“Go to… hell,” Abdullah said.
“Wrong answer,” Dmitri said, slamming the butt down again. More screaming. It was most distressing. There were boats moving around, now.
“We leave them,” Abdullah said, panting in pain. “We have a drop point sent to us. We leave them behind stores. In woods. I have the next drop points,” he said, gesturing with his chin at his pocket. “Please…”
Dmitri fished in the man’s pocket and came up with a scrap of paper. It said “Behind Largo Seven-Eleven. Behind Pizzeria.”
“Thank you,” Dmitri said, smiling. “See how easy that was?” He thumbed his throat mike. “Vil, we still have the Kildar?”
“I can uplink,” Vil said, hitting a switch on a dash-mounted satellite communicator. “Freq four.”
“Kildar, Kildar,” Dmitri said. “Alpha team. Intel update.”
Admiral Ryan nodded as he took down the communication.
“Thank you, Kildar. I have a Coast Guard boat on the way to tow in the Scarab. You’re sure the WMD is not active?”
“Positive. We’re going to drop all these guys with the Coasties. Make sure that they know that they’re not to talk to them or even listen to them. And my boats need to fuel.”
“It’s taken care of,” Admiral Ryan said, nodding. “Your other contact…”
“Is nearly inshore,” Mike said. “And the sun’s up.”
Jeff Hopkins looked up at the sky and sighed. It was going to be a good day to fish.
Jeff had been born and raised in the Keys. He’d never gone to college but he always found one thing or another to keep him from leaving the increasingly expensive area. He’d been a boat mate, a guide, worked construction. Presently he was selling boats at Key West Boat Sales in Key Largo.
The problem with that job was it was so damned constant. He rarely got a day off.
He’d managed one, finally, and was damned well going to get some fishing in. It was just about dawn, perfect fishing time.
He coasted his Mako 26 around the corner of Tavernier Creek, moving carefully. Idiots would come roaring down the cut and if you didn’t watch out you’d get run over. He could do the run about six times as fast as he was currently going but not if some idiot swung wide on the corner.
He powered up on the straight, then slowed, slightly, as he approached the next turn. Lined with twenty-foot mangroves, Tavernier Creek snaked back and forth several times before opening out to the ocean. There was no way to see a boat or hear one coming over the sound of his own motors. So he was only half surprised to see a Scarab, going flat the fuck out, come screaming around the corner way over on his side.
The AK in one of the men’s hands, though, was another thing. And so was the helo, some sort of strange aircraft with pylons on the side, that came over the mangroves at about ten feet off the tops.
He pulled the boat off to the side and powered down as the spray from the Scarab covered his front and the wind from the helo battered him.
“Fuckin’ drug dealers,” he snarled.
He started to power up when he heard more engines, going flat out. He put on just enough power to stay in the lee of the turn and was glad he did when a Cigarette, closely followed by a Nordic, came screaming by. He had to admit that they did a pretty good job, actually staying on their side of the damned channel despite doing damned near seventy.
“And there goes DEA,” he muttered. The guys in the boat were wearing battle armor and balaclavas. “Figures.” The helo must have been DEA, too.
He cut the engines for a second as the wash rocked the boat, listening. Nope, nobody else.
Fine. He could still get his fishing in.
Lasko was just lining up the engine as the boat cleared the cut but it turned, hard, to the right, engines screaming. He started to line it up again, then lifted the Barrett as the boat suddenly went airborne. From his seat he could see that the water was only inches deep on that side; the boat had “run aground” but so hard and fast it went vertical instead of sticking.
“Oh, fuck no,” Mike said as the Scarab launched fifteen feet into the air and rolled. It hit upside down in the shallows and the back of the boat broke. Fuel began spilling out, leaving a slick of rainbow on the green waters. “JTF, JTF, we have a HazMat situation, over!”
When Arvidas saw the upside-down Scarab he banked left and slowed, looking for the channel markers. It was pretty clear that the water to the right was shallow; he could see the flat water and line of small breakers that indicated a shoal. Clearly the terrorists had not been as well trained.
A boat was screaming in from the north, following a poorly marked channel that, when Arvidas checked, wasn’t on the chart. It had a blue light going, though: local police.
“Marine Patrol vessel approaching Tavernier Creek, respond over,” Mike said. “This is Dragon Flight, helo in service of the U.S. government in your vicinity. Respond, over.”
“Dragon Flight, this is Marine Patrol Four-Eight.”
“Marine Patrol Four-Eight, this is Dragon Six. Vessel you are approaching is a HazMat condition. Stand clear. Stand clear.”
“Roger. Acknowledge HazMat.”
“Fuck,” Officer Norman Funk said, pulling back on the power of the Mako 24. He’d just had a HazMat class a few months before and the one rule they were drilled on over and over was Stay Far Away. “Dragon,” he continued. “What is the nature of the chemical?”
“Marine Four-Eight, that is restricted. Highly lethal, over.”
“It’s that shit they said would look like drugs but was a HazMat,” his partner said. “The stuff those Commercial guys got hit with up on the turnpike. Terrorists?”
“Probably,” Norm said. “Roger, Dragon, acknowledged.”
“Marine Four-Eight, please secure area. Our boats are bingo on fuel.”
“Roger,” Norm said. “Area is secured. Marine Patrol Headquarters this is Marine Patrol Four-Eight.”
“Four-Eight, Headquarters.”
“We have a HazMat at west entrance to Tavernier Creek. Request immediate response,” he continued, speeding up to run down a boat headed towards the wreck. “And we’re going to need more boats to close the area.”
“We were monitoring and had already been informed, Four-Eight. Three-Six and Two-Five headed to secure east entrance. Monroe County Two-One and One-Five en route to your location. County HazMat inbound to Tavernier Marina. Be advised, material is airborne and extremely toxic. Maintain three hundred yards separation, minimum. Stay upwind as much as possible. We are broadcasting that Tavernier Creek is closed for the foreseeable future.”
The damned fishing boat, a Cape Horn 20-foot center console, was totally ignoring him, of course. He cut in front of them and hit a long blast on his horn and they finally stopped.
“What’s up, officer?” the man driving shouted. He had a lady, probably wife, and kids onboard.
“We’ve got a hazardous materials situation here!” Norm shouted. “You need to back away from here. Fast!”
“We got another coming in from the north,” his partner said.
“Back off and stop any boats coming this way!” Norm shouted. “Get over by the point!”
“Yes, sir!” the man said, powering up and turning hard to the south.
“Damn, this is getting out of control,” Norm said as a boat came cruising through the channel from the east. The big yacht slowed when it saw the wreck and turned towards it. There was a Cigarette that way and they turned to intercept the yacht. Both of them, though, were way too close to the HazMat and downwind.