Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

He looked over the side and saw a bomb dangling in the water along the side of the boat, its submerged acoustic receiver ready to receive the signal.

He shot a savage look at Locsin and saw white teeth grinning back at him and a thumb over the detonator’s button.

Brekker lunged at the rope in a frenzy, desperate to pull the bomb from the water before it could explode.

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Twin camera feeds on the op center main screen showed the RHIB racing away from the site of the Pearsall, on one side, and Gerhard Brekker frantically reaching over the side of the yacht, trying to reach something.

“What’s he doing?” Juan asked.

No one had time to answer before the yacht erupted in a fireball. Simultaneously, a massive water plume blasted hundreds of feet above the sunken destroyer’s location. If the RHIB hadn’t fled when it did, Eddie and the others would have been pulverized.

“Find out how they’re doing, Hali,” Juan said as he watched the RHIB slow down.

Hali radioed Eddie and put it on speaker. “Are you all still in one piece out there?”

“No injuries,” Eddie replied. “Except for Little Geek. Linda says she saw it get thrown into the air by the explosion. We’ll go see if we can salvage it and then head your way.”

“Eddie,” Juan said. “Hang back until we give you the all clear. I have a feeling Locsin has more tricks up his sleeve.”

“Roger that, Chairman. We’ll stay here until you call back. Out.”

The fishing boat was just rounding the north end of the islet.

“We can’t let them get away,” Raven said. “We have to make us take them to Beth.”

Max patted her on the shoulder. “We’ll get her. There’s no possibility that they’ll outrun us in that thing.”

The Oregon’s camera picked up a green flash from the fishing boat.

“That had to be a laser,” Max said. “We’ve just been targeted.”

The fishing boat disappeared around the islet’s northern point. As soon as it was gone, small black shapes came racing at them across the water.

“Those are the Kuyog drones,” Juan said. “I count ten. Prepare to take them out, Wepps.”

“That’s a big affirmative, Chairman,” Murph said. “Gatling guns coming online.”

The hull panels hiding the trio of 20mm weapons slid aside, and their six barrels whirred to life, spinning in preparation for the three thousand rounds per minute that would be fed by a belt from the mounted ammunition drum.

“Chairman, I’m not showing any of them on radar,” Murph said. “That Chinese stealth technology seems to be working. I’ll have to target them manually.”

“Mr. Stone, come ten degrees to port. That should give us the best angle to take them out.”

“Coming about,” Eric said. “Ten degrees to port, aye.”

“You may fire when ready, Gridley,” Juan said to Murph, paraphrasing Commodore Dewey’s order just before the Americans decimated the Spanish fleet in Manila Bay during the Spanish–American War in 1898.

“Firing.” Murph let loose a torrent of tracer shells from the starboard Gatling gun. The chain saw buzz of the weapon resounded through the Oregon’s hull.

The first Kuyog was blown apart by the tungsten rounds. Murph kept firing as the gun swung to the next drone, and Juan could see the rounds kicking up a trail of water as they lanced their way to the target. It blew up in a satisfying gush of flame.

Murph systematically cut down the rest of the drones one by one. None of them got within a quarter mile of the Oregon.

“Good shooting, Murph,” Juan said.

Murph shrugged. “Just call me Deadeye.”