Deep Blue (9 page)

Tomlinson, wearing shorts and a tank top, stood and walked barefoot to the stack of phone books, and began shuffling through them. “Beer—rehydration's important in the tropics, but why not buy a liquor license, too? I picture a seafaring motif: antique charts, serving wenches in low-cut dresses. And over there”—he pointed—“big-ass speakers for bands we can hire. I say we run the place as a private club. No suits or pinheads allowed . . . But seriously, ladies, you really want to change the name?”

JoAnn was asking Mack if he needed investors, or had the cash, while Tomlinson continued with his thread. “How about we call this”—he had to think for a moment—“call it the Float On Bar. Or . . . the Déjà Vu Inn—yeah, the little hideaway so friendly, you could swear you've been here before. But to change a classic name like Grin and”—he plucked a magazine from the stack, saying, “Aha! Here's proof. What did I tell you, Doc?” He held up the magazine. “This is why we never heard of the place. Nudists don't advertise for the same reason they don't need pockets.”

International Naturists
, the publication's name; lead story, Ford didn't bother to look when it was passed around.

Mack answered a few more questions before getting down to it. “None of us are getting any younger. Down the road, five or six years, if the feds kick us out, we'll have a place to go. A sort of a—what do you call it?—family compound. That's a perk. What I didn't tell you is the owner has accepted my offer. I want to get
this place up and running before the season's done. With me, it's strictly business. If the buildings are structurally sound, if there's no mold, and if the title's clear, I'll sign the contract. Mold is a hell of a lawsuit risk. Doc? That's why I asked you to bring your tools. Let's check behind some of the drywall and have a look inside the vents.”

Ford helped for a while, then left his tools and the truck with Tomlinson and jogged home.

•   •   •

What kept going
through his head as he lay in bed was Mexico and the procession of events after he'd stepped out, pistol raised, and said to the woman, “Tell me what happens next.”

Ego had made him do that. It was his reply to the charge of predictability.

KAT—
Astra
, her name tag had read. Who the hell was she? And why was a supposed asset, working with people like Shepherd and Muslim radicals?

More likely, she'd been turned by the Chinese.

A striking woman. In his mind, Ford saw her face in profile but winced when he imagined how her face must look now. That started an unfolding scene, the way it had happened, and he couldn't stop the slow-motion details flashing behind his eyes.

The look of contempt on her face—KAT, naked, a smoldering joint in her fingers, yet she did not attempt to cover herself, but the man did. He had stepped back to use her as a shield, both his hands fanned low, a fig leaf to hide his genitals.

KAT's voice had remained calm while she ignored the gun and
looked into Ford's eyes. “
Really?
Just how dumb are you? Pull that trigger, even if you shoot us both, our security people will be all over this place. You ever even seen the inside of a Mexican jail? That's what's going to happen
next
unless . . . are you drunk? Is that the problem? Or just stupid?”

Ego; another spark. KAT's gray-green eyes had bored in while Ford stepped toward them. Winslow Shepherd, then the woman, took a step back, the balcony railing only a meter away. She'd kept talking. “What's your name? If you're going to kill us, it can't hurt for me to at least know your name.”

Ford, lying in the void of a late waxing moon, remembered thinking,
She's had hostage negotiation training.

Then came a momentary distraction: the woman irritated by Shepherd, who was cowering behind her. “For god's sake, Winslow, take your hands away from your dick. This man's a jock—
look
at him. He certainly doesn't care. He's been in”—gray-green eyes, black in starlight, followed the joint's ember when she flicked it away, then pivoted to him—“you've been in lots of locker rooms, haven't you? Football? You're from the U.S., and you've got the size.” A glance over her shoulder; laughter with an edge. “Poor, scared Winslow—neither one of us cares about your dick, so please just stop.”

Oh, she was good. Tough under pressure. Ruthless, but her veneer began to crack when she heard the metallic clack of a pistol hammer. It caused them both to retreat another long step, palm trees, a tiled deck eight stories below. Suddenly, they both became talkative, chattering away about how unnecessary this was, they could make a deal.

Then Shepherd, who had begun pleading, did something Ford hadn't anticipated. He clamped a hand on KAT's shoulder while he reached blindly, blindly, for the railing with his other hand. Finally, found it; assumed the heavy wood would support his weight when he pulled the woman closer as a shield and he leaned back . . .

Goddamn it . . . that wasn't supposed to happen.

