| |
“Take in Line Three!” Ben shouted, giving a thumbs-up to Bunting as soon as the dockworkers cast the line into the water.
Bunting picked up the 1 MC public address system microphone, blew a short “tweet” on the whistle he was holding, and announced, “Shift Colors.”
Ben watched with satisfaction as Lee snatched the U. S. Flag from the flagstaff on the stern, Fireman Sean Connally did the same with the Union Jack on the bow’s jackstaff, and Zuccaro ran up the U. S. Flag on the mast halyard, all within one second. As he moved the thrust levers ahead to an eight-knot setting, he said, “Helm, right ten degrees rudder, steer zero-eight-five. Bunting, sound one long blast.”
“Right ten degrees rudder, steer zero-eight-five, sir,” Seaman Pickins, the helmsman, replied.
“Sound one long blast, sir,” Bunting said, pushing and holding the button for Kauai’s horn for five seconds. The long blast was an aural signal indicating a vessel getting underway. It was of little utility in the bright sun and clear visibility of the harbor that morning, but by the book. And after Sam’s run-in with the Harbor Master yesterday, Ben and Hopkins were determined that Kauai’s sailing this morning would be an exemplar for everyone present in the harbor. As the patrol boat hurried out to the test area, Bondurant relieved Ben of the OOD to allow him to supervise the morning series of tests from the boat deck.
The morning activities were a series of test runs for the Squid. Kauai had been very fortunate to surprise the villains off of Miami, and more so that they turned in the right direction and held a straight course. A few days before, Ben had sat down with Hopkins, Bondurant, and Lee to “war-game” workable tactics for targets that were not so accommodating. They had come up with a series of scenarios for live testing, with the RHIB standing in for the target. Rather than shoot off actual net canisters, which were expensive and hazardous to the boats, the contractor had developed color-coded “paint rounds” with identical ballistics to those containing nets. They had internal charges that would fire at the end of the flight, but instead of a net, a harmless paint pattern would deploy into the water to allow observation of the tactic’s effectiveness.
Of course, Lee was the coxswain and very excited to “go tactical” with the RHIB. Although Hopkins was the most skilled OOD on board, Sam wanted a more “average” person at the conn to provide a realistic assessment, so Bondurant got the nod. Hopkins was still present on the Bridge, directing the test. The contractor who developed the Squid insisted on having an observer in the RHIB, a youthful engineer named Paul DeChamps, whose thick round glasses had earned him the nickname “The Owl” among Kauai’s crew. Connally was the last member of the RHIB’s crew, added as a safety crewman to watch over the contractor.
Ben gathered the crew of the RHIB and delivered a safety briefing. With ballistic projectiles being fired over the boat, even benign ones like the paint rounds, the crew was equipped with battle helmets and standard life jackets. At the end, he drew Lee and Connally aside for a private chat. “OK, Shelley, where is it?”
“What’s that, sir?” She asked innocently.
“The coffee can with dish soap you intend to tell The Owl is ‘prop wash’ so he can furnish some hilarious cell camera footage moving back and forth in the boat.”
“Why, sir, I’m shocked you think me capable of such tomfoolery!” There was a scraping sound as she tried to move the can out of sight with her foot.
Ben reached down, picked up the can, and sniffed it. “Ahem. Well, at least you used biodegradable soap.” He put the can aside and continued. “OK, I appreciate that you’d like a little payback for having a civilian perched on your shoulder on this ride, but with ballistic rounds flying around, we need everybody’s head in the game. So, besides no prop wash, I don’t want to see him manning the mail buoy lookout or rummaging through the toolbox for a left-handed screwdriver or any more boot camp tricks. Consider that an order. Clear?” he said with a grin.
“Yes, sir. Very good, sir,” Lee replied with a mock sad look. “You know, I bet you were a lot more fun at the academy!”
“Nope. I was hanging on by my fingernails there. I couldn’t afford to get caught screwing around,” he said with a wink. “Look, it’s DeChamps’s first time in the RHIB. Show him a good time rather than hazing.”
Lee smiled in return. “You’ve got it, XO.”
“Thanks, Shelley. Off you go. Good luck!”
