Before he’d found the ravine, this last group almost got him. He’d carved one out of the pack and tried to climb aboard and bull-ride the damn thing like he and Saladin had perfected. The smartass controller had applied full throttle forward to one track, full reverse to the other. The Troll spun like a goddamn top on its axis and flung him off into the bushes.
High fives in the control room, oh yeah.
This new guy was seriously spitting lead. The air was full of tracer rounds, too, the shrubbery getting chewed to pieces all around him as the guy tried to find his range. Head down, pumping his knees high, bobbing and weaving, Harry ran for his life. He was seeing sunlight ahead now. The river was close. There was the dock through the trees. He could make out a boat, a crazy looking black boat, had to be a hundred feet long, waiting at the end.
Had to be Hawke. Nobody else he knew would have a boat like that. He’d almost missed his ride. Fucking Troll remote operators had gotten their shit together, all right. All that practice with Harry and Saladin had made them a lot better at this game. Harry ran for daylight.
He tripped over a big root, cursed as he went down. Now he was up and running for his life again. The tank was still on his ass, spitting lead at him. He dodged and feinted, using the thick undergrowth as cover. He was almost to the clearing.
Now he had to sprint across open ground. There was dilapidated shed at the foot of the dock, about a hundred yards away. As he got closer, he saw machine gun turrets on Hawke’s boat. Shoot back, you assholes! Get this tank off my ass! Fifty cals on the bow and stern. Christ, there was even one up on top of the wheelhouse! What the hell was going on? Were they all asleep?
No, they were just busy.
Unseen by Harry Brock, armed drones were approaching the black gunship moored at the end of the dock. Hawke was up on top of the wheelhouse with Ecclestone who was manning the .23mm cannon. Both men were keenly focused on enemy craft approaching from every compass point. Hawke had his glasses on the tiny black specks dead ahead, another drone flying low over the water toward his bow. Hawke was straining his eyes, trying to determine if there were missiles on the wingtips or if these were just more recon flights. He’d no intention of wasting another PAM on a mere recon.
“Radar showing four small drone aircraft approaching out of the west-southwest, sir, altitude two hundred feet, speed fifty-five knots,” he heard Fire Control Officer Lewis say in his headphones. “Range one mile.”
“Four bogies?” Hawke said.
“Four, roger. Three bogies are breaking formation. Climbing. Looks like they intend to circle around behind us, sir. The lead one, too, seems to be climbing. Appears to be circling. Looks like a holding pattern.”
Why send four when one would do? Hawke wondered.
“Awaiting further orders, I expect. Keep an eye on them, Lewis.” He told the Fire Control Officer.
Then he heard rapid machine gun fire from the bank and saw Harry Brock emerge from the jungle. He’d been waiting nearly an hour and was about to give orders to shove off. He’d no desire to remain a sitting duck any longer than he had to. But, here Harry came, running flat out toward the clearing. Somebody was shooting at him, but who, or, what?
A tank. Small, but fast and firing twin machine guns at his friend Harry. One of the two robots that had been shadowing them no doubt.
“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
