Loading Souls by Dalen Buchanan
Chapter 17: Boats Drinks & Piracy
I checked feed on Hamblin, waiting for cues. He was looking up at two men on the deck in sailor livery. One had a subgun, the other a pistol. The boat was tied to a watercraft platform like a little dock. We could step right up to the deck. Hamblin and Westin headed there to pave the way.
"I got all six girls here," Westin said, while closing with the crewmen. Hamblin showed no weapons and closed beside her. On the deck near the lower cabin were two men in Skins and armor. They cradled assault rifles. A small boat roared by and the wake set the Botec rocking. One of the crewmen shook a fist at it. The other said, "Well, get them up here. Let us see our guests." He gave an evil leer. Hamblin sub vocalized "Now."
The Mantas bobbed up to the surface and fired twenty millimeter rounds at the sides of the bridge and hull. They were using squash head EMP rounds. Impact energy was converted to power spikes instead of holes. The flat bangs sounded like a moment of hail on a metal roof. Our Battlenet fuzzed and went down. Johnson stood and fired his L-17 before charging the deck. I ran out behind him, clearing the way for the rest to exit. Someone shouted "Garda."
On the deck, both sailors were down with splats. One of the Skin guards was down with a head wound, but the other was struggling with Hamblin and Westin. Closer examination showed they were wrestling with the Skins, the owner was napping. I passed them headed to the superstructure. Rafe and Etienne were right behind me while Johnson had moved to the other side. Three more Templars scrambled up from the boat.
Flat banging resumed for a moment, the Manta on the far side probably having spotted a backup system coming online. I heard Etienne say, "Merde!" The unexpected EMP had disabled his weapon. "C’est Guerre," Rafe said. That’s war for you. He slapped charges on the cabin door and turned his back to trigger them. When he turned back to pull the door off I noticed scorch marks on his Skins.
Gunfire came from inside. A blast removed a portion of the frame and flung it at Rafe, who fell down. I saw movement inside behind a teak bar and fired a burst from the Hogdon. The twenty gram slugs punched large holes through the bar and fragmented. That corner of the room just flew to pieces, revealing a perforated sailor and a chrome shotgun. Etienne gave Rafe a hand up, "Are you nostalgique? Never stand in a doorway."
The Battlenet buzzed and came back up. Hamblin called for the marines right away. "Follow on now." I brought up Tactical and checked tasks. The marines would slack rope onto the deck in three minutes. We held only the deck and lower cabin. Sport boats around us were drifting away on the current. I told my Sergeants, "Let’s go up."
We heard gunfire from the floor above. Tinted pieces of window rained down. Sergeant Brown, out on the deck, was hit a few times. Sir Juan aimed his laser from one knee and the shooting stopped.
Brown got gingerly up to his feet as a drone gunship sped into view. It shot off a few antennas and menaced the superstructure like an angry wasp. I saw it peering in the cabin window at us and experienced a fight or flight chill.
Etienne was using the fiber optic stalk on his helmet to cut angles on the stairs when I caught up. Rafe was behind him with his little Gatling. I held the steps, watching the lower cabin. Sir Hamblin and Sergeant Johnson entered and approached the lower staircase. That freed me to follow my men. Up top, Etienne stopped suddenly and knifed his hand at the ten o’clock position. Someone waited.
The howl of heavy Lifters on the deck created a distraction. Etienne suddenly popped upright and loosed two shots from his backup pistol. He ducked back down and Rafe stepped up but did not fire, just panned the Gatling around the cabin. "Two down up here." I saw them myself in a moment; one sprawled behind a table and one down by the broken window. Both were in Skins. Both had mangled heads.
A voice carried down from the bridge stairwell. "We yield. You have the ship. Do not shoot." Captain Aksel Dahl had had enough.
There were the four dead and Sergeant Brown had a broken scapula. Everyone else was cuffed and tagged. We had to fish several consultants out of the water from the dead boats, using our swim mods to push them back to the yacht. Angry drone gunships aided their cooperation. All told there were five crew, one surviving guard and eight consultants that needed sorting out. A Lifter made a landing on the aft deck and we loaded it with prisoners. The next Lifter received the bodies and two girls we had found below decks, locked in a stateroom. They sounded Dutch but were incoherent. All prisoners and witnesses were uploaded to Saint Peter.
I suppose I could not conceal my interest among friends. Roxanne and I ended up sharing boat drinks over a righted table in the second floor lounge. The broken window provided the only breeze, so we watched Marines laying out landing lights and power cells on the aft deck. Rafe and Etienne had arranged this tete a tete by busying everyone else and recommending I get "Gus" cleaned up. The East Coast Templars were not fooled.
Roxanne revealed was a mix of Creole and Cuban. Jet black eyes and hair. A light coppery complexion with a wash of nose freckles. Her real voice was a contralto growl that belied her small size. She came up to my chin and was muscled like a greyhound in her Skins.
The Battlenet had given us instant records on each other, so we did not fumble along with past details. She had been Transferred from her original body eight years ago. She was a Carolinas native, but training had hammered out her accent to a more neutral English. Her Templar-Garda transfer was approved thirty years ago. Near as I could figure, she was pushing sixty subjective years. Roxanne looked about thirty five now. She was solo.
The net had given her my history in similar fashion. She knew I was in my fourth body and forty six. I assumed she knew I was also solo. The thing our records did not tell was why.
"So why the Templars?" I asked. She toyed with a celery stalk and replied, "I was raised in Summerville by parents on the Dole. There wasn’t much around except Garda and the Unitarian church, so I got my schooling there." She pointed her stalk at me, "What about you?" I told her about mi familia and our Catholic upbringing. She thought living on ranches was storybook. I tried to let her down softly. Growing up on the Dole couldn’t have been much fun, either.
We talked about Transferral and the Church. We both had our problems with that. "Unitarians are pretty liberal, so they got along with me OK after," she said. "I had more trouble with not being full black. People acted like it was my idea."
I pointed at my Asian face, "Does this look like any Jesus Navarro you ever heard of? Everybody I know gave me a hard time about the new look." She laughed at our problems and said, "It’s enough to make you suicidal."
Civilians could usually pick their body characteristics. Only Lotto winners, prisoners and Garda had limited choice. AI’s would pick for you from their inventories. I got mine because I was working in an Asian culture when the body died. Saint Peter thought I would be more survivable in a mimicking strain of Zombie. I thought he short termed his parameters.
There was a lot of high end food spoiling in the freezers, so the Marines rigged an enormous grill and cooked anything that looked good. Johnson dropped off kabobs skewered with arrows. He didn’t seem very friendly with me but wanted to see that we ate, especially Roxanne. I got the boyfriend vibe. When he left, Roxanne cupped my chin and passed lips over mine. "You havin fun now shuga?" I realized I was. We watched a sunset and may have overdone the boat drinks a little, but I had a good time sitting with Roxy.
