Kill Decision
Page 39
“Copy that. We’ll keep ’em busy.”
* * *
Smokey keyed off the mic and looked across the hood of the Bentley at Evans, who was pouring another glass of white wine from a bottle with Swedish writing on the label. They stood on the weather deck, the wind from the ship’s twenty-six knots flowing over them.
Evans nodded and looked to the south. He spoke in a dramatic, gravelly voice. “The forces of Mordor gather for the attack.”
“Go easy on that shit, man. We might wind up in the water in a few hours.”
“All the more reason . . .” He emptied his glass and poured another.
Ritter groaned in the backseat of a blue BMW M5 sedan parked next to the Bentley.
Evans looked down at him in annoyance. “How do you like your drones now, asshole?”
Nearby, at the railing, the captain scanned the horizon with his large binoculars.
“I can’t believe what I am seeing.” He lowered the binoculars. “They are coming. Perhaps six thousand meters out.”
“Now you know why we wanted you to evac.” Smokey grabbed an MP5 submachine gun from the car hood and strapped on a combat harness.
Close by, Ripper opened the cab door of her armored yellow front-loader and stowed an HK416 rifle next to the seat.
Evans tossed the wineglass into the wind and took a deep pull directly from the wine bottle.
Smokey grabbed the bottle from him and tossed it overboard as well. “Battle stations, Morty.”
“Oh, nice! Litterbug.”
Mooch raced out onto the deck from the crew quarters. “Radar shows a cloud inbound. We need to get to battle stations.”
“We know.” Ripper pointed to the horizon.
Mooch put a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “So, the captain, Evans, and Ritter will stay in the engine room. It’s safer there, and they can control the ship as well as direct us to hull breeches, fires, or anything else by radio.”
The captain eyed Ritter, sitting handcuffed in the backseat of the BMW. “Who is this man?”
“He works for the people who built the drones—and he might be able to help us find out who they are. So keep him safe.”
Smokey produced the key and unlocked Ritter’s handcuffs. The man barely responded. “Morty! Go with the captain.” He pulled a now staggering Evans over to the BMW’s passenger seat and pushed him in as the captain started the turbocharged engine.
The Swede looked grim. “And what if everything goes wrong?”
“You mean we start to sink? We rally up in the ship’s galley. That’ll be our Alamo. They won’t be taking prisoners.” Smokey gave him a thumbs-up. “Stay in touch by radio, Captain.” Smokey pounded the roof, and the BMW took off down the ramp, screeching through the garage levels.
Mooch, Ripper, and Smokey then stood side by side at the ship’s railing watching the dark, writhing cloud coming toward them from the south, like bad weather.
Ripper checked the action on her pistol. “I don’t know about you guys, but I am really starting to hate these fucking drones.”
Smokey headed back toward the Bentley. “Best we can do is keep them too busy chasing us to cut up the ship. Deck three is the least crowded, so use that for speed. And for godsakes, Ripper, don’t run that shovel into the hull walls below the waterline.”
They ran for their vehicles even as the black cloud grew.
Smokey revved the Bentley. With tires screeching, he fishtailed down the loading ramp into the depths of the ship as the howling of a thousand small jet- and two-stroke engines became a deafening clamor—and the bodies of the drones blotted out the sun.
* * *
Evans sat unsteadily on a desk chair in front of several computer monitors in the spotless engine control room. He’d expected a dark and noisy place, but there were several sections to the ship’s engine room—the engine itself was the size of a semitruck and occupied a cavernous three-story-tall space crisscrossed by piping, but there were also several smaller auxiliary engines that were idle, banks of large generators, cooling water and fuel pumps, fuel filtration systems, oil and fuel ports. The place was massive.
The captain and Ritter came back into the control room. “You shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re going to be useless.”
Suddenly there was an explosion somewhere, and the deck vibrated.
Evans sat up straight as alarms went off on the control board. “What the hell was that?”
