Artemis- Blowing Up Whaler

“Okay,” he said at last. “Here’s what I’m going to do. We have a
Scope on a satellite TV bird with a footprint in Ireland.”
“I see,” muttered Root—which was basically a lie.
“I’m going to e-mail last week’s sweep direct to your visor. Luckily
there’s a video card in all the new helmets.”
“Luckily.”
“The tricky bit will be to coordinate your flight pattern with the video
feed. . . .”
Root had had enough. “How long, Foaly?”
“Ahm . . . Two minutes, give or take.”
“Give or take what?”
“About ten years if my calculations are off.”
“They’d better not be off then. I’ll hover until we know.”
One hundred and twenty-four seconds later, Root’s black-and-white
blueprints faded out, to be replaced by full-color daylight imaging. When
Root moved, it moved, and Holly’s locator beacon dot moved too.
“Impressive,” said Root.
“What was that, Commander?”
“I said impressive,” shouted Root. “No need to get a swelled head.”
The commander heard the sound of a roomful of laughter, and
realized that Foaly had him on the speakers. Everyone had heard him
complimenting the centaur’s work. There’d be no talking to him for at
least a month. But it was worth it. The video he was receiving now was
bang up to date. If Captain Short was being held in a building, the
computer would be able to give him D blueprints instantaneously. It was
foolproof. Except . . .
“Foaly, the beacon’s gone off shore. What’s going on?”
“Boat or ship, sir, I’d say at a guess.”
Root cursed himself for not thinking of it. They’d be having a big
laugh in the situation room. Of course it was a ship. Root dropped down a
few hundred feet until its shadowy outline loomed through the mist. A
whaler by the looks of it. Technology may have changed over the
centuries, but there was still nothing like a harpoon to slaughter the
world’s largest mammal.
“Captain Short is in there somewhere, Foaly. Below decks. What can
you give me?”
...

“I brought you here for a demonstration.”
The commander leaned over the open container. Inside, in snug foam
packing, were a flat vacuum-packed package and a triple-band VHF
transmitter. Resting on top was Holly’s locator. Root groaned. Holly
wouldn’t willingly give up her equipment; no LEP officer would.
“What sort of demonstration, you demented freak?”
Again that cold chuckle.
“A demonstration of my utter commitment to my goals.”
Root should have started to worry about his own health then, but he
was too busy worrying about Holly’s.
“If you’ve harmed one tip of my officer’s pointy ears ...”
“Your officer? Oh, we have management. How privileged. All the
better to make my point.”
Alarm bells went off in Root’s head.
“Your point?”
The voice emanating from the aluminium speaker grid was as serious
as a nuclear winter.
“My point, little fairy man, is that I am not someone to be trifled
with. Now, if you would please observe the package.”
The commander duly observed. It was a nondescript enough shape.
Flat, like a slab of putty, or . . . Oh no.
Beneath the sealant, a red light flicked on.
“Fly, little fairy,” said the voice. “And tell your friends Artemis Fowl
the Second says hello.”
Beside the red light, green symbols began to click through a routine.
Root recognized them from his human studies class back in the Academy.
They were . . . numbers. Going backward. A countdown!
“D’Arvit!” growled Root. (There is no point translating that word, as
it would have to be censored.)
He turned and fled up the corridor, Artemis Fowl’s mocking tones
carrying down the metal funnel.
“Three,” said the human. “Two . . .”
“D’Arvit,” repeated Root.
The corridor seemed much longer, now. A sliver of starry sky peeked
through a wedge of open door. Root activated his wings—this would take
some fancy flying. The Hummingbird’s span was barely narrower than the
ship’s corridor.
“One.”
Sparks flew as the electronic wings scraped a protruding pipe. Root
cartwheeled, righting himself at Mach one.
“Zero . . .” said the voice. “Boom!”
Inside the vacuum-packed package, a detonator sparked, igniting a
kilogram of pure Semtex. The whitehot reaction devoured the surrounding
oxygen in a nanosecond and surged down the path of least resistance,
which was, of course, immediately after LEP Commander Root.
Root dropped his visor, opening the throttle to maximum. The door
was just a few feet away now. It was just a matter of what reached it first
—the fairy or the fireball.
He made it. Barely. He could feel the explosion rattling his torso as
he threw himself into a reverse loop. Flames latched on to his jumpsuit,
licking along his legs. Root continued his maneuver, crashing directly into
the icy water. He broke the surface swearing.
Above him, the whaler had been totally consumed by noxious flames.
“Commander,” came a voice in his earpiece. It was Foaly. He was
back in range.
“Commander. What’s your status?”
Root lifted free of the water’s grip.
“My status, Foaly, is extremely annoyed. Get on your computers. I
want to know everything there is to know about one Artemis Fowl, and I
want to know it before I get back to base.”
“Yessir, Commander. Right away.”
No wisecrack. Even Foaly realized that this was not the time.
Root hovered at three hundred yards. Below him the blazing whaler
drew emergency vehicles like moths to a light. He dusted charred threads
from his elbows. There will be a reckoning for this Artemis Fowl, he
vowed. Count on it.

- Artemis Fowl, Chapter 5