Ford threw the sheet off and stood, aware of an odd humming noise outside. A rain cistern blocked the bedroom view, so he went to the galley, where the windows opened out onto the marina and the bay. A cool breeze huffed through the screens; the house, on pilings, seemed to lean, with the tide running below.

Huz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z . . .

Again, he heard it . . . each thrumming chord in sync with a slow-gusting wind. He followed his ears into the moonlight and found the source: two fishing rods, lines taut, had been left in rod holders clamped to the railing. Ford remembered loaning them to Jeth Nicholes, one of the fishing guides, who had returned the rods while he was away.

End of alarm, but he wandered around the deck anyway, checking the area from different angles. His nerves, sensitized by lack of sleep, made it difficult to sleep. A twitchy, sand-under-the-skin feeling.

On nights like this, he sometimes anchored his boat in a quiet spot and dozed beneath mosquito netting on the bow. Maybe that's what he would do—guess where he'd lost the UAV and anchor there to guard the area. It wasn't that late, just a little after midnight. The quarter moon told him the time. Its craters,
rust-colored behind clouds, tilted low in the west. Moonset on this early Monday morning was twelve twenty-two a.m.

It was the sort of thing Ford checked daily.

Bayside, he stopped at the railing. A white anchor light bobbed near the mouth of the bay. It was a mile or more away, but distance was tough to judge over water, especially at night. A mullet fisherman, probably. He cleaned his glasses, let his eyes adjust, and saw two fast shadows cross the sky—flitting images, like bats flying out of the moon.

Were they late-roosting birds or more drone aircraft?

He grabbed his equipment bag, a pillow, and went down the steps to the lower deck, where his boat was cradled on a lift.

“Damn,” he said, but welcomed the diversion.

The drones didn't arrive until two hours later. Ford, who had been unable to sleep, found it damn near impossible to wake up until he realized what was happening.

He had anchored a quarter mile from the marina, almost parallel to Tomlinson's sailboat,
No Más
, but a long distance away.

It was a sleepy, breezy, starlit night, once the moon vanished. In his dreams, he was adrift on a jungle river, gliding toward a waterfall that, instead of roaring, made an oscillatory hum like propellers. The propellers whirred louder, ever closer, as the falls sucked him toward oblivion—an eight-story drop, a tiled patio below, that was shattered by KAT's scream when the rail gave way. Then Winslow Shepherd, with his arms locked around the woman's neck, rode her
down, down, down to cushion himself from the bone-on-concrete crunch that silenced them both for a few seconds.

Then came the agonized cries.

Ford sat up and realized he was awake. He scooped saltwater into his face, but the electric hum of propellers continued. He found his glasses, then opted for the NVG monocular, which he'd left within easy reach along with a flashlight and the laser.

The flick of a switch transformed night into fluorescent-green day.

It didn't take long to locate the source of the noise. Two small aircraft, one elongated, the other more like a multi-bladed helicopter, hovered low over the water a football field away. His first reaction was to grab the laser, but then he realized it might be wiser to sit quietly and observe for a while. No rush. Somewhere, in a darkened room or vehicle, computer pilots were monitoring live video from cameras that were their surrogate eyes.

Had they seen him? Probably not—or the pilots were so fixated on finding the missing UAV, they didn't give a damn about anything else.

Another factor was Ford's unusual boat. The hull was Kevlar encircled by inflated tubes of black carbon fiber that looked bulletproof—and maybe were, considering the agency that had commissioned the design. To minimize radar signature, the boat was built low to the water with few right angles or vertical surfaces. Covering the bow was a hood made of neoprene polymer sheeting that was radar-absorbent. When opened, the hood made a nice little tent to sleep under.

Ford checked the time. It was almost three in the morning. In
Europe, the computer types were already at their desks. It was possible the operators were there, but this was a clandestine op and stealth was more important than punching a clock.

He settled back . . . then gradually got to his feet, thinking,
I wish I had video,
because what he saw surpassed his assumptions about drone technology.

They were golf-cart-sized aircraft with multiple propellers that made them immune to gravity. In his mind, he designated one as the saucer, because that's what it resembled, the other a helicopter, but shaped more like a canoe. No lights at all; invisible without NVG optics. They hovered for a few seconds . . . separated in a slow search pattern, then hovered again minutes later.

The laser fried the drone's telemetry,
Ford thought.
They can't find it. If they do, they'll mark the spot and send a recovery team later. Nothing to worry about now.

