Piranha

12

Juan felt a stab of regret at seeing the ship aflame. The familiar outline made the sight even more poignant, but she had served her purpose and now they had to leave her behind.

“Be sure to keep the islets between us and the frigate until we’re out of radar range, Mr. Stone,” Juan said.

“Aye, Chairman,” Eric replied. “Shouldn’t be too hard. The Mariscal Sucre doesn’t appear to be moving.”

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” Max said. “Ruiz is like an arsonist watching her handiwork burn.”

“Then let’s show her the grand finale. Mr. Murphy, ready the fireworks.”

Murph rubbed his hands together in glee. “With pleasure, Chairman.”

Just as they had planned, Ruiz thought she was looking at the Oregon burning and adrift when it was really dashing northeast across the Caribbean at more than forty-five knots. The video feed on the front view screen proved their success in fooling Ruiz. The image being sent from a tiny drone circling the warship at a safe distance confirmed that it was stationary. If she hadn’t been deceived, it would have shown the frigate in hot pursuit.

Although the mission commissioned by the CIA was to sabotage the tanker diesel fuel bound for North Korea and to recover evidence of the Venezuelan arms smuggling operation, Juan saw it as a good opportunity to add a third objective: regain their anonymity.

For the last few years, they’d gotten into scrapes around the world with various Third World countries and battled the occasional naval vessel, sinking a few of them along the way. No incident in isolation was enough to reveal the Oregon’s hidden purpose and identity, but the rumors had started to make the rounds that there was some kind of spy ship cruising the seas of the world, although the stories conflicted radically on what the ship was called and what she looked like. But Juan and his officers agreed that it was only a matter of time before someone would make the connection and blow their cover. Which meant they needed to take action that would not only convince everyone this mythical spy ship was crewed by nothing more potent than a ragtag bunch of mercenaries but also that it was no longer a threat because it was at the bottom of the ocean.

Juan had gotten the brainstorm for how to do it when he learned that the Oregon’s only surviving sister ship was scheduled to be scrapped. Before being rebuilt as a technological marvel, the Oregon had been a sturdy lumber hauler, carrying loads between the Pacific Northwest and Asia. Four other ships of the same design were constructed, but service lives had ended for all but the Washington, which continued to ply the waters around her namesake state, ferrying supplies to Alaska.

When the Washington was headed for the scrapyard, the Corporation bought her for a pittance, setting Juan’s plan in motion. His crew had spent the past week altering her appearance so that the Washington and the Oregon would appear identical. They also filled her hold with the ammonium nitrate fertilizer that was supposed to be inside the Oregon. Then they’d moved the Washington to her anchorage nestled among the isolated Islas Caracas and left Eric Stone and Mark Murphy behind so that they could make the final preparations.

The part of the mission to regain anonymity had all been meticulously planned to lure one of the Venezuelan frigates into battle. Eddie Seng’s trickery had ensured that harbormaster Manuel Lozada would report the Oregon’s arrival to his superiors in the Navy, and Eddie stayed glued to Lozada so that he could apprise Max of the Venezuelans’ activities. Langston Overholt, their CIA connection, kept them informed about the location of Venezuelan warships via satellite observation. The Mariscal Sucre was the closest frigate on patrol, so they knew their target would be coming from the west.

After getting the intel about the smuggling operation, it was just a matter of baiting the frigate to the desolate islands where the Washington was hidden.

Like the squibs Kevin Nixon had designed for Eddie’s staged shooting, Murph had created his own giant squibs for the Oregon. At the moment the Metal Storm battery had neutralized the incoming missile, close enough to the ship to make Ruiz think it had hit, Murph simultaneously activated explosives on the deck of the Oregon as well as preset gas jets that simulated the look of a raging fire while posing no actual danger to the ship. He assured Juan that the paint wouldn’t even be charred.

The Washington, however, wouldn’t be as fortunate. With Eric’s help, Murph had covered her deck with canisters that would spew jellied gasoline when they were detonated, mimicking the fake fire on the Oregon. Additional explosives were rigged throughout the ship including the bridge superstructure.

Juan had idled the Oregon’s engines until the frigate was close enough to use her gun, floating at a spot that would quickly put them in the lee of Isla Caraca del Oeste after she got under way again. Once the island shielded them, Juan ramped her up to full throttle, knowing that the Mariscal Sucre would target Oregon’s presumed position based on the slower speed they’d been sustaining. The shells fell harmlessly in their wake. When the last one plunged into the water, Murph activated the explosives on the deck of the Washington.

Juan thought the odds were even between the Mariscal Sucre following them into the channel or intercepting them on the other side and he had to be sure which way to go, backward or forward, to be out of visual and radar range by the time the frigate spotted the Washington in flames. George “Gomez” Adams was the ace up his sleeve that made the decision easy.

