璇玑之心刃·冷血悍将-第113部分

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‘Solomons；　I　guess。　Shouldn‘t　she　be　in　a　hospital？‘
‘I‘ll　let　Sara　make　the　call　on　that；　but　I　suspect　it‘s　not　necessary。‘
Kelly　looked　at　the　bottle　still　in　his　hand。　‘Well；　I‘m　going　to　deep…six　these　damned　things。‘
‘No！　‘　Rosen　snapped。　‘I‘ll　take　them。　They　all　carry　lot　numbers。　The　police　can　identify　the　shipment　that　was　diverted。　I‘ll　lock　them　up　on　my　boat。‘
‘So　what　do　we　do　now？‘
‘We　wait　a　little　while。‘
Sarah　and　Pam　came　back　in　twenty　minutes　later；　holding　hands　like　mother　and　daughter。　Pam‘s　head　was　up　now；　though　her　eyes　were　still　watery。
‘We　got　a　winner　here；　folks；‘　Sarah　told　them。　‘She‘s　been　trying　for　a　month　all　by　herself。‘
‘She　says　it　isn‘t　hard；‘　Pam　said。
‘We　can　make　it　a　lot　easier；‘　Sarah　assured　her。　She　handed　a　list　to　her　husband。　‘Find　a　drugstore。　John；　get　your　boat　moving。　Now。‘
‘What　happens？‘　Kelly　asked　thirty　minutes　and　five　miles　later。　Solomons　was　already　a　tan…green　line　on　the　northwestern　horizon。
‘The　treatment　regime　is　pretty　simple；　really。　We　support　her　with　barbiturates　and　ease　her　off。‘
‘You　give　her　drugs　to　get　her　off　drugs？‘
‘Yep。‘　Rosen　nodded。　‘That‘s　how　it‘s　done。　It　takes　time　for　the　body　to　flush　out　all　the　residual　material　in　her　tissues。　The　body　bees　dependent　on　the　stuff；　and　if　you　try　to　wean　them　off　too　rapidly；　you　can　get　some　adverse　effects；　convulsions；　that　sort　of　thing。　Occasionally　people　die　from　it。‘
‘What？‘　said　Kelly；　alarmed。　‘I　don‘t　know　anything　about　this；　Sam。‘
‘Why　should　you？　That‘s　our　job；　Kelly。　Sarah　doesn‘t　think　that‘s　a　problem　in　this　case。　Relax；　John。　You　give‘　…　Rosen　took　the　list　from　his　pocket　…　‘yeah；　I　thought　so；　phenobarb；　you　give　that　to　attenuate　the　withdrawal　symptoms。　Look；　you　know　how　to　drive　a　boat；　right？‘
‘Yep；‘　Kelly　said；　turning；　knowing　what　came　next。
‘Let　us　do　our　job。　Okay？‘
The　man　didn‘t　feel　much　like　sleep；　the　coastguardsmen　saw；　much　to　their　own　displeasure。　Before　they‘d　had　the　chance　to　recover　from　the　previous　day‘s　adventures；　he　was　up　again；　drinking　coffee　in　the　operations　room；　looking　over　the　charts　yet　again；　using　his　hand　to　make　circles；　which　he　pared　with　the　memorized　course　track　of　the　forty…one…boat。
‘How　fast　is　a　sailboat？‘　he　asked　an　annoyed　and　irritable　Quartermaster　First　Class　Manuel　Oreza。
‘That　one？　Not　very；　with　a　fair　breeze　and　calm　seas；　maybe　five　knots；　a　little　more　if　the　skipper　is　smart　and　experienced。　Rule　of　thumb　is；　one　point　three　times　the　square　root　waterline　length　is　your　hull　speed；　so　for　that　one；　five　or　six　knots。‘　And　he　hoped　the　civilian　was　duly　impressed　with　that　bit　of　nautical　trivia。
‘It　was　windy　last　night；‘　the　official　noted　crossly。
‘A　small　boat　doesn‘t　go　faster　on　choppy　seas；　it　goes　slower。　That‘s　because　it　spends　a　lot　of　time　going　up　and　down　instead　of　forward。‘
‘So　how　did　he　get　away　from　you？‘
