Harry Brock, Hawke said privately, was a bit of a piss artist.
The two men had worked together a year ago in Oman. Hawke had rescued Harry from a Chinese steamer carrying the CIA officer back to prison in China. Then, to his credit, Brock returned the favor, getting Hawke alive out of the bloody jungle. That made them even, which is the way Hawke liked it. He had never liked the feeling of being beholden to anyone.
But now Hawke would have to rely on Brock’s boots on the ground intel about the enemy’s exact location, defenses, and fortifications. Harry was coming aboard Hawke’s boat for the final leg of the journey. Stiletto would make an unscheduled stop tonight, just after nightfall, at an abandoned river outpost called Tupo. With any luck, Brock would be there as planned.
Hawke had entered uncharted territory. He’d never ventured this far down river during his captivity. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed Harry now. Navigation from this point onward would be exceedingly difficult without someone aboard who knew what physical landmarks to look for on the river. Maps were virtually useless. Because of flash flooding, the beds of rivers changed constantly. The rivers, forks, and tributaries had become indistinguishable. Some rivers were mined and some were not. Harry knew. It was Harry who’d told him about the armed drones and robotic weaponry. Harry who’d sold him the big black boxes on the stern.
PAMs were the fifteen Precision Attack Missiles mounted in a second 4X6X4-foot black container just aft of the wheelhouse. Fire and forget, meaning once a target was acquired, it was dead. Realizing that, in the jungle, there would be many targets the boat’s myriad sensors wouldn’t pick up, Hawke had also ordered this second NetFires missile system installed, the Loitering Attack Missile, or LAM.
These mini-cruise missiles were the same size and weight as a PAM missile. Unlike it, the LAM missile can fly around an assigned area for forty five minutes looking for a target. If none is acquired, the missile simply crashes. If a target is detected by its built-in Laser Radar system, Ladar, and the onboard software recognizes the target vehicle as an enemy one, the missile attacks from above. Its warhead is sufficient to take out all but the largest Main Battle Tanks of any known enemy force.
At that moment, a flying object struck the PAM box, hard, and fell to the deck at Hawke’s feet. Hawke bent to pick it up. It was an arrow. A long one, maybe four feet, which meant the Xucuru warrior who’d fired it was not too deep inside the wall of jungle. Hawke leapt up into the protected Fifty-caliber machine gun turret just in time. The air around the boat was suddenly filled with poison-tipped arrows, a cloud of them, flying from both banks. Most bounced harmlessly off the carbon fiber hull or superstructure and sank. Still, it was unpleasant and there was always a chance someone could get hurt.
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
