Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Kensit was shaken by the invasion of the cave and his continuing inability to get in touch with anyone at the facility, including Bazin, but he had a mission to complete. At least he’d retaken control of Sentinel—that is, until it self-destructed in less than thirty minutes. But once Brian Washburn was vice president, he would have a powerful ally in the government to protect him while he built Sentinel 2.

Unbeknownst to the ground controllers at Tyndall, he had been commanding the QF-16 drones for an hour, with the two manned F-15s following in close formation, as they approached the Bahamas. Now it was time to set them on an intercept course with Air Force Two.

He disabled the video and data feeds from all six drones to Tyndall. He wished he could see the operators’ faces at losing their connection, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the drones. His current viewpoint was following a quarter mile behind the rearmost planes. All eight planes were flying in a stacked V formation, separated by only a few hundred feet.

Surely the controllers were contacting the fighter pilots now, who would be telling them that they saw no change in the flight pattern, that it must be a communication malfunction.

Kensit took manual control of Quail 6, the drone closest to the F-15 on the left. Quail 6 suddenly banked left and rolled into the nose of the F-15, which sheared it off. The QF-16 drone exploded in a fireball as its external fuel tank ignited, catching the F-15 in the blast and blowing it apart as well. The pilot inside never had a chance.

Kensit quickly switched control to Quail 5 on the other side of the formation. He attempted the same maneuver, but this F-15 pilot was more alert. He loosed a volley from his M61 Vulcan cannon at Quail 5, but the rounds hit Quail 4 instead, chopping its tail to pieces and sending it into a rolling dive toward the Caribbean.

Quail 5 yawed to the right, catching the tip of the F-15’s wing as it tried to bank away. The wings of both the drone and the F-15 snapped off, and they began to break up as fire streamed from their tanks. The pilot punched out, and his ejection seat disappeared from Kensit’s view.

Kensit breathed a sigh of relief after the most difficult part of the mission was over. If one of the F-15s had gotten away, it could have brought down the rest of the drones with missiles. Now there were no fighters close enough to reach the drones before they intercepted the vice president’s plane.

The three drones left were plenty to do the job. Even one should be enough to destroy the unarmed 747.

Pleased with himself, Kensit took another gulp of Red Bull and set the course for the three autopilots, and, with afterburners lit, sent the drones to their doom at greater than the speed of sound.

–

Thanks to a spare set of fatigues on the helicopter, Juan was out of his wetsuit by the time he, Linda, and Hali reached the Oregon. Juan had briefed Max and Murph during the flight in. The ship was ready to depart as soon as the chopper landed. Then he’d made a call to Langston Overholt to warn him about what he’d seen on Sentinel’s screen.

They dashed to the op center, and Juan had barely taken his place in the Kirk Chair when he ordered Linda to set a course for Kensit’s last-known location, a spot northwest of Haiti that was over a hundred miles from their current position. Based on the coordinates from Trono’s phone recording, it looked like the yacht had been traveling east. But since Kensit knew Sentinel had been compromised and they could see his yacht’s position from its connection to the neutrino telescope, he’d probably changed course to put more distance between them.

Juan glanced back at Max and grinned, happy to be back on board. “Are the engines revved?”

“She’s champing at the bit,” Max replied.

“Then give me all she’s got.”

“Flank speed, aye,” he replied, and the magnetohydrodynamic engines spun up to full power, gushing jets of water behind them as the Oregon shot out of the Bahia de Grand Pierre.

“Wepps,” he said, calling Murph by the nickname for the weapons station. “How long until we’re in Exocet range?”

“At present speed, it’ll be at least forty minutes. If we can’t get an exact coordinate from Eric, we’ll have to be even closer to make a positive ID on the yacht.”

“Hali, get Eric on the line. I want to know if he has any more intel for us. Then, while we’re talking, call Langston Overholt and let me know when you’ve got him.”

Eric had previously established communications with them through the Oz cave’s landline and his voice issued from the op center’s speakers. “This thing is incredible.”

“Man, you have all the fun,” Murph said.

“I could spend weeks studying the technology.”

Juan looked at the ship’s chronometer. “You’ve actually got twenty-three minutes left, so give us the highlights.”

“Right. Okay, we’ve been able to establish Kensit’s location, but we’ll only have that as long as we’re in here and Sentinel is connected to his yacht. After that, he’s a ghost.” He passed the new coordinates on to Linda.

“He turned northwest,” Murph said. “We won’t be there for fifty minutes.”

“That’s a big problem,” Eric said.

