//------------------------------//
// 3:1 
// Story: Troublemaker 
// by totallynotabrony 
//------------------------------//


Part Three

When Troublemaker left Murmansk, Ivanova was on board.  The CIA had agreed to work more closely with the FSB.  We were headed for the Mediteranian to support an operation to go after Al-Azhem. 
I had taken a plane home to set the company back on its feet, but had promised to be waiting at Gibraltar to get back on the boat as it passed by on its way to Libyan waters.  
It had taken all the money I’d gotten from selling the stock as well as most of my personal bank account, but the company was mine again.  Because of the stigma associated with the huge loss in stock prices, I had been advised to change the name of the company.  I picked Canvas Shipbuilding.  All four members of the board of directors had fled, and some of their understaff as well.  With the costs to change all the signs and company stationery to match the new name, the costs to rebuild the price of stock and the cost that giving Nevis his fifteen percent less would entail, the company wouldn’t begin to make real money again for a while.
I went to see Nevis, who seemed quite pleased that I’d been able to keep my end of the deal.  I signed the new contract.
I also went to see Dr. Games.  I quickly warned her that I was only visiting, but at some time in the future I would hopefully be home for good.
We talked about my fight for the company.  I had pulled it off with even less effort than I had thought it would take.  I supposed that the board of directors wanted to get rid of me so badly they didn’t take the time to figure out what I could do to throw a wrench into their plans.  I guess annoying people to the point of hostility does have its advantages.
I told Dr. Games that I probably shouldn’t talk about the trip to Russia and what I did there.  She didn’t press it.
I also went to see Andy.  He was only slightly angry at being left in Nowhere, Norway.  He also said he had gotten ample material to write a spy thriller, so he figured he had been well compensated.
Before I left Norfolk again, I picked the highest ranking member of the management team to run the company in my absence.  His name was Matt Hawthorne.  He was younger than some people under him, so I figured he was good at his job.  Or maybe he was a backstabbing conniver, but either way he would get things done.  I appointed him acting company president and got on the next plane out, animal crackers packed in my luggage.
Gibraltar Airport has one runway.  About half of its mile-long length is on land and about half is on a manmade peninsula.  There are very few flights in and out, and most of them go through London.
Luckily, the airport isn’t too far from the docks.  I was able to get back on the boat almost as soon as I landed.  Without too much fanfare, we shoved off and headed for Libya.
Ivanova had taken the stateroom formerly occupied by Andy.  She had been issued her own satellite phone and a SR-1 Vektor pistol.  She was cleaning the weapon in the galley when I came aboard.
The pistol used an odd 9x21mm cartridge that I heard was hard to find, but was pretty powerful.  The pistol’s parts lay on the table, the magazine off to the side.  I noticed that it was loaded with armor piercing bullets.
In Ivanova’s hands, the pistol was massive.  She’d taped the grip safety down, I presumed because her small hands couldn’t reliably engage it.  It had been designed for burly men in the Russian special forces.
“That’s a heck of a gun you’ve got there,” I said.
“FSB issue.”
“What are you supposed to use it for, killing criminal elephants?”
She smiled.  “We must always be prepared.”
Scorpion came in.  “Canvas, I need you up on deck to help secure the helo.”
“What helo?”  I didn’t know we had a helicopter arriving.
“A Navy Seahawk.  We’re going to be doing a brief with everyone involved in this operation.”
Over the radio would have been easier, but that meant the communication would have to go through a radio operator on either end, plus whoever carried the messages to and from the radio console.  Face to face meetings limited some of that and the potential for intelligence leaks.
I went out and leaned against the aft superstructure as the SH-60 Seahawk approached.  The downdraft from the rotor threw my mane in my eyes and ruffled my feathers.  The pilot circled the boat once to get a feel for the wind and then set the aircraft down gently.  I’m sure he would have preferred a little bit larger deck to land on.
John and I put wheel chocks under the helicopter and used straps to tie it down.  They would be staying a while.  As the blades slowed to a halt, people began getting off.  All of the passengers wore flight suits, but only two looked as if they wore them often.  The helicopter pilots stayed in their seats.
