Devlin's Defiance: Book Two of the Devlin Quatrology
Page 21
“Do you hear that, Gordy?”
“That buzzing sound?” he asked, only gradually becoming alert.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, look, Gordy, just down there. What is that?”
“I think it's a – yeah, it's a little drone.”
“Looks like a baby helicopter.”
“Here it comes. Looks like a toy.”
“Wow, that was close.”
“Yeah, Ro; couldn't have been more than ten feet up. And it's a fast little bugger.”
“Wow! It's almost up to Pop's. Uh-oh. Now it's coming back. Wait a minute. Where'd it go?”
“It flew behind the palm trees there, I think. Hear it?”
“Oh, yeah; just faint, though.”
“Maybe it's checking out Deb's hot dogs.”
“Oh, there it is.”
“Where, Ro?”
“Over there, coming toward the stairs.”
“Oh, yeah; got it.”
“It's still pretty low; can't be more'n seven or eight feet up now.”
“Why the hell is there a drone here anyhow?”
“I don't know, Gordy – oh, rhetorical question, right?”
“No; I'm really wondering. Sheriff, FBI, CIA, NSA, some other alphabet agency?”
“Oh, geez. I have no idea. I've heard stories, but I don't” –
“Oh, god, it's coming toward us. Keep your head down, Ro.”
“Wha” –
“Down! Oh, sorry; down, please.”
“Okay, I'm down.”
“Now it's hovering right here. What the hell?”
“Jake Devlin?” An electronic voice came from the drone.
Jake looked up at the drone and noticed a tiny camera and what might have been a speaker mounted under the chassis.
“Jake Devlin?” the voice repeated, noticeably sharper.
“What?” Gordy replied.
“Are you Jake Devlin?”
“Who's asking?”
“Answer my question. Are you Jake Devlin?”
“Again, who's asking?”
“Don't be a smartass. Are you Jake Devlin?”
“All right. No. No, I'm not.”
“You know it's a felony to lie to a law enforcement officer, don't you?”
“I do. It's also a felony to impersonate an LEO, right, Jeff?”
“Ah, shit, Gordy. How'd ya know?”
“You're from Minnesota, Jeff. Ya, sure, ya betcha.”
“Damn; tought I had ya goin' dere.”
“Only till you opened your mouth. Where are you running this from?”
“Over here, first gazebo.” Gordy looked up and saw Jeff waving back at him, Laurie standing beside him, smiling.
“Set it down and get over here, okay?”
“Okay. Give me a minute.” Jeff and Laurie came down to Gordy and Rosemary. He fiddled with a joystick on a small control box and the drone slowly hovered lower, until Jeff could grab it and turn it off.
“Where'd you get it?”
“Online.”
“How much?”
“Forty bucks, plus fifty for the audio-video transmitter-receiver, plus tax.”
“So about a hundred.”
“Ye, sure, ya betcha,” Jeff said, chuckling.
“Nice toy. Can I see it?”
“Sure.” He gave it to Gordy.
- 104 -
February 6, 2013
12:09 p.m. local time
Aboard Defiance
In the Gulf of Aden
“How long till it's ready?”
“About ten minutes, sir. The thorium is a little unstable, even up on plane.”
“But will it work the way I need it to?”
“I'd give it a 70 percent chance – no, 65. I'm sorry, sir; that's the best I can do at this range.”
Jake picked up the intercom. “Yuric, come about; we're going back.”
“But, sir, don't we want to get away from that boat?”
“No, Yuric, we want to head back. Come about now.”
“Sir, the thorium,” Greg cut in.
“Yuric, slow turn, careful, but 180 degrees.”
“Yes, sir. Coming about.”
“Greg, can you do a soccer ball?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ten minutes later, Greg said, “It should be ready, sir.”
“Good. Get it started.
“Yuric, get the C4 ready, and rig one of the blasting caps with a ten-second fuse.”
“Da.”