When the Just-In-Time Lifter landed on the floodlit deck, I wondered where the time went. Orange jumpered techs guided supplies on loyal pallets to the lower cabins. Loyal pallets appear as a box with legs and follow their owners like nearsighted puppies. Their walk is comical.
I cupped Roxy’s chin and passed my own lips. "Let’s see about getting together after." She squeezed my wrist. "No kidding. You go to work now and bring momma the bacon." Roxy gave me a sardonic smile. I was warming to the familiarity of her re-emerging Carolina twang.
It only took a couple hours to restore operation. We tapped the computers into S
aint Peter before powering them up. He got right in on the boot. The yacht became a beacon of data speaking in tongues to orbital ears. There was a lot of mangled data.
Our contractors got the yacht systems back up and restored all the smaller boats to service with the replacement of key parts. I shook hands with the last of them at three in the morning and watched them cartwheel away in their yellow Lifter.
An hour later, Father Cervantes and Nuncio showed up with the Marine’s relief Lifter. They had a loyal pallet loaded with tools to mix with the squads of Marines trading seats. Some collisions occurred but the Father passed both blind and deaf to their complaints. When I greeted him at the doorway, he appeared as my cousins had, bleary with ear sickness. I brought him in and sat him down on the couch. Nuncio fetched water while I raided the yacht’s first aid kit.
I handed Father the pills and said, "This is protocol, Father. Please use this immediately." He looked up sharply, remembering his own words. Then he looked at the pills with suspicion. I had to laugh, "It is for your head, but not that deep." He realized the gaff and for a moment he was just a man, caught feeling guilty. I found the demonstration that my drugging bothered him a comfort. For all I knew, it might have saved my life.
"They told me you had a sense of humor," he said. "What an unfortunate time for it to return."
"When you feel more yourself come join us in conference. I need to see what is new." Etienne and I dropped into lounge sofas and joined Battlenet. When not executing plans, it was best to make them.
Saint Peter and Whitney were both showing Librarian icons. They were fast processing investigations from all we held. At this point, the chains of information would rise above what a committee could grasp. Here, many investigations were lost in the past. Data increased exponentially. Game theory and forensic accounting tangled it up in math a quantum computer could eat for lunch when a brain would stall.
I looked at the enemy org chart. Names, jobs and target ratings filled in blanks. We grew a new tree of security specialists at Gnefl Co. There were a lot of them, but most had just shown up a day ago. We had scared them somewhere and they were raising the militia. Saint Peter’s opinion was that the yacht had failed a quantum ping from the connected unit. They couldn’t raise the Slaver ship anymore so we were seeing a deployment. We could expect company looking for their assets soon.
The engines started up and the Marines took stations for movement to the east. We were going to run the Fara I Viking up to speed and be far away by dawn. The Mantas still swam at our wings providing mil-spec systems for the path ahead.
Gus’ smuggler boat had been repossessed from our side by a heavy Lifter to Jacksonville. It was a deal worked out in advance by the AI’s. Jacksonville needed it back for Tar Bone’s case to ram through the confiscation. They would sell it to us after that if we wanted it back, one of those accountant deals that irritate.
Jacksonville also wanted the yacht to come home soon, hopefully without more damage. I pleaded evasion of aerial reconnaissance and hung up on that bean counter. "Give us a minute, please, to develop the mission before you take your toys and go home." The plan was to slide down the Abaco chain and work our way south toward Nassau. We felt a target was close.
Roxy and I were playing tourist on the sundeck when the Targets came in. We were providing normalcy to observation. Many sailboats and shorelines placed eyes on our extravagant ship. The Marines had changed to sailor livery for movement above deck. Rafe was fooling around with the little boats while wearing the Captain’s blazer. We froze in place for a moment to receive the news.
The Solstice event was booked for a private Cay out here in the Abacos. Forward parties from Gnefl were prepping the cay for visitors even now. There are a lot of little island cays in this chain, but we had Lat and Long to zero us in. The deck pitched as our course changed, to keep us distant from commercial flight paths to the site.
Captain Aksel Dahl was being worked up for a doppelganger assignment. Intense interrogations on many copies would firm up the character shortly. The surviving security agent and a crewman would be added to repertoires for supporting roles. We would need simulators for the actors. A forward medical surgical unit was also recommended for Sergeant Brown.
The problem was landing Lifters on ships around these islands. It was a big attention getter. Even at night it was visible for kilometers. We could run eight hours northwest and give Jacksonville their bonus. That would make getting what we needed later easier. Or we could try and pick up a shipment at one of the cays in the middle of the night. I questioned how much use the yacht was now. People were looking for it, but it was the hands and not the brains of the organization that would come. If found out, the Solstice would never arrive. We expected the brain trust to attend that in two days. Better to save the yacht for then. Disappear for now.
The Battlenet chewed the idea over for a while. We split forces. The yacht, the marines and the Father were going to Jacksonville. Sir Hamblin, Brown, Roxy and Johnson were going with it. Sir Juan and Sergeant Lopez were going to stay with us. We would continue operations in the Abacos until the plan reunited us. Things would be a little scary for a while.
The plan had grown beyond our grasp. AI’s would be directing us as cogs in a wheel. It was the only way to stay fast. Our operations roster now had two hundred and forty agents. I didn’t even know what all their jobs were. Our knowledge of the enemy involved kilometers and time zones I could not physically participate in. It was time to trust the training and Saint Peter. Like I said, a little scary.
We got off near Green Turtle Cay on the two launches. The yacht turned tail and left once we cleared the boat racks. Roxy waved a moment from aft and then I was staring at the wake. It was a fast ship for all its size. They would slip the cut to the north and be far from these islands in a couple hours. In our five meter boats, we bobbed like corks as the wake caught us. Rafe turned toward distant shores and brought the small sport boat to a bone jarring display of speed. Each wave required a strategy, so we endured in silence while Rafe worked. Etienne and I rarely boated. Rafe had won the right with little experience. He had worked undercover as a fisherman, once. I hoped Saint Peter was with him. Juan was very experienced, or just lightly loaded. He and Lopez beat us to the docks handily. I acknowledged their supremacy with a gesture that hurt my shoulder. I felt mugged from all the vibration.
Sir Juan led off our hike as we shouldered bags and left the boats behind. Less than three hundred meters into town, we came to Green Turtle airfield. It was a tiny VTOL service that usually hopped over to Treasure Cay airport for serious travel. We didn’t want to walk our bags past serious travel security. The little hoppers would let us jump like fleas across the islands and no nosy baggage checkers would molest us.
We used cash cards. They drew on Tibbet’s account as a Telecomm charge from Dallas. Charters could be expensive and confiscation was cheap. The five of us and our baggage were soon squeezed into an ancient Pelican hopper. The smiling pilot had a parrot that rode facing the windshield. As he banked, the parrot would lift a stubbed wing and lean. It was an interesting choreography.
