Brandon Lopez finished a chat with Parity Services, Jivada, reporting, “The cruise missile was an Indian Brahmos-2; launched out of a shipping container on a Chinese-owned Panama flag vessel, Puerto Aroya, Galapagos.”
Glenn Mehrenholz said, “There’s no way the enemy thought they could hit us from that far away.”
Pascal the maroli said, “It’s a trap.”
Carmen narrowed eyes at Brandon. “Who’s on point?”
He replied, “I am. Laura Ramos is coming to pick me up.”
As they spoke, a Pazca Military Industries ‘Fatboy’ troop shuttle landed next to the lake.
She gritted her teeth. “Flight ops chapter and verse; never let the enemy schedule time and place of engagement.”
He replied, “Sailors get it done, no matter what.”
It took less than a minute to jump to Ecuadorean territory. Brandon told his team, “Run your inspection with drones. Don’t board, even if you think it’s safe.”
Laura Ramos gave him a hand down from the forward hatch at town center, Puerto Ayora. She said, “I’m calling an aircar for your exit.”
The local police chief met him in a parking lot. He said, “When are you going to get that ship out of my harbor?”
Brandon said, “As soon as we can.”
The policeman led the way, taking long steps. “Did they shoot at the flying house?”
“Yep.”
“Did they do anything else?”
“Not yet.”
Brandon’s host jerked a door open at the police station, waving impatiently. “Then it’s a lure. They want the house to come here.”
The ship’s captain, a Dutch national, waited in a holding cell. He said, “I was not involved. I called in right away. Let me go.”
The policeman said, “There’s an airplane waiting at the strip.”
Brandon fixed a passive stare on the prisoner. “Where’s the primary threat?”
The captain’s face was expressionless. Laura Ramos spoke in Brandon’s ear.
She said, “Four deck cameras on the vessel. Live streaming. Five hops to a maritime insurance underwriter. Somebody’s logged in to the cameras from behind a secure VPN.”
Brandon said, “I’d like to take the suspect with me.”
The policeman fumbled at a key reel on his belt. “Is there a bomb on the ship?”
“That’s what it looks like.” He stepped out of the way. “You can come along.”
The man opened the cell. “I’ll go to my wife and children.”
An aircar waited in the street. Brandon put the sea captain in the back seat, passenger side, handcuffed, turning the man’s head so he couldn’t see a trio of invisible fighting drones boarding alongside him.
Laura Ramos said, “Chain locker. Soviet Tsar Bomba. Fifty megatons. I asked Parity to incinerate it from orbit.”
Brandon’s scalp prickled. He spoke quietly into the channel. “Okay.”
It took ten seconds to take the operator’s position; another five to cue the aircar’s Oma. During the jump to orbit, a strategic warhead, gone missing during the Soviet collapse, ignited.
On the planet’s surface, concentric lines in the ocean encircled a cloud of debris. The Galapagos Islands, and all who lived there, were no more.
In the back seat, the prisoner performed a contortion act. Cuffed hands now in front, he peeled a carbon-fiber-reinforced composite dagger off his shin bone.
He was putting the knife to Brandon’s throat when a fighting drone named Festus, lurking in the aircar’s cargo compartment, discharged three 6mm Basu pellets into his head.
Laura Ramos asked, “Sir; are you there?”
Brandon looked outward into a sea of stars. “The prisoner pulled a knife. Festus shot him.”
“All you all right?”
“I guess.” He turned his head from side to side, releasing tension. “I’ll meet you at Bricy.”