The RHIB launched shortly afterward with its crew of three, and it and Kauai went into the test range. Each test comprised the RHIB moving out to a half-mile distance, barreling in at thirty knots, and executing evasive maneuvers. Bondurant, guided by Hopkins, maneuvered Kauai in response. Williams activated and fired the projectors on Sam’s command if the Squid got a firing solution. The projectiles fired paint charges into the water, resulting in either a “Hit with Net X” or “Clean Miss All Nets” report from Lee. Wash, rinse, repeat.
They had repeated the cycle enough times to get a reasonably rich dataset when something went awry. A defect in one canister’s fins created a “wobble” in flight that caused it to fall behind its companions. When the dispersing charge fired, it was just forward of the speeding RHIB and doused it and its occupants with two-and-a-half gallons of bright blue paint. Lee closed the throttle slowly to bring the boat to a smooth stop, took off her paint-coated sunglasses, and said, “Everybody OK? Give me a thumbs up!”
After getting a thumbs-up from both passengers, Lee shook off her hands, put them on her hips, and glared at DeChamps.
“I think some of our projectiles might need adjustment,” the engineer said, squinting up at Lee while holding his paint-fouled glasses.
“Ya think?” Lee replied.
“Kauai-One, Kauai, report!” her radio barked.
“Kauai, Kauai-One, direct hit by blue paint, no damage or casualties,” Lee replied.
“Kauai-One, Kauai, roger, cancel operation and return to ship.”
“Kauai, Kauai-One, WILCO, out.” Lee took a deep breath and turned to Connally. “Sean, carefully help Mr. DeChamps with his glasses.” She swished her sunglasses clean in the water beside the RHIB, then sat back down at the helm. Once Connally had helped DeChamps with his glasses and both were seated again, Lee opened the throttle and headed back to the patrol boat. I’ll bet the cameras got an awesome shot of this. I’m SO looking forward to seeing it again, and again, and AGAIN!
While operating the boat crane, Jenkins left the RHIB at the deck rail after the crew climbed out so the paint could be hosed off before returning to its cradle. The XO met them there with an armful of sodas—he knew they would be dried out after a couple of hours in the sun. He was always doing thoughtful things like this, unlike any other officer she had ever served with, and it was the thing she liked most about him.
“So, Petty Officer Lee,” he said with a perfectly straight face as he handed her a can of Coke. “I think we need to get you some vacation time. You’re looking mighty blue.”
Ha, ha, ha! So, it starts already! Lee paused after taking the Coke and replied, “Thanks, sir. You know, XO, you’re wasting your talents here on the bounding main. You should run a comedy podcast!”
“OK, OK, but I have to get a selfie with you guys,” he said, holding up his cellphone.
“Alright, sir, but it will cost you,” Lee replied with a smirk. This is going to be good!
“Name it.”
“You have a blue pirate mustache in the selfie.”
“Done!” The XO swiped some blue paint off her helmet with his finger and painted on a curly-cue mustache. “Sean, come on. You get in this too!” With the XO grinning, they crowded together, Connally in a “smirky” shrug and Lee with her best “Oh, No!” pose, and the XO snapped the picture. “Thanks, guys. Now you hit the shower and then see Doc. We’ll handle the cleanup.”
“Aw, come on, XO. It’s just paint,” Lee sighed.
“It’s a chemical, Shelley. No discussion.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking a swig of Coke as she started forward. As she walked, she grumbled, “If I hear a word that even sounds like ‘Smurf,’ somebody’s gonna get their ass thrown overboard!”
Holtz opened his eyes, then quickly shut them again, almost crying out from the pain in his forehead. Wherever he was, it was deathly quiet, brightly lit, and white. Holtz was sitting in a hard chair, head resting on his folded arms on a table. He slowly opened his eyes, allowing them time to get used to the bright light. Once his eyes were fully open, Holtz sat up slowly in the chair. His left hand was manacled to a rail stretched across the empty table, which had an empty chair sitting on the other side. He looked around the room, which was painted white and featureless other than a single door and a mirror across the room. Someone had dressed him in orange, one-piece coveralls and laceless, slip-on cloth shoes—a prisoner’s uniform.
