Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  It had simply never occurred to Tate that Juan would sacrifice his own ship.

  * * *

  —

  Eddie’s heart raced as he could do nothing more than watch the terrible sight of the Oregon plowing into the center of her doppelgänger.

  With a mixture of pride and sadness, Linc said, “You got him, Chairman.”

  The Oregon’s bow plunged into the Portland like a dagger into an enemy’s heart. The Portland’s thick, steel-plated hull ripped apart as easily as a sheet of tissue paper. The Oregon didn’t stop until she was buried halfway into the other ship. If the ships were truly identical, Eddie guessed that the Portland’s op center had taken the full brunt of the blow.

  The two freighters were now joined as one. The Oregon was a barbed spear embedded in her quarry, and there would be no pulling her loose. The force of the collision pushed the Portland all the way to the opposite cliff, where the linked vessels finally came to a halt. Dense black smoke rose from the point of impact.

  Eddie clicked his molar mic. “Chairman, do you read me? Juan?”

  There was no answer.

  69

  Tate shook his head to clear it, but that only worsened the whiplash in his neck. He opened his eyes to see that the op center was now a complete wreck. He was the only one who had a seat belt on, so he had stayed in place even though his command chair was now pushed up at a thirty-degree angle. No one else was moving. Bodies were sprawled on the floor or had been crushed beyond recognition by the Oregon’s rusted hull, which now filled the space where the view screen had been.

  Sparks flew from exposed electrical conduits, Klaxons blared, and the emergency lighting had flickered on. Tate checked the ship status on the pad on his armrest, and it winked on and off with a long series of warnings.

  Engines down. Weapons off-line. Fire suppression systems disabled. Flooding in multiple compartments. The list went on.

  With a hole as massive as the one the Oregon had punched in the Portland, it was just a matter of time now before the ship went down. He had to get out.

  He unlatched his belt, but a new alarm sounded that caught his attention. It was the fire signal.

  He looked at the pad and zoomed in on the 3-D image of the ship’s layout. There was a fire raging in the section right next to the ammunition magazine. If it ignited one of the shells or missiles stored there, the resulting explosion would slash the ship in two.

  He heard a cry from his right and saw Farouk pinned against the bulkhead by his console, which had been torn from the floor. He was holding out his arm in a pathetic plea for help.

  “Please, Commander!” he bawled. “I can’t move.”

  Tate shook his head. “Serves you right for failing me. You’re on your own.”

  He ran out of the room, Farouk’s miserable wail receding behind him.

  Tate headed for the nearest stairs, but they were blocked. He doubled back and tried a different path. That corridor was a tangle of girders, leaking pipes, and dangling wires. He’d electrocute himself trying to climb through.

  The third route he tried took him past the ship’s shooting range and armory. He was confronted by the sight of the Oregon’s hull, which had been peeled open so cleanly that the chasm was big enough for him to fit through. It seemed to be his only way out.

  It was also highly dangerous. For all he knew, the Oregon’s crew was waiting to kill him if he tried to escape through their ship. He had to arm himself.

  He sprinted back into the shooting range, opened its inner security door, and dashed into the armory. After he snatched a G36 assault rifle from the wall, along with two spare magazines and a flashlight, he raced back the way he’d come.

  When he reached the union of the Oregon and the Portland, Tate pointed the G36 into the darkened opening. He clicked on the flashlight and saw an empty corridor.

  The way was clear. He climbed into the Oregon.

  * * *

  —

  Juan unbuckled his belt and took stock of himself. Surprisingly, he was unscathed from the massive collision. Too bad he couldn’t say the same about his ship.

  He was proud of the punishment the Oregon had been able to take, but the impact must have damaged the engines beyond repair. He tried to reverse out of the Portland’s death grip. No response. The Oregon wasn’t going anywhere.

  Juan had to abandon ship. Water was pouring in through holes in the side and bow of the ship. Some of the emergency bulkheads had closed, but not enough of them. The clock was ticking for the Oregon, and it wouldn’t be long before it hit zero.

  He tried contacting Eddie. He got no response. Communications were off-line. Soon the Oregon would be covered by a thousand feet of water, and he didn’t want to be inside her when that happened.

  He went to the door and spun around to take one last look at the op center. It was his favorite spot on the ship, the place where he felt most comfortable, and he treasured the camaraderie he’d experienced with the rest of his officers during the most harrowing of missions. But now it was empty. The room—and the ship—had done their jobs.

  It was time to go.

  Juan turned and ran for his life.

  70

  Both Eddie and Linc frantically searched in vain for any movement on the Oregon’s deck, scanning the ship from stem to stern with the sniper scope and binoculars.

  “If he’s still alive,” Linc said, “shouldn’t we have seen him by now?”

  “He might be trying to save the ship,” Eddie replied.

  “I don’t see how. Look at that big gash in the starboard side.”

  Movement on the Portland caught Eddie’s attention. Several people were stumbling toward the only lifeboat that remained undamaged.

  “What was that?” Linc asked.

  “Where?” Eddie switched his view back to the Oregon. “Do you see him?”

