Juan’s escape plan depended on having a few minutes outside the tank undisturbed. If they were surrounded by soldiers with rifles when they reached the top of the hill on the peninsula, they’d be shot as soon as they opened the hatches.
That meant slowing down their pursuers, and the power lines strung along the edge of the roadway gave Juan an idea.
“Linc, I think there’s going to be a blackout on this side of the harbor pretty soon.”
Without hesitation, Linc answered, “Yes, those telephone poles look very unstable. They should be replaced. I’ll help them with the demolition.”
Linc swerved off to the side of the road and aimed for the nearest thick wooden pole. The Abrams snapped it like a twig and it fell across the road, its power line sparking on the asphalt. The streetlights were immediately snuffed out, leaving only the illumination from the tank.
The Abrams continued along the roadside until they’d knocked over half a dozen poles.
“Nice driving,” Juan said. “That should give us at least a few minutes’ breathing room while they try to get those Humvees around them.” With no parallel street and rocky terrain behind the houses lining the road on one side and water on the other, the soldiers would have no choice but to clear the obstacles before they could resume the pursuit.
The rumble of the tank’s treads had brought out residents from their homes. The astonished onlookers made Juan feel like they were cruising down the street inside a parade float.
When they got to the end of the road, Juan used his phone’s GPS to guide them up the bushy slope. The Abrams faltered briefly as its treads tore at the dirt for purchase and then climbed the hill, flattening shrubs and small trees along the way.
In two minutes they had reached the apex of the hill, where in the daytime they would have had an expansive view of the Caribbean. The cloud cover obscured the full moon, making it impossible to see the archipelago of small islands three miles away that formed a natural breakwater protecting Puerto La Cruz and La Guanta from storms.
But Juan could make out the lights on the stationary Oregon far below them, three hundred yards north of the rocky coastline. Max had put the ship exactly where Juan was expecting to see her.
Juan popped open the hatch and climbed out of the tank, glad to get a breath of fresh air after being saturated with the stench of burned gunpowder. Linc cracked his hatch and pulled himself up. He stretched his beefy arms wide.
“That space was definitely not designed for someone like me,” he said.
“Is anything designed for someone like you?” Juan said as he phoned the Oregon.
Linc shook his head. “Why do you think my Harley is customized?”
Juan’s phone clicked and Max came on the line. “So that’s your Plan C, huh?”
“We like to travel in style,” Juan replied. “Are you ready to fire?”
“Eddie’s on deck with the Comet and has you in his sights.”
“Then let her rip.”
Comet was a company that designed line-throwing rockets required on ships by the Safety of Life at Sea convention, or SOLAS. They were used as fire safety lines to people who’d fallen overboard, and they could also send lines to other ships for passing back towlines or supplies.
Comet’s normal product fired rockets with a range of two hundred and fifty yards, but the Corporation had asked them to double that range.
Juan spotted a flash from the Oregon and a red teardrop of flame flew at them. Eddie’s aim was dead-on. The torch arced high over their heads and down the other side of the hill. The rope line landed right across the tank’s turret.
Linc wasted no time knotting it around the Abrams’s gun barrel to anchor it. He gave Juan the thumbs-up when it was tight.
“Tell Eddie that he was right on the money,” Juan said to Max. “We’ve got the line hooked up.”
“We’ll get it tied onto a crane at our end.”
The rope line went taut as Eddie reeled it in. The Oregon’s thrusters would keep the ship in place so that the line wouldn’t go slack or snap.
Juan motioned for Linc to go first. Linc climbed onto the tank, wrapped the strap from the assault rifle around the rope, and looped each end around his wrists.
“Remember,” Juan said, “we’re a lot higher than the Oregon, so you’re going to have a good head of steam when you get there.” Eddie had half inflated a couple of rafts to cushion their landing, but it would still feel like a wrestler’s body slam. Juan let Max know that Linc was on his way.