We led the guests down to the galley.  There weren’t enough chairs to go around.  Names weren’t formally announced.  Security reasons, I assumed.
Gene was up in the bridge.  The rest of the crew and Ivanova were at the meeting.  Our guests were two Navy men and two Marines.  The oldest man was introduced as an aide to the commander of the United States Sixth Fleet.  The other sailor was the commanding officer of USS Nitze, an Arleigh Burke destroyer.  The Marines were the pilot and gunner of a SuperCobra attack helicopter.
Scorpion gave the brief.  Spy satellites and other intelligence sources had located what was believed to be Al-Azhem’s hideout.  The bulk of the Sixth Fleet would distract the Libyans by sailing near Tripoli, while we headed further east.  The Marines would refuel from both Nitze and Troublemaker on the way to take out Al-Azhem.
For the operation, we would be flying Russian flags.  The FSB wasn’t involved directly, but they had lent us Ivanova and given us permission to pretend to be Russian.  Relations between Libya and Russia were much better than those between Libya and the United States.  The Russian flag would attract much less unwanted attention.
Libya really wasn't much different after Gaddafi was taken down.  There was a different government, but terrorist sites and training camps were still in the country.
We talked with the Marines a little.  Their radio call signs were Jigsaw and Cuddles.  There were probably some interesting stories behind those, but I didn’t ask.  They went over their plan to get into and out of Libya without being detected.  None of us yet knew where the place was that Al-Azhem hung out, but that information would hopefully not be long in coming.
We discussed a few more things like radio code and what to do in case it all blew up in our faces. When everything had been discussed, the vsitors got back on the helicopter and left.
Late that night, the boat was on course for the Libyan coast.  I sat alone on the bridge in the dim red night lights, watching the waves roll past the bow.
We were on about the same latitude as Norfolk, so there was a meaningful period of darkness during the night.  To the north and west, the lights of airplanes could occasionally be seen when landing or taking off from the aircraft carrier that occupied the center of the Sixth Fleet battle group.  The ships themselves were over the horizon from us.
The weather was warm, but pleasant after the sun had gone down.  I set the boat for autopilot and stepped out on the bridge catwalk to take a little break.
There was no light pollution to be seen anywhere and the stars were brighter and more clear than I remembered seeing in a long time.  It reminded me of songs by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.
The door to the bridge opened and Ivanova came out.  Her eyes immediately turned skyward to take in the stars.
“Come to get some fresh air?” I asked.
She nodded.  “I had trouble sleeping.  I grew up in a city.  Boats are something I am not used to.  Also, it is too quiet.  It makes me uneasy.”  She smiled.
We spent a few minutes looking over the railing at the water sliding by.
“What made you want to join the FSB?” I asked.
“It was how I was raised.  I basically grew up with a gun in my hand."
Badass, I thought.
She asked, "What made you want to join the CIA?”
“Actually, I own a shipbuilding company.  This is just what I do for fun.”
She looked at me, trying to decide if I was kidding.  “That’s very remarkable.”
“Well, I’m kind of a patriot.  When the CIA asked me to lend them a boat, I did.  I even included myself as crew.”
She gave me a curious look.  “I’m a US citizen,” I clarified.
“You’re very interesting, Mr. Canvas.”
“Call me Sail.”
“In that case, call me Nika.”
We talked a little more, mostly about personal things.  I may have gone a little overboard in describing my luck with mares, but Nika was an attentive listener.  Seems she had had similar problems.  Amazing how many of us went though things like that.
Looking back on it, that night somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, I think that’s when I finally got over Lilly.  Russian law enforcement agents are not who you would typically pick to have a heart to heart, but they’re surprisingly effective at resolving relationship issues.
The next day, the clear of the night before had been replaced by an overcast sky.  That was good news because it would make the night darker and work to our advantage.
We began putting together everything that we would need for a successful mission that night.  The tank on the flight deck had been filled with JP-5 jet fuel in preparation for the arrival of the SuperCobra.  We also had an infrared beacon that the pilot would be able to see with his night vision goggles.
