As they waited for the two women to arrive, Max Hanley dug into a plate of nachos while Juan nursed a tumbler of scotch.
“Do not tell Doc Huxley that I am eating this,” Max said as he crammed a chip laden with guacamole and cheese into his mouth. He chased it with a bottle of Budweiser. “You wouldn’t believe how few calories I’m allowed to have on the diet she put me on. She’s even got Chef in on it. This is the only chance I’ve had for some real food in two weeks.”
“I don’t think Julia will believe the bar sells wheatgrass smoothies and low-salt quinoa.”
“If she asks, tell her I had a glass of club soda and some carrot sticks.”
“It’s the scale you better be worried about tattling, not me.”
Max patted his stomach, which strained against his belt. “Hey, this isn’t bad for a guy my age. I’d like to see what you look like in another thirty years.” Max may have put on ten or fifteen pounds since his days in the Navy and wasn’t going to qualify for a 5K run anytime soon, but he could still handle himself in a fight and was reasonably fit for a guy in his sixties. Though Hux hounded Max about his nutrition, Juan figured his friend deserved a pipe and a bowl of ice cream when he felt like it.
“Julia just wants to make sure you’re around when you’re eighty,” Juan said.
Max snorted. “Maybe my ex is paying her off, so she can keep those alimony payments coming.”
On several occasions, Mark Murphy had accused Max and Juan of bantering like an old married couple. The two of them had been together since the Corporation was formed, even before the Oregon was purchased and refitted to its current state. Juan not only counted on his number two to keep the company and ship running smoothly but also confided in him more than anyone else.
Both of them were single and considered the Oregon their permanent home, and they shared an easy friendship because of it. Most of the crew knew about Max’s ex-wife, primarily because of his frequent comments about her, but few besides Max had heard about how Juan had become a widower, that his alcoholic wife had died in a single-car crash while intoxicated, despite his repeated attempts to get her help. The guilt for not being able to save her from herself ached more than the phantom pain where his right leg ended.
The stinging memory brought to mind the thought of another more recent loss to the Oregon family.
“Mike Trono sure would have enjoyed that operation in Vietnam, don’t you think?”
Max nodded with a melancholy smile at the mention of the shore operations gundog and former Air Force pararescue jumper who’d died on a mission not long ago. “He was always a sucker for the adrenaline rush. I miss the guy.”
“Me too.”
They were both quiet for a moment as they remembered their lost crewmate and friend.
“I know it’s tough to move on,” Max said, “but have you thought any more about bringing in a new crew member? I can send out feelers to the special forces community whenever we’re ready.”
Juan took another sip of his scotch. He always hated the process of replacing a lost crew member, but he supposed it was time.
“Sure,” he sighed. “Why don’t you get started. And I’ll see if there are any candidates coming out of the CIA.”
The bar door opened, and Beth’s scarlet hair glowed from the setting sun behind it. She spotted Juan immediately and came over to the table, giving Juan and Max hugs before she took a seat.
“Your friend decided not to come?” Juan asked with a wink at Max.
Beth gave them an embarrassed grin. “Ever since our experience in Thailand, she’s been leery of bars. I told her you guys were beyond reproach, but she thought it was better to get here early and scope out the situation.”
“Oh, I know,” Juan said, and turned to look at a woman sitting with a sailor at the end of the bar. She wore her hair pulled up underneath a USS Nimitz baseball cap and was nodding along to the band’s music as she flirted with him. “You can ask her to come over now.”
Beth gaped at him, then nodded at Raven to join them. The disappointed sailor tried to talk her out of leaving, but her flirtatiousness was suddenly gone and she was all business, gently but firmly telling him the fun was over.
“How did you know?” Beth asked as Raven walked toward them.
“Like you, we do our research.”
Raven sat down and shook their hands with a strong grip. “Raven Malloy.”
“I’m Juan Cabrillo, and this hale and hearty fellow is Max Hanley.”
“Dig in, if you’re hungry,” Max said, pointing at the plate of nachos that was three-quarters gone. They declined but ordered beers from the waitress.
“You were very good,” Juan said to Raven. “I almost overlooked you because I thought you were with that guy.”
“So did he.” She lifted her hat and her long black hair spilled out. “Then you’ve seen my photo?”
Juan nodded. “You have impressive credentials. Top ten percent in your class at West Point where you double-majored in psychology and Middle Eastern studies. Fluent in Farsi and Arabic. Earned a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart in Afghanistan as a military investigator before leaving the Army with an honorable discharge as captain. No wonder Beth trusts you as her bodyguard.”
Raven’s expression didn’t change during the recitation of her accomplishments. “Are you trying to see how I’ll react or are you just showing off?”
Juan smiled. “Maybe a little bit of both.”