Five minutes later, Greg said, “It's done, sir. But, again, I can only give it a 65 percent probability.”
“That's enough. Julie, you've input the coordinates?”
“Yes, sir; both sets, from the drone's data. I'd give it a 70 percent chance of being on time.”
“With my 65 percent, that's a little over a 45 percent chance, sir,” Greg added.
“I can do the math, Greg, but it's better than zero. Get ready.”
“But, sir” –
“You do it or I will.”
“Yes, sir. Okay.”
Jake lit the fuse. “Now.”
Greg pressed the button.
- 105 -
February 6, 2013
2:37 p.m. local time
Bonita Beach, Florida
“So this is the camera?”
“Yeah, right – oh, don't press that!”
“Which – oh, this thing?”
“Yeah.”
“What's that do?”
“It's the self-destruct button, blow us all to smitheroons.”
Gordy jerked his finger away. “You're kidding.”
“Ya, sure, ya betcha,” Jeff said, as Laurie snickered. “Gotcha, Gordy.”
“Yup. Good one.”
Rosemary said, “'Smitheroons'? Don't you mean 'smithereens'?”
“It's a Minnesota thing, Ro.”
“Really?”
“Ya, sure, ya betcha. Right, Jeff?”
“It is? Nah, it's 'smitheroons.'”
“Sorry, Jeff. In the rest of the country, it's 'smithereens.'”
“Really?”
“Ya, sure, ya betcha.” Rosemary and Laurie both nodded.
“Never knew that.”
“Well, now you know. So what does the button really do?”
“It turns the audio-video off or on.”
“Ah, okay. And the four rotors, you can run those separately?”
“Nah, that's all in the joystick for direction and this thumbwheel for speed, kinda like a steering wheel and a throttle.”
“Cool.”
“Ya, it's simple. Wanna give it a try?”
“Maybe another time; I'd hate to screw it up. But I do think I'll get one of my own; it's pretty cool.”
He pulled out his notebook and wrote down the info on the drone.
Soon, a small crowd of the curious gathered, and some of the techie types began asking Jeff questions about range, speed, cargo capacity, agility and battery power.
“Lemme try it,” Ron's squeaky voice broke through the crowd, and he pulled the control box out of Jeff's hands.
“Hey,” Jeff said, reaching out to reclaim the box. But Ron turned away and thumbed the throttle wheel to the max. The drone popped up from the ground and quickly rose fifty or sixty feet in the air. Most of the people in the crowd rapidly scattered, other than Laurie and a few men who'd been most interested in the little drone.
“Hey,” Jeff said again, “don't touch that!”
“Hey, Ron,” Gordy said loudly, getting up from his lounge, “give it back.”
“What does this do?” Ron said, pushing the joystick all the way forward. The drone sped out over the Gulf. “Ah-ha.” Then he pulled the joystick all the way back and the drone stopped, stalled and then headed backwards toward the shore. Ron ran the joystick around the outside of its limits, and the drone bobbed and weaved in the air, still high in the air, but closer to the shore. Then Ron moved the joystick to its neutral position, s
o the drone simply hovered, maybe thirty feet up.
Gordy got to within five feet of Ron when Ron thumbed the wheel back to zero and the drone plummeted toward the water. But just as it was about to plunge into the light chop, he thumbed the wheel up to the max again and the drone bounced up from what would have been a watery grave, rising and continuing to rise, up to fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty feet up, to a point where it virtually disappeared.
Gordy moved up and got right in Ron's face, as Ron shifted the box to one hand and then up, out to his side and back. “Give that back, Ron.”
“Yeah? Or what?”
“Well, this, for one,” Gordy said, reaching out and pressing his thumb into a point on the front of Ron's shoulder, simultaneously stretching his other arm out to catch the control box as it fell from Ron's hand.
“Owwwww,” Ron screamed, grimacing, as Gordy handed the box to Jeff, who took back control of the drone.
