“We’re not done yet.”

“Captain, your ship is on fire. It will either sink or the fertilizer in your hold will detonate. Think of your men.”

“It’s nothing that a new coat of paint won’t fix.”

“I admire your resilience, Captain, but you must realize that your position is hopeless.”

“We’ll see about that.” The line went dead.

“He’s a stubborn bastard,” Escobar said.

“If he were in this Navy, I’d either bust him for insubordination or give him command of an entire squadron.” Ruiz saw much of herself in her adversary. It would be interesting to see if his composure continued once he was in the brig at Puerto Cabello Naval Base.

The frigate carved through the swells for ten minutes until it was just three miles away from the target, which was lingering just south of the closest islet. It was apparent that the effort to fight the fire wasn’t going well. The fantail was still ablaze.

“We’ll wait here,” Ruiz said, and Escobar brought the frigate to a halt. Any closer and they’d risk being damaged if the Dolos exploded.

Ruiz ordered a boarding party to be organized. If the captain changed his mind and decided to surrender, she wanted to be ready. That is, if he could save his ship.

“Are there any rafts in the water?” The blaze should have made it easy to spot them despite the darkness.

“None that we can see, Admiral,” Escobar said. “Their crew must still be attempting to put out the fire.”

“They’re fooling themselves. It looks to me as if the flames have spread. It’s only a matter of time before it reaches the cargo.”

“Admiral!” the radar operator cried out. “The enemy ship is moving.”

“What?” Ruiz rushed over to his console. Sure enough, the Dolos was moving away.

“Speed?”

“Fifteen knots and accelerating. She’s rounding the southern point of the island and heading into the channel between Isla Caraca del Oeste and Ilsa Caraca del Este.”

“Their engines seemed to be out of commission,” Escobar said. “How did the crew get them fixed so fast?”

“It doesn’t matter. Prepare to fire the main gun.”

“But she’s hidden behind the nearest island.”

She felt like she was talking to a child. “Use their trajectory and speed to anticipate their position and fire over the island. Impress me.”

“Should we follow?”

She paused as she considered the proper pursuit course. Following them through the tiny strait was hazardous. And if the gun didn’t find its target, she wanted to be between them and the open sea.

“No,” she said. “Plot an intercept course around the island. We’ll head them off in the event that I’m not impressed.”

The Mariscal Sucre accelerated to flank speed in its dash north. The forward turret slewed around to starboard, its gears whining as the 127mm gun rose to aim in a high arc.

“We have the trajectory locked in,” Escobar said.

“Fire,” she said calmly as her heart pounded.

Escobar relayed the command. The frigate was shaken by the thunderous blast of the cannon firing its seventy-pound shell. The first round was followed by three more in quick succession.

Their view of the freighter was blocked by the islet’s rugged terrain, so they would only be able to see the effect of the shots. Rounds that splashed into the ocean wouldn’t be visible. Only if the target were hit would they see the flash of a fireball.

The frigate’s weapons officer counted down the time to impact. The opening shot landed without effect. The second round likewise missed. When the third round fell with no apparent impact, Ruiz could see perspiration dripping from Escobar’s brow.

The last round, however, made up for the misses: a bright flare briefly illuminated the clouds from beneath. The bridge erupted in cheers.

“Excellent shooting, Captain,” Ruiz said. “I will be adding a commendation to your report.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

“Now get us around the island. I want to see if there’s anything left for us to salvage. Examining the wreckage may reveal who is behind their mission. And I still want to question any survivors. At dawn we’ll get the helicopter into the air to see if anyone made it onto one of the islands.”

In five minutes, the frigate came around the northwest point of Isla Caraca del Oeste, revealing the Dolos motionless in the channel between the neighboring islands.

The spy freighter would be going nowhere. Fire had extended to the entire back half of the ship, making it easy to see that the bridge superstructure had been destroyed by the frigate’s shell.

Ruiz was disappointed. She couldn’t imagine that the captain who had given her so much trouble had abandoned his post. He must have died on the bridge. They’d be lucky to find anything left of him.

“Your orders, Admiral?” Escobar asked.

“There’s nothing to do but wait,” she replied. “It’s only a matter of time now.”

Ruiz knew very well the sight of a vessel in its death throes.

Juan felt a stab of regret at seeing the ship aflame. The familiar outline made the sight even more poignant, but she had served her purpose and now they had to leave her behind.

“Be sure to keep the islets between us and the frigate until we’re out of radar range, Mr. Stone,” Juan said.

“Aye, Chairman,” Eric replied. “Shouldn’t be too hard. The Mariscal Sucre doesn’t appear to be moving.”

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” Max said. “Ruiz is like an arsonist watching her handiwork burn.”

“Then let’s show her the grand finale. Mr. Murphy, ready the fireworks.”

Murph rubbed his hands together in glee. “With pleasure, Chairman.”

Just as they had planned, Ruiz thought she was looking at the Oregon burning and adrift when it was really dashing northeast across the Caribbean at more than forty-five knots. The video feed on the front view screen proved their success in fooling Ruiz. The image being sent from a tiny drone circling the warship at a safe distance confirmed that it was stationary. If she hadn’t been deceived, it would have shown the frigate in hot pursuit.

Although the mission commissioned by the CIA was to sabotage the tanker diesel fuel bound for North Korea and to recover evidence of the Venezuelan arms smuggling operation, Juan saw it as a good opportunity to add a third objective: regain their anonymity.

For the last few years, they’d gotten into scrapes around the world with various Third World countries and battled the occasional naval vessel, sinking a few of them along the way. No incident in isolation was enough to reveal the Oregon’s hidden purpose and identity, but the rumors had started to make the rounds that there was some kind of spy ship cruising the seas of the world, although the stories conflicted radically on what the ship was called and what she looked like. But Juan and his officers agreed that it was only a matter of time before someone would make the connection and blow their cover. Which meant they needed to take action that would not only convince everyone this mythical spy ship was crewed by nothing more potent than a ragtag bunch of mercenaries but also that it was no longer a threat because it was at the bottom of the ocean.

Juan had gotten the brainstorm for how to do it when he learned that the Oregon’s only surviving sister ship was scheduled to be scrapped. Before being rebuilt as a technological marvel, the Oregon had been a sturdy lumber hauler, carrying loads between the Pacific Northwest and Asia. Four other ships of the same design were constructed, but service lives had ended for all but the Washington, which continued to ply the waters around her namesake state, ferrying supplies to Alaska.