  “No, I meant on the Portland. I thought I saw a flash of light near the midsection.”

  Eddie refocused the binoculars on the other ship. “I don’t see any—”

  A massive fireball erupted from the center of the Portland, engulfing the few people on deck and tossing huge sections of the vessel high into the air. A few seconds later, the blast wave reached Eddie and Linc, battering their eardrums.

  “Whoa!” Linc said.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “I bet something set off the ammo magazine.”

  “I bet you’re right.”

  The explosion finished what the Oregon had started and split the Portland in two. Each half rolled away from the cliff and listed over until both abruptly capsized. Soon, the sections would be lying at the bottom of the fjord.

  The Oregon would quickly follow them. Nothing could stop that now. Her entire bow had been sheared off by the immense explosion, which also pushed her toward the center of the fjord, where she had drifted to a stop.

  “Come on, Chairman,” Linc said. “Get out of there.”

  * * *

  —

  Juan’s eyes blinked open, and he found himself lying on the landing of the stairwell with a painful welt on his head. He’d been thrown down the steps by some kind of blast. Since he wasn’t dead, it had to have come from the Portland.

  He picked himself up, regained his senses, and continued up the stairs until he emerged onto the deck and into the bracing cold. He had come out on the starboard side just forward of the superstructure.

  He looked toward the Oregon’s bow and saw that it wasn’t there anymore. All that remained was a ragged tear in the deck, which was now beginning to tilt downward. Farther over toward the side of the fjord were the two halves of the now overturned Portland. The bow end gurgled as it was claimed by the sea. The stern went vertical and then plunged straight down like a rocket aimed at the ocean’s floor.

  No matter how much Juan hated the thou
ght, the Oregon was going to suffer the same fate. He went to the nearest life raft canister. He grabbed the nylon rope and yanked on the quick-release chain. The cylindrical canister rolled overboard and landed in the water. He pulled on the cord until it activated the CO2 cartridge. Its clamshell case popped open, the raft inflated.

  He was about to jump over the railing when gunfire peppered the raft with holes. Juan threw himself on the deck as bullets ricocheted around him. He felt one of the rounds tear into his left arm. A chillingly familiar voice called out to taunt him.

  “Hey, Juan!” Tate shouted with undisguised glee. “Don’t you know the captain is supposed to go down with his ship?”

  71

  Did you see where that came from?” Linc asked.

  Eddie, searching the deck for the source of the bullets that shredded the life raft, couldn’t see who was responsible.

  “No, but Juan is still alive,” Eddie said.

  “He was. Is there any blood on the deck?”

  “Not that I can see, though it’s hard to tell from this far away.” Then Eddie saw Juan push himself up to his hands and knees. “Wait, he’s moving. He’s sitting up, against a bollard.”

  “We need to find whoever is hunting him.”

  “Hold it, I just saw the guy’s leg. He’s retreating behind the superstructure. You see it?”

  “Got him,” Linc said. “But I don’t have a shot. How did he get on board?”

  “I have no idea. Juan was the first person I saw set foot on the Oregon’s deck.”

  “Can you get him from here?” Eddie asked.

  “If he comes into view and then stays put for a few seconds. The difference in wind speeds between up here and down there will be tricky to compensate for . . . Still nothing on the comms?”

  “No.” It was frustrating to see Juan yet not be able to talk to him.

  “I was hoping you could get the Chairman to lure this guy out into the open,” Linc said.

  “That would be helpful. Maybe he’ll remember we’re up here.”

  * * *

  —

  Juan used the ceramic knife from his combat leg to cut a length of the lifeboat rope and made a tourniquet for his bleeding arm, using his good hand and his teeth to secure it. He couldn’t bend the elbow without excruciating pain, but it didn’t seem like the round had fractured his bone.

  He’d worn the prosthetic leg with the hidden compartment just in case. Now he was glad he had. He took out the .45 caliber ACP Colt Defender, which held seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Clearly it was no match for the firepower he was up against. He recognized the sound of a G36 assault rifle.

  Juan looked up at the top of the ridge where he knew Linc and Eddie could see him. The distance and their camouflage made them invisible. He hadn’t heard the boom of the deafening Barrett sniper rifle, which meant Linc couldn’t see Tate. The advantage Juan had was, Tate had no idea they were up there.

  Juan had to lure him into the open. The fog was closing in on the ridge, so he didn’t have much time.

  “I noticed you didn’t go down with your ship, Tate!” Juan shouted.

  “Do you think I believe in that stupid cliché?” Tate yelled back. “That’s only for Boy Scouts like you. Besides, I wanted to come see you one last time.”

  “I’m right here. Come and get me.”

  “Nice try. I’ve heard about that trick leg of yours. You’ve probably got a handy little gun in there. You probably don’t have an assault rifle like I do.”

  “You got me there, Tate.” Juan leaned around the bollard and shot off three quick rounds, trying to flush Tate out.