‘He　didn‘t　get　away　from　me；　okay？‘　Oreza　wasn‘t　clear　on　who　this　guy　was　or　how　senior　a　position　he　actually　held；　but　he　wouldn‘t　have　taken　this　sort　of　abuse　from　a　real　officer　…　but　a　real　officer　would　not　have　harassed　him　this　way；　a　real　officer　would　have　listened　and　understood。　The　petty　officer　took　a　deep　breath；　wishing　for　once　that　there　was　an　officer　here　to　explain　things。　Civilians　listened　to　officers；　which　said　a　lot　about　the　intelligence　of　civilians。　‘Look；　sir；　you　told　me　to　lay　back；　didn‘t　you？　I　told　you　that　we‘d　lose　him　in　the　clutter　from　the　storm；　and　we　did。　Those　old　radars　we　use　aren‘t　worth　a　damn　in　bad　weather；　least　not　for　a　dinky　little　target　like　a　day…sailer。‘
‘You　already　said　that。‘
And　I‘ll　keep　saying　it　until　you　figure　it　out；　Oreza　managed　not　to　say；　catching　a　warning　look　from　Mr　English。　Portagee　took　a　deep　breath　and　looked　down　at　the　chart。
‘So　where　do　you　think　he　is？‘
‘Hell；　the　Bay　ain‘t　that　wide；　so‘s　you　have　two　coastlines　to　worry　about。　Most　houses　have　their　own　little　docks；　you　have　all　these　creeks。　If　it　was　me；　I‘d　head　up　a　creek。　Better　place　to　hide　than　a　dock；　right？‘
‘You‘re　telling　me　he‘s　gone；‘　the　civilian　observed　darkly。
‘Sure　as　hell；‘　Oreza　agreed。
‘Three　months　of　work　went　into　that！‘
Т　can‘t　help　that；　sir。‘　The　coastguardsman　paused。　‘Look；　he　probably　went　east　rather　than　west；　okay？　Better　to　run　before　the　wind　than　tack　into　it。　That‘s　the　good　news。　Problem　is；　a　little　boat　like　that；　you　can　haul　it　out；　put　it　on　a　trailer。　Hell；　it　could　be　in　Massachusetts　by　now。‘
He　looked　up　from　the　chart。　‘Oh；　that‘s　just　what　I　wanted　to　hear！‘
‘Sir；　you　want　me　to　lie　to　you？‘
‘Three　months！‘
He　just　couldn‘t　let　go；　Oreza　and　English　thought　at　the　same　time。　You　had　to　learn　how　to　do　that。　Sometimes　the　sea　took　something；　and　you　did　your　best　looking　and　searching；　and　mostly　you　found　it；　but　not　always；　and　when　you　failed；　the　time　came　when　you　had　to　let　the　sea　claim　the　prize。　Neither　man　had　ever　grown　to　like　it；　but　that　was　the　way　things　were。
‘Maybe　you　can　whistle　up　some　helicopter　support。　The　Navy　has　a　bunch　of　stuff　at　Pax　River；‘　Warrant　Officer　English　pointed　out。　It　would　also　get　the　guy　out　of　his　station；　an　objective　worthy　of　considerable　effort　for　all　the　disruption　he　was　causing　to　English　and　his　men。
‘Trying　to　get　rid　of　me？‘　the　man　asked　with　an　odd　smile。
‘Excuse　me；　sir？‘　English　responded　innocently。　A　pity；　the　warrant　officer　thought；　that　the　man　wasn‘t　a　total　fool。
Kelly　tied　back　up　at　his　quay　after　seven。　He　let　Sam　take　the　medications　ashore　while　he　snapped　various　covers　over　his　instrument　panels　and　settled　his　boat　down　for　the　night。　It　had　been　a　quiet　return　trip　from　Solomons。　Sam　Rosen　was　a　good　man　at　explaining　things；　and　Kelly　a　good　questioner。　What　he‘d　needed　to　learn　he‘d　picked　up　on　the　way　out；　and　for　most　of　the　return　trip　he‘d　been　alone　with　his　thoughts；　wondering　what　he　would　do；　how　he　should　act。　Those　were　questions　without　easy　answers；　and　attending　to　ship‘s　business　didn‘t　help；　much　as　he‘d　hoped　that　it　would。　He　took　even　more　time　than　was　necessary　checking　the　mooring　lines；　doing　the　same　for　the　surgeon‘s　boat　as　well　before　heading　inside。
