"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. "Andwhereis it, by the way?"

Pierson gave him the coordinates and Mike blanched. "That'sinsidethe Banks, Bob! How the h.e.l.l 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 cl.u.s.ter of keys.

c.r.a.p, they're not even named. And that channel isnotvery 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 h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.t," 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 a.s.semble 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?"

"What do you need these for-padding?" Pam asked when she came back in.

"No," Mike said, taking a handful of each and putting them in gallon Ziploc bags. He sealed them with as little air as possible and set them to the side. "Could you ladies go topside and watch our position? When we get to N24 40.656 W78 46.228-it's marked on the GPS-come down and tell me. And, of course, keep an eye out for unfriendly locals."

Mike continued to a.s.semble what he considered essential gear for the mission until Courtney came down. He'd been pretty sure they were at the entrance to the channel when the boat slowed.

"We're pretty close," Courtney said. "There's breakers off to the east. Close."

"The edge of the Banks." Mike sighed, getting up and stretching; his joints ached from the weather change and sitting on the floor. "Now comes the fun part."

The wind was still blowing pretty steadily from the northeast and it was fairly cool up on the tuna tower.

But it was the only place he might be able to see if the channel marked on the map was imaginary or not.

"There it is," Mike said, pointing to a break in the surf line. He eased the boat over and blanched at the narrowness and depth of the channel. "We're going to go aground, I just know it." He pulled up the tide tables for the area and nodded. "Tide's making, so if we do go aground, we'll be able to float off. But I'll need to find a deep hole to set this thing or we'll be screwed when the tide goes out." He flipped a switch and the speakers started to boom with heavy ba.s.s.

"More Goth?" Courtney asked, sighing.

"I'm going to take you to a Goth concert, someday," Mike said, grinning. "You'll have a blast. And I need to get my head into mission mode. And in this debt, a better world is made . . ." he whispered. "In the fury of this darkest hour, we will be your light. You ask me for this sacrifice and I am Winter born . . .

I hear the angels call my name . . ."

Mike carefully negotiated his way into the channel, which widened out a bit beyond the entrance, and then began the process of trying to find his way through the maze.

Much of the channel marked on the maps was gone, storms and currents having torn down the walls of the channel and created shoals where clear water had been. But by luck as much as anything he was able to make his way through. He realized after a bit that it must have been dredged once upon a time and wondered why. Possibly for a salt extraction plant, long defunct. Now it was a ruined remnant of civilization in an uncivilized area.

Finally, well after dark, he reached the crop of keys that he'd spotted on the chart. There was a small open area on the northeast side of the islands, well out of sight of the target, and he dropped anchor while watching the area carefully for signs of life. This seemed like a natural spot for the local criminals to use for a base, but when he swept the islands with a thermal imager there weren't any hot spots. He still intended to circle the keys before he went in.

He'd kept navigational lights off as he approached and had the girls turn off all the interior lights, both so they wouldn't betray their presence and to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

Now he slipped below, using a blue lens flashlight to make his way to the weapons room. Pam and Courtney were in the darkness of the lounge and, having run out of things to talk about, were now sitting on the couch and looking nervous.

"When I'm gone," Mike said, "lock the doors and hunker down. If anyone but me comes to the boat, just tell them to go away. If they don't, just put a round through the door. If that doesn't work, get in the Bluebeard Room; it's got reinforcing that's not exactly noticeable and the door is armored. They won't be able to take the boat anywhere, so just let them take whatever they want to take. I can replace anything except you two," he added with a smile.

"Okay," Courtney said unhappily. "I don't suppose going with you would be better."

"Not hardly." Mike grinned. He handed the light to Pam, then made his way to the weapons room, turned on the bluelight in there, then picked up his packs, going back out to the fishing deck.