I noticed the blue waters were transparent straight to the bottom on the banks, during a sharp turn. Fish were clearly visible at our low altitude. I tugged at my seatbelt and concentrated on the horizon, to ease my mind. We landed in Andros Town airfield at the big island. Taxis took us north on Queens Highway to the Mastic Bay Settlement. Saint Mary Magdalene church would provide us with helpful Episcopalians. Saint Peter had arranged it with the Rector priest, Lott.
We left taxis in front of a pastel house with a pink roof. Only an elaborate portico and sign hinted it was Mary Magdalene.
Father Lott in collared robes at the door confirmed it. "Please come in gentlemen. We are happy to welcome you to our Parish." The plural was two small, dark women dressed in white vestments. He introduced them as sisters Bethel and Sadie Jones. "They are my eyes and ears in the community."
At the praise, they looked up. They had darting eyes that blinked rarely and small voices. "A blessing, suhs." I felt thoroughly memorized, but neither locked gazes with me. It was uncanny fieldcraft.
I caught Etienne’s eye and gave him a quizzical look. He gave a ghostly nod and spoke to the sisters. "Enchante ladies. We have similar blessings in Alsace, but none so stunningly attired." Sadie made eye contact with him after that. She wanted to see what he meant. That was good. It meant they learned their technique. It wasn’t some kind of condition.
"If I wanted to know of any strangers in the area, how would you ladies proceed?"
Bethel answered in a whisper, "We would alert the network and collate the reports into a GIS."
Sadie added, "The airfields and docks would also get a watcher rotation from our volunteers."
I looked at Etienne and raised my eyebrows, "They have a network."
Etienne grinned back, "They are indeed a blessing."
The network was a church cell phone group plan for those too poor to afford them. GPS and cameras sent contacts directly to Bethel on an old cartographic workstation. She brought up a report while we watched. A thousand tourists were photographed and marked for location and time on all the populous islands. Text notes included names and observations when available. The volunteers were in various stages of literacy, so the notes needed interpretation. But it was an ingenious use of common technology. I felt a Field Wiki article was behind it somewhere.
"Please arrange your network watch for the next few days. Here is a site I would like the reports sent to." I gave them a web dump for Saint Peter’s access. "Thank you very much for your service, ladies. Could you put that together right away while we speak to the Father?" They nodded in unison, "Oh Lord, arise, help us." They weren’t talking to us. It seemed a small litany for the task was in order. We left them to their calls.
Father Lott led us to his study. The six of us could not fit at once, so the Sergeants waited in the small Nave. Sir Juan and I found chairs facing the Father. "I was instructed to provide you any aid you may request, so long as my flock is not endangered."
I nodded agreement and asked, "We need your hospitality in finding us residence. We will only need a few days and will not track our work into their home." He found us an unoccupied neighborhood house within easy walk of the docks. "We also need a secure place to work, near the water." He provided a fifty square meter shed on an abandoned leg of the harbor. Sir Juan asked, "Could you find a boat we could charter without identification? Something that could get us to Nassau with little notice." He found a churchman with a charter business. We would be tourists or church goers to authorities and the owner would crew it himself. "Nicholas is a very discrete fellow. Here is his number."
Father Lott and the sisters impressed me with their ordered resources. I felt sure they provided these services often to fellow Christians. Places with high tourism often had a high disappearance rate. "I tell you this in confidence, Father. We are after slavers who prey on young women."
He looked up and sighed. "I appreciate your candor. Father Parker would not say your purpose. I am pleased that the Templars have taken a role in this rampant problem."
Sir Juan replied, "It is work that needs doing, Father."
We acquired a ring of keys and cell phones as we left. Father Lott recommended a home restaurant for our meals. He assured us that his flock would accept us warmly. I found Andros Parish refreshingly professional. Discussion over lunch showed I was not the only one.
Following the phone GPS, we found our new home. Etienne unpacked a pocket commo suite for our use. When the dish was in place, we went into conference. Lopez held watch.
I saw a grainy movie showing Nils Matheson enjoying himself on Paradise Island, except he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. The movie showed him berating his small retinue beside a pool. Judging angles, I would say that they were being recorded by the cabana boy. The Episcopal network was fully online. I wondered how the sisters were coping with Saint Peter.
Our problem with Nils was that we had only his conversations with Captain Dahl to incriminate him. As the owner of the Fara I Viking he could be fined under maritime law for unknowingly transporting captives. But he carefully worded his dialogues to avoid any admission of prior knowledge. Without that, Jacksonville couldn’t keep the yacht. If we grabbed him for upload, he was only a person of interest. Civil Advocates would keep him from hard questions. We needed him dirty for interrogations.
As long as he was keeping his visibility high at the resort, we could expect theater. He was building his alibi. Our efforts would be to maintain contact and bug his conversations. Develop our leads in the wild. Tonight and tomorrow would be our window. All Hallow’s would become the new target after that.
We three Musketeers had been seen frequently during the investigation, but Sir Juan and Lopez had not. Etienne joined their party for a tech role, but Rafe and I waved to them from the pier and did not go. We would hold their toys in the dock shed and ready for fight or flight. Once Nicholas’ old glass bottom tour boat came back, that is.
I lived vicariously, watching Sir Juan sip seltzers poolside as sculpted tourists worked off their tan lines. A stream of surveillance collected in their rental suite was packaged by Etienne and sent along to be digested, to wit; Nils was unhappy that his ship had disappeared. He had frequent outbursts where he expressed that to his people. A few of his people were favored for these outbursts, and so we identified his core team. None of them could make Nils happy again.
Nils ordered a simulator for the evening. It was delivered and set up by Lopez. The concierge must have been Episcopalian. From this bugged platform, Nils ventured into Gneflhiem as Larson’s Destroyer, a very high level Necromancer. He was followed to this setting by our own high level players and a snippet of code for his familiar, a capuchin monkey.
He spoke to an avatar in the study of his manse. The visitor looked like an evil undertaker. Dialogue was converted to text and dropped into a Blog.
Larson’s Destroyer: "The ship is not reporting. We cannot find it."
Vlad’s Bane: "How reliable is your captain?"
LD: "He would not steal my ship. He would never live through the sale."
VB: "Then he has disappeared in the triangle or is captured."
LD: "My Florida connection was raided. I don’t know if they handed off or not."
VB: "They got through my club, but it was raided too. Someone is looking."
LD: "We need to talk to Allway. See if the Solstice should be modified."
VB: "You talk to Allway. He will miss the girls."
LD: "Maybe I can get some more quickly."
VB: "Without the marketing they are just Temple whores. Don’t let fear of Allway make you offer something stupid. That may be Templars out there looking."
LD: "Djevelen! The devils were in Mexico. That is too close."
VB: "Then talk to Allway and get his orders."
Saint Peter introduced a bit of fast code that got Nils thrown off the Gneflhiem net. Then he crashed the simulator. I called Nicholas to pick up his fare plus one.
