Death Drones Read online

  Death Drones

  Kyle MacDonald Series Book 3

  A novel by Christopher Fox

  V9

  It was a regular day in Detroit—until people started dying. Bodies are piling up as authorities try to ascertain why; until it is traced to a drug laced with poison. However, what was thought to be a war between black and white heroin producers, leads to a more diabolical plot to kill thousands of Americans with a deadly chemical weapons attack delivered by drones.

  The heroin, Miguel, must lead a team to thwart the terrorist plot while dealing with his own grief. Can they find the terrorists and stop an attack that will make 9/11 pale by comparison? Can Miguel put aside his own demons and lead the team?

  The clock is ticking as Miguel's team close in on the terrorists and their plan to launch drones filled with deadly gas into the stadium where the Super Bowl is about to start.

  Cover design by Mariah Sinclair

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  Note to Reader

  Death Drones is a sequel to Lost Loot of Lima and forms the third book in a series, book one being The Santini Vendetta. If you have read Lost Loot, you will note some changes in this book, especially the name of the protagonist, which has been changed from Miguel de San Carlos to Miguel Diaz.

  When Lost Loot was written, a series was not envisioned (I didn’t even expect to write a book!). It was clear, however, that some changes to characters and timelines were necessary for the series to make sense. The story lines, however, have not been changed.

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  Note that this book is written in Canadian English, except where American English is appropriate.

  To my Beta team, for their help, support, diligent editing and suggestions.

  Copyright ©2018 by Christopher Fox

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-0-9950089-3-9

  Published by Christopher Fox, Ottawa, Canada. February 8, 2018

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Excerpt from The Korean Connection

  One

  Two

  Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Other Books by Christopher Fox

  One

  The hot, Central-American, late-morning sun beat down on the Annabelle sitting about 25 mi. off the west coast of Costa Rica, where Miguel Diaz (formally Kyle MacDonald) was entertaining charter guests for a fly-fishing adventure. Miguel and his guests had just wound up an exciting morning of fishing, which had some unexpected drama. There were two fishing guests, Garry and Manny, with Garry’s son Barry along for the ride. Miguel’s son, Enrique, was crewing for his dad. Just as they were about to leave the area, Barry had asked if he could climb to the tower station, and Miguel said fine. He looped a pair of binoculars over his head and scaled the steps. As he scanned the horizon, he noticed another boat and zoomed the glasses in on it.

  “Holy shit!” he said.

  “Mr. Diaz!” he shouted down.

  “What’s up?” Miguel answered.

  “There’s a boat out there, and someone is waving a white flag.”

  Miguel leaped onto the ladder and hauled himself to the top. He grabbed the glasses from Barry and looked in the direction he was pointing. Sure enough, there was a boat that appeared to be in distress. There was no bow wake, signifying it was not moving. A man was standing on the front deck waving a white shirt tied to a pole.

  “You’re right, they seem in trouble. Better get out there and see if we can help.”

  Miguel called down to the others and said they are going to check out a boat in distress. Barry collected all the gear and stowed it as Miguel placed the drives into forward and increased the RPMs—the boat showed on the radar about a mile away. Why didn’t they use a flare ? Miguel asked himself. It was only by chance we saw they were in distress . He buried the throttles and raced toward the stricken boat at just over 30 knots. He picked up the radio handset and tuned to the emergency Channel 16, then keyed the transmit switch.

  “This is Annabelle . We are 25 miles due West of Marina Pez Vela. Our location is …” he read the coordinates from the chart plotter. “We are heading due southwest on a course of 190° to a vessel in trouble.”

  VHF radio is line-of-sight and has a limited range. He knew the marina had a 100' antenna and, coupled with the height of his own antenna, they should receive his message.

  A few minutes later, the radio crackled, and a voice said;

  Roger Annabelle. This is Marina Pez Vela. We have notified the Coast Guard and will keep you updated. Do you need help?

  “Negative at the moment. We will check it out and let you know.”

  Roger. Standing by.

  The boat was not listing, and likely wasn’t taking on water. It was a little larger than the Annabelle and looked to be a similar type—a sport fisherman. As they got closer, he could make out it was a Hatteras and maybe 60' in length.

  Annabelle, Annabelle, this is Costa Rica Coast Guard. What is your situation?

  “Costa Rica Coast Guard, this is Annabelle . We are on an intercept course with a boat in trouble.”

  Switch to operating channel 15.

  “Switching.”

  Miguel selected the appropriate channel and keyed the microphone switch again.

  “Costa Rica Coast Guard, this is Annabelle on channel 15.”

  Annabelle. Do not, repeat, do not intercept vessel. Do not approach within 200 yards.

  “Roger Coast Guard. Copy that. What if they require help?”

