“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.

“Max 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.