While we waited, Saint Peter worked identities for users Allway and Vlad’s Bane. The first could be a real name. Vlad’s Bane was Sten Laporte, co-owner of the Libertine. Better yet, we had evidence on Nils and he was the one appointed to deliver the bad news to the Khan, Allway. That enemy plan was just interrupted. I switched to Sir Juan’s feed.
Lopez got the repair order. Sir Juan came as a tech, pushing a new simulator. Etienne, inside the unit, popped up with his carbine and splatted the occupants that Juan had not incapacitated with his Skins. Lopez just slapped Nils and put him in the broken simulator. All prisoners slept with hard narcotics, time release could keep them out for days. Etienne and Lopez uploaded the guards as persons of interest and Juan wheeled Nils out the back. A groundskeeper gave them a lift to a little used dock. Nice Episcopalian hombre I’m sure.
Etienne told a story on the
dock to Juan and Lopez. They laughed low and sat with their apparently drunken friend until a dark tour boat clunked against the wood dock. Then they were quickly away from the lights of Paradise. I dropped out of net and prepared to receive visitors.
Rafe was halfway into his Skins and adding the air bladders when I got down to the dock shed. The big GE X-ray leaned against his bench. "I didn’t see, did they get away?" Rafe is quick to action, trusting me for detail on the run. It is a good multi-task when together. When separated, I sometimes worry.
"They are on the way now. Let me get to my Skins."
Saint Peter and Whitney ran their own program, sending a Garda Lifter to San Andros field about two klicks to the west. Church networked cabs were enroute to grab us for extraction with our prisoner. I scanned these details as Rafe waded out into the water with his laser and disappeared. I slung my Hogdon and found shadows to stand in.
The boat was heard before seen, pounding along the waves at its probable top speed. Nicholas cut the boat alongside our tall dock and lined up the ladder with his gangway. Etienne and Lopez passed the limp Nils up to me as Sir Juan heaved out baggage. When Juan was done and got his feet on the ladder, Nicholas cut away to the north. It was a very brief offloading. Hopefully it would confuse any pursuit.
Three cabs arrived and were packed in minutes. Rafe walked dripping out of the sea and climbed into the second one. He would sit with Nils. "Please pardon the mess, monsieur" he told the driver. I rode with Etienne. "Any problems seen?" Etienne shook his head, "Non. His wristwatch and shoes had sales tags, so I gave them to the sea." He held up a finger, "I would like the core team picked up before the maids come."
"We’re working on the charges. When Nils talks, we’ll have the Garda serve."
The taxis lined up at the Garda side of the airfield. Two Royal Bahamian police in their red-legged pants discussed entry with Sir Juan and Sergeant Lopez.
The Red Legs said they didn’t have the warrant yet. Sir Juan waved his Garda ID.
They would let everyone but the prisoner in. Sir Juan got out of the cab.
The Red Legs backed up and clasped their belts. Then the field was lit day bright by a descending Stealth & Rescue Lifter. Sir Juan shouted, "There is the warrant."
We loaded quickly and spun away, to Jacksonville within the hour.
When we turned Nils over on landing, he was on suicide watch. The upload interrogations were being slowed by Matheson’s willingness to kill himself to escape. Somewhere, he was backed up and had an identity he could assume. Motivation would have to be primal, but torture took longer on suicides. The intel was often incoherent. It was one of the reasons Garda were hard to break.
Saint Peter questioned the Core team, with a Civil Advocate from Florida. Two were eager cooperators when confronted with other testimony. They sold leverage that flipped all the crew and implicated Nils on a variety of charges. Saint Peter played them off each other to confirm. The money trails showed true. Warrants were filed.
The Core team had their bodies picked up and flown out of Paradise before they woke. Jacksonville was only too happy to handle that, it meant keeping the yacht. Two of the Core also believed themselves immortal. Garda took their belts and rubberized the cells. These were bad men who had hurt hundreds. We did not want them disappearing before we knew where.
Roxy was in the box, along with Sir Hamblin and Johnson, learning their parts for our Captain Dahl play. Brown was in a box getting healed. We dragged our own bags in and collapsed around the armory until Lopez could disarm the door. Once gear was stowed, he told us where we could find bed or breakfast. I asked for the bed.
The Battlenet seemed a good way to get sleepy. The elaborate chains of reasoning were like an endless maze. I avoided overload by seeing what had been done in my name recently. Just clear out that inbox and see what happens.
I had called Major Wilson in Shreveport and given him a warrant for Sten LaPorte. Once he heard Sten was a former Libertine owner and had assets, he said he looked forward to making his acquaintance. I urged that he keep it quiet a few days if he found joy. Just tell Colonel Del Rey.
I had ordered some work done to the Fara I Viking. The big yacht engine now powered an upper deck weapon, a multi-use Tung Microwave. The after deck was formalized as a Lifter pad and the two watercraft racks now served a drone squadron in addition to a new launch. I paid extra to get a blending paint job and a foam box to fit over the Tung. The yacht was now a naval blockade platform. This Q ship treatment made me curious about plans, so I skipped to the Cay raid work spaces.
The Cay raid was a plan in progress. Units were in movement and links led back to the Jacksonville Garda. Other info links alerted Garda bases all the way down to Havana. I tried to ignore the fluctuations of movement and concentrate on parameters.
There was a timeline for delivery of the girls. Captain Dahl would normally be standing off the Cay tomorrow night and running them in with the launch. We expected the principal architects to be on the island, setting up before arrival of party attendees. Problems foreseen were the suicide of principals before we could bag them. They were probably backed up at a clinic somewhere for disappearance. We didn’t know the details. We would have to get close before they knew they were under attack.
We six Templars who weren’t going masked were scheduled for water infiltration. Sir Hamblin and crew would reveal the leaders and we would sweep in to collect. Only then would the Garda invade. Deployment was scheduled for later tonight, my time hack telling me it was after midnight in the Real. Inventories and transportation were in flux. I looked at aerials of the island and studied routes. If I couldn’t pull the strings, at least I could sight my own path.
The Gnefl Roadies had erected a black castle on the island out of water soluble foam. A build and forget media tech, it claimed no environmental impact. There was a huge inflated bubble cover to keep water off until the party. All was powered from a collection of airmobile habitats. The Roadies had a dozen flown in and strategically arranged. Satellite images showed them festooned with art.
The island was a failed resort turned corporate getaway on the north end of Guana Cay. It had been elevated with grown coral, like a loaf of baking bread, a hundred years ago. All of the Bahamas had received similar treatment or the whole country would have drowned by now. The partially built Marina was dredged to accept shallow draft yachts. A handful of lodges and homes held Gnefl visitors not housed on their boats. One narrow dirt road connected the marina to the triangular northern island where the castle was built. The Cay was only a kilometer wide on a side. All was owned by Gnefl for the week.
The beaches were shallow and full of reef formations, grown to pace above the ocean’s rise. Mangroves and mosquitoes held most of the outer edge of the island. I saw that the dredged channel for the yachts had eroded another channel between the northwest corner of the island and an even smaller island a half klick away. There was a small boat launch ramp there. It looked like the most depth for a covered insertion I was going to find.