  We have had reports of fugitive drug runners in the area. We will be at your location within three hours. The drug runner’s boat is a 60' Hatteras named San Pedro. The occupants are armed and dangerous. If that is the boat in distress, then you are to leave the area.

  “Roger Coast Guard. We will take a run behind her stern at a distance of 300 yards and find out the boat’s name.”

  Roger Annabelle.

  Miguel piloted Annabelle on a course that would take them astern of the troubled vessel and use the binoculars to determine its name. If it was the drug runner’s boat, were they party to the discussion with the Coast Guard? Miguel presumed that they ha
d a radio. He made a sweeping run around the stern of the boat, slowing down as a courtesy in order not to toss them about with his wake—just in case it wasn’t the druggies and that there was a genuine emergency from a troubled mariner. Barry, who had the better vision of the group, placed the binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus.

  “It is the San Pedro ,” he said.

  “OK,” Miguel said. “We’re out of here.” He buried the throttles again, took a wide sweep around the Hatteras and set a course for the marina, giving the boat a wide berth.

  “Costa Rica Coast Guard. We have made a sweeping run around the stern and confirm that the vessel is a 60' Hatteras with the name of San Pedro . We are now leaving the area.”

  Roger Annabelle. We will put out a message to all boats not to approach the area. Thank you.

  “No problem. Annabelle out.”

  Miguel switched the radio back to Channel 16 and a few minutes later, heard the Coast Guard’s broadcast warning boats to stay clear of the area.

  “That was exciting,” said Garry. “Good job we didn’t approach it.”

  “I’m always wary of approaching unidentified boats in this area,” said Miguel. “There are lots of drugs on their way to the US from Colombia that use these waters.” As they swept around the boat at a distance of 250 to 300 yd., Barry was still watching them with the binoculars.

  “Christ!” he said. “Looks like bullet holes along the side of the boat.”

  “Let me see,” Garry said as he took the glasses from his son. “You’re right. It looks like someone stitched a line of holes running from the deck to the water line.”

  “Probably punctured the diesel tanks, and they ran out of fuel,” Miguel said.

  “Well, if that’s the case, they ain’t going far,” was Manny’s contribution.

  “I think they’re coming after us,” said Garry as he noticed the nose of the boat rise and a plume of white water shoot from the stern .

  “Shit!” said Miguel. Problem was, he was now west of the boat and it was between them and the marina.

  “Can we outrun them?” Garry asked.

  “Not sure. Some of those drug boats have powerful engines to outrun coast guard cutters.”

  Miguel soon realized that the boat was making a parallel course to them and would cut them off from returning to the marina. He noted also from the radar signature that the boat was gaining on them.

  “I don’t think we will outrun them,” Miguel said.

  Suddenly, bullets pinged around them.

  “Shit,” said Manny. “They’re shooting at us.”

  “Everybody down!” Miguel shouted. “I’m afraid we have to slow down and let them approach us.”

  Miguel eased back on the throttles and let the boat catch up. When it was close, he placed the engines in neutral and stood facing the boat.

  “Keep your hands visible,” he said to everyone. “Don’t want to spook them.”

  Miguel slowed to idle as they prepared to pull alongside the boat. Enrique put out the fenders and stood ready with the lines.

  There were two men standing on the fore-deck of the boat brandishing AK-47s. As the boat came closer, it slowed, and the bow lowered. There were minimal swells on the ocean, and when they were close enough, Enrique used a hooked pole to grab the cleat, and haul the boats together. As soon as they had secured the two boats, a third man appeared in the cockpit brandishing an MP5 machine gun.

  “Buenos Días ,” the guy said with a toothy grin. “I am Emilio. Smart of you to stop. Now, everyone step aboard this boat. Anyone else on board?”

  “No, just the five of us. Do as he says,” Miguel advised.

  “We have cargo to move,” Emilio said as they stepped aboard the drug runner’s boat. “Please move up to the front of the boat.”

  Miguel, Enrique, and the passengers moved forward and stood on the fore-deck. While Emilio stood in Annabelle’s cockpit, the other men disappeared inside the San Pedro and came back with small dark-brown packages and tossed them to Emilio. This carried on for a while and Miguel wondered at the street value of the drugs that were being loaded onto his boat. When the transfer was complete, the two men boarded Annabelle and untied the lines, casting the stricken boat adrift. While Emilio pushed the vessels apart with a grab pole, Emilio engaged the engines and left them in his wake.

  Miguel looked at the other men. “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “Not your fault,” said Garry. “Who knew they would be pirates?”

  “They’re not pirates. They are drug runners that ran low on fuel. Now I know why they didn’t use flares or the radio. They didn’t want to attract attention to themselves from the Coast Guard. They’ll be long gone before anyone gets here. I’m glad I at least radioed it in, so someone should be here soon. I’ll check the radio and call it in again.”