Through the fading headache, Holtz experienced a glimmer of hope. He had not been taken by the 252s from his hotel room last night. Was it last night? His watch had been removed, and there was no clock in the room. The 252s would not have bothered with torture or interrogation; they would simply have shot him and left his body in the hotel room. This was a government facility, probably American, he reasoned. The Russians could not have tracked him down so quickly, even if they were interested in him. “Hello?” he asked, gazing at the mirror. “Is anyone there? I have information you’ll be interested in.”
Silence. Wherever this room was, it was isolated from anything else going on in the building. After what seemed like hours, but was probably only minutes, the door opened, and a slender thirtyish man of medium height entered, walked to the table, set down the leather case he was carrying on the far side, and sat in the chair across from Holtz. He was dressed in a plain blue suit, white shirt, and red tie, dark brown hair cut medium-short above a plain face with a close-cropped anchor beard and brown eyes. The man said nothing, just stared expressionlessly at Holtz without moving.
After an uncomfortable period of silence, Holtz could not take it any longer and asked, “Do you have questions of me?” No response. “You must want something. Why am I here?”
After a few more seconds of silence, the man finally spoke. “You are Anton Holtz, correct?”
Whoever had taken him had obviously grabbed his passport. “Yes.”
“Late of the 252 Syndicate?”
Holtz was shocked by the question. Nothing he was carrying had any reference to the syndicate. “I’m unfamiliar with that term.”
The man leaned back with a slight smile. “Oh, come now, Holtz. You have been a member of that organization for at least twenty years. I’m not sure right now why you came to the United States, but I am sure you must be in a hell of a jam with your employers to do so. What you do not want to do is lie to me. Doing that would prove you are of no value whatsoever. If that is the case, I’ll have you turned over to the FBI for a very public tour of our criminal justice system.”
Just the thought of what the man was threatening chilled Holtz to the bone. He knew that any public tour would be a very short one—his erstwhile comrades would make sure of that. “Alright, yes, I have been a member of the 252 organization.”
“Good answer. So, Holtz, what brings you to Miami? It can’t be the sun and mojitos. The evident lack of preparation leads me to believe you are fleeing something. What did you foul up that convinced you to run to us?”
Frightened as Holtz was, he knew better than to offer what he had for nothing. “I need a guarantee of my safety first. You don’t really expect me to give you everything so you can then cast me aside, do you?”
The man leaned forward. “I’ll give you one guarantee, Holtz. If you don’t tell me the whole truth and nothing but the truth when I ask you a question, you get dumped into the system forthwith. On the other hand, if you cooperate fully and without hesitation, I may find your information interesting enough that I’ll want to keep you alive. Now, what’s it going to be?”
Holtz was familiar with interrogation tactics from his apprenticeship in the Stasi and his years rising in the 252 organization. This man was not bluffing. If Holtz didn’t offer something up now, he would not get another chance. “The organization is on the verge of marketing a weapon of mass destruction.” Holtz knew he had scored a hit when the man suddenly leaned forward.
“What kind of WMD are we talking about, Holtz?”
“Chemical weapons, a carbamate-based nerve agent.”
The man sat back disgustingly and scoffed, “Oh, come on, Holtz. There’s nothing new there. VX? Novichok? It’s all been done.”
“Not like this one.”
“What, you’re going to tell me this one is deadlier than the others? We are well beyond the threshold of that making any difference.”
“Yes, it’s much more lethal, but that is not the important thing. It is also self-cleaning.” The man’s expression changed, as Holtz knew it would. He had experienced the same shock when Gronkowsky had revealed this to him on the Carlos Rojas.
“What do you mean, self-cleaning?”
“It breaks down on exposure to moisture and oxygen into innocuous inert compounds. The half-life is such that applications at a level that ensures death to everyone not in full chemical gear will be down to a safe level within a few days, with no clean-up effort. It is also a binary, with indefinite shelf life and safe handling characteristics. You can set it up to self-mix in an artillery shell or bomb and eradicate everyone in a village or small town, leaving nothing to clean up but the bodies.”
The man’s expression returned to its previous nonchalance. “I don’t believe you. Our intelligence would have picked up on something like that. They couldn’t hide it, even in Eastern Europe.”
“It’s not in Europe. It was developed aboard a repurposed petroleum support ship.”