A klaxon sounded and red fire strobes started flashing.
The captain shoved the wheeled chair aside and starting clicking through screens. In a moment he brought up a surveillance camera on one of the monitors. It showed a downward view of the starboard hull near the bow of the ship. As they watched, several small aircraft raced into the frame and “landed” on the hull near the waterline in a shower of sparks, leaving long scars in the orange paint. Even as the first ones came to a stop, a dozen more were already screeching to land next to them—like leeches.
The captain watched, utterly confused.
Evans searched fruitlessly for cigarettes. “They’ve got electromagnetic landing gear, Captain. They’ll stick to your hull like fucking barnacles. And that’s when the fun really begins.”
“Madness. Absolute madness!”
Ritter watched, shaking his head.
On-screen the first arrivals were already sending a shower of sparks into the passing waves as their steel-cutting torches kicked in. Their wing acted as a cowling to cover them as they worked, and they began cutting downward below the waves.
“My God! They’ll gut us like a fish.”
“That’s the general idea.” Evans was still patting his empty pockets for cigarettes.
Suddenly all three men looked up to trace a scraping sound as it passed fast along the hull wall opposite them. It was quickly followed by several more beyond the steel.
The captain clicked through still more control screens. “We have a double hull. It will take them some time to cut through.” He grabbed the radio. “There are numerous drones cutting into the hull below the waterline, and there’s a fire on deck one. Port side, compartment three.”
The sound of gunfire and screeching rubber came in over the radio, along with Smokey’s voice. “We’ve got our hands full at the moment, Captain!”
* * *
McKinney stepped carefully around scurrying wire-cutter drones, and then leapt the eight feet over a ten-story chasm to the last container block separating them from the control tower, which now loomed right above them. She landed next to Odin and Foxy, who caught hold of her to prevent her from tripping on still more winged drones and the hovering, lawn mower–sized quadracopter drones roving about.
They could barely hear each other above the mind-numbing noise of thousands of small engines. She watched as several of the quadracopter drones rubbed past each other, their sensilla antennas brushing together—an exchange of information.
Odin sprayed her and Foxy with more pheromone and leaned in to her ear, shouting, “These quadracopter drones seem to be more aggressive. Unless we keep spraying, they start following us.”
McKinney watched one doing just that. “Those look like larger versions of the human-hunters we faced in Colorado.” She noticed the twin gun barrels bolted into the frame. “These gas masks might not be helping us much. We’re still exhaling. It probably requires a lot of pheromone to overcome the aggression score we’re receiving from our other chemical signatures.”
Odin motioned for them to keep moving. “Then let’s speed up.”
McKinney and Foxy followed toward the edge of the container field over the backs of winged drones.
Odin keyed his radio and shouted, “TOC, this is Safari-One-Six actual. What’s your status?”
There was a pause, and then the sound of engines roaring and staccato gunfire came in over the radio. “Our status is that they’re cutting up the ship like we’re not even on it. We’re too busy dealing with the hunter-killers to do anything about the
hull-cutters. Fire suppression systems kicked in, and the hull’s penetrated in two places. So far the pumps are keeping up.” More gunfire. “How about you? Over.”
Odin looked out to the horizon at the indistinct outline of a ship in the distance. “We need ten more minutes. What’s your current position?”
“About sixteen miles north-northwest of you.”
“If you think the ship can’t make the distance to the Maersk, abort and head out of the colony’s territory.”
“So far we’re holding up. But I copy that. Out.”
They reached the end of the container field and looked at the bridge tower across a thirty-foot-wide chasm. McKinney peered over the edge at an eight-story drop to the ship’s deck and a tangle of machinery.
Odin pointed and shouted over the din of the drone engines, “Crew didn’t get a chance to abandon ship.”
McKinney followed his gaze toward the ship’s bright orange free-fall escape boat. It was suspended, angled downward in its launch chute on the starboard side. The boat was easily forty feet long and fully enclosed.