I worked up a plan and sent it to Rafe and Etienne. If they thought it would work, I would kick it over to Sir Juan, Lopez and Brown. I was tired and didn’t want a stupid mistake in the system. I dropped out of the net to catch some sleep. I always sleep better with a plan.
****
I checked feed on Hamblin, waiting for cues. He was looking up at two men on the deck in sailor livery. One had a subgun, the other a pistol. The boat was tied to a watercraft platform like a little dock. We could step right up to the deck. Hamblin and Westin headed there to pave the way.
"I got all six girls here," Westin said, while closing with the crewmen. Hamblin showed no weapons and closed beside her. On the deck near the lower cabin were two men in Skins and armor. They cradled assault rifles. A small boat roared by and the wake set the Botec rocking. One of the crewmen shook a fist at it. The other said, "Well, get them up here. Let us see our guests." He gave an evil leer. Hamblin sub vocalized "Now."
The Mantas bobbed up to the surface and fired twenty millimeter rounds at the sides of the bridge and hull. They were using squash head EMP rounds. Impact energy was converted to power spikes instead of holes. The flat bangs sounded like a moment of hail on a metal roof. Our Battlenet fuzzed and went down. Johnson stood and fired his L-17 before charging the deck. I ran out behind him, clearing the way for the rest to exit. Someone shouted "Garda."
On the deck, both sailors were down with splats. One of the Skin guards was down with a head wound, but the other was struggling with Hamblin and Westin. Closer examination showed they were wrestling with the Skins, the owner was napping. I passed them headed to the superstructure. Rafe and Etienne were right behind me while Johnson had moved to the other side. Three more Templars scrambled up from the boat.
Flat banging resumed for a moment, the Manta on the far side probably having spotted a backup system coming online. I heard Etienne say, "Merde!" The unexpected EMP had disabled his weapon. "C’est Guerre," Rafe said. That’s war for you. He slapped charges on the cabin door and turned his back to trigger them. When he turned back to pull the door off I noticed scorch marks on his Skins.
Gunfire came from inside. A blast removed a portion of the frame and flung it at Rafe, who fell down. I saw movement inside behind a teak bar and fired a burst from the Hogdon. The twenty gram slugs punched large holes through the bar and fragmented. That corner of the room just flew to pieces, revealing a perforated sailor and a chrome shotgun. Etienne gave Rafe a hand up, "Are you nostalgique? Never stand in a doorway."
The Battlenet buzzed and came back up. Hamblin called for the marines right away. "Follow on now." I brought up Tactical and checked tasks. The marines would slack rope onto the deck in three minutes. We held only the deck and lower cabin. Sport boats around us were drifting away on the current. I told my Sergeants, "Let’s go up."
We heard gunfire from the floor above. Tinted pieces of window rained down. Sergeant Brown, out on the deck, was hit a few times. Sir Juan aimed his laser from one knee and the shooting stopped.
Brown got gingerly up to his feet as a drone gunship sped into view. It shot off a few antennas and menaced the superstructure like an angry wasp. I saw it peering in the cabin window at us and experienced a fight or flight chill.
Etienne was using the fiber optic stalk on his helmet to cut angles on the stairs when I caught up. Rafe was behind him with his little Gatling. I held the steps, watching the lower cabin. Sir Hamblin and Sergeant Johnson entered and approached the lower staircase. That freed me to follow my men. Up top, Etienne stopped suddenly and knifed his hand at the ten o’clock position. Someone waited.
The howl of heavy Lifters on the deck created a distraction. Etienne suddenly popped upright and loosed two shots from his backup pistol. He ducked back down and Rafe stepped up but did not fire, just panned the Gatling around the cabin. "Two down up here." I saw them myself in a moment; one sprawled behind a table and one down by the broken window. Both were in Skins. Both had mangled heads.
A voice carried down from the bridge stairwell. "We yield. You have the ship. Do not shoot." Captain Aksel Dahl had had enough.
There were the four dead and Sergeant Brown had a broken scapula. Everyone else was cuffed and tagged. We had to fish several consultants out of the water from the dead boats, using our swim mods to push them back to the yacht. Angry drone gunships aided their cooperation. All told there were five crew, one surviving guard and eight consultants that needed sorting out. A Lifter made a landing on the aft deck and we loaded it with prisoners. The next Lifter received the bodies and two girls we had found below decks, locked in a stateroom. They sounded Dutch but were incoherent. All prisoners and witnesses were uploaded to Saint Peter.
I suppose I could not conceal my interest among friends. Roxanne and I ended up sharing boat drinks over a righted table in the second floor lounge. The broken window provided the only breeze, so we watched Marines laying out landing lights and power cells on the aft deck. Rafe and Etienne had arranged this tete a tete by busying everyone else and recommending I get "Gus" cleaned up. The East Coast Templars were not fooled.
Roxanne revealed was a mix of Creole and Cuban. Jet black eyes and hair. A light coppery complexion with a wash of nose freckles. Her real voice was a contralto growl that belied her small size. She came up to my chin and was muscled like a greyhound in her Skins.
The Battlenet had given us instant records on each other, so we did not fumble along with past details. She had been Transferred from her original body eight years ago. She was a Carolinas native, but training had hammered out her accent to a more neutral English. Her Templar-Garda transfer was approved thirty years ago. Near as I could figure, she was pushing sixty subjective years. Roxanne looked about thirty five now. She was solo.
The net had given her my history in similar fashion. She knew I was in my fourth body and forty six. I assumed she knew I was also solo. The thing our records did not tell was why.
"So why the Templars?" I asked. She toyed with a celery stalk and replied, "I was raised in Summerville by parents on the Dole. There wasn’t much around except Garda and the Unitarian church, so I got my schooling there." She pointed her stalk at me, "What about you?" I told her about mi familia and our Catholic upbringing. She thought living on ranches was storybook. I tried to let her down softly. Growing up on the Dole couldn’t have been much fun, either.
We talked about Transferral and the Church. We both had our problems with that. "Unitarians are pretty liberal, so they got along with me OK after," she said. "I had more trouble with not being full black. People acted like it was my idea."
I pointed at my Asian face, "Does this look like any Jesus Navarro you ever heard of? Everybody I know gave me a hard time about the new look." She laughed at our problems and said, "It’s enough to make you suicidal."
Civilians could usually pick their body characteristics. Only Lotto winners, prisoners and Garda had limited choice. AI’s would pick for you from their inventories. I got mine because I was working in an Asian culture when the body died. Saint Peter thought I would be more survivable in a mimicking strain of Zombie. I thought he short termed his parameters.
There was a lot of high end food spoiling in the freezers, so the Marines rigged an enormous grill and cooked anything that looked good. Johnson dropped off kabobs skewered with arrows. He didn’t seem very friendly with me but wanted to see that we ate, especially Roxanne. I got the boyfriend vibe. When he left, Roxanne cupped my chin and passed lips over mine. "You havin fun now shuga?" I realized I was. We watched a sunset and may have overdone the boat drinks a little, but I had a good time sitting with Roxy.
