//------------------------------//
// Black Swan 
// Story: Miami Dash 
// by FestOfAmerican 
//------------------------------//


~For Margarita~






MIAMI DASH


Prologue Part 1: Black Swan






GULF OF MEXICO
DECEMBER 1987


A yawning maw lined with sleek daggers, the elongated fore ones prodding its gums impatiently. Blind eyes jerked in their sockets, yellow pupils encased in blue orbs. Spiny red-colored flesh was stretched tight over its sloping face, ridged in sharp angles of protruding bone. Sparsely-webbed fins along its tapered body helped stabilize the Fangtooth as it drifted along the murky seafloor.





(Photo credit: Google)


The alien-like creature was one of nature’s curious designs in the titanic pressure and eternal blackness thousands of meters down. In this unforgiving environment, most were scavengers of ‘marine snow’, the remains of dead lifeforms from the upper layers of the water. Featuring bioluminescence, transparent carapaces, and other evolutionary adaptations, deep-sea life persisted through a perilous balance of sensing and being sensed.

The soil started to quake, brown granules rising to create a shroud, a fair amount entering the Fangtooth’s mouth. While flapping its gills to expel the foreign matter, a sequence of powerful waves swept forth and overwhelmed the predator. Minimizing its profile by tucking in its fins, the invisible storm ended as suddenly as it came. Recovering from the disturbance, the fish swam inquisitively towards the source, thinking that a large carcass had touched down like a gift from the heavens. Perhaps it would not go hungry again this day. 

But feasting on the live prey that crossed its path would be just as satisfying.





(Photo credit: MBARI)


Emerging from the dark water on a perpendicular route was a silver grenadier, also known as a ‘Rattail fish’. Its body had a teardrop shape, with much of the fin-power concentrated in its whip-like end. While not totally blind like the predator, its eyesight was myopic to the point that it could only see inches away.

The Rattail immediately veered left. The tail swiped roughly against the Fangtooth’s lower jaw, the stimulation triggering a chemical signal in its brain to give chase. Wiggling its stubby self feverishly, the hunter gained on the prey that darted into the abyss, mouth widening in anticipation. 

A massive obstruction was predicted by tracing the curvature of its quarry’s wake. As the Fangtooth adjusted course, the ocean floor began to tremble once again. The towering anomaly was at the epicenter, fissures webbing out from it in all directions, releasing bubbling emissions of methane gas. A metallic screeching and crunching of rock reverberated through the structure, manifesting into the violent sound waves that were felt earlier. Hunger trumped by fear, the Fangtooth turned and scurried away from this apocalyptic scene.

As the deepwater oil drilling pipe ground to a halt, the Rattail emerged unfazed from the other side of the blowout preventer at its base. In the months since its appearance, this fish was among various species that had gotten accustomed, even dependent on the construct, whether for anchoring or protection from enemies. The pipe represented one of a dozen scattered rigs probing the “Mississippi Fan” plot of the Gulf for a promising yield of hydrocarbons. The Loop Current, which arched the Yucatan Peninsula, swung the pipes in its passage.

Rising from the sunless depths onto a continental shelf, schools of Northern Red Snapper were combing the sediment for oysters. Puffs of sand indicated the successful ones. Using their eponymous strong jaws, they whipped the shell against rock. Upon swallowing the exposed mollusk, they spat pearly remains that sprinkled to the bottom. 

Assured of safety in numbers, the snappers acknowledged a racing hollow noise too late to avoid becoming another link in the food chain.

Coiled steel cables swooped into view from above, and then a gaping mesh net enclosed the fish. Scattering, they pushed futilely against the nylon curtain, a few lucky enough to slip through the opening as flat metal weights smoothly drew it shut. With a mechanized pull, the cables and net proceeded diagonally to the surface. The last stubborn snappers fell away and smacked into their brethren lying below in the trap. Minutes into their unwilling journey, the helpless fish emerged off the stern of a derelict medium trawler. 

Dark frothing waves lapped the rusted hull. The ship rocked ceaselessly in the freezing winds blowing from the east, twanging mast lines and rattling looser equipment. The electric motor spinning the drum was shut off as the bulging net dangled between the arms of the trawl gantry, seawater dripping over the pole waving the flag of Belize and the deteriorating vessel’s name and port of construction.