The helicopter was to depart from an amphibious Marine landing ship sailing with the battle group and refuel on Nitze before heading over the beach.  Not that we aboard Troublemaker needed the information, but we had been given copies of the satellite pictures of the compound where Triple A was.  After ripping the place up with Hellfire missiles and 20 mm rounds from its gatling gun, the SuperCobra would land on our deck for fuel.  Another stop on Nitze and then it would go back to the amphibious ship.
Jigsaw and Cuddles had a very long night of flying ahead of them.  We decided to leave the coffee pot on for their benefit.  Since everyone on the boat would also be up all night, it was probably a good idea anyway.
About an hour after sunset, Nitze radioed us, using call signs.
“Blue Streak, this is Cold Autumn.  Johnny Cash is full and is headed out, over.”
The names had probably been chosen by some pencil pusher in the Pentagon.  Or maybe they’d gone to the computer and pushed the “generate random codename” button.  Either way, it was sometimes hilarious what they came up with.
We didn’t respond to the message from the Navy ship.  Radio signals could be detected.  Encryption just made it so the enemy couldn’t listen in.  If the signal was detected from more than one place, triangulation could be used to figure out where it had come from.  A signal from out where Nitze was might make the Libyans a little suspicious.  In close to the coast where we were might worry them enough to send someone to check things out.  Of course, there was no guarantee that they were even listening for hostile radio signals, but just in case.
After the helicopter departed from Nitze, there was nothing to do but wait.  The overcast skies were still with us, making it very dark.  To help out our low-light vision, we only used the red night lights.
International waters begin twelve miles off a country’s coast.  We held just outside that with fishing lines in the water.  Russian fishing boats in Libyan waters were nothing new, although we were outside the best fishing areas.
I drank some coffee and waited.  Gene and John began cleaning the assault rifles.  They hadn’t been fired since the last time they had been cleaned, but I joined in to have something to do.  During the time that I was off the boat, we had taken on more ammunition from another supply ship.  The CIWS was fully loaded and we were practically tripping over all the rifle magazines.
Cleaning the M4 rifle is relatively simple.  Pop the receiver pins and pull out the bolt and charging handle.  Pull the retaining pin out of the bolt and remove the firing and cam pins.  Swab the barrel bore and chamber.  Scrub all small parts.  Coat the internals with oil.  Put it back together.  Some people can even do it blindfolded.  I can’t do it without help.  Freaking small parts.
That occupied us for a little while.  We probably should have been waiting and alert for the helicopter, though.  Because of radio silence, our first indication that the SuperCobra was getting close was supposed to be the distinctive sound of its two bladed rotor.
That’s not how it worked out, though.
“Blue Streak, this is Johnny Cash.  We have a problem, over.”
Scorpion was closest to the radio and he picked it up.  “Roger Johnny Cash.  Authenticate, over.”
“Bravo Seven Zulu.  Authenticate, over.”
“Delta Delta Three.  What’s the problem, over.”
“Blue Streak, mission complete.  I say again, mission complete.  We got shot up on the way out, though.  Small arms fire, over.”
“How’s it look, Johnny Cash?  Over.”
“One engine dead, flight controls feel sluggish and getting worse.  Hydraulics may be damaged, over.”
“Cold Autumn, this is Blue Streak,” he said, calling Nitze.  “Are you hearing this, over.”
“Roger, Blue Streak.  We are moving to your location, over.”
It was a smart move.  Nitze had a much larger deck to land on.  With a damaged helicopter, you wanted all the room you could get.  The question was whether the destroyer would arrive in time or if we would just have to make due.
“Blue Streak, this is Johnny Cash, we are crossing the beach now.  A vibration is developing in the remaining engine, over.”
“Get the IR beacon on,” said Scorpion to no one in particular.  I went to get it, and also grabbed a night vision monocle.  
I figured the best place to put the infrared beacon would be above the bridge, the highest point on the ship.  I exited the bridge and flew up to the roof because it was faster than using the ladder.
I scanned the horizon to the south.  From the height of the bridge, I couldn’t see all the way to the coast, maybe only six or seven miles. 