When the Just-In-Time Lifter landed on the floodlit deck, I wondered where the time went. Orange jumpered techs guided supplies on loyal pallets to the lower cabins. Loyal pallets appear as a box with legs and follow their owners like nearsighted puppies. Their walk is comical.
I cupped Roxy’s chin and passed my own lips. "Let’s see about getting together after." She squeezed my wrist. "No kidding. You go to work now and bring momma the bacon." Roxy gave me a sardonic smile. I was warming to the familiarity of her re-emerging Carolina twang.
It only took a couple hours to restore operation. We tapped the computers into S
Our contractors got the yacht systems back up and restored all the smaller boats to service with the replacement of key parts. I shook hands with the last of them at three in the morning and watched them cartwheel away in their yellow Lifter.
An hour later, Father Cervantes and Nuncio showed up with the Marine’s relief Lifter. They had a loyal pallet loaded with tools to mix with the squads of Marines trading seats. Some collisions occurred but the Father passed both blind and deaf to their complaints. When I greeted him at the doorway, he appeared as my cousins had, bleary with ear sickness. I brought him in and sat him down on the couch. Nuncio fetched water while I raided the yacht’s first aid kit.
I handed Father the pills and said, "This is protocol, Father. Please use this immediately." He looked up sharply, remembering his own words. Then he looked at the pills with suspicion. I had to laugh, "It is for your head, but not that deep." He realized the gaff and for a moment he was just a man, caught feeling guilty. I found the demonstration that my drugging bothered him a comfort. For all I knew, it might have saved my life.
"They told me you had a sense of humor," he said. "What an unfortunate time for it to return."
"When you feel more yourself come join us in conference. I need to see what is new." Etienne and I dropped into lounge sofas and joined Battlenet. When not executing plans, it was best to make them.
Saint Peter and Whitney were both showing Librarian icons. They were fast processing investigations from all we held. At this point, the chains of information would rise above what a committee could grasp. Here, many investigations were lost in the past. Data increased exponentially. Game theory and forensic accounting tangled it up in math a quantum computer could eat for lunch when a brain would stall.
I looked at the enemy org chart. Names, jobs and target ratings filled in blanks. We grew a new tree of security specialists at Gnefl Co. There were a lot of them, but most had just shown up a day ago. We had scared them somewhere and they were raising the militia. Saint Peter’s opinion was that the yacht had failed a quantum ping from the connected unit. They couldn’t raise the Slaver ship anymore so we were seeing a deployment. We could expect company looking for their assets soon.
The engines started up and the Marines took stations for movement to the east. We were going to run the Fara I Viking up to speed and be far away by dawn. The Mantas still swam at our wings providing mil-spec systems for the path ahead.
Gus’ smuggler boat had been repossessed from our side by a heavy Lifter to Jacksonville. It was a deal worked out in advance by the AI’s. Jacksonville needed it back for Tar Bone’s case to ram through the confiscation. They would sell it to us after that if we wanted it back, one of those accountant deals that irritate.
Jacksonville also wanted the yacht to come home soon, hopefully without more damage. I pleaded evasion of aerial reconnaissance and hung up on that bean counter. "Give us a minute, please, to develop the mission before you take your toys and go home." The plan was to slide down the Abaco chain and work our way south toward Nassau. We felt a target was close.
Roxy and I were playing tourist on the sundeck when the Targets came in. We were providing normalcy to observation. Many sailboats and shorelines placed eyes on our extravagant ship. The Marines had changed to sailor livery for movement above deck. Rafe was fooling around with the little boats while wearing the Captain’s blazer. We froze in place for a moment to receive the news.
The Solstice event was booked for a private Cay out here in the Abacos. Forward parties from Gnefl were prepping the cay for visitors even now. There are a lot of little island cays in this chain, but we had Lat and Long to zero us in. The deck pitched as our course changed, to keep us distant from commercial flight paths to the site.
Captain Aksel Dahl was being worked up for a doppelganger assignment. Intense interrogations on many copies would firm up the character shortly. The surviving security agent and a crewman would be added to repertoires for supporting roles. We would need simulators for the actors. A forward medical surgical unit was also recommended for Sergeant Brown.
The problem was landing Lifters on ships around these islands. It was a big attention getter. Even at night it was visible for kilometers. We could run eight hours northwest and give Jacksonville their bonus. That would make getting what we needed later easier. Or we could try and pick up a shipment at one of the cays in the middle of the night. I questioned how much use the yacht was now. People were looking for it, but it was the hands and not the brains of the organization that would come. If found out, the Solstice would never arrive. We expected the brain trust to attend that in two days. Better to save the yacht for then. Disappear for now.
The Battlenet chewed the idea over for a while. We split forces. The yacht, the marines and the Father were going to Jacksonville. Sir Hamblin, Brown, Roxy and Johnson were going with it. Sir Juan and Sergeant Lopez were going to stay with us. We would continue operations in the Abacos until the plan reunited us. Things would be a little scary for a while.
The plan had grown beyond our grasp. AI’s would be directing us as cogs in a wheel. It was the only way to stay fast. Our operations roster now had two hundred and forty agents. I didn’t even know what all their jobs were. Our knowledge of the enemy involved kilometers and time zones I could not physically participate in. It was time to trust the training and Saint Peter. Like I said, a little scary.
We got off near Green Turtle Cay on the two launches. The yacht turned tail and left once we cleared the boat racks. Roxy waved a moment from aft and then I was staring at the wake. It was a fast ship for all its size. They would slip the cut to the north and be far from these islands in a couple hours. In our five meter boats, we bobbed like corks as the wake caught us. Rafe turned toward distant shores and brought the small sport boat to a bone jarring display of speed. Each wave required a strategy, so we endured in silence while Rafe worked. Etienne and I rarely boated. Rafe had won the right with little experience. He had worked undercover as a fisherman, once. I hoped Saint Peter was with him. Juan was very experienced, or just lightly loaded. He and Lopez beat us to the docks handily. I acknowledged their supremacy with a gesture that hurt my shoulder. I felt mugged from all the vibration.
Sir Juan led off our hike as we shouldered bags and left the boats behind. Less than three hundred meters into town, we came to Green Turtle airfield. It was a tiny VTOL service that usually hopped over to Treasure Cay airport for serious travel. We didn’t want to walk our bags past serious travel security. The little hoppers would let us jump like fleas across the islands and no nosy baggage checkers would molest us.
We used cash cards. They drew on Tibbet’s account as a Telecomm charge from Dallas. Charters could be expensive and confiscation was cheap. The five of us and our baggage were soon squeezed into an ancient Pelican hopper. The smiling pilot had a parrot that rode facing the windshield. As he banked, the parrot would lift a stubbed wing and lean. It was an interesting choreography.
