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 prefer 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.

Murph hadn’t served in the Navy but had worked with Eric on a top secret missile project as a civilian contractor, and he was the only member of the crew without a military or intelligence entry on his résumé. An arms development genius with a Ph.D. from MIT earned in his early twenties, Murph was a natural fit in his role as the Oregon’s weapons officer.