Chapter 8
Aboard the Oregon
The Oregon’s operations center was located far belowdecks and tiered like an ancient Greek theater.
The high-tech wonder was all glass, steel, and video displays.
Computer stations and monitors were located on each tier.
Every function of the ship was controlled from the op center including communications, sensors, weapons, and helm.
Overlooking the op center was the Kirk Chair, so named because it resembled Captain Kirk’s command chair in the original Star Trek television series.
The Kirk Chair provided Juan Cabrillo a commanding view of the op center and, more important, everything he needed for total control of the Oregon.
It was a leather-cushioned, miniaturized version of the op center itself.
Weapons, engines, comms—everything was available at the touch of a virtual toggle switch.
Max stood at Juan’s elbow, his weathered eyes scanning the readouts of speed, direction, and time overlaid on the big view screens, like heads-up displays on a fighter’s bubble canopy.
He had been more devoted to the Oregon than to any of his three ex-wives.
As far as he was concerned, she was more reliable and more worthy of his affections.
Cabrillo noted the time. They were still four hours away from the rendezvous spot, where they hoped to intercept a known arms-smuggling vessel heading for the Pacific coast of Mexico.
The Oregon was pacing at a leisurely twenty-two knots, a fraction of her top end.
But the spectacle of a five-hundred-ninety-foot break-bulk carrier rooster-tailing through the water like a speedboat would draw unwanted attention from eyes on or above the water.
Juan surveyed the crew at their stations. This was his A-team. Mark Murphy was at the weapons station, Eric Stone sat at helm, and Hali Kasim—his chief of communications—occupied the comms console. The other stations were crewed by trusted hands as well.
“Chairman, something odd here,” Murph said. “My targeting radar indicates multiple small contacts at five miles, bearing oh-eight-nine.”
“Birds?”
“Unclear. Intermittent hits. Could be artifacts of some kind.”
“Run a diagnostic on your radar.”
“Already did. The board’s green.”
“Put it on the big screen,” Cabrillo ordered.
Murph’s radar display flashed on one of the giant screens, giving everyone the same view. The radar hits were dozens of fuzzy blips swirling and flowing in synchronized waves like a flock of murmuring starlings.
“Sure looks like birds,” Max said.
“Too fast,” Stoney said. “Three miles and closing.”
The dots suddenly disappeared.
“You sure about that diagnostic?” Max asked.
“No question.”
Hali touched his earpiece, a loud squelch pinching his face. “Chairman, I’m getting comms interference.”
“The navigational radar is glitching, too,” Eric Stone said from his station.
“We’ve got tangos,” Cabrillo said.
“Drones?” Max asked.
“Or very angry pelicans with jammers,” Juan said. “Wepps, activate the EMP cannons. Low-divergence beams. Target and prioritize the interference wave sources.”
“Aye, Chairman.”
Juan took a measured breath. The Oregon’s two electromagnetic pulse (EMP) cannons fired high-powered, broad-spectrum bursts of microwave energy, disabling any electronic component in its path.
This would be the first test of the EMP cannons since the Oregon’s recent overhaul at a Malaysian dry dock.
“Hali, sound battle stations.”
Max bolted for his engineering station as the Klaxon began alarming overhead.
Juan glanced at the camera display atop the Oregon’s superstructure some sixty feet above the freeboard.
Each EMP cannon was stationed inside of a domed turret with three-hundred-sixty-degree radial capacity, one on the port side, one on the starboard.
The turrets twisted like R2-D2’s head as they sought out targets in the distance.
Massive new banks of supercapacitors thrummed belowdecks, pulsing energy to the cannons.
“EMPs firing,” Murph reported. “Ten, twenty…forty shots fired.”
“Nav radar clear,” Eric said.
“Comms clear,” Kasim echoed.
Cabrillo grinned. “Good shooting, Wepps—”
“New targets!” Murph shouted. Five drones rocketed sky-high in all directions as six others split up in two groups of three. One group sped northeast and the other southwest, seemingly away from the Oregon. Both assumed a low-altitude attack formation.
“Wepps, activate the laser-point defense system,” Cabrillo commanded. “And stow the EMPs.”
“On it,” Murph said as he punched toggles.
The new fifty-kilowatt fiber-optic laser defense system was mounted in a larger circular turret stationed between the two smaller EMP domes.
An improvement on the British DragonFire system, the laser’s AI-powered software picked its own targets at will faster and with more precision than any human eye—even Murphy’s.
Stabilizing algorithms adjusted for wave action at sea, and a camera mounted inside the turret gave the op center a “gun’s-eye” view of the action.
The laser dome spun on its gimbals as it began tracking targets.
“There,” Max said, pointing at one of the big screens. “You can see them.”
Hanley was right. The drones were finally if only barely in sight. They were small, moving fast, and obscured by the sunlight glinting on the water.
“Here they come,” Stoney said, pointing at three drones approaching the bow. The drones dropped low—and suddenly beneath the cameras.
Juan glanced up. One of the high-flying drones plummeted directly at them.
“They’re astern, too,” Hali said, staring at the rearmost wall panel.
“Laser firing,” Murph said. Silent flashes of invisible light erupted in staccato three-shot bursts.
Juan’s eyes were fixed on the drone above. It suddenly exploded.
Where are the others?
“Got ’em!” Murph called out just after the drone erupted.
The pinpoint laser spun and shot at the low-flying drones circling over the water a half mile out. One by one, they broke apart and crashed into the sea.
“They’re sitting ducks!” Max said, clapping his meaty hands together.
“Not necessarily,” Stone said. “Those are probably decoy drones sacrificing themselves to expose the laser’s firing pattern and response times.”
“Like the Zulus did at Rorke’s Drift,” Murphy said. Zulu was one of his favorite flicks.
“Allowing their AI to devise an attack plan,” Cabrillo said as he sat forward in his chair.
Murph called out another hit.
Bang! Oregon steel rang as if struck by a ball-peen hammer.
“Damage report,” Cabrillo demanded.
“Starboard bow, just above the waterline,” Max called out from his station. “Reactive armor took the brunt. No damage.”
“Wepps, how’d they get through?”
Murphy’s fingers flew over his virtual keyboard, his mind racing.
“Wave skimming…and the cranes are blocking the line of sight.”
“Helm, increase speed ten knots, hard to port. Let’s give Wepps room to shoot.”
“Aye.” Stone manipulated his joystick and throttles, powering up the Oregon’s big electric engines instantly and launching into a low tuck turn like a hotdogging water-skier at Cypress Gardens.
As soon as the Oregon finished the turn, the surviving drones sped away.
“Why’d they stop?” Max asked.
“Analyzing their secondary attack and defense data,” Murph said.
Cabrillo nodded. “Their AI is calculating a new attack plan.”
Murphy’s targeting radar suddenly alarmed.
A massive drone swarm filled the screen. The radar computer counted over two hundred drones.
And rising.