El Patito Feo
Puerto Barrios


Perched on a walkway behind the wheelhouse, an earth pony sailor in a plastic raincoat shined a spotlight on the underwhelming catch. Twinkles danced across the bulk as scales refracted the beam.

“Right then, let’s get these bastards on ice!” he shouted in a crisp British accent before hitting the “Play” button on a remote control.





The opening notes of Europe’s Rock the Night blared from loudspeakers overhead. Rallying cries in English and Spanish by fellow crew members drowned in the music’s volume. Storming the main deck and manning their stations, one pegasus flew up to the gantry controls and pulled back on a lever. The arched structure swung away from the stern and locked into its default position, the net suspended over a large square hatch. 

Working together, the fisher-ponies opened the hatch, and the flopping snappers were lowered into the pit, guided by hooked staffs. Two more with shovels leapt in afterwards to help empty the net and preserve the catch. Even from the walkway, El Patito Feo’s first mate couldn’t resist wrinkling his muzzle, imagining the stench of all that fish in the confined space. Truth be told, he hated seafood. At least his mariner skills were still valued, and there could’ve been worse jobs – or no job – to take.

“What the hell is going on?!” a gruff voice barked from behind.

The startled earth pony dropped the remote, clattering some distance away against the grated metal. With the song still playing, he turned to face the ship’s apoplectic pegasus captain, Prime Meridian.

“Sir!” saluted First Mate Showboat, angling a raised foreleg. “We’re just putting away the latest batch.”

“You casted nets again?” Captain Meridian said, his voice rising well above the background music. “When, and on whose authority?”

“Half an hour ago, and the order came from the bridge.”

“From WHO, because we both know it wasn’t me!”

“W-well, sir, it-it was the front-man, the Columbian.”

Prime’s inner powder keg exploded. He shot his fore-hooves into Showboat’s torso and charged forward, shoving him against the railing. The spotlight was knocked astray, getting the attention of their colleagues on the main deck.    

“MY ORDER WAS ‘NOT ANOTHER FISH’ UNTIL WE KNOW OUR EXACT POSITION! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT WHAT THE MONEY WANTS! IF WE GET PINCHED, IT’S ON BOTH OF YOUR ARSES!!!”  

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the first mate uttered timidly, staring into those brutal, war-weary eyes of his superior. A constant high-pitched ring filled his ears, rendering his favorite song inaudible.

Eventually the captain relented, letting Showboat sit forward on his haunches.

“When everypony’s done, I want them downstairs in the main quarters; Captain’s briefing in one hour or sooner when I get our location.”

“Aye-aye sir,” Showboat acknowledged, looking down.   

Captain Meridian whirled left and trotted to the door of the wheelhouse. He opened it, stepped inside and lightly kicked it shut with a hind leg. His second mate, at the ship’s helm, turned his head and nodded to him before resuming his focus on the churning moonlit seascape. The instrument consoles and workstations were adorned with glowing strings of Christmas lights. A Frosty the Snowman bobble figurine danced to the sea’s turbulent rhythm next to a framed photograph of Prime with his family.

The pegasus’ eyes skirted over to the loudspeaker system, where a cassette player was connected to the auxiliary port. Yanking it with both fore-hooves, Rock the Night ceased playing outside at once.

‘The prat,’ the captain derided Showboat, tossing the player aside.

His first mate had come on board from a now defunct pleasure cruise firm. Six years had passed since gaining independence from the United Kingdom, and yet Belizean tourism and other economic sectors were still hobbling along. Showboat knew his knots from his knots, but seemed unable to relinquish his flair for theatrics and appeasement. His own years in the Royal British Navy had taught him one thing: The more experienced the sailor, the more dangerous the ocean becomes. The current, not the customer, is always right.   

El Patito Feo was contracted by a Nicaraguan seafood company that supposedly catered to affluent clientele in Central and South America; the job’s conditions certainly hallmarked the eccentric whims of the rich. With a freelance crew of locals, she was to sail into the Gulf of Mexico and catch any number of fish native to those waters. Northern Red Snapper were the most prized, but Captain Meridian was basically told to gather as much as EPF could hold and deliver them in Belize City by Sunday morning.