“Why?” Juan asked.

“Because Kensit took over six QF-16 fighter drones over an hour ago. They took off from Tyndall Air Force Base and are headed in our direction. They should be almost directly above Kensit right now.”

Juan banged his fist in triumph on the arm of his chair. “That’s how he’s going to shoot it down.”

“I’ve got Overholt on the line,” Hali said.

“Patch him in.” Hali nodded, and Juan said, “Lang, did you get in touch with the president?”

“It’s not the president,” Overholt said. “He’s in Chicago this morning. But Vice President Sandecker is on his way back from Brazil.”

“Where is his plane?”

“It just passed over Haiti.”

“You need to get the pilot to turn around. Lawrence Kensit is about to bring Air Force Two down with drones he’s hijacked.”

“Oh, my God,” Overholt said. “We just got a flash report that the data feeds from six drones were lost as they were flying toward the Bahamas for a demonstration at the UNITAS naval exercise. They haven’t been able to make contact with either the drones or the chase planes.”

“If the drones are modified F-16s, they’ll be able to chase down Air Force Two unless their fuel is exhausted before they can intercept.”

“Convincing the Air Force that the vice president’s plane is about to be shot down by their own jets is going to be a tough sell, but I’ll see what I can do.”

The line clicked.

“Did you get that, Eric?” Juan said.

“Yes, and I might be able to help. I’m sending the transponder codes for both the drones and Air Force Two to Hali so you can track them. I got them off of Kensit’s remote control panel.”

“Good work.”

“That shot from Trono’s recording also might show Murph how to deactivate Kensit’s connection with the drones if he can figure out how Kensit is controlling them.”

Juan nodded to Murph and threw him Trono’s phone. Murph caught it with one hand and began downloading the video from the phone to the ship’s computer system.

“Before you go, I have another troublesome issue for you,” Eric said.

“By all means,” Juan said, shaking his head. “We’re just twiddling our thumbs anyway.”

“I found a video of Admiral Ruiz taken last night.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. It starts with an overhead shot of three ships, then zooms down to the bridge and there’s Ruiz talking on the phone. According to a sign on the bridge, the ship is called the Reina Azul. I think she’s speaking with Kensit and he was watching her.”

The Blue Queen, Juan thought. “Can you play back the conversation for us?”

“Yes, but you can only hear Ruiz’s part of it. Here it goes.”

Juan immediately recognized the dusky voice that threatened him just a week ago off the coast of Venezuela. Pauses interrupted her speech while she listened to Kensit.

They’re launched from a container, she said. No, even the Oregon will have trouble evading them. They’re called Carrier Killers for a reason . . . Don’t worry. The captains of the Maracaibo and Valera think we’re going into Port-au-Prince to pick up a huge load of cement bound for Puerto Cabello . . . Through a shell company. They have no idea I’m on board . . . I had my men attach bombs to their hulls during the night. There won’t be survivors or witnesses . . . Then I expect you to deliver . . . Yes, we’ll be there on time.

“That’s it,” Eric said.

“Not good,” Murph said as he watched Trono’s video. “Carrier Killer is the nickname for the Russian 3M-54 Klub antiship missile. It’s very hard to shoot down because it accelerates to mach three during the final approach to the target and has thrust vectoring for high-angle defensive maneuvers.”

This was sounding worse and worse to Juan. “Can the Gatling guns hit them?”

“If we’re lucky, but it’s not a sure thing. The Klub’s speed is over three times as fast as our own Exocets. I’d say the Metal Storm gun is our best shot.”

“Why the other two ships?” Max wondered. “Safety in numbers?”

Juan nodded. “Human shields. Ruiz knows we won’t attack unless we know which ship to sink.”

“But we’ll know as soon as they launch. Those tailpipes spew out a lot of smoke.”

“There’s something we’re missing,” Juan said. “Linda, get on the radar and keep an eye out for any three-ship convoys. I’ll control the helm from here. Wepps, be ready on the defensive weapons.”

Murph lowered the false doors hiding the radar-guided Gatling guns and raised the Metal Storm array into place on the deck. “Weapons ready.”

Juan thought about the names of the two ships Ruiz mentioned. Maracaibo was a large lake in Venezuela. It made sense that Ruiz would dupe cargo ships from her own country. It was possible that their guest Maria Sandoval knew one of the ship captains who was unwittingly serving as a decoy for Ruiz. She did say that the Venezuelan ship captains were a tight-knit group.

“Hali,” Juan said, “ask Captain Sandoval to join us in the op center.”