“Ronald Cecil [last name deleted], you get your ass back up here right now,” Jenny shouted, striding down from her chair.
“Shut up, you bitch!” Ron sotto voced, then “Owwwww!” as Gordy pressed harder and whispered in his ear, “That's not very polite, asshole.”
“What did you say?” Jenny yelled at Ron. “What did you say?”
“Owwww,” was all Ron could manage until Gordy released the pressure and stepped back.
“He's all yours, Jenny,” he told her, stepping back, but keeping an eye on him.
She walked up to Ron and slapped him hard in the face, then kicked him in the shin.
“I'm not gonna tell you again, Ronald; get your ass back up there and sit down.”
As Ron limped off, pouting and glaring at Gordy, Jenny walked over to Jeff, who had brought the drone back down and was just catching it.
“If there's any damage, let me know and we'll cover it.”
Jeff examined the drone briefly and said, “It looks okay. But thank you.”
“I mean it. And I apologize for him. He can be such an asshole sometimes.”
“Keep him away from us,” Laurie said.
“I will. Don't you worry about that,” Jenny said. “In fact, I may be keeping him away from everybody.” Then she looked at Gordy, said, “Thank you. Sorry,” and walked back up to her husband, who was rubbing his leg and shoulder and sulking.
“Definitely an asshole,” Laurie said; Rosemary, Gordy and Jeff all nodded.
- 106 -
February 6, 2013
9:54 a.m. local time
Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant, Wales
The Ocelot limped up to her room, closed the door behind her, tossed her cane and purse on the bed and pulled a faux cold cream jar from her overnight bag, dabbed a dollop of its contents onto her right hand, then rubbed it off with several more tissues, which she placed in another plastic bag, which she sealed and rolled into a hollow in a fake cigar, which she then placed in an aluminum cigar tube, screwing the top tight.
Then she went to the bathroom sink and thoroughly scrubbed her hands with soap from her bag and then with the hotel's soap. She carefully wrapped her soap in its plastic bag and put it back in her overnight bag.
Next, she called down to the front desk and asked the young man to connect her with a phone number in a small village outside Dublin, and once connected, she had an appropriately hysterical, distressed conversation with her daughter, letting her know her itinerary for the trip home and arranging to be picked up at the ferry dock in Dublin and rushed to the hospital.
The desk clerk arrived at about 10:15, took her overnight bag downstairs, then returned to help her down the stairs, as she sniffled and wheezed, limping more than usual. She settled her bill and accepted a complimentary mimosa, then sat in one of the luxurious Queen Anne chairs in the lobby.
At ten minutes to eleven, the desk clerk helped her out to the bus stop and waited with her until the nearly empty bus arrived, even helping her up the steps and to her seat, where she pressed a twenty-euro note into his only seemingly reluctant hand.
He smiled gently at her, wished her a good trip and a quick and easy recovery for her grandson and left the bus. He waved to her as the bus pulled out; she waved back.
- 107 -
February 6, 2013
6:04 p.m. local time
Bonita Springs, Florida
“I don't know, Gordy; I think it's only a matter of time. She's really pissed at him.”
“Yeah. If she's got any sense at all, she'll kick him right out, the sooner the better. And she oughta get a restraining order.”
“Yeah. I'm scared for her. Somebody like that, you can't predict what they'll do after a public putdown that big.”
“I agree, Ro, totally. I mean, I've been able to contend with him and keep him under control, but I'm not Jenny, and I'm not married to him.”
“I swear, if he hurts her, I'll kill him.”
“From what I've seen, it might be the other way around. Did you see how hard she slapped him?”
“Yeah, and that kick was no love tap.”
“But what really caught my eye was his reaction. He just wilted, but he was holding a lot of rage inside.”
“Yeah, I think I saw that, too.”
“She's the alpha dog, but that's what he wants to be, so he's pissed, but he's too weak to do anything about it.”
“So that's why he acts like a bully on the beach?”