I heard someone on the ladder and looked over to see Ivanova climbing up.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I had nothing to do, so I thought I would join you.”
I handed her the monocle.  She took it and put it to her eye.  After a few moments, she said, “Using this device, I have determined that it is dark tonight.”
I laughed.  It wasn’t the greatest time for jokes, but I appreciated it.
I turned on the IR beacon after she took the monocle away from her eye.  Infrared was invisible to the naked eye, but through night vision, it would practically blind you if you were so close to it.
The beacon clicked softly every time it flashed, just to let you know it was working.  It quickly became unnecessary, though.  The door to the bridge was open, and I heard the radio come to life.
“This is Johnny Cash.  The other engine is shutting down.  We’re going in.”
Scorpion swore and cranked the boat’s throttle wide open.  Nika and I climbed back down the ladder.
Scorpion spotted the monocle.  “They should have a beacon of their own,” he said.  He steered the boat directly towards the Libyan coast.
I went back out on the catwalk and moved to the front of the bridge.  I was probably blocking Scorpion’s view, but without night vision, he couldn’t see anything through the darkness anyway.
Within a few minutes, I caught a small flash on the horizon.  I waited until I saw it again asked Scorpion to change course about twenty degrees to starboard in order to line up on it.
When we arrived, we found that the two Marines had managed to get out of the helicopter before it sank.  We got them on board and weighted down their gear so it would sink along with the helicopter.  We didn’t want to leave any evidence behind.
Jigsaw and Cuddles wore black flight suits with no identification.  That’s how secret missions go.  If you’re captured, the military denies you’re with them.  We began getting them dry clothing to wear.  As it turned out, we’d guessed right.  They did want coffee.
Since the helicopter had obviously been spotted, the alert was out.  There wasn’t much reason to be stealthy after that, so the surface search radar was turned on.  Unfortunately, it immediately picked up a target.
Scorpion turned the boat away from the coast and applied full power.  The Libyan vessel was still several miles away, but closing.  Judging from the size of the radar return, it was probably a boat a little larger than our own.
“What can we expect the Libyans might have in terms of firepower?” Scorpion asked me.
“How the hell should I know?”
“You’re the warship expert.”
“All right.”  I stopped to think for a moment.  The Libyan navy was composed of ships and boats made mostly by the Soviet Union and a few European countries.
“They could be armed with 1950s-era Styx missiles made by the USSR or maybe 1970s-era Otomat missiles.  Those are Italian made.”
“What kind of explosives do they have?”
“The Styx has a thousand pound warhead.  The Otomat is only 210 kilograms.  That’s about 460 pounds.  Either one would completely devastate our boat.”
“How far can they fly?  Any chance we can get out of range?”
“No chance.  The Styx is good for eighty kilometers, or about fifty miles.  The Otomat is maybe double that.”
“At least tell me they’re inaccurate as hell.”
“In the India-Pakistan war, Indian ships supposedly fired thirteen Styx missiles and twelve of them hit.  Those were against a little bit larger targets than us, though.  I don’t think the Otomat has ever seen combat.”
“In case they decide we aren’t worth a missile, what kind of guns do they have?”
“Thirty- or forty-millimeter auto cannons.  It would basically do to us what the CIWS did to that boat back in Russia.”
“Swiss cheese.  Goddammit.”
I checked the radar.  The Libyan boat had gotten closer.  There was now about two miles separating us and we were still inside their territorial waters.  Since they were getting so close, Scorpion may have been right about not having missiles fired at us.
The radio began making noise.  First Arabic, then some terrible English, as if the person speaking was reading from a tourist phrase book.  We ignored it.
Gene and John were getting set up on the stern with the rocket launchers.  Sure, shooting at a Libyan boat would cause an international incident if discovered, but being captured would be worse.  Not that a tiny anti-tank rocket would seriously cripple what might be a 150 or 200 foot boat, but it was the thought that counted.  Maybe fire one at the bridge and damage the steering and throttle controls.