Linc nodded and stepped off the Abrams’s front end. Zip lines for tourists are made of heavy steel cable so they will remain taut under load, but the nylon line had much more flex to it and sagged under his weight. He walked down the hill until he was suspended from the rope and gravity took over.
Juan’s eyes were drawn away from Linc’s progress when he heard the sound of vehicle engines. Headlights came to a stop at the end of the road several hundred yards away. Doors slammed as soldiers piled out and scrambled up the hill. It would be simple to follow the trail of destruction the tank had left in its wake.
Flashlights bobbed as the soldiers climbed. Officers shouted orders to take them alive, but Juan guessed those orders would be countermanded if they saw he was about to get away.
Max called to tell him that Linc had made it, and not a moment too soon. The clouds had parted momentarily, revealing the tank’s silhouette in the moonlight. The soldiers had spotted the Abrams and were sprinting toward it, their rifles at the ready.
Juan repeated Linc’s actions. When he was set, he jumped off the tank and ran forward. His arms extended until his feet came off the ground and he was sliding down. Wind buffeted his hair, and the smell of salt water grew stronger as he neared the coastline.
Gunfire erupted behind him but was quickly snuffed out. Juan thought he knew why, but he couldn’t turn his head far enough to verify it.
They must have seen him flying through the air, puzzled as to how he was doing it, and snapped off some shots. Then some perceptive soldier had to have realized what he was doing and the race was on to find the line he was using. It would only be a matter of seconds before they realized it was attached to the Abrams.
Juan was still more than a hundred yards from the Oregon, but past the waves crashing against the rocks jutting from the surf. A vibration in the rope told him the soldiers had found it and were trying to shake him off. The next step was obvious.
The line suddenly went slack on the hilltop end, the victim of a sharp knife, sending Juan hurtling toward the sea. He straightened his body and entered the water feetfirst.
He plunged ten feet down. Before he released the rifle strap, he grabbed the rope and kicked toward the surface.
He breached the water and the line went taut again. Juan tightened his grip as he was reeled toward the Oregon. He could hear shots coming from the soldiers again, but at this distance in the darkness they might as well have saved the ammo.
The side of the Oregon loomed over him and a rope ladder was tossed over the side. Juan swam to it and climbed to the deck. Eddie and Linc pulled him up and Juan landed on his feet.
“Thanks,” Juan said. “I wasn’t planning to make that a water landing.”
“The guys at the yacht club will never believe what I reeled in,” Linc said with a smile.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Gao,” Juan said to Eddie.
Eddie bowed his head an inch in response. “Captain Holland.”
“Tell Max to get under way and that Plan C worked without a hitch. I’ll meet him in the op center after I dry off.”
As they walked, Eddie relayed Juan’s command on his headset radio. A moment later, the Oregon began to turn away from the coast.
Eddie’s face suddenly took on a more serious expression.
“What is it?” Juan asked.
“M
ax says we’ve just been hailed by a Venezuelan frigate twenty miles due west. Their captain is ordering us to surrender or be destroyed.”
Juan wasn’t going to captain his ship in combat wearing a soaking wet uniform of the Venezuelan Navy.
“Tell Max to put Chimana Grande between us and the frigate,” Juan said to Eddie. “That’ll buy us some time.”
Eddie nodded and relayed the message on his radio while Juan headed to his cabin.
The Oregon’s destination was a small cluster of uninhabited islets ten miles to the northeast. Though the Oregon was out of torpedo and gun range, Venezuelan frigates were equipped with Otomat Mark 2 surface-to-surface missiles, which had a range of one hundred and eighty miles. The mountainous terrain of the islands directly north of their current position, including the largest, Chimana Grande, would make it impossible for the frigate to get a radar lock until the warship was past them.
Juan entered his cabin to find Maurice, the chief steward, standing inside with a pristine white towel draped over his arm and a silver tray holding a steaming mug of coffee. The dignified septuagenarian was elegantly attired in a spotless black jacket, a crisply knotted tie, and shoes shined to a mirror finish. After having provided impeccable service to numerous admirals in the Royal Navy, Maurice prided himself on anticipating his officer’s needs, so Juan was not surprised to see fresh clothes laid out on the bed just moments after he had been pulled from the water.