Right away the endeavor’s most glaring impediment was the United Nations’ Law of the Sea Convention of 1970. Nine years later, the United States and Mexico had signed a treaty delineating each country’s Exclusive Economic Zone, which granted them control over their half of the Gulf’s wildlife and mineral resources. If Americans attempted to harvest or drill in Mexico’s waters or vice versa, the affronted nation is empowered by the UN convention to defend their territory.



(Photo credit: Google)


However, nearly every law has a loophole to exploit. The Nicaraguan contractor informed them of the Western and Eastern Doughnut Holes in the sea, where the claims of both parties overlapped. Surmising that it would take decades to legislatively resolve the issue, the company wanted to supply Gulf delicacies at a drastically lower cost. Its liability was reduced by outsourcing to independent fisher-ponies, but they made the job worth Meridian’s while by paying half of their fee up front, the rest contingent on a successful delivery. Food, fuel and other operational costs would be covered at designated ports.

The ship set sail from Belize City on Wednesday, December 2nd with a crew of 14 on separate 12-hour shifts. But somepony else had joined them as a last-minute request. The Columbian front-man introduced himself as the son of the company’s CEO and wanted to learn fishing as a trade. The prospect struck the captain as unusual, but the young stallion was polite and initially displayed a great deal of enthusiasm, so he indulged him.                  

El Patito Feo’s living quarters, akin to the vessel’s general neglect, were inadequate for any duration. The itinerary of their journey included stops in Cancun, Mexico, and Arroyos De Mantua on Cuba’s western edge. It felt as though they were on a paid vacation. It was all too good to be true.

It proved as such after reaching the Eastern Doughnut Hole six hours ago. Their passive sonar and radio equipment started to malfunction, but they reached their target nonetheless by using the method of dead reckoning; charting the distance travelled by their velocity and degree of course. 

To further complicate matters, the Columbian, apparently now bored with fishing, started to micromanage the job, boasting loudly to cancel the other half of the money if Captain Meridian continued overruling him. His subordinates, in desperate need of their fee, sympathized with the front-man, as Showboat recently did. 

Even his second mate had followed his demand to circle within the doughnut hole to catch more fish, all without consulting the captain or recording their progress for hours.

‘Thanks to his meddling, we’re lost with an illegal catch. If either side finds us out here, I’m hanging him out to dry.’    

That’s when his attention turned to the remote figure ensconced in the leftmost corner of the bridge. After a deliberate pause, the stallion blinked his eyes once and smoothly lifted his head to stare back at Prime Meridian. 

Seated upright with his forelegs crossed discontentedly, the Columbian front-man’s pelt was peridot, and his brown mane and tail were sharply trimmed. He wore a dark, single-breasted business suit with a blue shirt and tie. The formal garb would’ve lent a comical impression of how out of touch he was, but there was no trace of humor at all in those tan eyes that pierced the dimly-lit space.

‘Mangle Pájaro, or “Mangrove Bird”, he says his name is. If he lied about becoming a fisher-pony, then I don’t trust anything else about him. He won’t even come clean about those scars.’

From the slanted line of the shirt collar, a crescent-shaped cut on his neck arced towards his lower jaw. The Columbian’s right ear was gashed at its topmost point. Many more past injuries were visible on his legs and torso days earlier as he was working the main deck, wearing clothes shared with him by the crew. His mannerisms and grooming standards didn’t strike Meridian as somepony with an executive background. There was something distinctly militaristic about him. He’d recognize it anywhere; the institutionalized courtesy, and impeccable sense of dress.

“Mr. Bird,” Captain Meridian said in English. “I understand that you would feel some entitlement to dictate me and my vessel, but your inexperience has placed us all in jeopardy.”

Mangrove Bird did not reply, so Prime continued his demerit. 

“If we meet the order’s deadline by Sunday, I will be filing a complaint about your behavior. If it cuts into my Christmas bonus, then so be it. Dishonesty and instigating mutiny have no place on my ship. Do I make myself clear?”      

