Ted Bell - Spy

Hawke pulled the headset on and barked into the mouthpiece, “Nav! You have water under the keel?”

They could easily outrun this attack; it was simply a matter of not running hard aground or ripping the bottom out.

“Aye, Skipper. But not much. Shoals are—”

“Stand by, Helm.” Hawke said, “I’ll deal with it.”

A burst of speed wasn’t worth the risk to the boat. And besides, he owed these Xucuru chaps or their brothers-in-arms big time. Pity his old friend Wajari wasn’t around to see this turn of events.

Hawke gripped the joystick that controlled his turret rotation, turned the bubble to starboard, and squeezed off a long burst. The noise of the twin fifty-caliber guns ripped the silence. The hot rounds shredded the vegetation in a very satisfying manner. Another burst, then he swung the twin-guns over to the portside banks and opened up once more. The guns effect on the hidden Indians was instantly apparent. No more arrows from either side of the river. They were either all dead or had melted back into the forest.

The white devil had arrived.

“Heads up, Skipper, we’ve got a visitor,” Brownlow’s voice said in his earphones.

“What do you have now, Cap?” Hawke climbed down out of the enclosed gun mount and started moving quickly forward toward the wheelhouse.

“We’ve got a drone aircraft coming our way, sir. Flying straight toward us, nose-to-nose. Right down on the deck.”

“Range?”

“Uh, he’s a mile out now and closing. Altitude twenty-one feet. We should have visual contact any second now.”

“I’ve got him,” Hawke said, ducking inside the wheelhouse after spotting the drone’s approach. He moved quickly to the helm and stood beside Brownlow who was driving the boat. Both men were peering through the glass, watching the tiny spec a few feet above the water grow larger. Hawke grabbed the Zeiss binocs sitting atop the binnacle.

The drone looked like an upside down spoon with wings. Made of lightweight metals and composite plastic, driven by a small, propeller driven engine, the craft was painted a dull gray and had a top speed of only 150 mph.

Hawke said, “Definitely a drone recon. A UAV, streaming live video back to the command base, wherever that may be. It’s armed. Two Air-to-Ground Hellfire-type missiles on the wingtips.”

“Take him out, Skipper?” Lewis said.

“He’s currently broadcasting our arrival. Let’s give the folks crowded around the telly back home a great big bang.”

“Roger, that’s okay to launch.”

“Affirmative,” Hawke said, “Let’s see if these bloody things work.”

A second later, a red-tipped PAM missile screamed out of its launch container, streaking skyward. At an altitude of one hundred feet, the slender projectile nosed over and dove straight down toward its locked in prey. The men in Stiletto’s wheelhouse held their collective breath. This technology was so new it even smelled new.

Half a mile upriver, the air was split by a sharp crack as an intense ball of flame erupted about twenty feet above the river. The shockwave of the exploding warhead could be felt a second later by everyone aboard Stiletto. Spontaneous whoops of applause and high-fives erupted amongst the crew. The crew now knew that at least they had one effective weapons system aboard this as yet un-battle-tested warship.

“Nice shooting, Mr. Lewis,” Hawke said.

“Ducks in a pond, sir,” Lewis replied.

“That won’t last long, Mr. Lewis. Stow that attitude.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

70

LEE’S FERRY, VIRGINIA

T here was smoke rising above the farmhouse. But it wasn’t coming from the chimneys. Black smoke, thick and acrid, was pouring from the three dormer windows up on the second floor. Franklin could see licks of fire starting to race along up under the eaves, climbing up the shingled roof, pools of flame spreading rapidly up to the peak, like hot liquid running uphill, melting the snow.

Franklin slogged up the hill as fast as he could, the crusty snow up to his knees as he climbed. There was one entrance on this back side of the house. Looked to be the kitchen, a big bow window and one of those double-dutch doors. No lights on in the kitchen, even though it had suddenly gotten very dark on the hillside.

The sheriff paused at the top of the brick steps, listening for any sound from inside. All he could hear was the crackling noise of the shingled roof burning, snapping and popping, growing louder every second. The wooden farmhouse had to be almost two hundred years old. It would not take long to burn to the ground. Along with any contents that might prove useful. The inhabitants, he figured, were gone. Out the front door, maybe. A car hidden in the barn he’d seen on the way in?

Maybe not.

The door was slightly ajar.

Franklin kicked the door open wide, nearly taking it off the hinges. Adrenaline fueled his anger, still seeing Homer’s pink cheeks with the snow on them. He went through the door in a blizzard of snow, the shotgun out in front of him, eyes scanning what looked to be a deserted room. Kitchen counters to his right, stovetops set in a bricked center island with a copper hood above it.

“Police, freeze,” he said, putting his gun on a woman slumped over a kitchen table. She’d been sitting near the bow window. She was pitched forward, arms hanging at her sides, her head down on the table. Her shoulders were heaving, and he knew she was sobbing, even though he couldn’t hear her. Strands of wild dark hair hid her face. Her hands were under the table. The right arm twitched.

“I need to see your hands, ma’am.”

“You killed my son,” she said, her head and twisted face slowly coming up from the table. “My son!” She stiffened in the chair, turning away from the window and the bloody scene below to stare at him. Hatred burning through the tears streaming from her eyes. Righteous fury.

Franklin steadied the gun on her. “Your son killed a police officer. Get your hands up where I can see them. Now! Do it now!”

“You want to see my hands?” she said, her voice shaking.

She rose up suddenly, leaping up from the chair and overturning the heavy table, dishes and glassware crashing to the floor, the stubby 9mm machine pistol coming up with her body.

“Drop the weapon!” Franklin said, sidestepping to get nearer to the door.

“Allahu Akbar!” she shouted, her voice raw with grief and hate. “God is great!”

Mad despair in her black eyes as she pulled the trigger two, three times. Franklin was moving fast now and the shots were going wide and high but she was still staggering toward him, the gun extended at the end of her arm, firing blindly in his direction. She found the selector switch for full auto. He had no choice. Franklin dropped to one knee and shot the woman in the chest, killing her instantly. Her body was thrown backwards onto the floor, collapsing among the broken bits and pieces of china scattered there.

Franklin rose to his feet and left the kitchen, headed toward the front of the house. Where was the husband? Passing through the darkened dining room, he saw a litter of take-out food strewn across the pretty cherry table. The smoke in the house was strong now, burning his eyes. The fire had spread to the inner walls. He pumped a round into the chamber and raced into the living room.

The drapes on either side of the large picture window on the west-facing wall were aflame. Two large overstuffed chairs were also burning, and the hooked rug beneath them was steaming, primed to ignite.

And there was a roaring fire in the fireplace.

Not wooden logs, but masses of documents were burning there. Sheaves of paper, only recently thrown in by the looks of it. Most of the documents were already turning to ash, but not all. Also in the iron grate, three laptop computers hissed and melted, dripping molten black plastic that hit the hot stone hearth with a sizzle.