Juan picked up the mug and took a sip, savoring the warm shot of caffeine. “You’re a lifesaver, Maurice.”
In a British accent fit for the House of Lords, Maurice replied, “Shall I serve you a light meal in the Operations Center, Captain?” Despite the rest of the crew calling Juan Chairman, in deference to his position in the Corporation, Maurice insisted on using naval terminology.
“It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” Juan said, peeling off his dripping uniform and donning the blue shirt Maurice had selected.
“Very good, Captain. For your post-action dinner, I will bring you a filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, roasted Yukon potatoes, and sautéed asparagus. Of course, I will be pairing it with an appropriate Bordeaux.” Maurice’s skills as a sommelier were unparalleled. He displayed nothing but sangfroid about the upcoming confrontation with the frigate, his subtle phrasing letting Juan know the steward had every confidence the Oregon would neither be sunk nor captured by the Venezuelans.
Without another word, Maurice slipped out of the cabin as silently as a ninja. Juan finished changing and went to the op center, taking the coffee with him.
He took his seat in the Kirk Chair and asked Max for a situation report.
“We’re in the shadow of Chimana Grande on a course bearing zero-four-five. The frigate, whose captain identified her as the Mariscal Sucre, won’t have a firing solution for another thirty minutes at their current closing speed.” The display showed that the Oregon’s pace was a leisurely twenty knots, far below its top speed but in line with the capability of an ancient cargo ship pushing its engines to the limit. As a Lupo-class frigate, the Mariscal Sucre’s maximum speed was thirty-five knots.
“ETA to Isla Caraca del Oeste?”
“Thirty-two minutes.”
“Cutting it close, aren’t we?”
“Hey, it wasn’t my idea.”
The Oregon could easily evade the frigate, if Juan gave the order. Instead of typical diesels, revolutionary magnetohydrodynamic engines provided the power via a pair of gigantic tubes that ran the length of the ship. Magnetic coils interacted with the free electrons in the seawater to accelerate it through the tubes. With the ability to thrust water like air through a jet engine forward or backward with equal force, the Oregon could not only accelerate like a dragster and stop like it had slammed into the Rock of Gibraltar, but she could also outrun virtually anything on the ocean slower than a cigarette boat. Venturi nozzles made it possible for the ship to turn on its own axis, and because she got her energy by stripping free electrons from the water, no diesel engine or fuel tanks were required. Her range was essentially limitless.
Juan smiled. “Steady as she goes. What about the Sorocaima?”
“They had a few hiccups, but the bacteria were successfully injected into the tanks. Only one small casualty. Mike Trono has a busted hand, but Linda says a few aspirin will hold him until we pick them up. I’ve already let Julia know.”
Juan had no doubt that Julia Huxley, the Oregon’s medical officer and a former U.S. Navy doctor, would be able to get Mike back on operational duty in no time. It wouldn’t present a problem on a ship equipped with a hospital-grade trauma unit and operating room.
Juan glanced at the helm and weapons control, the stations closest to the forward bulkhead and just below the enormous front screen. They were occupied by other Corporation members instead of Eric Stone and Mark Murphy, who were away on their own mission. With Linda gone as well, Max at engineering and Hali Kasim at communications were the only senior officers staffing the op center.
“Are Eric and Murph finished?” Juan asked.
“They’ve got everything in place and are headed our way on the RHIB. We should rendezvous with them in ten minutes.”
The rigid-hulled inflatable boat, the same type used by Navy SEALs, had a metal hull flanked by inflatable tubes, making it as seaworthy as Styrofoam. Eric had served in the Navy in research and development rather than a blue-water assignment, but since joining the Corporation he had become an expert helmsman, ranking just below Juan in his ship-handling prowess. He would be leaning on the throttle to get the RHIB back aboard the Oregon.
