Juan spun the handles on the faucet of the nonworking sink in a specific pattern. With a sharp click, the back wall opened wide, revealing a hallway that would have been at home on the finest cruise ship. Recessed lighting glowed softly above mahogany walls and sumptuous carpeting, a far cry from the rust and grime the harbormaster had seen. He walked through the opening and down the corridor toward his cabin.

Juan always enjoyed the transition from the deceptively decrepit topside to the sleek and elegant world belowdecks. It symbolized everything he loved about the ship. Although her fantail currently bore the name Dolos, down here he never referred to her as anything but her original name—Oregon.

The Oregon was Juan’s creation. As Chairman, he had conceived a ship that would not only avoid attention but would actually repel it. Few knew about the technological marvels hidden within the Oregon’s apparently crumbling hull. That trickery made her virtually invisible in the Third World ports that she plied. In reality, she was a fourth-generation, state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering vessel. She could travel where no U.S. Navy warship could go, enter ports closed to most commercial shipping, and transport highly secret cargo without arousing suspicion.

Juan entered his cabin, which was the antithesis of the fake one he’d shown to Lozada. Like all the members of his crew, he had a generous allowance to decorate it to his taste since the space served as his home. It was currently fashioned as an homage to Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca.

Juan shucked his costume and removed the artificial leg that was strapped below his right knee, a disability he’d acquired courtesy of shell fire from a Chinese destroyer called the Chengdo. He rubbed the stump, but as usual the phantom pain wouldn’t go away. He hopped over to his closet and placed the prosthesis at the end of a neat line of them that all had different purposes, some cosmetic, some practical. The one he’d taken off mimicked the look of a real leg, down to toenails and hair.

He picked up the one he’d dubbed the “combat leg” and put it on. The unique titanium prosthesis was packed with backup weapons, including a classic .45 ACP Colt Defender with a Crimson Trace laser sight—an accurate and reliable upgrade from his old Kel-Tec .380—a package of plastic explosives no bigger than a deck of cards, and a ceramic throwing knife. The heel concealed a short-barreled shotgun loaded with a single .44 caliber slug.

With the leg attached, he pulled on a pair of swim trunks, a breathable swim shirt, and fin boots for comfort.

He walked into his office and opened the nineteenth-century railroad safe, where he kept his personal armory. Most of the small arms aboard the Oregon were stored in a central armory adjacent to the ship’s shooting range, but Juan preferred his own cache. Rifles, submachine guns, and pistols shared space with cash from multiple countries, gold coins totaling over a hundred thousand U.S. dollars, and several small pouches of diamonds.

Juan chose his favorite pistol, a Fabrique Nationale Five-seveN double-action automatic, loaded with 5.7mm cartridges that allowed the grip to hold twenty rounds plus one in the chamber. Despite their small size, the bullets were designed to drill through most ballistic armor but tumble once they reached their target to prevent overpenetration. Heavier weaponry wouldn’t work for this operation, much as he wanted to bring some along.

A double-tap knock came at the door, and Max Hanley walked in without waiting for a response. The Oregon’s chief engineer had been Juan’s first hire for the Corporation and Juan relied on his old friend’s judgment more than anyone else aboard. Auburn hair fringed Max’s otherwise bald head, and a paunch was the only other clue that the solidly built president of the Corporation was into his sixties, having served two tours of duty in Vietnam.

“Lozada seemed to fall for the whole thing,” Max said with a frown. He had seen and heard the entire exchange via the hidden cameras and microphones generously apportioned throughout the upper decks.

“You don’t look happy about it,” Juan said.

“It’s not Lozada. I just don’t like us being spread thin like this.”

“Even though most of the plan was your crazy idea?”

“It was your crazy idea. I just came up with how to make it work.”

The CIA suspected the Venezuelans of supplying arms to North Korea, defying a United Nations embargo of the pariah state. The U.S. didn’t know how the weapons were being smuggled, but the shipments did correlate with known deliveries of diesel from Puerto La Cruz to Wonsan. Electronic eavesdropping pinpointed a warehouse along the dock of the oil terminal, which was less than a half mile across a mountainous peninsula from La Guanta Harbor, as a probable coordination point for the shipments. The Corporation’s mission was to obtain evidence of the arms shipments while simultaneously dealing a blow to the fuel delivery that was critical to running the tanks and armored personnel carriers of the North Korean Army. Juan and Linc would be getting the evidence—documents, computer files, photos, anything they could find.

“And your plan is brilliant,” Juan said. “So let’s go put it in motion.” He led Max out of the cabin and walked side by side toward the center of the ship, passing artwork that would have befit any of the world’s great museums. Juan walked without a limp, the result of years of practice perfecting his gait with the artificial limb.

“Are we on schedule?” Juan asked.

“Everyone has checked in and is ready to go.”

“See?” Juan said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I get the heebie-jeebies when you say that.”

“It’s good luck, like saying ‘break a leg’ to an actor.” Juan looked down at his own metal replacement. “Well, maybe the wrong choice of words.”

“At least I know you won’t break my ship, since I’ll be in command while you’re gone.”

“Since she’ll be tied to the dock, you shouldn’t have any problems, either.”

“Just be back on time,” Max said like a worried mother hen.

“Johnny-on-the-spot as always.”

“Unless you put one of your infamous Plan C’s into effect.” Max turned and headed back to the op center, where he could coordinate all of the mission activities.

Juan called after him, “You should only worry when I get to Plan D.” A dismissive wave of Max’s hand was the only response.

After a ride on an elevator down three decks, Juan reached a cavernous space amidships. A submersible was suspended by a gantry crane over a swimming-pool-sized depression that was filled with water at a level even with the waterline outside the ship. The sixty-five-foot Nomad 1000 could dive to a thousand feet with six people aboard, including the pilot and copilot. Its smaller sister, the Discovery 1000, was missing from its cradle, away on another part of the mission.

The moon pool allowed either sub to be launched undetected through huge doors below the pool that swung downward. The port was too shallow to allow the doors to be fully opened, so the Discovery 1000 had been launched before they entered La Guanta Harbor. Juan wouldn’t need the Nomad for this mission, so it would stay in its cradle.

Linc was already donning his black neoprene wetsuit. Their scuba equipment lay next to him. Juan put his pistol inside Linc’s waterproof weapons bag and slipped into his wetsuit. The water in the tropical harbor didn’t require the suits, but the black color would render them invisible to any casual observers on the dock.

They both checked over their Draeger rebreathing units. Regular scuba rigs released the exhalations as bubbles that would rise to the surface, leaving a trail that would be easily followed. The Draeger consisted of carbon dioxide scrubbers in a closed-loop system that eliminated bubbles. Although the unit was dangerous to use below thirty feet, the restriction wouldn’t be a problem in this case because Juan and Linc were using the gear only to exit the Oregon undetected.