The boat had had a nice center console inflatable for a dinghy when he got it. He'd replaced it with a black Zodiac for reasons that had never been clearly articulated in his mind. Now he knew why and why he'd also gotten an engine silencer installed. He undid the Zodiac, then swung it over the side, bringing it around to the fishing deck to load.

There was another bluelight on the fishing deck and he turned it on, then stripped and put on pantyhose.

Over that went a black 3mm wetsuit. He wouldn't need it for the water, but it was better, he thought, than using fatigues for a combat swim, and the pressure of the neoprene tended to reduce bleeding in minor wounds. Once he had the suit on he camouflaged his face, then loaded all the gear he'd a.s.sembled from the weapons room into the Zodiac. Last he got out a Kryton rebreather and dropped that in the Zod. Rebreathers, which were underwater breathing apparatuses that didn't release bubbles, instead "rebreathing" the diver's exhalations, were generally considered to be military gear. However, modern rebreathers not only gave very long endurance underwater, up to twenty-four hours, but because there were no bubbles they also made spearfishing much easier. Fish tended to run from the sound of the bubbles with normal SCUBA. He'd picked up the rebreather for sport diving, but it would work just as well for a combat swim.

Once the Zod was fully loaded he climbed in and put on a set of NODs. The night was clearly lit with the goggles on and he started up the Zod, first circling the small string of keys and making sure that there was no sign of life, occasionally switching to a small thermal viewer to look for heat signatures. There didn't appear to be anything there, so he picked up his GPS, keyed it on, and headed south.

"This really sucks," Pam said as she heard the tiny sound of the motor fade into the distance. They were sitting in the near darkness of the lounge with only the small bluelight filtering out of the Bluebeard Room.

"I know," Courtney replied, fingering the pistol. "I really don't want to think about trying to defend this boat. I'm scared and bored at the same time."

"And h.o.r.n.y," Pam said. "Is that crazy?"

"I dunno," Courtney said. "But so am I."

"I don't want to stay here," Pam said, looking around the room. "It's too spooky. But I don't want to put on a light, either."

"There aren't any windows in the Bluebeard Room," Courtney pointed out. "And it's got that reinforcing he was talking about."

"Right," Pam said, standing up and making her way into the room.

"Well, now I'm really bored," Courtney admitted after a minute, setting the pistol on a locker. "And still h.o.r.n.y. I wonder when he'll be back."

"I wonderifhe'll be back," Pam said, leaning into her. She paused as she did it and cleared her throat.

"Uh, Courtney . . . ?"

"I was wondering what you were waiting for," Courtney said, putting her arms around the girl and lying back on the bed.

Chapter Twelve.

There was still a wind from the north kicking up a light chop and he used the chop to look for shoals.

Small breakers could be seen on the upwind side and the shoals were also marked by flatter water. He steered clear of these while keeping one eye on the GPS and checking around for signs of life.

He saw nothing on the transit to the target area. The water was clear of boats as well as islands. When he neared the target area he bore southeast, swinging in from the east towards the target and using the cover of the small islands northeast of the target, hopefully unsentineled, for cover.

He drove the Zod onto a slip of open beach and donned his gear. He'd loaded most of his weaponry in a waterproof bag, but he donned his armor and combat harness, with a USP .45 for a sidearm and MP-5 SPD on a friction strap. Then he put on his swim gear, including the rebreather, and slipped over the side, dragging the bag behind him.

The water was shallow around the keys but deep enough that, with the weights loaded into the rebreather harness, he could keep below water level. He crab-walked along the bottom, using the contour of the bottom and his compa.s.s, to move towards the northeast end of the island. He hit a couple of shoals and had to maneuver around them. He tried to stay eastward, where the map indicated thick mangrove cover.

The Kryton rebreather was good for nearly twenty-four hours and he could have made a much longer swim approach, but getting the yacht into position and all the rest had pushed him for time. It was nearly two AM by the time he started his swim and if the intel was correct-that the pickup was to be at around four-he barely had time to make the short swim from the Zod to the target, recon and do his raid. So he pushed his movement faster than he'd have liked, occasionally surfacing and using the waterproof NODs to check his position.