“Then I think we’ve kept our caller waiting long enough,” Juan said. “Mr. Kasim, hail our Venezuelan friends.”
After a few moments, Hali said, “You’re on the line with Captain Escobar.”
Juan switched to his Buck Holland drawl. “Captain Escobar, this is Buck Holland, captain of the Dolos,” he said in cheery greeting. “What can I do for you?”
“I order you to halt at once,” a heavily accented voice replied. “You and your crew will be placed under arrest and charged with espionage and sabotage, and your vessel will be impounded.”
“Those are some serious charges. What’s your proof?”
“Your crew has assaulted our harbor police, and you stole a tank, destroying a ship and dock in the process.”
“Oh, those were just misunderstandings.”
Escobar was practically apoplectic at Juan’s cheeky insolence. “‘Misunderstandings’? You will be lucky if you are not shot for your crimes, you piece of scum.”
“Now, there’s no need for name-calling.”
“You will stop your ship immediately.”
“Why should I do something like that?”
“Because if you do not comply, we will blow you out of the water.”
“Hmm. Arrest or destruction. Neither of those choices sounds very appealing. I’ll take what’s behind door number three.”
“What?”
“Don’t you have game shows down in these parts?”
“I don’t—”
The line went dead for a second before a woman spoke, staccato and more commanding than Escobar.
“Captain, drop the charade,” she said with only a hint of an accent. “I know that you are responsible for what happened at the warehouse.”
“Admiral Ruiz, I presume,” Juan said, the drawl gone. “I was hoping you were on board.”
“Whatever you think you have accomplished with your operation in Puerto La Cruz, I can assure you it is nothing more than a pinprick.”
“Is that sunken fake oil tanker the balloon in your analogy? Because if it is, it popped pretty well.”
“For that you will pay, one way or the other.”
“Oh, right. Arrest versus destruction. Why don’t you come and get us?”
“I plan to. I’d pr
efer to meet you face-to-face so that you see who it was that beat you. But I will settle for sending your ship to the bottom, if it comes to that.”
“You can try.”
Ruiz laughed. “I’ll do more than try. It’s been an interesting conversation, Captain. I hope to meet you someday.”
“The feeling isn’t mutual. Adiós.” He gave the cut sign to Hali and the connection ceased.
“She sounds like a charmer,” Max said.
“In addition to being a good ship commander,” Juan said, “man or woman, you get to the admiral level one of two ways: charm or ruthlessness. My guess is Ruiz can wield either, depending on her calculations. We shouldn’t underestimate her.”
“I’m not. My first wife had the same tone right before her divorce attorney took me to the cleaners. And I’m not letting us split the Oregon in half for Ruiz.” After three failed marriages, Max’s true love now was his ship.
“Chairman, Eric’s got the RHIB one mile off our bow,” Hali said.
“All stop. Open the boat garage.”
The Oregon came to a halt and a hidden hatch on the side of the ship at the waterline slid open to reveal a wide bay, where the Oregon’s complement of surface vessels could be launched and recovered. The op center’s front screen showed the feed from the boat garage. When the RHIB reached the Oregon, Eric Stone expertly guided it through the opening and Mark Murphy threw a line to a waiting technician. Without fanfare, they jumped to the deck and exited the garage.
“Close it up,” Juan said. “Juice the engines for a few minutes to make up for the lost time.”
The hull purred as the cryopumps spooled up and water was blasted from the stern.
A minute later, Eric and Murph sauntered into the op center, both looking pleased with themselves.
The two of them were the youngest senior officers on the ship. Eric, an Annapolis graduate with gentle brown eyes and a serious demeanor, took off his windbreaker to reveal his usual white button-down shirt and khaki slacks. He had come to the Corporation by way of a recommendation from a commanding officer who had served in Vietnam with Max. On board the Oregon, his technical acumen and computer skills were surpassed only by the man he’d brought with him to the Corporation, Mark Murphy.
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