Foxy nodded. “Bad for them, good for us. But we’re going to have to climb down. This gap is too big to jump, and we don’t have ropes.”
Odin started lowering himself over the side. “The containers have enough cross-braces and handholds for a free climb.” He looked up. “You okay with this, Professor?”
McKinney was already lowering herself down, searching for a leg hold. “I’ve done my share of rock climbing in the field. Let’s do it.”
All three of them started the long climb down, keeping close together and receiving frequent sprays from the pheromone canister. It was already more than two-thirds empty. It took them a good five minutes to descend to deck level.
When they hopped onto the deck, Odin led them toward a watertight door at the base of the massive white-painted steel bridge tower.
Foxy grabbed his arm and pointed to the escape boat a hundred feet to their right. “I’ll get it ready for launch while you redirect the ship.”
“What about the pheromone?”
“That escape boat should be nearly airtight. I’ll probably be safe in there. Just give me another dose for the run over to it.”
Odin glanced at McKinney. “Is he making sense?”
She nodded. “We’ll go through less pheromone, and if the boat’s watertight and he’s quiet, he should be okay.”
Odin nodded to Foxy. “Do it.”
“I’ll be ready to launch when you head down.”
McKinney sprayed him a double dose and watched him race off toward the starboard side.
Odin pulled her along, and in a moment they undid the latch on a waterproof door and entered the stairwell of the tower. McKinney pulled the door closed behind them with a clang. Almost immediately the deafening noise of the drones dropped to a tolerable level.
“God, that sound is from hell.” She gazed up the stairwell.
“There’s an elevator, but I don’t think we should risk it.” Odin smeared partially dried blood with the toe of his boot. The trail of blood led into the elevator lobby. He drew his pistol and motioned for her to follow him up the stairs.
Since they were both physically fit, they made quick work of the eight-story climb, and could now hear the penetrating hum of the drone engines return, along with a salt-laden breeze. Odin climbed the last stretch of stairs warily, with McKinney close behind. They emerged near the center of the ship’s bridge and could see the entire place was spattered with blood, broken glass, and bullet holes. A dozen small quadracopter drones and an even greater number of wire-cutter drones moved in and out of the control room through the blasted-out windows. A twenty-mile-an-hour wind was blowing through it, sending loose papers flying.
Odin led her up to the central console, but half the computer screens here were shot out. There were literally hundreds of bullet holes peppering the walls and equipment. “Goddammit. . . .”
They stepped around the console to find a dead crewman on the floor. McKinney caught her breath at the sight of his mangled body. He’d been shot so many times in the face and upper torso that most of that portion was spattering the walls and floor around him, along with a five-foot-diameter pool of half-dried blood. What humanized him to her in a disturbing way was the man’s Felix the Cat wristwatch and bright green sneakers.
McKinney ducked down as one of the smaller quadracopters hovered toward them. She sprayed her and Odin with pheromone again, her fear coming back.
Odin spoke into the intrateam radio. “Foxy, the nav computer screen’s been shot out. Half the bridge controls are fucked. I’m going to redirect the ship manually.”
“Got it. Escape boat’s ready to go when you are.”
“I’ll be here awhile. I need to make sure we’ll hit those rocks.”
“Standing by.”
Odin stood up and started tapping buttons to disengage the autopilot. Chimes sounded. Then Odin moved to the ship’s surprisingly small rudder wheel. Closely watching the ship’s compass, he started spinning it to port. Slowly the ship began to lean slightly to the right as its massive length turned left, toward the east.
McKinney came up alongside him, looking down the length of the massive ship, covered and alive with the colony of drones.
He looked at her. “Take the pheromone capsule and get to the escape boat.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He regarded her and shook his head. Then he grabbed the MBITR radio. “TOC, this is Safari-One-Six actual. We have successfully redirected the Ebba Maersk. Abort your attack run. Repeat. Abort your attack run.”
