fuck Adams, fuck you all!”

“Just open the plate, Mike,” Nielson said, calmly. “Then I’ll tell you why I’m asking.”

Mike looked at him for a moment, then hit the solenoid, raising the plate.

Nielson spun in place and considered the painting for a long time.

“It’s good.”

“Yeah, it is. Cost enough.”

“The lips are all wrong, though.”

“Yes, they are.”

“The team liaison is dead. Vanner is critical. Adams is shot up.”

Nielson spun in place again, arms still crossed.

“How?” Mike asked hoarsely.

“A trap,” Nielson replied. “One meant to catch you.”

Mike stood up very slowly and walked to the painting. He touched the shoulder of the girl, lightly, then turned.

“Call Chief D’Allaird. You know the Dragon?”

“Yeah, I know the Dragon.”

“Paint it black.”