Dale Brown - Puppet Master

There was a small payload carriage underneath. She could attach a flare there, but how to ignite it?

“How about we put a flare gun there?” suggested Bozzone. “Rig the payload claws to fire it.”

“Yes!”

Chelsea saw it in her head. Rather than firing the flare outward, though, she would fire it at a jug of fuel.

“I need a gas can,” she told Bozzone.

“We can’t afford to lose any fuel,” warned Tolevi.

“We can’t afford to get caught,” she snapped. “I need some of those straps.”

The cargo vessel slowed, complying with an order from the Russians to heave to. Tolevi decided his best bet was to slip in front and run for it. That would hide him from the craft to the south, probably, but definitely expose him to the ships north.

One problem at a time.

He didn’t think Chelsea’s diversion was going to work. But at least the girl was trying to do something, unlike White.

“Stand by!” yelled Chelsea behind him.

The drone started up. It sounded like a miniature electric fan, and not a particularly strong one.

“More speed would make it easier to launch,” she said.

“That’s easy,” said Tolevi, reaching for the throttle.

Before they’d left, Chelsea had practiced flying the Nighthawks, but launching from a moving platform was always tricky. The aircraft dipped as she revved it off the deck, ducking left and heading for the waves. Come on, damn you!

As if hearing her thoughts, the little hawk spurt upward. Chelsea brought the joystick even, leveling off at about a hundred feet. There was just enough light from the deck of the cargo ship to see its outline as she turned it eastward.

The speedboat bounced sharply against the waves as it picked up speed. Chelsea took her hand off the stick, worried she might inadvertently jerk the little UAV into the water.

“It would be great if you could keep the boat smooth!” she shouted.

“It would be even better if we could sprout wings and fly,” said Tolevi.

The control panel had a thirteen-inch screen that plotted the aircraft’s position via GPS; optical feeds from the UAV could also be selected. Chelsea nudged the plane east in the direction of the shore. It didn’t move very fast; at top speed it wouldn’t even be able to stay with the speedboat.

It reached 30.3 knots.

“How far is the eastern shore?” she asked.

“A little more than a mile and a half,” said Bozzone.

“Do we have that diversion or not?” asked Tolevi.

“I need a minute and a half,” said Chelsea.

“Patrol boat is rounding the cargo ship,” said Porter. “They’ll have a clear view in a few seconds.”

Chelsea switched the control pad to cargo mode, which allowed her to manipulate the claws on the underbelly.

She pressed the right claw button.

Nothing happened.

Damn.

There was another harbor to port about a mile ahead. It was primarily for cargo, with a set of slips at the southwest side used by ferries.

Most likely there would be Russians there, or at least some sort of night watch. But going ashore was better than swimming. There was always a chance they could bribe their way past trouble, unlike on the water.

Assuming they made it in one piece. The Russians were broadcasting to the unknown boat again, and they sounded angry.

Chelsea looked at the controls. What had she done wrong?

She hit the button again, but nothing happened.

Left, right, port, aft…

Oh my God, I wired it upside down.

She hit the button for the other claw.

Red light exploded in the sky nearly two miles away, illuminating the night.

“There’s your diversion,” she said, quickly releasing the flare and its trigger.

Tolevi could see the ferry landing less than a mile away when White yelled from below that the Russians to the north had just spotted the flare.

“They’re going to check it out,” he yelled from below.

“Porter, where’s that patrol boat?” asked Tolevi.

“Just pulling even with the cargo ship. Got their lights on them.”

“They coming for us?”

“Can’t tell.”

Tolevi veered away from the landing, heading north at full speed.

Chelsea guided the drone back in their direction, but the speedboat was pulling steadily away.

“You’re going to have to slow down so the Nighthawk can catch up,” she told Tolevi.

“No way,” he answered. “We don’t have time to wait for your toy.”

“That toy just saved our butts.”

“We’re not out of trouble yet. I still have a boat north of us.”

Chelsea was too busy trying to fly the aircraft to see what was going on around her. The speedboat was moving as quickly as it could, very close to the western shore. She caught a glimpse of searchlights off the starboard side.

“Four miles to open water,” said Tolevi. “Push, pray, or get out of the way.”

She set the course on auto, which allowed the UAV to continue flying on its own, then selected the infrared image. One of the Russian patrol boats was less than a half mile from the plane, just to the left. She could see two sailors running on the forward deck.

Then it was past.

There was another ahead, this one at about two o’clock.

Painted black and relatively small, the UAV was not only invisible to the radar aboard the patrol boat but difficult for its crew to spot visually as well. And the boat easily drowned out the electric drone of its motor. There was no sign that the boat had spotted the aircraft.

The vessel grew larger. She could see its profile, long and sleek, like a miniature yacht with a deck gun on top.

“That second boat, the one still in front of us, it looks like it’s coming in our direction,” she told Tolevi.

“No shit.”

Something flashed on the deck.

“I think they’re firing at us,” she said.

Tolevi’s heart pounded as a geyser erupted a hundred yards away. When was the last time he’d been fired at?

Never by a patrol boat.

Bad time for a first.

“They stopped ordering us to stop,” yelled White.

“Get your life jackets on,” answered Tolevi. “Pick out a spot on the shore and swim for it if we go down.”

At this rate, there was no way the Nighthawk was going to catch up to the speedboat. But the Russian craft, slowing in its turn, was less than a half mile away.

The bridge was a huge greenhouse atop a sloping superstructure, with large plate-glass windows all around. She could see it plainly in the screen.

Chelsea nudged the stick until the windows were dead on in the screen. She aimed at the one closest to the bow.

Another shell whizzed overhead.

“Typical Russian aim,” snickered Tolevi.

Chelsea nudged the stick a little higher. The plate-glass window grew large in the screen.

Then it went black.

Something flared on the Russian patrol boat. Tolevi glanced in its direction, then continued steering, ducking as close to shore as he dared.

Two more miles. Two more. Then just north.

Porter came over and started to pull a life jacket over Tolevi’s head. Tolevi started to resist, then realized what he was doing.

But there were no other shells.

“I got this,” he said aloud, sensing they’d made it.

“Russian is dead in the water,” said White a moment later. “They claim their bridge was hit by a missile.”

Tolevi looked back at Chelsea.

“You hit it with the UAV?”