The question was rhetorical, but his point was made. Mangrove stared after the captain as he trotted away to a cluttered workstation. It wasn’t a hateful look, but leaning more towards a touch piteous. Everything was nearly in place. It had all been a routine performance, from his beginning to their end.   

“Feliz Navidad hecho,” he whispered to himself.

Captain Meridian looked at the clock mounted on the wall. It was calibrated to the home port, but its hands were frozen in place. Mentally logging yet another piece of inexplicably faulty equipment, he looked at his watch. It was 10:54 PM in Belize City. The pegasus removed his Navy jacket and opened his wings. Slipping a lanyard with a tape recorder around his neck, he then reached for and extracted a marine sextant from its carrying case.

The sonar was out commission, and the radio was too weak to pick up locator beacons. His only remaining option was to try celestial navigation to determine their position. The sextant is a sophisticated brass tool that uses special mirrors to judge the degrees between the ocean horizon and objects like the sun, moon and stars. His mathematics skills were pretty rusty, but he’d consult a guidebook after taking his measurements to reduce the error margin.

“Maintain current heading and speed,” he said to the second mate at the wheel. “I’m going outside for a better vantage point.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the third officer in command nodded.





Stepping through the door into the windy evening again, Captain Meridian flapped his wings with just enough force to carry him on top of the wheelhouse. His hind legs dangled over the bridge’s front windows as he sat down, bracing his thighs against lighting fixtures but allowing his back to swing freely to compensate for the ship’s movement on the water. 

To his left, a storm was underway, bolts of lightning firing repeatedly throughout the burgeoning mass of gray clouds, but it was far away enough not to generate any thunderclaps. The sight was rather unsettling.

Concentrating on the task at hoof, Prime held the sextant scope up to his right eye, closing the left one. The watery edge of the world appeared on the horizon mirror in one half of his view. Pulling away from the scope briefly to get a lead on the full moon, he pulled a trigger to release the index arm, easing it forward until the glowing sphere was parallel to the ocean. Noting the degree number on the tool’s arc, he made adjustments to the micrometer and index dials before redoing the same moon-to-water test.

“Moon; 37.4 degrees at 0458 hours Greenwich,” Meridian said to the tape recorder before pressing the “Stop” button.

Next he needed a second formation to calculate the distance between it and the moon in relation to himself on the Earth’s surface. Polaris, the North Star was reliable, but some low-hanging cloud cover was obscuring it from view.     

“Let’s hope I can still do this,” the old pegasus said as he stood up and achieved his full wingspan.

Panting heavily from exhaustion, Captain Meridian kneeled into the plush cloud, the sextant laid askew. El Patito Feo was slowly gliding ahead below him. Rock music echoed faintly, meaning that Showboat was messing around with the loudspeakers again. Scoffing in irritation, he picked up the sextant and spun around on his haunches, searching for Polaris. 

When he found it, he commenced the same methodical experiment as before; leveling out the horizon on one side of the scope and aligning the shining star on the other. Again he documented his findings on the recorder, compensating for time expenditure and higher altitude. The final step before the number-crunching was taking the degrees between the moon and star. When that was done, he leapt from the cloud and glided leisurely towards his ship. 

Back on the bridge, the captain was pouring over scribbled equations on loose-leaf paper, reserving the calculator for the more complicated ones. Using an astronomy reference book, the positions of the moon and North Star at the times he found them correlated into points of latitude and longitude. A sea chart of the entire Gulf of Mexico was splayed in the center of the chaos.



(Photo credit: NOAA)


With 10 minutes to spare on briefing the crew, Captain Meridian had the answer on where El Patito Feo was, and in more ways than one, it was far from reassuring.

‘Oh no,’ he groaned to himself.   

As if on cue, a loud foghorn blasted across the sea towards them.


…


‘Welcome to Florida; the real “Cape Disappointment”.’

The deriding notion crossed the mind of Commander Cascades as he stood silently, assessing the dilapidated trawler through a pair of night vision binoculars. In an abrupt sequence familiar to the other bridge officers, the unicorn lowered the hoof-held scopes and magically seized a plastic bottle of water, twisting off the cap and chugging half of it. Exhaling and wiping his lips with his tongue, he set it next to this evening’s collection of finished servings. The region’s subtropical climate made him drink like a fish. The enlisted ponies joked that if they sprung a leak, just pass the new CO a bucket. 

