Ted Bell - Spy

“Ecclestone,” Hawke said to the gunner seated inside the heavily armored Plexiglas turret.

“Sir!”

“Do you think you can take out that little tank without killing Mr. Brock?”

“Aye, aye, sir. I think I’ve got a shot.”

The turret instantly rotated ninety degrees west and the GUN DISH got a lock on the approaching robot Troll. Hawke felt the deck shudder beneath him as Ecclestone squeezed off a burst from the .23mm cannons. The muzzles flashed, spouting flame as they recoiled. Hawke saw the small tank lifted up high in the air by the exploding rounds, disintegrating in a perfectly symmetrical ball of fire and flaming debris.

Harry kept running down the long dock.

“Come along, Harry,” Hawke shouted through cupped hands from the roof, “We’re about to shove off without you!”

“You can’t leave me! I’m your ticket to Paradise, Hawke,” Harry said, pounding down the rotting boards of the sharply canted structure.

“Let’s get out of here!” Hawke shouted, his focus back on the rapidly approaching drone. “Cast off all lines!”

The crew hastily cast off the bow, stern, and spring lines made fast to the dock pilings. Harry Brock, seeing the water opening up between himself and Hawke’s boat, had to leap for it. He made it, arms pinwheeling, and a waiting crewman wrestled him safely aboard.

“Hello, Hawkeye,” he smiled up at Alex who was standing on the cabin top looking down at him. “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Hello, Harry. Permission granted.”

A nearby explosion rocked the boat on its beam and a geyser of water shot fifty feet in the air. The dock where Harry had been standing seconds ago, was no more. Harry and the crew stowing lines on the starboard side were knocked to their knees and had to scramble to stay aboard.

“I should have mentioned we’re under attack. You might want to get inside where it’s nice and safe, Harry.”

“Is there no peace?” Brock muttered, getting to his feet.

“We’ve got four confirmed armed drones, Skipper,” Lewis said in the phones. “Fore and aft, and two more on our stern quarters, sir. Closing at eighty knots. Armed with Hellfire-type missiles. Request permission for immediate launch PAM weapons system, sir.”

“Denied. These things are slow moving. Ecclestone and the fore and aft turrets should be sufficient. Save PAM for when we really need it. Fire when ready. I’m going to the bridge.”

Hawke stepped on to the top rung, lightly gripped the stainless ladder rails, and slid down onto the bridge deck. Brownlow was at the wheel, Harry and Stokely were embracing just aft of him, pounding each other on the shoulders.

“Break it up,” Hawke said, clapping Harry on the back. Despite his misgivings about the American, he was very glad to see him. Brock stuck out his hand and Hawke shook it. “Been a while, Harry. Good to see you.”

“Likewise. I didn’t think—”

Harry’s sentence was interrupted by the muffled but still loud chatter of both fore and aft twin fifty calibers opening up at the same time, a metallic cacophony enhanced by the heavy thudding of the cannon directly overhead.

“Incoming!” Brownlow shouted. “Hit the—”

Hawke saw the missile streaking directly for the wheelhouse. A second later an explosion directly overhead rocked the boat, sending all three men inside the wheelhouse to the deck. Hawke scrambled over to the ladder and climbed topside. The cannon turret had taken a nearly direct hit and Ecclestone was slumped forward over his weapon, blood pouring from a deep gash in his forehead. Hawke pulled the man from his station and saw that he was wounded in several places but still very much alive.

“Get below,” he said to the dazed man, helping him to the ladder. Off to his left he saw one drone explode, brought down by fire from the stern gunner, whose turret was now rotating clockwise to take out the drone on their aft starboard quarter.

“Can’t walk too well, sir,” Ecclestone said. Then Stokely emerged at the top of the ladder, lending a hand.

“I’ll take him below, boss,” he said, and Hawke steered the wounded man to his waiting arms. He heard a nearby explosion as another drone was blown out of the sky by the Stiletto stern gunners. The boat was moving rapidly through the water now, thirty knots perhaps, making her harder to hit. The one remaining drone, the one that had fired the initial missile, had circled back again and was now on another approach coming directly at them low out of the sun.

“Let’s see if this damn thing still works,” Hawke said, slipping into the seat inside the damaged turret of the 23mm anti-aircraft gun. The weapon was equipped with its own GUN DISH radar, capable of acquiring, tracking, and engaging low-flying aircraft, like the drone now attacking Stiletto. It fired full auto, but Hawke had ordered the gun set at bursts of two to three rounds to conserve precious ammunition. No time to change that now.

He squinted his eyes, trying to use the conventional optical sight, aided by the GUN DISH. The sun was fierce and blinding, but he thought he had the little bugger. A sharp beeping tone agreed. He had target acquistion. He had the bastard in his sights now, centering it in the red crosshairs, seeing the one missile remaining on the port wing, knowing it would be fired at any second…and squeezing both triggers simultaneously, he blew the drone out of the sky.

HALF AN HOUR later, Hawke, Stokely, the Frogman, and Brock were huddled in the boat’s tiny war room, deep into refining their plans with the aid of Brock’s much-needed information. It had already been decided that, instead going in with two squads, Stoke and Froggy would mount a combined operation.

Best of all, Brock had even created a rough but reasonable facsimile of the compound itself, rendered in black pencil on the back of a map of the Amazon Basin’s Mata Grosso region. Because of the canopy, Mick Hocking had been unable to get any aerial recon photos. Now, at least, the team could visualize the objective.

“A large force here to the north?” Hawke asked, studying the crude map.

“Saladin has his scouts tracking the main body of Top’s troops. He has begun moving them out.”

“I’D SAY THE TROOPS remaining inside the compound number about a hundred right now,” Brock said. “The hard core Imperial Guards, let’s call them. The vast majority of troops have moved north and west, using these jerry-built highways you helped build in the jungle. I saw three armored divisions pull out late last night.”

“Headed where?”

“Central America is all I know. All the way to Mexico, maybe, join up with forces in the mountains up there. The idea is, once they take the Great Satan out, that’s the signal. Then the troops fan out into the countryside, get the populations to rise up, and they all march together on the cities. Knock them down one by one. Take the capitals.”

“They all want to be the next Bolívar,” Hawke said, rubbing his chin.

“These guys want it all. And they think now’s the time to go for it. Who’s going to stop them?”

“You got inside,” Hawke said, smiling. “Good work, Harry.”

“I’ve still got someone inside. A woman named Caparina. She could probably take Top down all by herself.”

Hawke looked at Brock’s baggy pajamalike fatigues. “Disguised like that?”

“Exactly. Except she’s wearing a fatigue hat pulled down over her ears. And these green camo pajamas like all of Top’s grunts in there. She’d be hard to spot. We all look equally bad.”

“You don’t know where they’re keeping Ambrose Congreve, do you, Harry?”

“Hard to say.”

“Christ, Harry, what’s this woman doing in there?”

Harry spun the hand-rendered chart of the compound around on the table so that it was facing him. He knew this was Hawke’s primary objective now. “Hold your horses. Let me look at this thing a second.”