We were getting close to the twelve mile limit.  Not that that would make the boat stop chasing us, but it would make it less of a global shitstorm if we fired on them.  Or if we called the Navy to blow them out of the water.
One of the Marines came up to the bridge.  He was about John’s size and wore some of his dry clothes.  I couldn’t remember which Marine was which, but I thought it was Jigsaw.
“Anything I can do?” he asked.
I glanced around.  The AT4s were being manned.  The CIWS, mounted to the forward part of the boat and away from the Libyan vessel, was useless.  We were already cranking all the speed we could get out of the engine.  We’d decided not to respond to the radio, and Scorpion had the helm.
“Not really,” I told him.  “Just sit back and enjoy the show.”
A few minutes later, according to the GPS, we were now twelve point one miles from the Libyan coast.  The Libyan boat didn’t stop.  They were now slightly under a mile away.
I didn’t know what would happen when they caught up with us.  They would probably demand that we stop and be boarded.  If we didn’t comply, then they would shoot the hell out of us.  Neither option was very attractive.
Of course, they hadn’t actually seen us cooperating directly with the helicopter that had raised hell in their country.  It did look suspicious that we crossed into their territorial waters, but that was all they had on us.  We still flew the tricolor Russian flag, and good relations between Libya and Russia might even get us off with a mild questioning.  The problem with that was, only one person on the boat was actually Russian, and several didn’t speak the language at all.
After traveling for several more minutes, the Libyan boat had closed to half a mile.  It was only a matter of time.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye I saw a grey shape emerge from the night.  It almost looked like it was on a collision course with us.  At the last second, the sharp bow sliced past our stern and I caught a glimpse of the number 94 painted on the side.  It was Nitze.
The destroyer turned sharply and placed itself in the path of the Libyan boat, which was forced to back down quickly to avoid a collision.
Angry words were exchanged on the radio while we continued putting distance between us and Libya.  The Libyans were understandably pissed that someone had come between them and a boat that had something to do with an infiltration and destruction mission carried out on their country.  They weren’t going to force the issue, though, because while a 120 foot yacht might have been an easy target, a heavily armed 500 foot destroyer was not.
After arguing with the Libyans for a few more minutes, Nitze simply sailed away.  When we were well away from Libya, the Navy ship sent a Seahawk over to collect the Marine fliers.  They both promised to buy us all a round of drinks the next time we met up.  Nitze stayed with us until within sight of Malta before going back to rejoin the battle group. 
We docked at Malta for a little rest before going home.  Of course, I had already learned on this trip that when dealing with the government, you should expect the unexpected.  It couldn’t hurt to hope that nothing else would happen, though.
Everyone spoke English on the island.  Nika said she was going to find a nice restaurant and invited me to come along.  I jumped at the opportunity because it had been a long time since I’d had food prepared by a professional.  Scorpion, Gene and John may have been good at what they did, but chefs they were not.
I had never been to Malta, and the menu was hard to decipher.  “Salad” was easy enough for the waiter to understand, however.  Nika and I did some talking as we sat there.  She was going to boarding an airplane soon to go home.  
“Come see me the next time you come to Russia,” she said.  “Maybe I can help you get a contract with the FSB.”
When I got back to the boat, Scorpion, Gene and John were all still sleeping off what appeared to be a very hard round of drinking.
We made ready to pull out the next day.  The wind was blowing inland, so the bow thruster came in handy to help pull us away from the pier.  Scorpion was at the controls when we shoved off, and, hangover or not, he did a decent job of getting us pointed out to sea. 
I took the triangular folded stars and stripes flag and went aft with it.  When I got it on the flagpole, the stiff wind snapped it smartly.
I went back up to the bridge.  Gene and John were there listening to Scorpion’s end of a secure radio communication.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Scorpion.  He held the microphone away from his face.  “They say the Cobra knocked the place flat.  There were no thick-walled buildings so the Hellfires had an easy time of it.  Based on heat signatures, there were maybe two dozen people in the complex.  None survived.”
He listened a little more and spoke to us.  “They are 99 percent sure Al-Azhem was there, so that should be a problem solved.”
