On the Run

Excellent.
He sucked in a deep, settling breath, released it slowly, and repeated the process.
Time to earn his corn.
He pulled on his diver’s hood, grabbed the ruggedised, plastic case, and stepped out onto the rolling deck. A stiffening breeze whipped a mist of salt water into his eyes. He blinked it away.
Kaine dropped to one knee, released the clasps on the case, and flipped open the lid. There she lay—safe in her black, dimpled-foam cocoon—a wide-bodied tube of awesome power and functional beauty.
He removed the matte green cylinder and balanced it on his thigh.
The prototype Portable Air-Attack System Mark IV, the PAAS-4, weighed far less than he expected—a bantamweight killing machine. Its payload, a modified Buzzer III SAM, nestled safe inside its home. He popped open the instrument cover, keyed in the memorised code, and waited for the system to scroll through the initialisation protocol. Thirty seconds later she was ready—armed and crushingly dangerous.
According to the manufacturer’s technical specs, the “ultra-lightweight” SAM “set the technological bar higher than anything else currently on the market”.
Kaine snorted.

We’ll see about that.
He stood, swung the tube onto his shoulder, and tested its balance while fully loaded. Not bad. Wouldn’t want to carry it far over heavy terrain, but the ergonomic setup worked well enough. Surprisingly, and as promised, the pistol-grip handle, targeting screen, and operating software were a distinct improvement on the competition.
Kaine noted the observations for his post-test report.
The swell deepened, and Herring Gull’s increasing roll forced him to brace his left thigh against the gunwale. By hinging at the waist, he matched his sway with that of the pitching deck and maintained balance.
Everything was ready for the green light. Even the weather, cool and mainly clear, with a growing onshore breeze, cooperated.
He checked the field of operation.
The only other vessel in sight, an oil tanker, chugged some three miles off his starboard bow, heading northeast, towards Norway. Her navigation lights showed clear and bright, and her bridge threw a fractured blanket of brilliant white into the gathering darkness. As for Herring Gull, she ran dark and rode low in the water, hidden inside deep troughs more than half the time. Even if the tanker crew spotted his little tub on their radar, they’d think nothing of it. Where else would they expect a fishing boat to be?
The pale grey sky, criss-crossed with white jet trails but otherwise empty, gazed down on him, its face benign. Cloud free, the overhead visibility couldn’t be better.
The deck continued to roll and buck beneath his feet, but it didn’t matter. If the weapon lived up to the hype, it would find its test target.
Which was the whole point.
According to the blurb, once the Buzzer’s internal, infrared, homing system gained a lock, nothing could intercept it. Hence Kaine’s current location, six miles offshore, twenty-five from Hull, and eighteen from Grimsby—give or take. An isolated spot.

Perfect.
The deadly weapon on his shoulder weighed heavy and begged for release. He lowered it to the rail.
All set, Kaine checked his watch once again.
He waited.

#

The sea roiled beneath the hull, gulls screamed and bickered along the rail, and the keen salt air filled his lungs. Kaine smiled. He could think of no better place to spend an early-autumn evening.
Static crackled in his earpiece, the words unrecognisable.
Kaine released the PAAS-4’s handgrip and hit the press-to-talk button strapped to his left index finger with his thumb.
“Alpha One, repeat message, over.”
“Alpha Two, this is Alpha One. Are you receiving me? Over.”
“Receiving you strength five. Over.”
“Standby to accept the transponder code. Over.”
Kaine took a knee once more, balanced the launcher on his thigh, and pressed a button three centimetres above the trigger mechanism—the failsafe lock. A rectangular flap sprang open. He counted down the seconds.
“Ready. Over.”
“Alpha Two, transponder code is as follows: Bravo-Echo-one-five-five-five-Bravo-Sierra-Tango. Repeat to confirm. Over.”
Kaine repeated the alpha-numeric sequence aloud as he dialled it into the tracking system. Alpha One responded to each entry with, “Check.”
“Sequence confirmed? Over.”
“Affirmative, Alpha Two. Sequence confirmed. Over.”
Kaine pressed “lock”. Three green lights on the panel confirmed the code as accepted. A slow click emanating from the device showed the system as active and searching for the target’s transponder signal.
“Launch when you have a confirmed visual. I repeat. Launch when you have a confirmed visual. Over.”
“Understood. Alpha Two, out.”

Kaine threw the off switch for communications blackout. After that point, nothing but a system failure could halt the test. All he needed was a belt-and-braces visual confirmation of the target and the audible alarm on the weapon to confirm the lock. Then he’d squeeze the trigger, stand back to watch the fireworks, and head for home. With luck and a fair wind, he’d be back in time for an early breakfast.
The Principal would make the second half of the payment within thirty minutes of Kaine launching the Buzzer. It would take that long for telemetry to confirm the launch and the target’s destruction.
So far, the Principal had met every milestone in each of their multiple contracts. If the Principal ever failed to make a payment on time and in full, he knew that not only would Kaine and Alpha One never work for the man again, they’d spread the news around their world. Then where would the Principal turn?
In Ryan Kaine’s world, trust was everything. Trust and a ruddy, great, big stick.

Still on one knee, Kaine raised the launcher against his shoulder and rested the barrel on the gunwale once again. Despite the rapidly fading light, the night vision scope made the image as bright as midday in June. He wrapped his hand around the contours of the pistol-grip and placed his trigger finger along the guard.
Herring Gull weaved and bobbed as the sea grew more turbulent. The fresh-to-strong breeze dried the sweat on his face—the only exposed skin apart from his hands.
The gulls, annoying little buggers, still argued over sea-borne morsels.
Nine minutes. Any longer and he’d abort. The window of opportunity was precise, immutable.
Time slowed.
His world condensed into a grey sea, chill wind, a pitching deck, and dark line of the northern horizon.
Come on.

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