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“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 al
tered 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.”