* * *
“Hallelujah! Hey, Mooch, Ripper, you hear that?” Smokey brought the powerful Bentley slaloming down a ramp and screeching around a pillar, while several of the lawn mower–sized quadracopters hovered down the ramp after him, opening up with machine guns as he passed. Seven or eight more drones were already on this deck, and their streaming bullets raked across lines of plastic-covered BMWs strapped in tight rows and pinged off the steel plating covering his windows and doors. “Goddammit!”
He keyed the radio. “You hear that, Captain Jönsson? Turn us to the mainland!”
There was a pause, and the captain’s voice came in. “We’ve got two feet of water in the engine room. We’re taking on water in three compartments. There are fires on four decks!”
Smokey cringed as he passed a garage compartment with dozens of sedans fully engulfed in flames—smoke billowing up through the powerful vents and fire sprinklers engaged. “Will the damned thing stay afloat?”
A pause. “It’ll stay afloat.”
“Then turn the damned boat!”
Smokey screeched around a corner, smashing a drone against the wall and smearing it to pieces in a shower of sparks. But then something caught under his wheel and the Bentley veered sharply and flipped onto its side as it slid down a ramp onto the heavy equipment deck.
“Dammit!” Smokey held on as the car rolled and landed against another pillar at the base of the ramp. It finally came to a stop, and already bullets were raking its sides. He keyed the radio. “Ripper! Mooch! I need help. I’m rolled!” He tried to kick the top door open, but the deck ceiling was too low with the car on its side to open the door.
Ripper’s voice came in. “Coming.”
Smokey tried to shrink his body to as small a silhouette as possible as hovering drones riddled the Bentley with gunfire. He grabbed the key and turned the engine off. Then he aimed his MP5 through a narrow view port in the steel, raking a quadracopter drone.
He heard a large engine headed his way and moved to the other side just in time to see the bucket of the front loader lowering and smashing into the side of his car, spinning it free of the ramp and sliding it across the decking on its roof before raising the bucket and flipping it right-side up. Inside he went sprawling against the door.
Smokey crawled back toward the front seat, shouting into his radio, “Goddamn you, Ripper!”
“Yeah.” He watched the front loader smash its bucket down on top of a quadracopter drone firing at her, crushing it against the floor.
“Die, fucker! Die!”
“You’re a sick lady, Ripper.”
* * *
Evans followed the captain up a narrow flight of steel stairs and gazed back behind them at rising, bubbling seawater amid thick pipes and machinery below. Adrenaline had by now made him almost completely sober.
The captain grabbed his sleeve, practically dragging him up the steps. “We need to seal this compartment. Where the hell is that other man?”
“He locked himself in the generator room.”
The captain stopped and pointed back down. “Go get him! I need to manage the bilge pumps to make sure we don’t capsize.” He shoved Evans. “Do it!”
The captain raced ahead and through the watertight door. Looking down again, Evans realized he could now see actual underwater cutting torches in the dark bubbling water. “Oh, no way . . .”
Suddenly Ritter scrambled through a side door some distance below. He was shouting, “Which way is out of this goddamned place!”
Evans nodded and started racing up the stairs. Ritter took off in his direction, mounting the steps as well.
Once he got to the watertight door, Evans turned to see the ocean surging upward now.
Ritter shouted, “No! Don’t close the door!”
Evans grimaced. “Nothing personal, asshole. Just business.” He slammed it shut and locked it down with the turn bolts. The metal was so thick he could barely hear the screams on the other side.
* * *
McKinney and Odin remained on the bridge of the Ebba Maersk for nearly twenty minutes. The pheromone canister was getting low, but up ahead was the unmistakable outline of waves crashing against rocks. It stretched in a line across a third of the near horizon.
Odin had been manually adjusting the wheel back and forth for the entire run.
“Are we close enough to jump ship?”
“Just a bit more—we’ve come this far. We need to be sure. How we doing on pheromone?”