The Washington State native was reassigned to the Key West station as a condition of his promotion. Cascades was in command of the USCGC Duran (WMEC-914), the Coast Guard’s newest Famous-class cutter. However prestigious, the job wasn’t quite what he’d hoped for. Having built a lauded record of perilous maritime rescues, patrolling America’s half of the Gulf’s bounty settled quickly in the doldrums. 

Cascades’ first hint of action in months arrived less than 12 hours ago. Westbound and 160 knots south of New Orleans, orders came directly from District 7 headquarters for the Duran to drop anchor off Fort Meyers station. The ship was barely into its 8-week rotation from Florida to Texas and didn’t need extra bodies or provisions. Nevertheless, he accepted both at the station. The two dozen reinforcements were from Law Enforcement Detachment #56, one of many specially-trained guardsmen teams deployed nationwide and overseas. 

The cutter was held until sundown when LEDET 56’s leader at last informed the commander of their directive: Investigate an anonymous tip on illegal fishing.

Now, with El Patito Feo beheld in the unflattering green tint of night vision, bewilderment and questions continued to mound in the officer’s head. Frankly, it was embarrassing that District 7 thought it sensible to use elite resources on a boatful of wayward peasants. Duran’s formidable presence and firepower alone would’ve pacified them into surrender. If tonight’s operation was going to forge a precedent where they’d send Cascades in blind, then he gladly accept a return to search & rescue, 

Determined to get the truth out of somepony once this was over, he finished the half-empty water bottle and replaced it on the table before trotting briskly on the multi-band radio. He cleared his throat and summoned the tethered microphone in a sparkling haze.

“Captain, this is the commander of the Coast Guard Cutter Duran. We have your position being inside the U.S. Exclusive Economic Zone. Identify yourself and your port of origin immediately, over,” he said.

A torrent of static from the receiver followed. Then the noise was interceded with gaps of a replying transmission.

“…Captain Merid…l Patito Feo…Belize Ci…ver,” said an older stallion’s voice.  

“Say again, Captain. Your signal quality is poor and I read you 1-by-1, over.”

“Repeat, this is Cap…Meridian of the trawl…tito Feo out of Belize City, over.”

Commander Cascades spent a few moments rereading the calls, nodding confidently before speaking into the mike again.

“Roger that. Captain Meridian, can you increase power for a clearer output, over?”  

“Negative...adio is malfunct…sonar is…own too, over.”

“We copy, your radio and sonar systems are malfunctioning. Do you have a signal lamp onboard, or a flashlight to improvise Morse code, over?”

As the unicorn CO monitored the hissing radio, he passed his binoculars over to a lieutenant subordinate to observe the trawler’s wheelhouse.

“They’re responding,” she announced. “Y, E, S; yes in Morse.”

“Solid copy, Captain, thank you. Because your vessel is within American economic territory, we have to conduct an appraisal on any catches you’ve made. Shut down your engines and we’ll send a team over momentarily.  Do you acknowledge?”

Cascades looked over the console at the distant trawler. After a lengthy pause, the signal light emitted a series of dashes and dots that was interpreted by the female lieutenant as a second ‘Yes’. He turned away from the radio and started giving instructions throughout the bridge.         

“Get underway and match their heading; bring us right up against their portside. Notify Fort Meyers and the LEDET team that we’ve made contact and are preparing to board.”


…


Minutes later, the Duran and El Patito Feo were rocking parallel in the waves with a standoff distance of 300 feet. Spotlights and mounted machine guns were trained on the miserable trawler. Motorized dinghies carrying six heavily-armed guardsmen apiece buzzed across. The ponies moored them to the stern and climbed aboard the main deck. 

Pime Meridian had been waiting for them, sitting upright with his forehooves held firmly over his head. LEDET 56’s earth pony leader, Unleaded, swung his AR-15 assault rifle behind him as he approached the old sea-pony and shook him firmly by the hoof.     