“Then let me return the favor. Information about you was tougher to get hold of, but I have my own resources. Full name Juan Rodríguez Cabrillo. Grew up in Orange County, California, where you spent a good amount of your time surfing. Double-majored in political science and mechanical engineering at Caltech. Fluent in Arabic, Spanish, and Russian. Recruited out of your college ROTC program to become a foreign operative with the CIA, though I could find no record of postings or missions. Left to form the Corporation, which provides a variety of services ranging from protective details for Emirate sheiks to rescues of kidnapped corporate executives and everything in between. Spent six weeks in the hospital after losing a leg in some unknown op. For what it’s worth, you conceal it well. I couldn’t detect a limp when you walked in.”
“It’s amazing what they can do with bionic limbs these days.” Although there were many gaps in Raven’s information, it was all accurate. “I’m impressed. That information’s hard to come by. You must have some good connections.”
Raven shrugged like it was no big deal. “When you’re on the run from murderous drug dealers, it’s good to know who you’re meeting with.”
“And since you’re here, I’m guessing we passed the test. So why don’t you tell us how we can help.”
Beth told them the whole story, from being hired to authenticate the painting to the gunfight at the Bangkok nightclub.
“Where’s the Manet now?” Juan asked.
“In a safe-deposit box in a Bangkok bank,” Beth replied. “I’ve given instructions to my attorney to turn the contents over to the Gardner Museum if I die or go missing for more than a month.”
“We didn’t trust handing it over to Interpol,” Raven said. “Not after Tagaan said they had someone on the inside.”
“And trying to smuggle it out of the country would’ve been risky.”
“So you want us to help you find the rest of the paintings?” Max said. “Since I’m head of the Corporation’s finances, I have to ask. What’s the reward?”
“Five million dollars, split fifty-fifty between you and us.”
“A tidy sum,” Juan said.
“All together, the paintings are worth a hundred times that. Not to mention their value to the art world in general. The Vermeer is one of only thirty-four known works of his, and The Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt is a masterpiece of the Dutch Golden Age. They truly are priceless.”
“I hope the tracker we gave you worked as intended,” Juan said.
“Yes, thanks to you we actually have something to go on.” She pulled an electronic tablet from her purse and pulled up a map of Southeast Asia. Three red dots were highlighted: one in Bangkok, one in Manila, and a third farther up the island of Luzon in the Philippines.
Juan pointed at the dots. “Those are the only transmissions you received?”
Beth nodded. “We figured they were carrying it in a shielded case, but they had to open it at the airport security lines in Bangkok and Manila.”
“What’s at the third location?” Max asked.
“We don’t know,” Raven said, zooming in on a satellite view of that location, showing a set of low-slung buildings in the middle of the jungle. “The ownership of those buildings is routed through a holding corporation, and I couldn’t find any information about what goes on there.”
“Either the finial is still there,” Beth said, “or they’ve packed it back up and haven’t opened the case again in a place where the signal is readable.”
“Then it looks like this is a place we need to check out,” Juan said.
“You’re taking the job?”
“We don’t have a mission in the works right now, and we’re always happy to help a friend in need.”
“A potential two-and-a-half-million-dollar payday doesn’t hurt, either,” Max added.
“Give us a couple of days to get our ship from here to Manila,” Juan said. “We’ll meet you at the port there.”
He could see the gears working in Raven’s head.
“Just two days?” she said, confused. “The distance between here and Manila is sixteen hundred miles. Don’t you mean four days?”
He shared an amused glance with Max.
“You may be well connected,” Juan said with a sly grin, “but apparently you haven’t heard about the Oregon.”
16
THE UNITED STATES
Jet engines screamed in the distance as the two A-10 Warthog pilots circled their target above Dugway Proving Ground eighty miles west of Salt Lake City. On the main screen inside the mobile command post, Greg Polten watched twelve pigs shuffle around in a pen five miles away, spooked by the din made by the lurking attack planes. Despite the air-conditioning unit pumping out a chilling draft, he continually wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. The future of his career rode on the success of this test. If his serum worked, the pigs would remain spooked but healthy. If it didn’t, the animals would be dead in minutes.
As large as the state of Rhode Island, Dugway was the main testing site for American chemical and biological defensive systems. Like most of the employees at the top secret facility, Polten was a civilian contractor instead of a military service member. But today, in addition to Polten’s small staff, the command post was filled with Army officers observing the classified test.
Syrian chemical weapons were a major threat to U.S. soldiers fighting in the Middle East against ISIS and other terrorist organizations. Donning bulky chemical protective suits significantly hampered soldiers’ fighting ability, so efforts had been made in recent years to develop a serum that would ward off the effects of chemical weapons like sarin and VX nerve gas if soldiers were caught in the field without their gear.
A trim man in his forties, with graying hair at his temples and frameless glasses perched on his nose, Polten had staked his career on developing the Panaxim serum, but years of experiments and tens of millions of tax dollars had yielded nothing usable. His classified program was in danger of being cancelled if he didn’t produce results soon, and this demo was his best chance to show what the serum could do. Lab tests had shown some promise, but the field trial was the ultimate chance to show whether soldiers in battle would be protected.
