A Deeper Blue (ARC) Read online

  "VX, like all nerve agents, works by interfering with neurotransmission. I'm sure I'm covering old ground for most of you but the first sign of exposure is involuntary muscle movement, dizziness and nausea followed by convulsions, respiration failure and death. What it does not do, despite the movie about the stuff, is bubble your skin off. Twist you up like a dying bug? That it does.

  "The best method of insertion is via the eyes followed by inhalation, especially through the sinuses, and then skin contact. The material is not a gas at normal temperatures so it is normally distributed as droplets. One droplet, smaller than a drop from an eyedropper, on the skin is lethal. For that matter, it only takes a few picograms in the eyes. That's smaller than you can see.

  "There is a cargo container of VX believed to be bound for the south Florida area," the admiral continued. "Insertion method is unknown at this time. We have located and seized the suspect ship but it was empty of all such cargo. The crew has admitted, under questioning, that it veered from the sealanes and that there were others aboard that left sometime during that change of course. The numbers are unclear. The ship is a tramp freighter owned by shell companies probably connected to Al Qaeda. That is where we're at."

  Adams actually managed to stay awake through most of the meeting. He wished he hadn't been, but what the hell. And the situation was definitely under control. Definitely. The FBI had two thousand agents in place or on the way. The Coast Guard was redeploying. The CIA was "hot on the trail." The FBI was "developing leads." Customs and Border Protection had the ports "locked down solid." FEMA was "fully prepared", courtesy of the guy in the seat next to him. The Coast Guard was "all over the situation." Hell, the Navy had a "solid lock on all action items."

  "And what do the Georgians have for us?" the admiral asked after about an hour of ritual chest-beating.

  "Dick all," Adams said. He'd finished off the cigar long before and was wondering when the damned meeting would end so he could get a beer and wash the taste out. "Oh, we do have a top-flight intel team that doesn't give a rat's ass how it collects the intel. And one of the best WMD experts on the face of the earth. And a group of shooters who could probably wipe your Fibbies in about two seconds. And a record of doing this sort of shit and succeeding. Other than that? Not much."

  "If you violate privacy there's no way we can get a conviction," the FBI rep pointed out, angrily.

  "These guys are all going to Guantanamo, anyway," Adams said. "Who cares? You do, that's who. So you're going to go around 'developing leads' right up until you hit that constitutional protection thing. Then give it to us."

  "Chief Adams," the FBI rep said, diplomatically. "This is the United States. There are laws. While I'm sure you're very good at what you do, if you do any of those things Federal and local law enforcement would be forced to detain you pending charges."

  "Fine, fine," Adams said, holding up his hands. "In that case, got nothin. We done? I need a beer."

  "I think we're done," the admiral said. "Could I speak to you Mr. Adams?"

  "I need a beer, too," the FEMA rep said, getting up and taking the documents he could exit with. "But good luck. My job is just to clean up the mess. This is too much mess to want to think about."

  "I'll do what I can," Adams said. "Hey. You want some real beer?"

  "Sure," the FEMA rep said, frowning.

  "Get with the LT and we'll arrange a meet," Adams said, standing up. "Don't worry, you'll like it."

  He made his way through the crowd to the admiral who was talking to the CIA rep. Another guy wearing a DEA jacket was apparently part of the pitch.

  "They're not used to smuggling into the US," the CIA guy was saying. "It's almost sure to be containers. We'll probably catch those with the sniffers, but I think the main angle of attack is on the shipping company. They are going to have transferred to another ship."

  "So what do you need?" the admiral asked.

  "More support," the DEA guy replied. "Especially from the FBI. They're trying to find the inside groups. Let's stop it before it gets here. Seriously, south Florida used to be a smuggler's haven but we've got it locked down pretty tight these days. I don't think they're coming in here. I think the ship was a feint; they're probably going through Mexico. The ship probably transferred on an out-island or at sea and another ship is carrying it to Mexico. And to crunch the numbers, run down those leads, we need to get the FBI to quit dicking around with opening doors all over Miami. The guys they're talking to my guys already know. They do drugs, not VX. Hell, they're ruining a dozen cases and stepping all over us!"

  "I'll talk to the FBI," the admiral said. "But you guys are the outside. So get outside. If it's not coming in here, find out where it is coming in. You should be arranging that right now, not moaning to me. So go do it."

  The two left leaving Adams alone with the admiral and his aide.

  "Master Chief," the admiral said, sitting down and waving to a seat.

  "I wasn't sure if the Admiral remembered me, sir," Adams said, taking the seat.

  "I didn't," the admiral said. "I finally read the briefing document. But there are problems."

  "Aren't there always," Adams said.

  "I don't particularly like the way the FBI rep phrased it, but he was on point," the admiral said. "This is the US. We have laws. And, face it, we own the waters around this area. So I'm not sure what you're here for."

  "I'm not sure, either, sir," Adams said. "But we're here. Turn us loose."

  "And that's the other problem," the officer said, sighing. "Your intel group. I suppose you want to go around tapping phones and listening for intercepts and trailing suspects. The FBI can do all of that and I would suspect better. And they'll do it legally. Slowly, unfortunately. The fastest I've ever personally heard of one of them getting Title III clearance was seven days. And that can only be used for drug cases. FISA. . .longer. However, what you would be doing is illegal. As would be the case if you fire a weapon in anything other than self-defense. Now, given your pull, you could probably escape justice. If we could keep it off the news. You see where this is going?"

  "We sit on our hands?" Adams asked, angrily. "You want us to just sit on our hands?"

  "I'll try to find something for you to do, legally," the admiral said. "But right now I'm not sure what."

  "Yes, sir," Adams said, taking a deep breath.

  "And Master Chief?"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "If you fuck me over on this I will put your ass in Guantanamo and throw away the key."

  * * *

  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 Lt. 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," Lt. 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 glass. "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 US 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 that 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 US1. 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 pin-pointed 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 12 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 the 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."