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.