“Alright, let’s say I believe you. What difference would it make? If the 252s are producing and getting ready to market it, there’s not much we could do to stop it.”
“You’re wrong. The lab, materials, production facility, data, and even the developer are all still aboard that ship. And the 252s don’t have it anymore.”
“What do you mean, they don’t have it anymore?”
“A drug gang from Honduras seized it.”
“A Honduran drug gang seized a 252 ship? You don’t expect me to believe that.” He paused, tilted his head, and smiled. “Ah, now I think I see. You were working a drug deal that went south. Whether it was bad faith by you or them is not really important. You are the one that will hang for it. Am I correct?” After Holtz looked down without speaking, the man continued. “I’ll take that as a yes. Did the cartel offer terms?”
“They want twenty million euros within a week, but the organization won’t pay. It would set a dangerous precedent.”
“I can’t say I blame them. So, I presume they will mount a retrieval and punitive operation?”
“Yes, within five days.”
“Five days? Rather longer than I would expect.”
“The ship is in Barbello. It takes time to gather and position a sufficient force to overcome the resistance without wrecking the ship.”
The man nodded. “Holtz, you have just bought yourself some consideration. I’m done with you, but I’ll send in some experts to debrief you on the ship, the 252s, and their opposition. Keep talking, and you might just live through this.” The man stood, put the leather case under his arm, and left the room.
Holtz released the breath he was holding. Well, the die is cast.
The rest of the day involved a trip to the gunnery range to test and exercise the new targeting system for the 25-mm gun that aimed at specific Global Positioning System coordinates. Williams’s reaction in the briefing was the same as Sam’s and Ben’s when they first heard of it. “Why do we need something like this? We’re not shooting over the horizon with this thing, and it’s less accurate than visual or infrared targeting.”
The contractor’s response mainly was unintelligible gibberish and the fact that they had been hired to do it by the people paying for Kauai’s upgrades.
“So, in other words, ‘cause,” Williams finished with a smirk.
“Joe...,” Ben said warningly.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m worried it might mess up the electro-optical or infrared systems. We need those, unlike this thing. Could we put a few rounds through the tube at the end to make sure the others still work?”
Ben looked at Sam and nodded. Sam said, “That’s a good idea. We’ll hold on to a couple of targets, and you can tear them up at the end.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Williams replied, directing a scowl toward the hapless contractor.
The gun exercise proceeded as planned, and the new system performed as advertised, with rounds landing within thirty feet of the target, a steel buoy with a shielded GPS receiver attached to the top. Kauai engaged the target at various speeds and bearings with the same results.
“Well, it’s reliable anyway,” Williams grudgingly acknowledged after the last test run.
They continued on the range for about half an hour to run the other targeting systems through their paces and then turned back toward the harbor. Ben looked at the bridge clock—16:47—and nodded to himself. An early day. With any luck, we’ll be in by 17:30, buttoned-up by 18:30, and I can have a nice, leisurely talk with Victoria and get some decent sleep tonight. He couldn’t wait to share the selfie and story of the Great Paint Deluge with her. As interested as she was in the significant events that made up his day, she always seemed delighted to hear about the little ones, particularly if humor was attached.
*******************
“XO, we’re headed for the Thousand Fathoms Club for beers. Want to come along?” Williams asked as he poked his head into Ben’s room. “It’s Karaoke Night!” Ben could see Lee, Bunting, and Jenkins waiting in the hallway.
“Alas, Joe, I have tons of paperwork and a phone call to make. I’m sure sorry I won’t get to hear Shelley’s version of ‘Song Sung Blue,’ though.”
Lee gave him a scowl while the others laughed. “You’re not going to let that go, are you, sir?”
“Sorry, Shelley, this one’s got legs like Eliud Kipchoge. You guys have fun but drink responsibly, don’t drink and drive, practice safe sex, stay in school, um, and all that other dad stuff.”
“You’re an inspiration to us, sir,” Lee smirked. She looked at the pictures on Ben’s bulkhead with a slight smile. “Tell her we said ‘Hi.’”
“Will do. Have fun, guys.” Ben smiled as he listed to their conversation fade as they walked down the passageway.
“Who the hell is Eliud Kipchoge?” Bunting asked.
“He’s a marathon runner, you idiot,” Lee replied.
