Cliff Ryder - The Powers That Be

“Make division head, and you’ll find out.”

“Yeah, speaking of, that does bring up a question, sir—

just why are you overseeing this operation?” Marcus asked.

Jonas stared at him from behind his sunglasses. The kid’s not just charm and good looks, he thought. “Our superiors felt that I was the right person to handle this op, and that’s all you need to know. Now, come on, let’s get you ready for your insertion.”

FIVE HOURS LATER, Marcus called out, “This is more like it.”

They were riding in the cockpit of a Tiara 4200 Open yacht as it knifed through the calm Atlantic Ocean at thirty knots. Twin Caterpillar C-12 diesel engines rumbled behind them, propelling the pleasure craft through the darkness toward Cuba.

“I thought we’d be using a cigarette boat for this, you know, something more Miami Vice. ” Marcus wriggled into his one-piece, black, three-quarter wet suit.

“It’s bad enough that I’m dropping you off as it is, but just how much attention do you want to attract?” Jonas sat at the helm, dressed in khaki shorts, a short-sleeved shirt and a light windbreaker. His face was lit in a greenish tinge by the radar array and control board. “This way, I can claim to be just another European tourist lost at sea.”

“Yeah, if they don’t nab you on suspicion of ferrying illegals.” Marcus checked the regulator of his scuba tank, then measured his weights out. Nearby was his water-proofed package of gear, along with the small, battery-powered underwater sled that would carry him to shore.

Jonas reached under the console to reveal the butt of a HK P-30 V1 9 mm pistol. “I’m ready to repel boarders.

Besides, current military reports say the majority of Cuban patrol boats are inoperable.”

“Now who’s looking to draw attention?” Marcus asked with a grin. “It’s not the regular patrol boats you should be worried about, but the confiscated ones they’ve been using against the smugglers.” He peered out at the darkness, searching for the island he’d be stepping on for the first time in his life—his homeland. “Thousands of people try to flee every year. Only in this job would I actually be trying to get into Cuba.”

“Don’t worry about it—you’ll do fine.” Jonas checked his watch. “ETA to drop point twenty minutes. You’re sure you can handle the insert?”

“Ranger training made us swim for hours carrying full gear. With the sled, this won’t even count as exercise.”

The two men fell silent for the next few minutes, each concentrating on the job he had to do. For Marcus, a water incursion was simple enough, although he’d have preferred a HALO drop over the island—less risk to everyone. However, if Mr. Heinemann was as adept at nautical excursions as he had been at ordering his wardrobe at the tailor, then he could more than handle himself. He glanced over the older German, who sat at the yacht’s controls like a steady stone pillar, making minute adjustments to their course.

Marcus thought he had a good idea why their handlers had chosen him—the man looked as if he’d seen it all, but could still handle anything the covert life threw at him. And the ease with which he handled navigating down to Cuba made Marcus suspect he’d been there before.

“Hey,” he called as he slung the air tank and vest on his back. “Sorry about the third degree earlier.”

Jonas’s eyebrow rose as he glanced over. “Accepted, but unnecessary. Were our positions reversed, I would have wondered the same thing myself.”

“But…?” Marcus waited for more.

The corner of Jonas’s mouth crooked up in a half smile.

“But I would have left it at just wondering.”

“Touché.” Marcus put on his weight belt, adjusted it, then tested his regulator again. He spit in his mask and rinsed it out with water. Next he checked his fins, making sure they were snug and comfortable on his feet.

“Ten minutes to insertion point.” Just as he said that, Jonas saw a flash of light from the southwest, which rapidly grew larger. “You weren’t kidding—they are patrolling tonight.” Although they had chosen an area that should have been deserted, the boat approaching proved otherwise.

“Damn, must be Cuban Border Patrol. No one else would have lights on out here.” Marcus crouched down as the spotlight played over the pleasure boat. “Looks like I get off here.”

“No, we’re too far out. The currents could sweep you completely past the island. Let me go a bit closer. Get on the port side and stay as low as you can,” Jonas said.

The boat was much closer now, and was a similar style to what Jonas was piloting, although about fifteen feet shorter. Three men dressed in olive fatigues stood in the cockpit, one piloting the boat, one next to him holding an AK-47 rifle and the third with a megaphone to his lips.

“¡Pare el barco!” he shouted.

Jonas held his hand to his ear and shrugged.

“These guys don’t have any compunction about shooting suspected smugglers, you know,” Marcus hissed.

“Just a few more seconds—go when I turn hard to port.”

“Are you sure—it’s three to one—”

“Go on my mark. That’s an order.”

Marcus dropped his mask and gave Jonas the thumbs-up.

“¡Pare el barco inmediatamente!” To punctuate the request, the armed Cuban fired a short burst across the pleasure yacht’s bow.

Nodding his head vigorously, Jonas waited another five seconds, bringing Marcus a hundred yards closer to the island, then spun the wheel hard left, making the forty-four-foot craft gracefully turn away. “Go,” he whispered.

As soon as he felt the yacht lean, Marcus popped up and out, following his gear into the warm water.

“He’s dead in the water. Second agent is away from the craft.”

“You know, I would appreciate it if you didn’t use phrases like that at this exact moment.” Kate steepled her hands, keeping them still while giving her something to do. This was a part of the job she despised: sitting safe and sound while watching operatives risk their lives in real time, and knowing if something happened, she would be absolutely powerless to help.

“Yes, ma’am,” KeyWiz said. He was a cyberjock, not a fool. Recognizing the clipped tone in Kate’s voice, he dialed down a bit.

“Show us who’s interdicting,” Kate said.

KeyWiz tapped his namesake, and the picture on the large holographic screen zoomed in closer on the region, with the peninsula of Florida jutting down from the north and the curved island of Cuba arcing through the tropical water like a lethal serpent.

This could claim two operatives before it’s all over. Kate shook off the foreboding thought. She had no doubt that Jonas could handle himself—the man probably had more experience in covert ops than any two of her people. In fact, the more she had thought about it, the happier she was that he was overseeing the mission—it freed up Denny to concentrate on the myriad threats Room 59 was keeping tabs on in the States. Also, Jonas could be counted on to make sure that the operation didn’t turn wet until absolutely necessary. Even now, as they were being boarded by potential hostiles, Marcus had left the boat and was executing his assignment. Which is great, except that leaves Jonas alone against three—

“I’ve got it.” NiteMaster had used the satellite’s imaging capability to zoom on the two boats bobbing in the middle of a watery nowhere.

The detail was so good Kate could make out four figures, the one in the larger boat rising from his chair, keeping his hands in plain sight. Three men in uniforms and billed caps, one holding what was obviously an assault rifle, came on board.

“Looks like Cuban Border Patrol—must have spotted them coming in,” NiteMaster said.