“Hello, Captain,” he said with a brief smile “I understand that you’ve been having sonar problems. Is that why you ended up all the way out here?”

“Yes, it’s partly to blame actually,” Meridian said, relaxing his posture. “Communication and navigation have been dodgy since leaving Cuba. On top of that, our ‘intern’ kept having a go at the wheel.”

“I see. Where is the rest of the crew?”

“In the main quarters, through that door,” the pegasus said with a nudge of his head. “They were waiting for a briefing.”

“Can you ask them to come out here too?”

“Certainly. I will announce your presence on the intercom.”

One by one, the crew of El Patito Feo marched onto the main deck. They were made to sit down in rows on either side of the ship and presented their identification and mariner licenses. Unleaded and Prime Meridian climbed a stairway to the wheelhouse walkway and entered the bridge. There, the captain procured his own documentation, including the order contract from the Nicaraguan company.

“Well, the doughnut holes are viable to take fish from the Gulf. Not much to catch out there except oil spills,” the LEDET leader admitted.

“That’s what I told the contractor, and they didn’t care,” the captain shrugged. “Apparently their customers only want the pleasure of thumbing their noses at regulations. And with the price they were offering, I couldn’t resist the opportunity.”

“And tell me about this ‘intern’ you mentioned earlier.”

“Ah, ‘Mangrove Bird’, what an absolutely delight it’s been having him aboard,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Is he any one of the ponies sitting outside right now?”

“Unfortunately, no. When your ship sounded the horn, he seemed to have panicked and went below deck. My men never saw him by the quarters, so my guess is he’s probably in the engine room.”

“We’ll have to find him. There are a few questions we need him to answer.”

“Be my guest.”

Nodding appreciatively, Unleaded escorted Captain Meridian off the bridge and watched from above as he rejoined his crew. He keyed the tactical radio clipped to his vest and spoke into it.

“Team, be advised, there is one more pony unaccounted for. Subject is described as having familial ties to the shell corporation that hired this ship.”

To the untrained eye, the invoice Captain Meridian offered seemed to represent a legitimate enterprise. Checks made by Commander Cascades on the Duran though concluded that the company existed only through paper and a Nicaraguan P.O. box. As with most fronts, its purpose was to conceal illicit operations. Getting the dirt from the “intern” would be critical in enlisting INTERPOL’s help on the lead,

“I want you four to get started in the hold and find what we came here for. Six will clear all living areas for the subject before proceeding to the engine room. Remember: we want him alive. The last two, including myself, will handle the crew on deck.” 

After the crackling affirmations of his teammates, LEDET 56 split into groups; one pried open the cargo hatch while the second trotted in a single-file line to the door leading inside with weapons drawn.


…






The operatives slid down a thick braided rope into the cargo hold and immediately started shivering. It was pitch black, packed with ankle-high ice, and effusive with the smell of fish. 

“Ugh, it’s like being in a giant fridge with the door closed,” one of them said with a retch. 

The ponies slapped on their headlights, the beams dancing about as they oriented themselves to their new surroundings. Hundreds of dead fish eyes were staring at them from every corner; red snappers; amberjacks; groupers; and yellowfin tuna were some of the easily recognizable species.

“These guys were trying to clean out the whole Gulf,” muttered another voice.

A pair of shovels were spotted leaning against a wall and a unicorn pair willed them over at once. The tools automatically began to dig, tossing ice and fish carcasses to the far side of the hold. As the team had been expecting, a dull thud was heard when they struck something hidden underneath.

“Jackpot,” somepony exclaimed, grinning through the dark.


…


In contrast, the second team’s search was unhurried. Placing alternating fore-hooves over one shoulder of the pony ahead and steadying their automatic rifles on the other, the chain of six cleared the galley; the main quarters for meals and assemblies; the captain’s accommodations; and the crew bunkrooms. Narrow wooden hallways with a faded crème-colored finish creaked as their bulk pushed against them. The orange carpeting was filthy and occasionally scrunched into tripping points.

Coming to a fork that went left and right, the six divided into two-of-three. The starboard passage ended in a staircase leading to the engine room. After clearing the final cabins adjacent to it, they would regroup and proceed down there together. Finishing their search and returning to the fork, the last operative fell behind when the slightest noise of a door closing piqued his interest.