  “Still here, Juan! You could try to hide, but remember that I know the Oregon as well as you do. Why don’t you save me some trouble and jump overboard right now? In water this cold, you’ll be dead in a couple of minutes from hypothermic shock.”

  Tate seemed happy to wait Juan out and have them both go down with the Oregon, which was steadily sinking at the bow. Juan looked toward the nearest door going into the interior of the ship. Too far. Tate would cut him down before he got halfway there.

  It was time to take more drastic measures and trust that Eddie and Linc were ready to help him.

  He stood up and emptied his magazine in Tate’s direction until the click of the trigger was audible. He then tossed the gun on the deck and remained standing.

  Tate peeked from behind the superstructure. “Well, that was pretty stupid of you. Or you’re just suicidal because I beat you.”

  Juan shook his head and held his arms up in the air. “Neither. Just practical.”

  Tate emerged with a pompous grin and the G36 held lazily at his side. He ambled toward Juan.

  “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said.

  Juan nodded. “So have I.”

  “Good-bye, Juan.”

  “Just shoot already,” Juan said.

  “With pleasure.” Tate stopped and took aim.

  “I didn’t mean you.”

  * * *

  —

  Through the tendrils of fog that were beginning to envelope them, Eddie saw that Tate was in the perfect position, in plain view, standing still. Tate said something and raised his rifle.

  “Take him down,” Eddie said.

  Linc pulled the trigger.

  72

  The Oregon shuddered, just a minor slip downward, as some interior spaces filled with water. It was enough to save Tate’s life.

  Something sliced along his cheek, and he flinched as if he’d been slapped. Then he heard the crack of a rifle from somewhere high above and realized that Juan had placed a sniper on the mountain overlooking the fjord. Cabrillo had deliberately coaxed him from his hiding spot just to blow his brains out. It almost worked.

  Tate emptied his magazine in Juan’s direction. He ducked back into his hiding spot just in time to avoid two more rounds that dug craters in the deck right where he’d been standing. When he was protected by the safety of the superstructure, he ejected the mag from his rifle and slapped a new one in. Blood dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt, but Tate felt no pain. He was jacked from the adrenaline surging through his veins.

  “That was smart!” he called out. “You nearly got me. But your own ship let you down.”

  No answer.

  “You still out there, Juan? I didn’t hear a splash.”

  “Time to make this a fair fight, Tate!” Cabrillo shouted back.

  Tate heard the sound of a bulkhead door slamming closed.

  Fair fight? To make it a fair fight, Cabrillo would need an assault rifle of his own.

  He headed to the armory, just two decks below. Instead of Tate worrying about Juan getting a weapon to take him on in a gun battle, he was elated by the gift.

  He risked a peek around the superstructure and saw fog blanketing the mountain. The sniper was now blind.

  Tate ran for the door, one of the hidden ones that led into the secret areas of the ship. In his haste to get to the armory, Cabrillo had left it ajar.

  Tate threw it open and followed Cabrillo into the bowels of the sinking Oregon.

  * * *

  —

  Juan didn’t dwell on his bad luck as he ran down the stairs. Linc’s shot was right on the mark. It was the ship that moved Tate out of the bullet’s path.

  It didn’t take long for Juan to settle on a new strategy. The fog that rolled in and took Linc out of the equation forced him to consider a Plan C. Or maybe he was up to Plan F, at this point. It didn’t help that the ship was rapidly sinking. Juan knew that he had only a few minutes left before she went under.

  He’d told Max that he didn’t want to die, and that still held true. But Tate wasn’t going to let him off the Oregon alive. And Juan didn’t have another gun in his combat leg.

  It was something that Tate
had said up on deck that made him think of this new tactic. Tate said he knew the Oregon as well as Juan did.

  But Tate didn’t. Only a member of the Corporation knew the ship as intimately as Juan. There were things on board that he had modified since the Oregon was first designed and built. Changes that wouldn’t have been in the original plans Tate had stolen to construct the Portland. Minor alterations that made the Oregon absolutely unique despite her doppelgänger.

  The armory had one of those modifications.

  He just hoped that Tate took the bait and followed him.

  73

  Tate took the stairs down two at a time. He was racing to reach the armory before Cabrillo could come out with a weapon. If Tate caught him while he was still in the armory, he could lock Juan inside. Then the captain really would go down with his ship.

  Two levels down, Tate sprinted along the hallway until he reached the door of the shooting range. Drops of fresh blood on the elegant carpeting ended there.

  Tate knelt and pulled the door of the range open slowly in case Juan was plotting an ambush. Tate swept the interior of the firing range with his rifle, but it was clear. The blood drips continued to the armory.

  Cabrillo was still in there.

  Tate smiled. He lifted the G36 and fired a burst of rounds at the security pad next to its door. On the Portland, the portal was designed to go into lockdown mode if the pad was tampered with. This one had just been tampered with big-time.

  To be sure, Tate tested the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.

  He didn’t know if Juan would be able to hear him through the soundproofing, so Tate pounded with the butt of his rifle.

  “You hear that, Juan?” he shouted. “Sorry I had to do it this way. The Oregon will make a nice tomb for you!”