“After the great smuggling cover story we got her to swallow?” Max said in amazement. “She won’t believe that after seeing what we’ve got in here.”

“I have a feeling we don’t have much time left, we need to get her on the satellite phone. We’ll get her to pinkie-swear not to talk, if that makes you feel better.”

Max shrugged in acquiescence. “That’s a binding contract, as far as I’m concerned.”

“She’s on her way,” Hali said. “I’m putting the transponders up on the view screen.” A map of the Caribbean appeared with parts of Cuba, the Bahamas, and Haiti visible. Graphics of three red planes just north of Cuba was slowly converging with a blue-plane graphic northwest of Haiti. “That blue one is Air Force Two. The red ones represent three drones.”

“What happened to the rest of them?” Juan wondered.

“They must have crashed or we’d be getting a signal from them.”

“Murph,” Juan said, “tell me you can disable those drones.”

Murph was bent over his console in concentration and didn’t respond.

“Murph?” Juan prompted again after a few seconds.

Murph finally raised his head. “It looks like he’s controlling one of the drones manually and letting the other two fly on autopilot.”

“Can you interrupt the signal?”

“No, and I can’t take over the one he’s controlling manually. I wouldn’t have the right setup here to maneuver the plane anyway. But it’s possible that I could reprogram the autopilot.”

“Do it. At their current closing speed, we’ve only got ten minutes until those drones are on top of Air Force Two.”

Maria Sandoval was escorted into the op center and her eyes went wide as she took in the high-tech command bridge.

“Who are you people?” she said in awe.

“We’re the good guys, Captain,” Juan said as he rose to greet her. “And I need your help. I can’t explain everything that’s going on right now, but it seems that your friend Admiral Ruiz is going to try to sink us and I need to know where she is. Do you know the captains of the cargo ships Maracaibo or Valera?”

“Not the Maracaibo,” she said, “but Eduardo Garcia is the master of the Valera. I’ve met him a few times while we were docked in Puerto Cabello. He’s a good captain, though he’s a bit of an odd character.”

“It’s very important that we speak to him. I’m going to pass you to Hali and he’s going to help you get in touch with Captain Garcia. What we have to ask him will be better coming from someone he knows.”

“I’ve got an incoming missile!” Linda called out.

“What? From what direction?”

“It came over Île de la Gonâve to the south. Ruiz’s launch ship must be on the other side of the island. Our radar couldn’t see anything until the missile passed over the island.”

Juan cursed under his breath. She was using the same tactic against him that he’d used against her with the Washington by putting the island between them. He couldn’t fire back with his own missile because he didn’t have a lock on the target while apparently she had a clear lock on the Oregon thanks to Kensit and Sentinel.

“Wepps! Get ready!”

Murph didn’t look up from his furious typing. “I’m kinda busy trying to save the VP.”

“Max, get on weapons.”

Max rushed over and took Murph’s usual spot at the weapons station. The missile was already on its supersonic final approach. He pushed the button to activate the Gatling gun.

Using the same technology as the Navy’s Phalanx close-in weapons system, the six-barreled gun spun up to its full speed and fired 20mm armor-piercing tungsten rounds that sounded like an industrial saw ripping through a redwood. The radar, housed in a dome above the gun and looking uncannily like R2-D2, attempted to lock onto the elusive target, but at such a high rate of speed it had trouble connecting.

Max kept it firing, and fired the Metal Storm gun as well, unleashing five hundred rounds in the blink of an eye. The wall of tungsten finally made contact eight hundred yards from the Oregon.

Most of the missile disintegrated and plunged into the sea, but a substantial portion tumbled on, propelled by its supersonic velocity. Metal fragments smashed into Oregon’s hull.

“Damage report,” Juan said.

Max consulted the exterior cameras. “No hull breach, but we’ve lost the Gatling gun’s radar in the impact. Reloading the Metal Storm.”

“Another missile on the way!” Linda said. “Two minutes to target.”

“I’m turning us one hundred and eighty degrees to bring our starboard Gatling gun to bear,” Juan said as he swung the Oregon about. “Be ready on the Exocet, Max.”

“We need a target first,” Max answered. “We could hit any vessel on the other side of the island if we don’t have the coordinates of the ship that’s firing.”

Juan looked at Maria, who stared back at him with a stunned expression, the phone headset to her ear.

All he said was, “Hurry, please.”