“In part, I think. He needs the attention of people who are weaker than he is. And he gets it because no one has the balls to confront him.”
“Except Jenny … and you, today.”
“Yeah. He's got to have people who are lower on the totem pole to push around.”
“Like a pecking order?”
“Yeah, like those seagulls when they screech and fight.”
“But he's really a coward, like most bullies?”
“Yeah, but that rage is real.”
“I saw that.”
“And if he keeps holding it in like he does with Jenny, he's gonna explode.”
“And he might well aim it at you.”
“Of course; displaced aggression. But if he does, he's gonna be surprised.”
“Again. You sure stopped him cold.”
“Yeah. I wasn't sure that would work; I'd never actually used it before.”
“Really?”
“Really. I just learned that last year.”
“I remember when Dorothy was showing you all that stuff.”
“Yup; she was really helpful.”
“And flexible.”
“Oh, yeah; she could be a Rockette. Did you see her kicking that little ball along the beach the other – was that yesterday morning?”
“Yeah; she does that like three or four times a week, when she doesn't have to teach an early class.”
“Hm. Maybe we oughta hook Jenny up with her, get her some of that martial arts training.”
“Good idea. I may be able to talk with her sometime.”
“Better you than me, Ro.”
“I'll see what I can – oh, dinner's ready.”
“What can I do?”
“Um, if you could get it out of the nuker, that'd be great. I'd like to wash up and change into something more comfortable.”
- 108 -
February 6, 2013
6:54 p.m. local time
Holyhead, Wales
The Ocelot limped off the bus, claimed her luggage, tipped the driver and headed slowly and clumsily into the rest rooms. In one of the stalls, she collapsed her cane, removed her wig, false teeth, facial prosthetics, her heavily padded dress and stockings, packed all that into the overnight bag, pulled out a pair of tattered jeans and a sweatshirt, put them on, and then pushed the overnight bag into a gym bag emblazoned with the same American college logo as her sweatshirt. She brushed out her long blonde hair and pulled it back into a ponytail, then put earbuds in her ears and bebopped out of the stall, with a stop at the sink to again scrupulously scrub her hands, then out to blend seamle
ssly into the crowd awaiting the ferry's departure at 8:30.
When the ferry arrived in Dublin three and a quarter hours later, the bebopping blonde pulled out her satphone and dialed.
“Authentication 9845739, encryption on. It's done; the DP367/18 should kick in about six in the morning. Nah; just a tiny blood blister on my thumb, where I must have missed a spot with the protectant or the neutralizer. No problem; should be cleared up in a day or two. I'm off to the safe house to dump the stuff, then back to London for a week, then back home to Miami. Yup, kinda missing South Beach. Thanks; I will. And backatcha, Amber.”
- 109 -
February 6, 2013
7:12 p.m. local time
Bonita Springs, Florida
“That was delicious, Ro.”
“It's just the last of the leftovers from Sunday at Slinky Joe's.”
“Still delicious.”
“And so easy in the nuker.”
“Yeah. Microwaves are probably the greatest invention of the 20th century.”
“Oh, I don't know. How about PCs, cell phones?”
“Eh, they're good, too. But you can't heat up anything with 'em.”
“True. But suppose you could only have one of the three. Which would you keep?”
“Microwave, hands down. How about you?”
“Hmm. Maybe the P- – no, the – you know, you're right. It'd be the microwave for me, too.”
“Ta-da! Defense rests.”
“But it is a tough choice.”
“Life is full of tough choices.”
“Well, aren't we getting philosophical, Mister Doctor? And with that little dab of ketchup on your T-shirt.”
“Where? Oh, geez. Well, at least we're symmetrical.”
“What?”
“You got a little dab on your sweatshirt there, too.”
“Oh, geez.”
“That's one of Kevin's, isn't it?
“Yeah. Why?”
“That was his college, wasn't it?”
“Yup.”
“Too bad.”
“Why do you say that?”
“They misspelled 'college.'”