Gomez, who got the nickname because he’d once been the paramour of a woman who was a dead ringer for the original Morticia from The Addams Family TV show, was the Oregon’s resident helicopter pilot. The ship carried an MD 520N chopper secreted within the aft hold that could be raised into launch position within ten minutes, but this night Gomez was seated comfortably in the op center.

In addition to his duties as a rotary-aircraft pilot, Gomez was also their most skilled drone operator. The Oregon was equipped with an array of UAVs for aerial reconnaissance and Juan had ordered one launched as the frigate approached. The off-the-shelf design with a four-foot wingspan had been modified by Max to carry a gimbaled high-definition video camera whose signal was linked back to the Oregon. Gomez, sporting a mustache that would have made Wyatt Earp proud, and blessed with looks so striking that Murph had once suggested that they have a shipwide “handsome-off” between him and MacD, stared at his monitor as he expertly guided the drone just above the wave tops to keep it below the Mariscal Sucre’s radar.

Thanks to their eye in the sky, they’d watched the frigate race to the northern side of the island, so Juan ordered full reverse and the Oregon made it out of the channel and behind the next island well before the Mariscal Sucre came into view.

“Gomez,” Juan said, “bring it around so we have a good shot of the Washington.”

“No problem.” The drone turned smartly. The running lights on the Mariscal Sucre were visible behind the blazing cargo freighter. “How’s that for an artistic shot?”

“You’d make Spielberg proud. What’s your distance?”

“Three miles.”

“That should be far enough. I can’t say the same for the Mariscal Sucre, but that’s their problem. They know what the cargo is. Are you set, Mr. Murphy?”

“Say the word,” Murph replied, his finger at the ready.

“Do it.”

Murph punched the button.

Explosives carefully placed beside the ammonium nitrate inside the hold of the Washington detonated, setting off a chain reaction within the fertilizer. A cataclysmic ball of fire bloomed silently on-screen. The ship was ripped apart by the blast and cleaved in two. Pieces of her hull pelted the neighboring islands. Only her broken keel would be left to settle on the seafloor, leaving little to examine even if the Venezuelans sent a dive team down to investigate. As far as they knew, the ship that had blown up was the Dolos, and no proof would be left to indicate otherwise.

To Juan, it was like watching the Oregon herself sink, and the pang of regret returned. At least it was a nobler end for the Washington than to be cut apart and sold for scrap.

A minor tsunami washed up on the islet shores and rushed toward the Mariscal Sucre, which was rocking back and forth from the explosive concussion. Seconds later, the drone bobbed drunkenly.

Gomez struggled to maintain control. “Man, that was bigger than I expected.” He pulled the drone up and leveled out. No doubt the frigate wouldn’t be paying much attention to its radar signature, if their radar array had even survived the blast.

Gomez kept the camera trained on the frigate. There was no movement.

“Well, I bet that woke them up,” Max said.

“And blew out their eardrums,” Juan said. “I’d be surprised if any of their bridge windows are still intact.”

“If they go anywhere, it’ll be back to port for repairs.”

“I agree. But Gomez, keep an eye on them until we’re thirty miles out. Then ditch the UAV.”

“You got it.”

The hull clanged as the shock wave from the blast now fifteen miles away reached them.

“Max, change us back to the Oregon. The Dolos has served us well, but we’ll consign her name to the sea.”

“Gladly.”

The name on the fantail could be changed at a moment’s notice using its magnetized panel, which could be programmed with any name and font they chose. At the press of a button, Max deactivated the magnets and the iron filings clinging to the fantail fell away. He remagnetized the filings and nozzles sprayed them into place, spelling out Oregon. Once they were in the open ocean and away from the shipping lanes, the crew would repaint the hull in a new decayed pattern and color, deck equipment would be rearranged, phony cargo pallets would be added, and the second funnel would be removed, completely altering the silhouette of the ship. The Oregon would steam into the next port looking nothing like the Dolos.

“Good work, everyone,” Juan said. “I’d say we just bought ourselves a few more years of anonymity. Drinks are on me next shore leave.”

“I hear that,” Max said. “For this bunch, it’s gonna cost you.”

“Happy to do it. Mr. Stone, once we’re out of radar range, set a course to pick up the Discovery.”

“Wait’ll they see the video,” Murph said. “MacD and Trono will be sorry they missed it.”

Juan walked over to Murph and handed him Lieutenant Dominguez’s phone memory card.

“Before you show off your pyrotechnic skills, the first priority for you and Eric is to decrypt this.”

Murph turned it over in his hands. “It feels damp.”

“I had it in my pocket when I went into the drink. Linc has a laptop for you as well, but that should be nice and dry.”

“Too bad,” Murph said. “I like a challenge.”

“I have a hunch our new friend Admiral Ruiz doesn’t want us to find out what’s on this memory card. I want to know what else she’s up to.”