The　Lockheed　DC…130E　Hercules　cruised　well　above　the　low　cloud　deck；　riding　smoothly　and　solidly　as　it　had　done　for　2；354　hours　of　logged　flight　time　since　leaving　the　Lockheed　plant　at　Marietta；　Georgia；　several　years　earlier。　Everything　had　the　appearance　of　a　pleasant　flying　day。　In　the　roomy　front　office；　the　flight　crew　of　four　watched　the　clear　air　and　various　instruments；　as　their　duties　required。　The　four　turboprop　engines　hummed　along　with　their　accustomed　reliability；　giving　the　aircraft　a　steady　high…pitched　vibration　that　transmitted　itself　through　the　fortable　highbacked　seats　and　created　standing　circular　ripples　in　their　Styrofoam　coffee　cups。　All　in　all；　the　atmosphere　was　one　of　total　normality。　But　anyone　seeing　the　exterior　of　the　aircraft　could　tell　different。　This　aircraft　belonged　to　the　99th　Strategic　Reconnaissance　Squadron。
Beyond　the　outer　engines　on　each　wing　of　the　Hercules　hung　additional　aircraft。　Each　of　these　was　a　Model…147SC　drone。　Originally　designed　to　be　high…speed　targets　with　the　designation　Firebee…II；　now　they　bore　the　informal　name　‘Buffalo　Hunter。‘　In　the　rear　cargo　area　of　the　DC…130E　was　a　second　crew　which　was　now　powering　up　both　of　the　miniature　aircraft；　having　already　programmed　them　for　a　mission　sufficiently　secret　that　none　of　them　actually　knew　what　it　was　all　about。　They　didn‘t　have　to。　It　was　merely　a　matter　of　telling　the　drones　what　to　do　and　when　to　do　it。　The　chief　technician；　a　thirty…year…old　sergeant；　was　working　a　bird　code…named　Cody…193。　His　crew　station　allowed　him　to　turn　and　look　out　a　small　porthole　to　inspect　his　bird　visually；　which　he　did　even　though　there　was　no　real　reason　to　do　so。　The　sergeant　loved　the　things　as　a　child　will　love　a　particularly　entertaining　toy。　He‘d　worked　with　the　drone　program　for　ten　years；　and　this　particular　one　he　had　flown　sixty…one　times。　That　was　a　record　for　the　area。
Cody…193　had　a　distinguished　ancestry。　Its　manufacturers；　Teledyne…Ryan　of　San　Diego；　California；　had　built　Charles　Lindbergh‘s　Spirit　of　St　Louis；　but　the　pany　had　never　quite　managed　to　cash　in　on　that　bit　of　aviation　history。　Struggling　from　one　small　contract　to　another；　it　had　finally　achieved　financial　stability　by　making　targets。　Fighter　aircraft　had　to　practice　shooting　at　something。　The　Firebee　drone　had　begun　life　as　just　that；　a　miniature　jet　aircraft　whose　mission　was　to　die　gloriously　at　the　hands　of　a　fighter　pilot　…　except　that　the　sergeant　had　never　quite　seen　things　that　way。　He　was　a　drone　controller；　and　his　job；　he　thought；　was　to　teach　those　strutting　eagles　a　lesson　by　flying　‘his‘　bird　in　such　a　way　as　to　make　their　missiles　hit　nothing　more　substantial　than　air。　In　fact；　fighter　pilots　had　learned　to　curse　his　name；　though　Air　Force　etiquette　also　required　them　to　buy　him　a　bottle　of　booze　for　every　miss。　Then　a　few　years　earlier　someone　had　noted　that　if　a　Firebee　drone　was　hard　for　our　people　to　h