  Miguel climbed the steps to the bridge and discovered that they had ripped the cord on the handset from the unit, so hopefully, the original call would summon the Coast Guard. Just as he was about to return to the others, a call came in on the radio.

  Annabelle, Annabelle, this is Costa Rica Coast Guard. Come in please.

  It frustrated Miguel that he could not answer the call and hoped that they would continue to the location he had given the Marina. Chances are, the Coast Guard had received Miguel’s message anyway as they monitor Channel 16.

  “We can receive messages but cannot send or answer,” he said to the group. “I’m sure that the Coast Guard will be here soon.”

  Right on cue, the radio crackled again;

  Annabelle, Annabelle, this is the Costa Rica Coast Guard. We will be at your position in approximately three hours.

  “Shit!” Miguel cursed. “Look around for a flare gun,” he told the group. “Unless they have disposed of it, there should be one on the boat somewhere because it is required for this size of a boat.”

  They all opened cabinets and checked drawers until Barry said, “Here it is,” holding up a case containing a flare gun and six rocket flares.

  “Good,” said Miguel. “Enrique. Fire a flare in an hour and every 30 minutes after that until you see the Coast Guard. I’m just going to check out the rest of the boat. They know we’re here, but just in case they mistake our null response as everything being OK, although that doesn’t seem likely. The flare should be visible from shore, but 25 miles is just about the limit of visibility … and that presupposes that someone is looking in our direction. ”

  Miguel lifted the hatch to the engine room, and the pungent smell of diesel fuel, which was still slopping away in the bilge—or at least that which the bilge pumps had not evacuated—bombarded his nostrils. Outboard of the engines were two stainless-steel tanks he estimated stored 1,000 gallons of fuel each. He inspected the starboard tank and discovered that there were several holes in the side. The outward flare on the holes suggested bullets being fired from outside the boat and penetrated the fibreglass hull. That would explain the fuel loss. The massive Caterpillar C-32 diesels filled the space and would propel her to upwards of 35 knots, but without fuel they were more useful as an anchor. Miguel surmised they had been in some kind of gunfight, but outran their attackers. He summed up the situation: they had little fuel—not enough to take them to shore—so not only were they stranded 25 mi. from shore, but they couldn’t even run the generator for air conditioning; the batteries were fully charged, and the boat had an inverter, so they would have 120V power if needed; they had six flares (five now) that, with one every 30 minutes, would last another 2½ hours; there was no means to communicate verbally with anyone; there was no tender or dinghy. There was an emergency life raft, but no motor; there was an abundance of cold drinks and food in the refrigerator. Hopefully, the Marina will send someone out, and they are only an hour away. Miguel addressed the group.

  “Here’s the scoop. We are low on fuel; both gauges show empty. The coast guard has our location, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Julio from the marina comes out here, since he
hasn’t heard from us. I want to keep what remaining fuel we have for any emergency, whatever that may be. We have no way of communicating with anyone, but we have food and water on board to last us for days. My advice is to sit here and wait for the coast guard as this is the position we gave them.”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “I still have my iPhone,” said Garry, “but I can’t get a signal out here.”

  “I can hardly get a signal at the marina,” Miguel said. “I wish I had grabbed my sat-phone before they ordered us off my boat, but wishing won’t help in the current situation.”

  Enrique had taken the flare gun aloft to the upper station with the binoculars and scanned the horizon for any sign of ships. Visibility permitting, one can see only three miles while on the surface, or at sea level, to the horizon. This increases to six miles from Enrique’s vantage point. However, you could see the top of an ocean liner or cargo vessel that was 100' tall at 15 miles from the raised control platform. The smoke from the stack of an ocean-going ship (most modern diesel-powered ships emit no smoke like the coal-burning vessels of yesteryear) is visible up to 20 mi. away. Enrique saw nothing!

  It was now 1:15 p.m., over an hour since the hi-jacking, which meant another two hours before the Coast Guard arrived.

  “Let’s find something to eat.” Miguel said. “I’m sure our druggies are eating the nice lunch I prepared for us.”

  Manny entered the salon and opened the refrigerator. “Beer anyone?” he said.

  “Sure,” said Garry and Miguel in unison. “Bring a Coke for Barry and Enrique,” said Garry.

  Manny grabbed two Cokes and three Club Colombia cans of cerveza and handed them to Garry.

  “I see cheese and butter in the ‘fridge. There’s also bread and boxes of crackers in the cupboard.”

  “Great,” said Miguel. “May as well bring it out here—it’s hotter than Hades in there with no A/C.”

  Manny loaded the bread, cheese, butter and boxes of crackers on a large serving tray, grabbed a handful of napkins and cutlery and stepped outside to the cockpit. Garry and Miguel were sitting up in the flybridge, and Manny handed the tray up to them and climbed the ladder to join them.