I noticed the blue waters were transparent straight to the bottom on the banks, during a sharp turn. Fish were clearly visible at our low altitude. I tugged at my seatbelt and concentrated on the horizon, to ease my mind. We landed in Andros Town airfield at the big island. Taxis took us north on Queens Highway to the Mastic Bay Settlement. Saint Mary Magdalene church would provide us with helpful Episcopalians. Saint Peter had arranged it with the Rector priest, Lott.
We left taxis in front of a pastel house with a pink roof. Only an elaborate portico and sign hinted it was Mary Magdalene.
Father Lott in collared robes at the door confirmed it. "Please come in gentlemen. We are happy to welcome you to our Parish." The plural was two small, dark women dressed in white vestments. He introduced them as sisters Bethel and Sadie Jones. "They are my eyes and ears in the community."
I caught Etienne’s eye and gave him a quizzical look. He gave a ghostly nod and spoke to the sisters. "Enchante ladies. We have similar blessings in Alsace, but none so stunningly attired." Sadie made eye contact with him after that. She wanted to see what he meant. That was good. It meant they learned their technique. It wasn’t some kind of condition.
"If I wanted to know of any strangers in the area, how would you ladies proceed?"
Bethel answered in a whisper, "We would alert the network and collate the reports into a GIS."
Sadie added, "The airfields and docks would also get a watcher rotation from our volunteers."
I looked at Etienne and raised my eyebrows, "They have a network."
Etienne grinned back, "They are indeed a blessing."
The network was a church cell phone group plan for those too poor to afford them. GPS and cameras sent contacts directly to Bethel on an old cartographic workstation. She brought up a report while we watched. A thousand tourists were photographed and marked for location and time on all the populous islands. Text notes included names and observations when available. The volunteers were in various stages of literacy, so the notes needed interpretation. But it was an ingenious use of common technology. I felt a Field Wiki article was behind it somewhere.
"Please arrange your network watch for the next few days. Here is a site I would like the reports sent to." I gave them a web dump for Saint Peter’s access. "Thank you very much for your service, ladies. Could you put that together right away while we speak to the Father?" They nodded in unison, "Oh Lord, arise, help us." They weren’t talking to us. It seemed a small litany for the task was in order. We left them to their calls.
Father Lott led us to his study. The six of us could not fit at once, so the Sergeants waited in the small Nave. Sir Juan and I found chairs facing the Father. "I was instructed to provide you any aid you may request, so long as my flock is not endangered."
I nodded agreement and asked, "We need your hospitality in finding us residence. We will only need a few days and will not track our work into their home." He found us an unoccupied neighborhood house within easy walk of the docks. "We also need a secure place to work, near the water." He provided a fifty square meter shed on an abandoned leg of the harbor. Sir Juan asked, "Could you find a boat we could charter without identification? Something that could get us to Nassau with little notice." He found a churchman with a charter business. We would be tourists or church goers to authorities and the owner would crew it himself. "Nicholas is a very discrete fellow. Here is his number."
Father Lott and the sisters impressed me with their ordered resources. I felt sure they provided these services often to fellow Christians. Places with high tourism often had a high disappearance rate. "I tell you this in confidence, Father. We are after slavers who prey on young women."
He looked up and sighed. "I appreciate your candor. Father Parker would not say your purpose. I am pleased that the Templars have taken a role in this rampant problem."
Sir Juan replied, "It is work that needs doing, Father."
We acquired a ring of keys and cell phones as we left. Father Lott recommended a home restaurant for our meals. He assured us that his flock would accept us warmly. I found Andros Parish refreshingly professional. Discussion over lunch showed I was not the only one.
Following the phone GPS, we found our new home. Etienne unpacked a pocket commo suite for our use. When the dish was in place, we went into conference. Lopez held watch.
I saw a grainy movie showing Nils Matheson enjoying himself on Paradise Island, except he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself. The movie showed him berating his small retinue beside a pool. Judging angles, I would say that they were being recorded by the cabana boy. The Episcopal network was fully online. I wondered how the sisters were coping with Saint Peter.
Our problem with Nils was that we had only his conversations with Captain Dahl to incriminate him. As the owner of the Fara I Viking he could be fined under maritime law for unknowingly transporting captives. But he carefully worded his dialogues to avoid any admission of prior knowledge. Without that, Jacksonville couldn’t keep the yacht. If we grabbed him for upload, he was only a person of interest. Civil Advocates would keep him from hard questions. We needed him dirty for interrogations.
As long as he was keeping his visibility high at the resort, we could expect theater. He was building his alibi. Our efforts would be to maintain contact and bug his conversations. Develop our leads in the wild. Tonight and tomorrow would be our window. All Hallow’s would become the new target after that.
We three Musketeers had been seen frequently during the investigation, but Sir Juan and Lopez had not. Etienne joined their party for a tech role, but Rafe and I waved to them from the pier and did not go. We would hold their toys in the dock shed and ready for fight or flight. Once Nicholas’ old glass bottom tour boat came back, that is.
I lived vicariously, watching Sir Juan sip seltzers poolside as sculpted tourists worked off their tan lines. A stream of surveillance collected in their rental suite was packaged by Etienne and sent along to be digested, to wit; Nils was unhappy that his ship had disappeared. He had frequent outbursts where he expressed that to his people. A few of his people were favored for these outbursts, and so we identified his core team. None of them could make Nils happy again.
Nils ordered a simulator for the evening. It was delivered and set up by Lopez. The concierge must have been Episcopalian. From this bugged platform, Nils ventured into Gneflhiem as Larson’s Destroyer, a very high level Necromancer. He was followed to this setting by our own high level players and a snippet of code for his familiar, a capuchin monkey.
He spoke to an avatar in the study of his manse. The visitor looked like an evil undertaker. Dialogue was converted to text and dropped into a Blog.
Larson’s Destroyer: "The ship is not reporting. We cannot find it."
Vlad’s Bane: "How reliable is your captain?"
LD: "He would not steal my ship. He would never live through the sale."
VB: "Then he has disappeared in the triangle or is captured."
LD: "My Florida connection was raided. I don’t know if they handed off or not."
VB: "They got through my club, but it was raided too. Someone is looking."
LD: "We need to talk to Allway. See if the Solstice should be modified."
VB: "You talk to Allway. He will miss the girls."
LD: "Maybe I can get some more quickly."
VB: "Without the marketing they are just Temple whores. Don’t let fear of Allway make you offer something stupid. That may be Templars out there looking."
LD: "Djevelen! The devils were in Mexico. That is too close."
VB: "Then talk to Allway and get his orders."
Saint Peter introduced a bit of fast code that got Nils thrown off the Gneflhiem net. Then he crashed the simulator. I called Nicholas to pick up his fare plus one.
While we waited, Saint Peter worked identities for users Allway and Vlad’s Bane. The first could be a real name. Vlad’s Bane was Sten Laporte, co-owner of the Libertine. Better yet, we had evidence on Nils and he was the one appointed to deliver the bad news to the Khan, Allway. That enemy plan was just interrupted. I switched to Sir Juan’s feed.