‘What was that?’ he asked to himself.

The lone pegasus entered the cabin he thought it had been the source. The door to the head was closed. The guardsman twisted the knob and pulled it open. The cramped space housed a toilet, sink and a mirror facing him.

A brown and green earth pony with blazing tan eyes was standing right behind his reflection.

Before he could even scream, Mangrove Bird shot a foreleg around his neck and clenched the windpipe shut. Lifting both himself and his victim onto their hind legs to prevent bucking, he embraced and rode out the terrified flailing with a dream-like serenity on his face. 

With a final muted whine, the pegasus’ forelegs and wings fell to his sides, and Mangrove gently lowered the body to the ground, ears probing for any hint of movement in the hallway. Certain that he was alone; he looked down at the suffocated guardsman. In a bizarre gesture of respect, he reached down and closed the eyelids. 

‘Tu eres un soldato, como yo era antes. Voy a sangrar with usted,’ Mangrove murmered his eulogy as he withdrew a folded knife and a black velvet pouch out of separate pockets.

Lifting the right foreleg that perpetrated the sin, he bared his teeth and clasped them around the sleeves of the business suit and dress shirt beneath. Buttons popped free and layers of shredded silk dangled below the exposed leg. Taking the knife in his dental grip next, he ran it across a patch of pelt that was free of scars, wincing slightly.  Blood was running down the limb. Bird scooped it into the black pouch.

His atonement fulfilled, he opened the cabin door and dragged the body towards the engine room staircase. It was time to finish the job and return home.


…


The cellophane wrapped around the bundle was opaque due to condensed moisture. An LEDET 56 operative dragged it out of the fish-tainted ice, revealing the outlines of at least three more. The bundle was massive, weighing at least 40 lbs.

“Somepony pass me a knife and field test,” the one holding the package said.

Two of his collagues did so, while the third stood from behind, providing a steady source of light. Guided by magic, the knife jerkily cut a triangular shape, pausing every now and then to peel back the upper layers of the material. A white powdery substance was discovered inside. A glass vial with ampoules of acidic reagents wafted in and collected a sample from the bundle. With a firm shake, the ampoules were breached and three compounds began to interact. Within seconds, the mixture turned sky blue.

Still watching over El Patito Feo’s crew, Unleaded heard the exciting news from his agents in the hold.

“Chief, we got a positive hit for cocaine! Looks like there’s plenty more bundles in the ice! Are we breaking cover yet?”

“No, we’re too far out,” the supervisory special agent said. “Get pictures of the fish to the commander. That’ll give him probable cause to escort the boat into U.S. jurisdiction. The DEA will take over after that.”

The anonymous phone call was received by his agency, not the Coast Guard. It had implicated El Patito Feo in a drug smuggling plot. The dope was loaded in Mexico and fishing was its cover. A speedboat from the mainland would meet them at the Eastern Doughnut Hole and take possession of the cocaine. Using the guises of LEDET 56 and enforcing the EEZ, Unleaded and four other special agents boarded the trawler to find the promised load.

‘The sonar going down was our lucky break. The gophers probably never showed up,’ he surmised.     

*SLAM*

“HEY YOU, STOP!”

A door crashing open, clopping hooves, and a command shouted from the one of the real guardsmen prompted Unleaded into action. Running along the walkway, he caught glimpses of a shadowy figure through holes in the grated surface.  

“RUNNER, RUNNER ON STARBOARD!!!”

One of the Duran’s spotlights swept across the bridge as the DEA agent barged in, literally blindsiding him. Closing his eyes and shaking his head with a grunt, he dashed towards the console, throwing his fore-hooves over the main console and leaning over it for a better view.

The illuminated pony on the ship’s bow was wearing a black wetsuit, a compressed oxygen tank, and flippers on all four hooves. Brown mane and jungle green pelt covering his head were discernable as he leapt gracefully from the pulpit into the sea.

“HE’S GONE UNDER!” cried the LEDET 56 team member, gasping for breath.

“There’s nowhere for him to go,” Commander Cascades said as he watched the drama from the cutter’s bridge. 