Even so, he crawled aft, found his dive bag, and laid out mask and fins. The laser was waterproof, but a poor choice if he had to act fast. That afternoon, it had taken a full minute to bring down the UAV. He added the laser to the pile anyway. Then, after thinking a moment, he pulled anchor, too, but quietly.

Wind had settled; his boat—27 feet of Kevlar with a rigid inflated collar—caught what little breeze there was and drifted toward the unmanned aircraft.

They were still hovering, but lower, only a few yards above the water. Ford used night vision to watch until the belly of the helicopter emitted a blinding light. The saucer switched on lights, too, and became an amphibious vehicle that kicked up spray when it landed
in five or six feet of water. Then it did the impossible—the vehicle tilted itself, using some kind of jet propulsion, and dived like a miniature sub.

They had found the missing UAV.

Geezus . . . the laser wouldn't be fast enough to stop what was happening. He looked around for another weapon. A fish gaff—a short pole with a steel hook—was within easy reach.

He grabbed it and went over the side with mask and fins.

•   •   •

Cameras on the helicopter
spotted Ford swimming on his back, low in the water, when he was a few body lengths away. A beam of hot light, or an electrical charge, found him and stabbed a sizzling jolt through his temple.

Damn.

He submerged and nearly panicked, worried he'd been blinded or that a high-tech laser had seared the synapses of his brain. No . . . he could still see, and he was so pissed-off, his anger proved all brain circuitry was working.

The saucer was nearby in five feet of water, illuminating a chunk of bottom with its LEDs. The lights provided a point of reference. He spun around, used his fins, and skimmed over tufts of sea grass and sand until the helicopter's lights were above him. No telling if it was still hovering low, but he wasn't going to linger and risk getting zapped again.

To hell with the laser. Ford crouched on the bottom, then rocketed upward and swung the gaff. He made contact. He swung
again—a glancing blow that spun the drone around and sheared off a couple of propellers. The machine battled to right itself, and nearly succeeded, while Ford dolphined in pursuit.

He breached the surface a second time and made solid contact before splashing down like a whale. When he came up, the aircraft was in the water, circling like a duck with a broken wing and showering sparks.

“Bastard!” He drew back the gaff to finish the job but was knocked sideways by a searing pain in his thigh. For a crazy second he thought,
Stingray,
but then understood: the saucer UAV had zapped him from underwater. Worse, it was coming after him, lights blazing.

Ford started toward his boat, then thought,
It's too far,
and launched himself toward the saucer instead. It was only a few body lengths away and appeared to be surfacing.

Whap.

A bead of light hit him in the shoulder.

Whap.
Another grazed his ear; the drone so close, the glare was blinding.

He struggled to stand—never easy with fins—and swung the gaff before his feet were under him. The impact of aluminum hitting carbon fiber sent an electric jolt down his arm. Again he swung but missed, and momentum carried him face-first into the water. This time, he stayed under and used the fins until he was near the boat before he surfaced and looked back.

The saucer had either sunk or flown away, but the copter was there, still plowing wounded circles. Ford kept his anger in check until he was close enough to use the gaff and swung it like an axe
three times. The crunch of carbon fiber was satisfying, but the machine's power source wouldn't quit.

He looked up in frustration. “Where are you sons of bitches?” he yelled and hit the machine again . . . then again.

From a sailboat in the distance an unexpected voice hollered back, “Doc . . . ? Hey, Doc! If the sonuvabitch isn't dead yet, don't kill him, man. At least until I get there.”

•   •   •

When Tomlinson heard
a wild splashing in the distance, he grabbed binoculars and hurried topside. When he saw Marion Ford's boat, then Ford himself hacking away at some poor bastard in the water, he turned and spoke to the pretty veterinarian. “This appears to be one of those family emergencies that's personal and, no doubt, ugly. Would you mind tossing your clothes in the dinghy so I can take you ashore? We're a little pressed for time here.”

“What did you mean
don't kill him
? Who's out there?” The woman, naked, her breath sweet with the odor of good herb, poked her head out the companionway. “All that splashing, you said it was probably dolphins.”

“Could be. Yep. Entirely possible. On the other hand, I'm not exaggerating when I say the less you know about me and my friends, the better. I'm talking about people at this marina. Oh, sure, they might appear to be normal, even semi-sane, but you don't want to peek behind the curtain when it comes to this crowd.”

“Oh my god—you're serious.”