The captains of both the Maracaibo and the Valera were radioing desperate Maydays about a ship in their midst firing missiles as the second Klub rocketed over the island separating Ruiz from the Oregon. Ruiz saw, by her adversary’s impotence, that her plan to hire ships to sail next to the Reina Azul had the effect she’d intended. Cabrillo didn’t have the cojones to fire blindly back at her when there were two cargo vessels full of innocent crew members not a quarter mile to either side. Even with all that was at stake, he was too weak to risk sinking a noncombatant.

She watched the Oregon on the monitor feed from a camera planted on the other side of the eight-mile-wide island. Kensit had warned her that he would be too busy to provide real-time intel about the Oregon’s location, so in the middle of the night she’d sent two men to set up a camera with a high-powered transmitter on a remote beach on the opposite side of the island. When Cabrillo’s ship sailed into view on the only course it could have taken out of Bahia de Grand Pierre, she’d attacked.

As her launch team had cautioned her, the missile control was limited by the container’s positioning on the old cargo ship, so they could only be launched one at a time. Initially, she’d been furious about the restriction, but now she was rather enjoying seeing the Oregon flail away at the missiles. The high-tech ship wouldn’t be able to shoot them down indefinitely. One of them would get through.

“Do you have the escape boat ready for evacuation?” she asked the captain.

“Aye, Admiral,” he replied. “It’s tied up on the port side.”

“What about the bombs? I want to scuttle all three ships as soon as the Oregon’s back is broken.”

“They’ve all been set and are ready to receive the detonation command.” He handed her the remote detonator.

“Excellent work, Captain,” she said. “You’ll have a high place in my government when I’m president.”

As the Maydays continued, she wasn’t worried about any authorities coming to the rescue. Haiti had a token Coast Guard and no Navy, so the best they could do was send out a police launch or ask for help from the Dominican Republic. She and her men would be long gone before either could mobilize.

The second Klub darted toward the Oregon and she was sure this one would make it through, but the missile exploded off its stern in a hail of defensive gunfire, showering the ship with debris. Flames cascaded across the deck and this time she was satisfied they were the real thing, not the fakery she’d seen off the coast of Puerto La Cruz.

The only disappointment was that Cabrillo didn’t know who was about to sink his beloved ship. But she’d know and that’s all that mattered.

Time to end this.

She radioed down to launch control. “Fire the third missile.”

–

“The last one took out Metal Storm,” Max said. “Only the two Gatlings left.”

“I’m going to angle us so both of them have a shot at the next missile,” Juan said, turning the Oregon toward Île de la Gonâve. “How are you doing, Maria?”

“I’ve got Captain Garcia on his sat phone,” she said in triumph. “He’s very upset. What should I ask him?”

“Can he get in touch with the Maracaibo’s captain, but not over the radio?”

She relayed the question. “Yes, he also has a sat phone.”

“Good. Tell them to come to a full stop, and get me their exact GPS coordinates—and I mean down to the inch. And ask them if there are any other ships in the area.” She looked confused by the request but asked Garcia anyway.

Juan turned to Max. “Get ready to plug them into the Exocet guidance computer.”

Max furrowed his brow then nodded in understanding. “Tell it what not to hit?”

“Right.” Juan checked the map and saw that the drones and Air Force Two were near to converging. “Murph, what’s your status with the drones? We’ve only got five minutes left.”

“Almost got it. I have to do this right the first time or Kensit will lock me out permanently.”

“All right. Keep on it.”

“I’ve got the coordinates!” Maria yelled, and told them to Max, who plugged them into the guidance computer.

“Missile three sighted!” Linda called out. “Two minutes to target.”

“Ready on the Exocet!”

“Fire!”

The Exocet was ejected from its tube and its turbojet kicked in, sending the antiship missile skimming across the water. Its radar altimeter kept it a mere ten feet above the surface.

“The Klub is one minute out,” Linda said.

“Max, try to get the missile in a cross fire with the Gatlings. It’s our only chance.”

An industrial-scale ripping sound echoed from two sides of the ship as the Gatlings spewed tungsten rounds at the approaching missile. The tracer streams danced as the missile bobbed and weaved to avoid the shells. But twenty seconds of uninterrupted fire eventually found its target and the missile erupted in an orange torrent of flame.

“Phew,” Max said as he pointedly wiped his brow. “Gun two is down to thirty rounds left in the drum. I doubt we can take down another missile.”

“Time to target on the Exocet?”

“I’m not sure,” Linda replied. “It’s over the island now, so we can’t see it anymore on radar.”

“Maria,” Juan said calmly, “can you kindly ask Captain Garcia if he sees our missile?”