Scorpion’s face suddenly changed.  “Really?  That’s disturbing.”  A pause.  “Then who was it?”  He listened and didn’t appear to like the answer to his question.  “All right, I’ll take care of it.”  He switched off the radio.
“Something wrong?” John asked.
“Yeah.”  Scorpion moved so fast I didn’t have time to react.  He drew his pistol and jumped at me, slamming the gun into the side of my head.  I fell to the deck, stunned.
Scorpion ended up on top of me and shoved the gun in my face.  “They say our designated navigator, Jim Ross, showed up at the home office the other day wondering when he was going to get the call that we were leaving Norfolk.  If that was the real Jim Ross, then who the hell did we have aboard?”
I was still a little shaken from being knocked in the head.  It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t asking a rhetorical question.
“A friend of mine,” I said.
Scorpion paused.  “Is that the guy you were trying to get us to bring along?”
“That’s right.”
“His security qualifications didn’t change any from the time you were talking about him to the time you brought him aboard?”
“No.”  The .45 caliber barrel of his pistol looked very large from the perspective I was viewing it from.
“So you knowingly violated national security.”
“It’s beginning to look that way.”  
“What’s his name?  Where does he live?”
“Hang on, it was my idea.  I think I should be the only one to blame here.  Or are you being such a hard ass about this because you could have done a simple check of ID and prevented all of this?  Don’t want to look bad?”
Scorpion couldn’t cock his pistol movie style to show he meant business because it was already cocked.  He clenched his teeth and touched the barrel to my nose.
“Mr. Canvas, we’re going to go through everything you have in order to find this man.  We’re going to hack your email and listen to your phone records.  Whatever we find out, even unrelated to determining the identity of this man, is going to be used against you.  Not only will you go to prison for a very long time, but you will have absolutely nothing when you get out.  Tell us who he is, and maybe we’ll see if we can’t save both of you some trouble.”
Well, I had no doubt that the CIA could find Andy if they really wanted to.  Since it didn’t look like I was going to be able to contact him to give him a warning, I figured that I might indeed want to save everyone some trouble.
After I finished confessing, they took me down to the galley and used rope to tie me on my back to the table.  It began to be uncomfortable after only a few minutes.  I suggested that maybe after they let me up to use the restoom, they could put me down on my front, and set up a rotation of front-back-front and so on.
I didn’t see any use in trying to sweet talk any of the crew, least of all Scorpion.  Consequently, I didn’t talk much at all on the way back to Norfolk.
I got breaks for food and such, and for being captive on my own boat, it really wasn’t all that bad.  I thought about trying to fight during such times when I was untied, but I dismissed the idea.  I didn’t know much about the backgrounds of any of them, but I suspected that I would lose in any hoof-to-hand situation.  Not to mention being outnumbered.
Escape was also out of the question in the middle of the ocean.  Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire.
My only hope for escape might have been as we entered Chesapeake Bay.  There was plenty of commercial shipping traffic in the area, and if I jumped ship and managed to not be captured again, someone would eventually pick me up.  It didn’t seem worth it, though, because a radio message would probably go out informing every ship in the area about an escaped fugitive.  That idea also wouldn’t work because the galley didn’t have portholes and I wouldn’t be able to look out and see when we were pulling in.
After what seemed like a lifetime, but was probably only about a week, I felt the boat bump the pier and a short while later I was untied and escorted above deck.
We were back at the pier where I usually kept the boat.  I couldn’t remember how long it had been since the boat had been moored there.  More than a month, probably.
To avoid the prying eyes of the public, there was an unmarked, government looking car parked on the pier right next to the boat.  I was cuffed with pony-sized restraints and put in the back.
I took a look at the boat where I’d lived for however long the trip had been.  I could faintly pick out some damage that had been repaired, but if I hadn’t fixed it myself, I probably wouldn’t have noticed it.  She was still a good looking boat and I’m sure the CIA would treat her well after they made me disappear and threw away the key.
I felt the pier rumble a little and looked up.  Another unmarked, government looking car had turned onto the pier and was driving out to us.  It had a license plate with an Admiral’s flag on it.