“They generally don’t,” Mike said. “But they’re very down on guns, nonetheless. Using one to defend yourself is nearly as bad as getting picked off by pirates. Nearly.”
“What do the pirates do with the boat?” she asked, gulping. “And, uhm, the people on board?”
“You don’t want to know,” Mike answered.
“Thought so,” Pam said with a sigh.
Chapter Eleven
Mike allowed Pam and Courtney to spell him in the late morning, as the waves moderated, and caught a few hours of sleep. By the time he got up in the afternoon, things had really started to calm down, but there was still solid overcast. He looked at the tropical satellite update and the general storm tracks. There was another depression forming off Africa, but other than that it looked pretty clear.
He was munching a sandwich for supper, watching the sun go down in the west with Pam sitting next to him, when the sat phone rang. He’d called in to the OSOL last night, giving his location and destination to the duty officer. It was a pain in the ass, but if it was the price of being armed, he was willing to pay it.
“Jenkins,” he said after putting in the optional headset. Nobody but OSOL had the number, so it had to be them.
“Pierson,” the colonel said. “Go scramble.”
Mike punched in the code, watched by a puzzled Pam.
“Go scramble,” he said.
“Mike, what is your position, exactly?”
Mike frowned and glanced at the GPS.
“24, 33, 93 by 78, 46, 21, more or less,” Mike said. “Why?”
“Hang on,” Pierson said, then sighed. “Mike, you have a presidential request to go operational.”
“What?” Mike shouted. “Pam, could you go below?” he said, more calmly. “Hang on, Bob.” When she was gone he said: “What?”
“Mike, we have a fixed location on WMD in movement,” Pierson said tightly. “Specifically a nuke, probably refurbished Russian in origin. It’s located at a key in the outer Great Banks, but it’s going to move by tomorrow morning about four-thirty. We’d forward punched all our teams, trying to intercept it in Europe or the Mideast. We’ve got no spec ops that can deploy to the Bahamas before about 0600 tomorrow. If it moves, we’ll lose it and have to reacquire. You’re in position. It’s less than forty miles from your current position.”
“What’s the threat level?” Mike asked.
“Low,” Pierson said. “Okay, not great for one guy. Seven currently sitting on the device. At four-thirty, more or less, there’s a cigarette boat coming in for it and there should be five more on the cig. But you should be able to get in position and take down the two groups separately.”
“Thanks for the morale boost, buddy,” Mike snorted. “And where is it, by the way?”
Pierson gave him the coordinates and Mike blanched. “That’s inside the Banks, Bob! How the hell am I supposed to get there? Wade?”
“Mike, work the problem,” Pierson said. “They’ve got a way in and out, find it.”
“You’re not Navy, Bob, that’s for sure,” Mike snorted, dialing up his charts, for what they were worth. “Okay, I think I can see what they’re using. There’s a narrow channel that leads up to a cluster of keys. Crap, they’re not even named. And that channel is not very deep or wide. And who knows when this chart was last updated. I could end up stuck on a mud bank in pirate central.”
“I’m looking at the satellite image,” Pierson said. “There are five keys, more or less in a star pattern. On the center one is a small block building. The key is shaped sort of like a kidney, the inside pointed south. The block building is on the southwest side. Our information is that the device is on that key.”
“I see ’em on the chart,” Mike said, shaking his head and spinning the wheel to port to turn the boat northwards. “I’m already past the Gap. And they’ll be able to see me from the horizon if I close inside of ten miles or so.” He thought about it and shrugged. “I’ve got the Zod. It’s marginally doable.”
“You’ll do it?” Pierson asked.
“I’ll do it,” Mike said. “WMD in motion? Of course I’ll do it. I just didn’t think I could actually get there in time.”
“The President also noted that the reward for stopping a WMD attack is five million,” Pierson pointed out.
“I’ve got plenty of money, Bob,” Mike snorted. “But tell the President thank you.”
“Hurry,” Pierson said.
“I already turned around,” Mike said. “Call me if there’s an intel update.”
“Will do,” Pierson said. “The reinforcements are FAST Three, coming out of Rota. I’ll give you a contact frequency. What’s your call sign? I think your usual would be a bad idea.”
Mike thought about that then shrugged. “Use ‘Winter born,’ ” he replied.
Mike looked up at the sky and frowned. Crescent moon tonight. “Please, clouds, hold,” he muttered, then set the autosteer and went below.
“Mike, what’s going on?” Pam asked.
“Something’s come up,” Mike said, thinking about what to do about the girls. This really was pirate central. Be a hell of a thing to go grab the nuke and lose the girls. “Either one of you know how to use a pistol?”
“I do,” Courtney said. “My dad taught me.”
“What kind?” Mike asked.
“Some kind of automatic,” Courtney said.
“Semiautomatic I hope,” Mike said. “Ladies, there’s some sort of U.S. Code that covers what you’re about to see,” he said, pulling out a pair of pantyhose.
“You’re a cross-dresser and it’s covered by U.S. Code?” Courtney giggled.
“No,” Mike said. “I’m about to open Bluebeard’s Stateroom,” he said, humming a tune. “That is what is covered by U.S. Code.”
He got the key and opened up the room and waved for them to look.
“Uniforms?” Courtney asked, stepping inside and sitting on the bed. “You’re still a SEAL?”
“Not exactly,” Mike said, unlocking the weapons locker. While it wasn’t exactly packed full with weapons, it was close, and the gleam of lethal black was a sight to see.
“Holy shit,” Pam whispered.
“There’s something going on nearby,” Mike said. “What it is I can’t specify. I was asked, as a favor, to look into it,” he said, squatting down and pulling out a pair of team shorts, which he laid down beside the panty-hose. “We’re going to have to actually run into the Banks, and then I’ll have to leave for a while. I’ll be back in the morning. But you guys will be sitting ducks while I’m gone,” he added, pulling out a silenced .22-caliber pistol and a .40-caliber Sig. “Which one do you want?”
“I don’t want either one,” Courtney said, her eyes wide. “I don’t want you to go.”
“That’s… not an option,” Mike said.
“Why don’t they send…”
“Real SEALs?” Mike said, slipping a magazine into the Sig and setting it on the floor. “Better the .40. Never get in a gunfight with a weapon that doesn’t start with at least point four. Very good rule. They’re all running around Bosnia and the Middle East kicking doors. The terrorists got inside of our net. I’m in position. I took the contract.”
“You said you were a contractor,” Pam said. “You didn’t exactly say that you were still selling widgets.”
“Well, I lied about selling widgets, frankly,” Mike said, shrugging. “I never sold widgets. The boat, the rest, all came from contracting.”
“That’s a lot of money for a contractor,” Courtney said, her eyes wide.
“You get paid a lot of money for what I do,” Mike said, shrugging and starting to assemble his gear. “If I manage this mission, the vig is five mil. Again, this is all secret. The only reason I’m telling you is that you’re going to have to see some of it and I’ve been wanting to really impress you. This is my big chance. When I get back all shot up, you’ll be less impressed,” he added, looking up. “Pam, could you go get that big case of maxipads and the case of tampons, please?”