–

When Ruiz saw the missile fired from the Oregon on the shore-based camera feed, she assumed it was a last-ditch effort to shoot down her own Klub and that it had failed when they passed each other.

Now as it crossed the southern coast of the island and she had a better look at it, she recognized it as an Exocet antiship missile.

She had misjudged Cabrillo. In his desperation, he must have taken a blind shot, hoping that it would hit her ship merely by chance. Instead, it was traveling directly toward the Valera. She mentally patted herself on the back for bringing along the extra ships as decoys and prepared to order the final missile launched to finish off the Oregon.

Her attitude changed in one horrible moment. Guided by some unseen hand, the Exocet abruptly altered course and headed straight toward the Reina Azul.

The captain began to order evasive maneuvers, but she knew it was useless. With no defensive capabilities, her ship might as well have had a bull’s-eye painted on its side.

The missile struck the hull amidships, blasting a gigantic hole in the side of the cargo vessel. Ruiz might have survived long enough to get to the escape boat if not for the scuttling charges she’d ordered planted on the ship. They rocked the ship as each was ignited in a cascade of explosions.

Ruiz’s final emotion was a mixture of rage and jealousy at being the second-best tactician in what should have been a certain victory. Then the fourth Klub missile detonated in its launcher, vaporizing the bridge and every person on it.

–

Maria yanked the headset off, like she’d heard a deafening noise, and Juan’s heart stopped for a moment, thinking the Exocet had hit the wrong target. Then she put the set back to her ear and tentatively said, “Captain Garcia, are you still there?”

After a tense moment, she jumped to her feet and shouted with joy. “Garcia says it’s a direct hit! The Reina Azul was blown to pieces and is already going to the bottom. He and the captain of the Maracaibo will look for survivors, but he doesn’t expect any.”

Juan breathed a sigh of relief, but he wasn’t ready to celebrate yet.

“Murph, you’ve got three minutes left.”

“I get better the closer I get to a deadline,” he replied with a lighthearted intensity. “And voilà!” Two video feeds showed up on the main view screen next to the map. Each of them showed blue sky and clouds flitting past below.

“Are those from the drones?” Juan asked.

“The two I control. Kensit’s controlling one of the drones, but I’ve got command of the autopilots on the other two. The thing is he doesn’t know that I do. But even so, the QF-16 on manual is too maneuverable. I’d lose a straight dogfight a hundred percent of the time. So the question is, how do I collide with his drone before it takes out Air Force Two?”

Juan looked at the map of the drones converging on Air Force Two northeast of Cuba and noticed they were near Kensit’s location as well. He was probably excited to watch Air Force Two come down next to his yacht.

“Let’s try a two-pronged approach. If one doesn’t work, the other might. Do you think he’ll notice the course change on one of the drones he’s not controlling if it’s subtle?”

Murph rubbed his chin in thought. “Probably not. Especially if there was something else to distract his attention.”

“Then program one of the drones for a slow-motion collision, closing the distance between them by a foot every second. By the time he realizes what’s happening, the drones will be colliding.”

“I like it. What’s the distraction?”

Juan smiled. “We’ll make the other drone go into a sudden dive. Program it for an intercept course to the updated coordinates we’re getting from Eric.”

Murph looked up at the map, and when he turned back, his grin was even wider than Juan’s as he input the data with gusto.

–

“Don’t lean on my chair,” Kensit said to Washburn in a tone not normally used to address someone who was destined to be the president of the United States. He didn’t care. The former governor kept inadvertently pushing down on Kensit’s seat back, disturbing his concentration. He was beginning to regret bringing Washburn in to watch the final destruction of Air Force Two.

“Sorry,” Washburn said for the second time, and backed up to the wall. “How long until you shoot it down?”

“Not long now . . . There it is!” He pointed at a dot blooming against the blue sky on the lead drone’s video feed. “It’s five miles away. We’re closing at three hundred miles per hour, so we’ll be in range in sixty seconds.”

“What if you miss?”

“The pilot will try to execute evasive maneuvers, but it won’t work. A QF-16 can fly circles around a 747, and I have three of them.”

One of the drones suddenly went into a nose dive. Kensit lost the video feed at the same time.

“Dammit!”

“What?” Washburn said, leaning forward onto the chair back again before quickly releasing it and saying “Sorry” again.

“We lost Quail Three. Must be some kind of malfunction.”

“Can you fix it?”

“It’s not worth pursuing this close to the target. We’ve still got a backup drone left in case this one doesn’t succeed.”