The air outside was calm, which would not only concentrate the effects of the gas near the pigpen but would also mean that the gas would dissipate before it could reach the edge of the range. In 1968, a test of VX nerve gas had released a cloud much larger than anticipated on a windy day and it had drifted over huge flocks of sheep on surrounding ranches. The Army never admitted liability but paid the ranchers for the loss of more than six thousand sheep. Since then, airburst releases of chemical weapons at Dugway had been carefully controlled and monitored.
General Amos Jefferson, who had been conferring with his aide, startled Polten when his gruff voice boomed out, “Mr. Polten, how long until we see the effects of the gas on the pigs?”
Jefferson, a stout veteran of both the Iraq and Afghanistan wars, was in charge of Polten’s funding. If he wasn’t satisfied with the results of the test, the money would dry up. Polten hated the fact that he had to suck up to the military. He thought it should be the other way around.
“General,” he said, crossing his arms to mask his nervousness, “you shouldn’t see any effects of the gas. That’s the point of this test.”
Jefferson turned and narrowed his eyes, as if that was supposed to intimidate Polten. “I know that, Mr. Polten. That’s why you’ve been draining huge amounts of money out of my budget for years now. My soldiers are depending on your success. So let me rephrase the question. When will we know if this Panaxim serum works?”
Polten returned the stare with equal force. “A single pig, marked by a large red A on its side, will be our control. Since it won’t be injected with the serum, it should die within two minutes of exposure. If the other pigs haven’t shown any effects by that time, we can assume they’ll be fine.”
“How are you injecting the Panaxim?” the general asked as he peered at the screen. “I don’t see anyone out there.”
Polten rolled his eyes. Obviously, Jefferson hadn’t read his briefing kit thoroughly.
“If you look closely, you can see that each pig is wearing a collar. When the gas cloud reaches them, I will activate a remote injector embedded in the collar, which will deliver a dose of the serum. It’s similar to the auto-injectors we supply to soldiers in the field.”
“Will they show any effects at all? If this doesn’t work better than atropine, it won’t be any good to us.”
So the general had done at least some of the homework. Atropine was the most effective antidote for nerve gas exposure on the battlefield. It prevented death and minimized the degradation of essential bodily functions, but it didn’t counteract the loss of muscle control brought on by the chemical weapon, which could leave the soldiers vulnerable to attack for a significant length of time.
“Of course, we’ll analyze the pigs by necropsy after exposure to determine the full effects,” Polten said, “but we shouldn’t see any overt symptoms on camera.”
A Humvee approached from the direction of the target and pulled up next to the command post. Charles Davis, Polten’s chief chemist on the project, jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran inside. A heavyset, balding man with a messy beard, Davis was panting as he launched himself through the door.
“Everything is set,” he said and plopped himself into a chair. “I double-checked all the injectors on the pigs and they’re ready to go.” Davis tapped on his laptop keyboard, and Polten could see that the status of each injector had a nominal reading. With one press of a button, the Panaxim would be injected into all eleven pigs simultaneously.
Polten looked at Jefferson. “General, you can tell the pilots to begin their attack run.”
The general nodded to his aide, who told the communications officer to radio the pilots. “Tango One and Two, this is Sierra Base. You have a green light
. Cleared to start the attack sequence.”
“Acknowledged, Sierra Base. Tango One and Two beginning our run.”
Polten picked up a pair of binoculars and focused them on the Warthogs wheeling over the mountains. They plunged down to a thousand feet and rocketed over the desert floor. When they were within a thousand yards of the pigpen, the jets released two bombs each. Then the pilots yanked their sticks up, and the A-10s shot skyward.
The bombs detonated on the ground without the usual fireball, which would have consumed the gas encased inside the shells. Instead, they blew apart in a cloud of smoke and mist that immediately began drifting toward the pigs, now climbing over each other in a frenzy because of the explosions.
The chemical warheads had been seeded with red powder so that the cloud could be tracked more easily. The scarlet mist lazily drifted toward the pen. When it reached the first pig, Polten instructed Davis to activate the injectors.
Davis tapped a key. “Injectors firing.” After a pause, he said, “All eleven injections have succeeded.”
Now all they could do was wait. Polten felt a bead of perspiration trickle down his brow as he watched the screen while keeping an eye on the clock. He had Davis turn up the audio feed, and the squeals of the pigs filled the room.
The pig marked with the A collapsed within seconds. It shuddered on the ground before going still. None of the other pigs exhibited any signs of distress beyond their fright from the jets and bombs. They shuffled around the pen as they normally did, futilely rooting in the dirt for food.
The timer seemed to move agonizingly slow. When it reached two minutes, Polten exchanged a triumphant glance with Davis. He looked at General Jefferson, who nodded at the screen in appreciation before turning to Polten.
“Looks like you’ve made some real progress here, Mr. Polten. I suppose the next step is deploying Panaxim in the field. When can you—”
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