Finally he got to within a few dozen meters of the mangroves on the northeast side of the island and found a fairly deep channel in which to rerig. He dropped the rebreather, attaching his fins to it, and slowly surfaced, MP-5 in one hand, dive bag in the other, checking his position and looking for threats.

No one was in sight so he kicked towards the mangroves until his dive booties found soft ground. In moments he'd made his way into the outer rank of the mangroves and started making his way deeper into the thicket.

Mangroves were the major nurseries of tropical waters, small trees with complex root systems that acted to form cover for small fish and invertebrates. The roots curved downwards from the trunk and often were covered in oysters. In addition to being a nursery, they captured soil and held it in place, slowly building up land around their roots; many keys in the Caribbean were nothing more than the build-up from mangroves. They dropped their leaves regularly and the decaying leaves both supplied food and added to the material trapped in the roots. The roots prevented erosion from wind and wave, often being the only thing that survived hurricanes and kept the land from being completely swept away. All in all they were something of a miracle plant.

They also were a pain in the a.s.s. The tangled roots constantly tried to trap him as he made his way through the thicket. The microclimates formed in the roots mostly consisted of hot, almost boiling hot it seemed, water that stank to high heaven from decay. Each step raised bubbles of foul-smelling hydrogen sulfide gas, and the oysters and barnacles on the roots tore at his wetsuit, shredding it before he could even get shot.

But they gave him cover as he made his way onto the land, finally pa.s.sing into a narrow strip of sand where the mangroves ended and the sea grape still hadn't started. He paused before he entered that strip, sticking his head out of the mangroves and looking around carefully as well as using his ears and nose to check for signs of threats. Since nothing was in sight, he slid out into the open area and considered the situation.

There was a small gap in the mangroves on the north side, a strip of dirty beach about three meters wide. On the south side of the island there was a strip of real beach. The charts indicated truly shallow water near the north opening, so it was unlikely the relief boat would come in that way. However, it was a natural place to put a sentry.

The small island was covered in scattered palms with a heavy undergrowth of sea grape. Sea grape wasn't th.o.r.n.y or particularly unpleasant, but itwasthick, too thick to walk through. However, it had open area under it. He paused and opened up his bag, pulling out equipment and checking it. The main thing he needed from it was the thermal imager. n.o.body had ever made a thermal imager that could handle a dive approach, unlike standard NODs. He flipped up the NODs and swept the imager around, looking for hot spots. The immediate area seemed to be clear, so he slid the imager into a pouch on his combat harness, stored the bag in the mangroves and started crawling northeast under the grapes, cautiously probing for sentries.

He found the first one more or less where he expected, sitting on the sand of the north beach, looking out at the water and smoking a cigarette. The wind had shifted around to the south and Mike moved cautiously so as not to give away his position, choosing each placement of his hands and knees with care.

There was a narrow path running generally southeast to northwest and terminating at the water. He slid out into this open area carefully, checking to see that the sentry wasn't in sight of any of his friends, then slid the MP-5 to burst and put three rounds in his head. The sentry flopped backwards so that he looked like he had simply fallen asleep, except for the twitching of his legs and arms. Mike wasn't sure exactly why one guy in four was a twitcher, but it was pretty consistent. Make for a great doctoral dissertation some day.

He used the path, cautiously, probing southwest towards the target building, stopping from time to time to check with the thermal for heat. Finally, after a move of about fifty meters, he spotted a heat image and dropped down to crawl cautiously forward.

There was an open area running up from the beach. It was about seventy meters long and about fifty deep, in an irregular oval. The target building, which was lit, was on the north side, the beach on the south, and otherwise it was surrounded by sea grape. There were a few palm trees scattered around, but not many. The ground was sand covered liberally with palm fronds.