Kensit had Sentinel locked onto the cockpit of Air Force Two, watching the two pilots prepare to evade the approaching drones. They had received a warning about them from the Air Force controller and were trying to get away, but their efforts wouldn’t make a difference. Being able to hear and see what they were planning to do, he could adjust with seemingly supernatural agility. The fuel gauge on each drone indicated fifteen minutes’ supply left, so he might even toy with them for a few minutes before finishing them off. He wouldn’t soon get another chance to play around like this with life-sized jets.

Then he thought no, he wouldn’t take a chance. He’d been working nearly three years to get to this moment of opportunity. No sense in risking another glitch like the malfunction that downed Quail 3.

Air Force Two loomed in the drone’s camera, easily distinguishable now for what it was. The pilots agreed to wait until the QF-16s were within a half mile before throwing the 747 into a tight right-hand bank, not knowing it would be a futile attempt.

Kensit wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and grabbed the controllers for the final approach. He was grinning maniacally at the sheer power literally in his hands at the moment. He was about to change the world just as he’d promised.

The smile vanished when he saw a strange image on the camera feed from the drone he was controlling. A narrow vertical edge was slowly rising into the frame from below and to the right, and the sight was so incongruous that he didn’t realize what it was until he saw USAF stenciled on the side of it.

It was the rudder of the other drone.

“No,” he said breathlessly. Then he screamed, “NO!” and rolled his drone sharply to the left.

He was too late. The air brakes of the drone in front activated, slowing it abruptly and sending it backward into Kensit’s drone. He tried to cut the throttle, but by then the left wing of his drone sliced into the rudder of the drone that had snuck in front of it. The camera flared a bright white for a moment and then went black.

He changed Sentinel’s view so that he could see behind Air Force Two. All that was left of the drone Kensit had been controlling was a huge fireball. The other drone, bereft of its tail, tumbled toward the ocean.

Kensit sat back in his chair, stunned at the loss of both drones.

There was only one explanation.

Cabrillo and his crew. But that was impossible. Ruiz was supposed to sink the Oregon.

“What the hell just happened?” Washburn asked, incredulous.

“Shut up!” Kensit shouted, practically pulling his hair out. “Let me think!”

He spun Sentinel’s control all the way back to Haiti and the Gulf of Gonâve, where Ruiz’s battle was to take place. He stared in shock at the Oregon, battered and smoking but still cruising along.

He zoomed into the op center. There was Juan Cabrillo, sitting smugly in his Kirk Chair. He waved at the map on the screen in front of him and said, “Bye-bye.”

Kensit initially thought it was another spooky direct address to him, but then he noticed what was on the map. The Quail 3 drone hadn’t crashed.

It was headed right for his yacht.

Kensit jumped out of his chair, sending it careening into Washburn.

“Get out of my way!” Kensit shrieked, and sprinted for the deck.

–

Maurice glided into the op center with a silver tray carrying a fresh Cuban Cohiba from Juan’s private stock. Juan had no idea how the veteran steward knew the endgame was coming, but he thanked him and stuck the cigar in his mouth to watch the finale play out.

The white yacht grew exponentially on the screen as the drone dived toward the water at five hundred miles an hour, a speed low enough to maintain a precise lock as it converged on its target’s constantly changing position.

Juan saw two Caucasian men burst out onto the deck as it filled the screen. Both stared up in disbelief at the diving jet, and Juan recognized Kensit’s astonished and agonized face an instant before the screen went dark.

Murph threw both his hands straight up in the air and whooped “Touchdown!”

“You realize we just lost any chance of finding out how Sentinel actually works,” Max said. “Lutzen’s journal is now atomized.”

Juan shrugged. “It’s better than Kensit getting away and selling it to the highest bidder. Speaking of which . . . Hali, there’s two minutes left on Sentinel’s self-destruct. Tell Eric to get out of the Oz cave.”

“He told me that he’s taking photos of the machinery,” Hali said.

“I don’t care. He’s had enough time. I don’t want him anywhere close to it when it blows up. Tell Eddie and Linc to drag Stoney out of there if they have to.”

Hali smiled. “Maybe I’ll tell them to do that anyway.”

As Hali made the call, Juan flicked open the silver lighter that Maurice had placed on his armrest and lit his well-deserved cigar.

–

Hector Bazin was shaken awake by a rumble that rattled his whole body. When it subsided, he sat up and rubbed his aching head, wondering how long he’d been unconscious. His hands and face were crusted with dried blood, meaning he’d been out for a while. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness.