Piranha

48

The captains of both the Maracaibo and the Valera were radioing desperate Maydays about a ship in their midst firing missiles as the second Klub rocketed over the island separating Ruiz from the Oregon. Ruiz saw, by her adversary’s impotence, that her plan to hire ships to sail next to the Reina Azul had the effect she’d intended. Cabrillo didn’t have the cojones to fire blindly back at her when there were two cargo vessels full of innocent crew members not a quarter mile to either side. Even with all that was at stake, he was too weak to risk sinking a noncombatant.

She watched the Oregon on the monitor feed from a camera planted on the other side of the eight-mile-wide island. Kensit had warned her that he would be too busy to provide real-time intel about the Oregon’s location, so in the middle of the night she’d sent two men to set up a camera with a high-powered transmitter on a remote beach on the opposite side of the island. When Cabrillo’s ship sailed into view on the only course it could have taken out of Bahia de Grand Pierre, she’d attacked.

As her launch team had cautioned her, the missile control was limited by the container’s positioning on the old cargo ship, so they could only be launched one at a time. Initially, she’d been furious about the restriction, but now she was rather enjoying seeing the Oregon flail away at the missiles. The high-tech ship wouldn’t be able to shoot them down indefinitely. One of them would get through.

“Do you have the escape boat ready for evacuation?” she asked the captain.

“Aye, Admiral,” he replied. “It’s tied up on the port side.”

“What about the bombs? I want to scuttle all three ships as soon as the Oregon’s back is broken.”

“They’ve all been set and are ready to receive the detonation command.” He handed her the remote detonator.

“Excellent work, Captain,” she said. “You’ll have a high place in my government when I’m president.”

As the Maydays continued, she wasn’t worried about any authorities coming to the rescue. Haiti had a token Coast Guard and no Navy, so the best they could do was send out a police launch or ask for help from the Dominican Republic. She and her men would be long gone before either could mobilize.

The second Klub darted toward the Oregon and she was sure this one would make it through, but the missile exploded off its stern in a hail of defensive gunfire, showering the ship with debris. Flames cascaded across the deck and this time she was satisfied they were the real thing, not the fakery she’d seen off the coast of Puerto La Cruz.

The only disappointment was that Cabrillo didn’t know who was about to sink his beloved ship. But she’d know and that’s all that mattered.

Time to end this.

She radioed down to launch control. “Fire the third missile.”

“The last one took out Metal Storm,” Max said. “Only the two Gatlings left.”

“I’m going to angle us so both of them have a shot at the next missile,” Juan said, turning the Oregon toward Île de la Gonâve. “How are you doing, Maria?”

“I’ve got Captain Garcia on his sat phone,” she said in triumph. “He’s very upset. What should I ask him?”

“Can he get in touch with the Maracaibo’s captain, but not over the radio?”

She relayed the question. “Yes, he also has a sat phone.”

“Good. Tell them to come to a full stop, and get me their exact GPS coordinates — and I mean down to the inch. And ask them if there are any other ships in the area.” She looked confused by the request but asked Garcia anyway.

Juan turned to Max. “Get ready to plug them into the Exocet guidance computer.”

Max furrowed his brow then nodded in understanding. “Tell it what not to hit?”

“Right.” Juan checked the map and saw that the drones and Air Force Two were near to converging. “Murph, what’s your status with the drones? We’ve only got five minutes left.”

“Almost got it. I have to do this right the first time or Kensit will lock me out permanently.”

“All right. Keep on it.”

“I’ve got the coordinates!” Maria yelled, and told them to Max, who plugged them into the guidance computer.

“Missile three sighted!” Linda called out. “Two minutes to target.”

“Ready on the Exocet!”

“Fire!”

The Exocet was ejected from its tube and its turbojet kicked in, sending the antiship missile skimming across the water. Its radar altimeter kept it a mere ten feet above the surface.

“The Klub is one minute out,” Linda said.

“Max, try to get the missile in a cross fire with the Gatlings. It’s our only chance.”

An industrial-scale ripping sound echoed from two sides of the ship as the Gatlings spewed tungsten rounds at the approaching missile. The tracer streams danced as the missile bobbed and weaved to avoid the shells. But twenty seconds of uninterrupted fire eventually found its target and the missile erupted in an orange torrent of flame.

“Phew,” Max said as he pointedly wiped his brow. “Gun two is down to thirty rounds left in the drum. I doubt we can take down another missile.”

“Time to target on the Exocet?”

“I’m not sure,” Linda replied. “It’s over the island now, so we can’t see it anymore on radar.”

“Maria,” Juan said calmly, “can you kindly ask Captain Garcia if he sees our missile?”

When Ruiz saw the missile fired from the Oregon on the shore-based camera feed, she assumed it was a last-ditch effort to shoot down her own Klub and that it had failed when they passed each other.

Now as it crossed the southern coast of the island and she had a better look at it, she recognized it as an Exocet antiship missile.

She had misjudged Cabrillo. In his desperation, he must have taken a blind shot, hoping that it would hit her ship merely by chance. Instead, it was traveling directly toward the Valera. She mentally patted herself on the back for bringing along the extra ships as decoys and prepared to order the final missile launched to finish off the Oregon.

Her attitude changed in one horrible moment. Guided by some unseen hand, the Exocet abruptly altered course and headed straight toward the Reina Azul.

The captain began to order evasive maneuvers, but she knew it was useless. With no defensive capabilities, her ship might as well have had a bull’s-eye painted on its side.

The missile struck the hull amidships, blasting a gigantic hole in the side of the cargo vessel. Ruiz might have survived long enough to get to the escape boat if not for the scuttling charges she’d ordered planted on the ship. They rocked the ship as each was ignited in a cascade of explosions.

Ruiz’s final emotion was a mixture of rage and jealousy at being the second-best tactician in what should have been a certain victory. Then the fourth Klub missile detonated in its launcher, vaporizing the bridge and every person on it.

Maria yanked the headset off, like she’d heard a deafening noise, and Juan’s heart stopped for a moment, thinking the Exocet had hit the wrong target. Then she put the set back to her ear and tentatively said, “Captain Garcia, are you still there?”

After a tense moment, she jumped to her feet and shouted with joy. “Garcia says it’s a direct hit! The Reina Azul was blown to pieces and is already going to the bottom. He and the captain of the Maracaibo will look for survivors, but he doesn’t expect any.”

Juan breathed a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t ready to celebrate yet.

“Murph, you’ve got three minutes left.”

“I get better the closer I get to a deadline,” he replied with a lighthearted intensity. “And voilà!” Two video feeds showed up on the main view screen next to the map. Each of them showed blue sky and clouds flitting past below.

“Are those from the drones?” Juan asked.

“The two I control. Kensit’s controlling one of the drones, but I’ve got command of the autopilots on the other two. The thing is he doesn’t know that I do. But even so, the QF-16 on manual is too maneuverable. I’d lose a straight dogfight a hundred percent of the time. So the question is, how do I collide with his drone before it takes out Air Force Two?”

Juan looked at the map of the drones converging on Air Force Two northeast of Cuba and noticed they were near Kensit’s location as well. He was probably excited to watch Air Force Two come down next to his yacht.

“Let’s try a two-pronged approach. If one doesn’t work, the other might. Do you think he’ll notice the course change on one of the drones he’s not controlling if it’s subtle?”

Murph rubbed his chin in thought. “Probably not. Especially if there was something else to distract his attention.”

“Then program one of the drones for a slow-motion collision, closing the distance between them by a foot every second. By the time he realizes what’s happening, the drones will be colliding.”

“I like it. What’s the distraction?”

Juan smiled. “We’ll make the other drone go into a sudden dive. Program it for an intercept course to the updated coordinates we’re getting from Eric.”

Murph looked up at the map, and when he turned back, his grin was even wider than Juan’s as he input the data with gusto.

“Don’t lean on my chair,” Kensit said to Washburn in a tone not normally used to address someone who was destined to be the president of the United States. He didn’t care. The former governor kept inadvertently pushing down on Kensit’s seat back, disturbing his concentration. He was beginning to regret bringing Washburn in to watch the final destruction of Air Force Two.

“Sorry,” Washburn said for the second time, and backed up to the wall. “How long until you shoot it down?”

“Not long now… There it is!” He pointed at a dot blooming against the blue sky on the lead drone’s video feed. “It’s five miles away. We’re closing at three hundred miles per hour, so we’ll be in range in sixty seconds.”

“What if you miss?”

“The pilot will try to execute evasive maneuvers, but it won’t work. A QF-16 can fly circles around a 747, and I have three of them.”

One of the drones suddenly went into a nose dive. Kensit lost the video feed at the same time.

“Dammit!”

“What?” Washburn said, leaning forward onto the chair back again before quickly releasing it and saying “Sorry” again.

“We lost Quail Three. Must be some kind of malfunction.”

“Can you fix it?”

“It’s not worth pursuing this close to the target. We’ve still got a backup drone left in case this one doesn’t succeed.”

Kensit had Sentinel locked onto the cockpit of Air Force Two, watching the two pilots prepare to evade the approaching drones. They had received a warning about them from the Air Force controller and were trying to get away, but their efforts wouldn’t make a difference. Being able to hear and see what they were planning to do, he could adjust with seemingly supernatural agility. The fuel gauge on each drone indicated fifteen minutes’ supply left, so he might even toy with them for a few minutes before finishing them off. He wouldn’t soon get another chance to play around like this with life-sized jets.

Then he thought no, he wouldn’t take a chance. He’d been working nearly three years to get to this moment of opportunity. No sense in risking another glitch like the malfunction that downed Quail 3.

Air Force Two loomed in the drone’s camera, easily distinguishable now for what it was. The pilots agreed to wait until the QF-16s were within a half mile before throwing the 747 into a tight right-hand bank, not knowing it would be a futile attempt.

Kensit wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and grabbed the controllers for the final approach. He was grinning maniacally at the sheer power literally in his hands at the moment. He was about to change the world just as he’d promised.

The smile vanished when he saw a strange image on the camera feed from the drone he was controlling. A narrow vertical edge was slowly rising into the frame from below and to the right, and the sight was so incongruous that he didn’t realize what it was until he saw USAF stenciled on the side of it.

It was the rudder of the other drone.

“No,” he said breathlessly. Then he screamed, “NO!” and rolled his drone sharply to the left.

He was too late. The air brakes of the drone in front activated, slowing it abruptly and sending it backward into Kensit’s drone. He tried to cut the throttle, but by then the left wing of his drone sliced into the rudder of the drone that had snuck in front of it. The camera flared a bright white for a moment and then went black.

He changed Sentinel’s view so that he could see behind Air Force Two. All that was left of the drone Kensit had been controlling was a huge fireball. The other drone, bereft of its tail, tumbled toward the ocean.

Kensit sat back in his chair, stunned at the loss of both drones.

There was only one explanation.

Cabrillo and his crew. But that was impossible. Ruiz was supposed to sink the Oregon.

“What the hell just happened?” Washburn asked, incredulous.

“Shut up!” Kensit shouted, practically pulling his hair out. “Let me think!”

He spun Sentinel’s control all the way back to Haiti and the Gulf of Gonâve, where Ruiz’s battle was to take place. He stared in shock at the Oregon, battered and smoking but still cruising along.

He zoomed into the op center. There was Juan Cabrillo, sitting smugly in his Kirk Chair. He waved at the map on the screen in front of him and said, “Bye-bye.”

Kensit initially thought it was another spooky direct address to him, but then he noticed what was on the map. The Quail 3 drone hadn’t crashed.

It was headed right for his yacht.

Kensit jumped out of his chair, sending it careening into Washburn.

“Get out of my way!” Kensit shrieked, and sprinted for the deck.

Maurice glided into the op center with a silver tray carrying a fresh Cuban Cohiba from Juan’s private stock. Juan had no idea how the veteran steward knew the endgame was coming, but he thanked him and stuck the cigar in his mouth to watch the finale play out.

The white yacht grew exponentially on the screen as the drone dived toward the water at five hundred miles an hour, a speed low enough to maintain a precise lock as it converged on its target’s constantly changing position.

Juan saw two Caucasian men burst out onto the deck as it filled the screen. Both stared up in disbelief at the diving jet, and Juan recognized Kensit’s astonished and agonized face an instant before the screen went dark.

Murph threw both his hands straight up in the air and whooped “Touchdown!”

“You realize we just lost any chance of finding out how Sentinel actually works,” Max said. “Lutzen’s journal is now atomized.”

Juan shrugged. “It’s better than Kensit getting away and selling it to the highest bidder. Speaking of which… Hali, there’s two minutes left on Sentinel’s self-destruct. Tell Eric to get out of the Oz cave.”

“He told me that he’s taking photos of the machinery,” Hali said.

“I don’t care. He’s had enough time. I don’t want him anywhere close to it when it blows up. Tell Eddie and Linc to drag Stoney out of there if they have to.”

Hali smiled. “Maybe I’ll tell them to do that anyway.”

As Hali made the call, Juan flicked open the silver lighter that Maurice had placed on his armrest and lit his well-deserved cigar.

Hector Bazin was shaken awake by a rumble that rattled his whole body. When it subsided, he sat up and rubbed his aching head, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. His hands and face were crusted with dried blood, meaning he’d been out for a while. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness.

At first, he thought the concussion was so severe that it had caused him to go blind. He madly rummaged around in his pocket until he found the book of matches inside. Only two left.

He struck one and saw that his vision was still sharp. He was stuck in a cave, and the memory of how he got here came flooding back. The RPG rocketing toward him. The blast. The avalanche of rock. Then nothing.

He staggered to his feet and saw that the entire cave opening had been sealed by slabs of rock that would take half a dozen men days to move.

Terror gripped him when he realized the tremor that woke him was Sentinel self-destructing. The time on his watch confirmed it. Even if he could dig his way out in that direction, he’d be bathed with a lethal dose of radiation the moment he stepped into the chamber.

He stumbled back from the pile of rocks. The match burned down to his finger and he dropped it in pain. In his panic he stupidly lit the final one, then realizing his mistake, set fire to the matchbook itself for a few more seconds of precious light.

He was in his worst nightmare. The maze of passageways could go on for miles. Even with a light, it could take him days to find the entrance Juan Cabrillo had used to get in.

He turned and staggered in the opposite direction, desperate to find a path or markings. Before he went twenty feet, he tripped on a stalagmite and fell face-first to the floor. The matchbook went skittering across the cave and was snuffed out.

The darkness was so total that it was only seconds before Bazin could feel tendrils of insanity creeping into his mind. He would spend the last few days of his life trapped in his own tomb with no hope of rescue or escape.

Left with nothing but his own voice to keep him company, Bazin did the only thing he could think of.

He screamed.