Lopez got the repair order. Sir Juan came as a tech, pushing a new simulator. Etienne, inside the unit, popped up with his carbine and splatted the occupants that Juan had not incapacitated with his Skins. Lopez just slapped Nils and put him in the broken simulator. All prisoners slept with hard narcotics, time release could keep them out for days. Etienne and Lopez uploaded the guards as persons of interest and Juan wheeled Nils out the back. A groundskeeper gave them a lift to a little used dock. Nice Episcopalian hombre I’m sure.
Etienne told a story on the
Rafe was halfway into his Skins and adding the air bladders when I got down to the dock shed. The big GE X-ray leaned against his bench. "I didn’t see, did they get away?" Rafe is quick to action, trusting me for detail on the run. It is a good multi-task when together. When separated, I sometimes worry.
"They are on the way now. Let me get to my Skins."
Saint Peter and Whitney ran their own program, sending a Garda Lifter to San Andros field about two klicks to the west. Church networked cabs were enroute to grab us for extraction with our prisoner. I scanned these details as Rafe waded out into the water with his laser and disappeared. I slung my Hogdon and found shadows to stand in.
The boat was heard before seen, pounding along the waves at its probable top speed. Nicholas cut the boat alongside our tall dock and lined up the ladder with his gangway. Etienne and Lopez passed the limp Nils up to me as Sir Juan heaved out baggage. When Juan was done and got his feet on the ladder, Nicholas cut away to the north. It was a very brief offloading. Hopefully it would confuse any pursuit.
Three cabs arrived and were packed in minutes. Rafe walked dripping out of the sea and climbed into the second one. He would sit with Nils. "Please pardon the mess, monsieur" he told the driver. I rode with Etienne. "Any problems seen?" Etienne shook his head, "Non. His wristwatch and shoes had sales tags, so I gave them to the sea." He held up a finger, "I would like the core team picked up before the maids come."
"We’re working on the charges. When Nils talks, we’ll have the Garda serve."
The taxis lined up at the Garda side of the airfield. Two Royal Bahamian police in their red-legged pants discussed entry with Sir Juan and Sergeant Lopez.
The Red Legs said they didn’t have the warrant yet. Sir Juan waved his Garda ID.
They would let everyone but the prisoner in. Sir Juan got out of the cab.
The Red Legs backed up and clasped their belts. Then the field was lit day bright by a descending Stealth & Rescue Lifter. Sir Juan shouted, "There is the warrant."
We loaded quickly and spun away, to Jacksonville within the hour.
When we turned Nils over on landing, he was on suicide watch. The upload interrogations were being slowed by Matheson’s willingness to kill himself to escape. Somewhere, he was backed up and had an identity he could assume. Motivation would have to be primal, but torture took longer on suicides. The intel was often incoherent. It was one of the reasons Garda were hard to break.
Saint Peter questioned the Core team, with a Civil Advocate from Florida. Two were eager cooperators when confronted with other testimony. They sold leverage that flipped all the crew and implicated Nils on a variety of charges. Saint Peter played them off each other to confirm. The money trails showed true. Warrants were filed.
The Core team had their bodies picked up and flown out of Paradise before they woke. Jacksonville was only too happy to handle that, it meant keeping the yacht. Two of the Core also believed themselves immortal. Garda took their belts and rubberized the cells. These were bad men who had hurt hundreds. We did not want them disappearing before we knew where.
Roxy was in the box, along with Sir Hamblin and Johnson, learning their parts for our Captain Dahl play. Brown was in a box getting healed. We dragged our own bags in and collapsed around the armory until Lopez could disarm the door. Once gear was stowed, he told us where we could find bed or breakfast. I asked for the bed.
The Battlenet seemed a good way to get sleepy. The elaborate chains of reasoning were like an endless maze. I avoided overload by seeing what had been done in my name recently. Just clear out that inbox and see what happens.
I had called Major Wilson in Shreveport and given him a warrant for Sten LaPorte. Once he heard Sten was a former Libertine owner and had assets, he said he looked forward to making his acquaintance. I urged that he keep it quiet a few days if he found joy. Just tell Colonel Del Rey.
I had ordered some work done to the Fara I Viking. The big yacht engine now powered an upper deck weapon, a multi-use Tung Microwave. The after deck was formalized as a Lifter pad and the two watercraft racks now served a drone squadron in addition to a new launch. I paid extra to get a blending paint job and a foam box to fit over the Tung. The yacht was now a naval blockade platform. This Q ship treatment made me curious about plans, so I skipped to the Cay raid work spaces.
The Cay raid was a plan in progress. Units were in movement and links led back to the Jacksonville Garda. Other info links alerted Garda bases all the way down to Havana. I tried to ignore the fluctuations of movement and concentrate on parameters.
There was a timeline for delivery of the girls. Captain Dahl would normally be standing off the Cay tomorrow night and running them in with the launch. We expected the principal architects to be on the island, setting up before arrival of party attendees. Problems foreseen were the suicide of principals before we could bag them. They were probably backed up at a clinic somewhere for disappearance. We didn’t know the details. We would have to get close before they knew they were under attack.
We six Templars who weren’t going masked were scheduled for water infiltration. Sir Hamblin and crew would reveal the leaders and we would sweep in to collect. Only then would the Garda invade. Deployment was scheduled for later tonight, my time hack telling me it was after midnight in the Real. Inventories and transportation were in flux. I looked at aerials of the island and studied routes. If I couldn’t pull the strings, at least I could sight my own path.
The Gnefl Roadies had erected a black castle on the island out of water soluble foam. A build and forget media tech, it claimed no environmental impact. There was a huge inflated bubble cover to keep water off until the party. All was powered from a collection of airmobile habitats. The Roadies had a dozen flown in and strategically arranged. Satellite images showed them festooned with art.
The island was a failed resort turned corporate getaway on the north end of Guana Cay. It had been elevated with grown coral, like a loaf of baking bread, a hundred years ago. All of the Bahamas had received similar treatment or the whole country would have drowned by now. The partially built Marina was dredged to accept shallow draft yachts. A handful of lodges and homes held Gnefl visitors not housed on their boats. One narrow dirt road connected the marina to the triangular northern island where the castle was built. The Cay was only a kilometer wide on a side. All was owned by Gnefl for the week.
The beaches were shallow and full of reef formations, grown to pace above the ocean’s rise. Mangroves and mosquitoes held most of the outer edge of the island. I saw that the dredged channel for the yachts had eroded another channel between the northwest corner of the island and an even smaller island a half klick away. There was a small boat launch ramp there. It looked like the most depth for a covered insertion I was going to find.
I worked up a plan and sent it to Rafe and Etienne. If they thought it would work, I would kick it over to Sir Juan, Lopez and Brown. I was tired and didn’t want a stupid mistake in the system. I dropped out of the net to catch some sleep. I always sleep better with a plan.
****