“Get a dive team ready. Alive or not, he coming with us.”

“Aye-aye sir,” a lieutenant said, grabbing the radio microphone.

When the junior officer pressed the button to transmit, the device suddenly unleashed a hurricane of static, making everypony squint in discomfort.

“Good God, what was that?” Cascades said, trotting over to the console.

After keying the mike himself and tuning to different frequencies, the same unassailable wall of electronic noise came from the receiver.

“It’s useless. Tell Unleaded to give the other boat’s radio a try.”   


…


Four guardsmen were still the searching the engine room. The fifth was posted at the stairwell when the fleeing Mangrove Bird crossed his sight and gave pursuit. It was a dank and polluted environment. Barrels of gasoline were lined against the walls holding the sea at bay. Puddles of oil and muck seeped from the inert machinery.

“I see something,” one of the team members whispered. “There, behind the crates. They look like hooves.” 

Twin streaks of grime on the floor traced over to the prone hind legs. Suspecting they belonged to the “intern”, the quartet closed formation and edged towards the boxes. Their AR-15s dropped in horror when they discovered the body of one of their own.

“P-pony down, pony down in the engine room!” a second one said on his tactical radio, but the transmission wasn’t acknowledged. 

“Can you hear me?! We’ve got somepony KIA in the engine room!” a third yelled into his mike in frustration.

The dead guardsman’s corpse bared no apparent sign of a struggle. Except for his legs, he was free of the engine room’s contamination. The attack must’ve happened elsewhere and was carried down later. 

The breast pocket flap bearing his nametag was ajar. One of the guardsmen lifted it and extracted a black velvet pouch. Uncomprehendingly, he dropped it on the floor and pulled it open.

“Diamonds, rough diamonds,” he said, examining the uneven shimmering rocks. “There’s got to be at least 100 carats here.”

“What’s that red stuff they’re covered in? Is that blood?”

The guardsmen looked back at their fallen brother, but he wasn’t bleeding.

“That’s some messed-up, serial killer shit right there,” another voice blurted disgustedly. 

Wires running underneath one of the crates garnered their attention. Raising the upended container yielded a dull green rectangular block with multiple antennas planted on top.

“What is it?” somepony asked.

“I don’t know. I can’t understand the wording.”

“It’s Cyrillic,” one of the guardsmen volunteered. "I’ve been studying Russian. You’re looking at a radio jammer, capable of full-spectrum interruption.”

“Can you shut it down?”

“I’m a linguist, not an electrician.”

“Fine, smartass,” the leader sighed. “I’ll cut the cables myself.”

“Ss-sir, you might not want to do that,” a petrified team member said, pointing at a lone wire trailing away from the body.

It continued behind the closest barrel of fuel.

Face paling and stomach roiling, the guardsman trotted over and shifted the barrel. The shrieking resistance of metal on metal was nothing compared to the mortal dread as his worst fears were confirmed.

“Aw, son of a bitch,” his curse trailed off in a rising pitch.    

DEA Supervisor Unleaded was informed of Duran’s radio troubles and made a beeline for EPF’s console. The microphone in his hoof, wailing cries of the damned erupted from somewhere in the lower decks, one of them fast approaching from the rear staircase.

“IT’S A TRAP!!! TRAAAPPP!!! GET THE HELL OFF THIS SHIP!!!”

The warning came too late. Unleaded’s fore-hoof pressed the transmit button, completing the circuit running through the jammer to the blocks of C-4 plastic explosive strapped to the flammable barrels.

El Patito Feo’s hull was wrenched apart in a massive explosion, splintering the overlapping decks. The gantry was bisected in the dual blast waves, one crossing the short distance to the Duran in milliseconds. Viewports shattered inward, the cutter heaving almost to the point of capsizing, its vibrant livery scorched and peeling. The red-orange inferno blossomed from the sinking trawler’s remains. It looked like a swan from Hell, unfurling its wings and arching its head towards the full moon.

A hundred nautical miles northwest of the tragedy, two oil worker ponies stood watching from the helicopter pad of an offshore rig, their previous conversation forgotten.         

“I think we better call somebody," one of them said at last. 


*TO BE CONTINUED*