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.”
Chapter Seventeen
“We have a portable GPS,” Mike said, scrambling onto the helo. The boats and the helo had rendezvoused on a bit of sand — it couldn’t be called an island — south of the intercept. The sand was half mud and Mike lost one of his socks. He hoped nobody found it; it was about the only sign that anything had happened in the area.
“I got the dash mount,” Creata said, holding up the destroyed unit. “I can’t get anything out of it.”
“Somebody might,” Mike said, shrugging. “And this might have something,” he added, handing over the hand-held.
“If they’re smart, they don’t even turn it on until they get near the drops,” Creata pointed out.
“True,” Mike said. “Take a look.”
Creata had tried to memorize all the GPS configurations she could but this one was easy. The Garmin GPS was similar to one that the teams had used before they got more advanced gear. She keyed it on and sorted through the menu, then grinned.
“There are four points on it,” she said. “And a track. But, yeah, it starts about fifteen miles north of the first point. Nothing before then.”
“Well, we’ve got those,” Mike said. “That’s something,” he added, keying his throat mike.
“315, 315, this is Dragon, over.”
“What the fuck does he want now?” the pilot snarled. “Go, Dragon!”
“Stand by to receive coordinates,” Dragon said. “Probable WMD drop points.”
“Oh, shit,” the co said, blanching. “That wasn’t a drug boat…”
“Roger, Dragon,” the pilot said. “Your bird. And get off the line.”
“My bird,” the co said.
“Go, Dragon…”
Mike read off the coordinates then paused.
“315, what is your status?”
“We are bingo. Headed to Bimini for fuel.”
“Roger. Vector to coordinates upon refueling. We are vectoring to that location at this time. Contact your higher upon refueling. They should have orders for you.”
“Roger, Dragon,” the pilot responded. “And, uh, sorry for jumping your shit, over.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Tammy, give me a direct link to the joint task force.”
“JTF Six.”
It was late but the admiral had been awake. He’d been sleeping in catnaps for the last two days. He’d developed the ability years before and knew he could keep going, and keep functional, for another two, max.
“This is the Kildar. We have four probable WMD drop points. I’m sending the coordinates over on a secure link. I recommend we wait for a pick-up before we hit them. The boats picking up are probably Scarab fast fishers. I’m vectoring my team to stand-by positions but do not intend to engage. However, make sure you have fast boats this time. Note: the Scarabs probably have radar.”
“Roger, Kildar,” the admiral said, frowning. Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, you arrogant prick.
“The locations are near Largo. If you don’t have fast assets in that area, call me back.”
“Roger, Kildar,” the admiral repeated. That was actually a point. There might not be fast assets in the area. “I’ll call you back.”
“Roger. Kildar, out.”
“Vil, what’s your fuel state?” Mike asked.
“I’m at sixty percent. Most of the other boats are in the same range. Clarn is at about forty-seven.”
“Roger,” Mike said, frowning and thinking. “Head for coordinates 52 East by 27 North at this time. If Clarn can’t make it to tankage in a round-robin, have him break off and head to Bimini to fuel.”
“Roger, Kildar.”
“Dragon,” Mike said, changing frequencies. “What’s your fuel state?”
“I could practically fly to D.C.,” Kacey said. “We’re good.”
“Right,” Mike said, sitting down in one of the jump seats in the bird. “Lasko!” he shouted.
The shooter looked over his shoulder and tossed his head in acknowledgement.