“You betcha. I might write another book.”

“Are you saying they're criminals?”

“Worse. High-ranking government employees, some of them—but you didn't hear that from me. Sex fiends and deviants are a walk in the spring rain compared to a few of my neighbors, but we all manage to get along.” He pointed to A dock. “Every boat has a story that would curl your hair. Come on . . . get dressed. We've got to go.”

The woman, with a fresh huskiness, said, “Instead of just vacationing, maybe I should move here.”

She ducked into the cabin, where the flame of an oil lamp cast exotic shadows. Tomlinson feasted on various intersections of her body: soft underbelly of breasts, chines of ribs, a shaved mound, the joining of thighs and luxurious lips.

“Look at you,” the woman grinned. “You're ready again. I had no idea older men were so much fun.”

This was a surprising thing to hear. He'd never thought of himself as older or younger than the women he had loved, but only said, “Pay no attention to that heartless bastard. My brain is in complete control.” His eyes swept the cabin. “Any idea where your bra ended up? Or I can bring it along, if you'd like to meet for breakfast.” He paused. “I know your first name's Ava—Dr. Ava—and you have a Scandinavian sort of last name. What was it again?”

“I'm sleeping right here,” the woman replied. “This is the first time I've been stoned since vet school and I'm going to savor every moment.” She turned her backside to him and crawled into the V-berth on hands and knees, a sprig of mistletoe on the hatch above as her butt disappeared. It was a Yuletide tableau that squeezed the heart and damn near brought tears to his eyes.

“God bless this life and all the lives to come,” he said. “Oh—
later, if you hear me talking to someone—a guy, most likely. No matter what we say, we're either lying or making shit up. You're a doctor. I refuse to drag you into whatever sinister scheme a pal of mine might be cooking up.”

No time for an explanation.

He started the little four-stroke on his dinghy and sped away.

•   •   •

“A blimp?”
Tomlinson said to Ford. “Why are you out here at three in the morning beating the shit out of someone's toy blimp?”

What Ford had thought of as a helicopter did, indeed, look more like a motorized zeppelin now that he was in his boat, engines idling, with the spotlight on. In the white glare, insects and exhaust spiraled above the little aircraft's hull, which was partially submerged. It was the size of a garbage can, but sleek, carbon-colored, no markings save for solar panels and jagged tears in the fuselage caused by the gaff. A line had been secured around the thing and cleated off at the stern.

Ford, aiming a flashlight at his thigh, asked, “Do you see a bruise there? And on my shoulder?” He craned his neck. The spots throbbed as if he'd been burned. Then he was done with it and put the flashlight away. “I'm going to tow it in and take a closer look. No need for you to stick around.”

Tomlinson, in his dinghy, looked up at his pal, who was standing at the console, putting stuff away—an obsessive neat freak. “Not until you explain what's going on. Wait—shine the light on the blimp again. That's not the same one you shot down this afternoon. Or whatever the hell you did.”

“Keep your voice down,” Ford said. “You know how sound travels. It's up to you, follow me or don't, but there's not much more I can tell you.”

Tomlinson, thinking,
Why am I not shocked?
followed his pal anyway, neither of them saying much until their boats were secured and they were in the lab, where Ford, wearing soggy shorts, no shirt, switched on a desk lamp next to the computer. “Do me a favor and look up a guy named Winslow Shepherd. I'm going to get some dry clothes on.”

“The Australian activist—that Shepherd? If it's the same one, I—” Tomlinson stopped midsentence, looking at his friend's leg. “That's one bad-ass bruise you got there, pal.”

“You know him? He's a math professor . . . or used to be.”

“
Knew
him,” Tomlinson replied. He took the desk lamp and held it out like a torch. “Wow . . . I've never seen a bruise like that before. How'd it happen?”

Ford looked at his thigh, where there was a welt with radiant lines of green and purple. It resembled glass that had been shattered by a bullet. “Tell me about Shepherd. Or his son, Julian—do you know him, too?”

“Turn around, dude. Come on . . . just do it.” After a moment, Tomlinson returned the lamp to the desk. “There's another bruise just like it behind your shoulder blade. And . . . Geezus, your ear's all screwed up, too. Did you get shot, or speared, or . . . ? No—don't tell me, but, man, you should have a doctor take a look.” He snapped his finger. “Hey, just so happens I was, uhh, consulting with a doctor earlier. She's asleep on my boat.”