QUANTUM TEMPEST
TITLES BY CLIVE CUSSLER
DIRK PITT ADVENTURES®
Clive Cussler’s The Corsican Shadow (by Dirk Cussler)
Clive Cussler’s The Devil’s Sea (by Dirk Cussler)
Celtic Empire (with Dirk Cussler)
Odessa Sea (with Dirk Cussler)
Havana Storm (with Dirk Cussler)
Poseidon’s Arrow (with Dirk Cussler)
Crescent Dawn (with Dirk Cussler)
Arctic Drift (with Dirk Cussler)
Treasure of Khan (with Dirk Cussler)
Black Wind (with Dirk Cussler)
Trojan Odyssey
Valhalla Rising
Atlantis Found
Flood Tide
Shock Wave
Inca Gold
Sahara Dragon Treasure
Cyclops
Deep Six
Pacifi c Vortex!
Night Probe!
Vixen 03
Raise the Titanic !
Iceberg
The Mediterranean Caper
SAM AND REMI FARGO ADVENTURES®
Wrath of Poseidon (with Robin Burcell)
The Oracle (with Robin Burcell)
The Gray Ghost (with Robin Burcell)
The Romanov Ransom (with Robin Burcell)
Pirate (with Robin Burcell)
The Solomon Curse (with Russell Blake)
The Eye of Heaven (with Russell Blake)
The Mayan Secrets (with Thomas Perry)
The Tombs (with Thomas Perry)
The Kingdom (with Grant Blackwood)
Lost Empire (with Grant Blackwood)
Spartan Gold (with Grant Blackwood)
ISAAC BELL ADVENTURES®
Clive Cussler’s The Iron Storm (by Jack Du Brul)
Clive Cussler’s The Heist (by Jack Du Brul)
Clive Cussler’s The Sea Wolves (by Jack Du Brul)
The Saboteurs (with Jack Du Brul)
The Titanic Secret (with Jack Du Brul)
The Cutthroat (with Justin Scott)
The Gangster (with Justin Scott)
The Assassin (with Justin Scott)
The Bootlegger (with Justin Scott)
The Striker (with Justin Scott)
The Thief (with Justin Scott)
The Race (with Justin Scott)
The Spy (with Justin Scott)
The Wrecker (with Justin Scott)
The Chase
KURT AUSTIN ADVENTURES®
NOVELS FROM THE NUMA FILES®
Clive Cussler’s Desolation Code (by Graham Brown)
Clive Cussler’s Condor’s Fury (by Graham Brown)
Clive Cussler’s Dark Vector (by Graham Brown)
Fast Ice (with Graham Brown)
Journey of the Pharaohs (with Graham Brown)
Sea of Greed (with Graham Brown)
The Rising Sea (with Graham Brown)
Nighthawk (with Graham Brown)
The Pharaoh’s Secret (with Graham Brown)
Ghost Ship (with Graham Brown)
Zero Hour (with Graham Brown)
The Storm (with Graham Brown)
Devil’s Gate (with Graham Brown)
Medusa (with Paul Kemprecos)
The Navigator (with Paul Kemprecos)
Polar Shift (with Paul Kemprecos)
Lost City (with Paul Kemprecos)
White Death (with Paul Kemprecos)
Fire Ice (with Paul Kemprecos)
Blue Gold (with Paul Kemprecos)
Serpent (with Paul Kemprecos)
OREGON FILES®
Clive Cussler’s Quantum Tempest (by Mike Maden)
Clive Cussler’s Ghost Soldier (by Mike Maden)
Clive Cussler’s Fire Strike (by Mike Maden)
Clive Cussler’s Hellburner (by Mike Maden)
Marauder (with Boyd Morrison)
Final Option (with Boyd Morrison)
Shadow Tyrants (with Boyd Morrison)
Typhoon Fury (with Boyd Morrison)
The Emperor’s Revenge (with Boyd Morrison)
Piranha (with Boyd Morrison)
Mirage (with Jack Du Brul)
The Jungle (with Jack Du Brul)
The Silent Sea (with Jack Du Brul)
Corsair (with Jack Du Brul)
Plague Ship (with Jack Du Brul)
Skeleton Coast (with Jack Du Brul)
Dark Watch (with Jack Du Brul)
Sacred Stone (with Craig Dirgo)
Golden Buddha (with Craig Dirgo)
NON-FICTION
Built for Adventure: The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt
Built to Thrill: More Classic Automobiles from Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt
The Sea Hunters (with Craig Dirgo)
The Sea Hunters II (with Craig Dirgo)
Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt Revealed (with Craig Dirgo)
CHILDREN’S BOOKS
The Adventures of Vin Fiz
The Adventures of Hotsy Totsy
CLIVE CUSSLER’S
QUANTUM TEMPEST
MIKE MADEN
PENGUIN MICHAEL JOSEPH
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CAST OF CHARACTERS
THE CORPORATION
Juan Cabrillo— Chairman, and captain of the Oregon. Former CIA, non- official cover.
Max Hanley— President, Juan’s second-in- command and the Oregon’s chief engineer. Former U.S. Navy swift boat captain.
Linda Ross—Vice President, Operations. Retired U.S. Navy intelligence officer.
Eddie Seng— Director, Shore Operations. Former CIA agent.
Franklin “Linc” Lincoln— Operations. Former U.S. Navy SEAL sniper.
Marion MacDougal “MacD” Lawless— Operations. Former U.S. Army Ranger.
Raven Malloy— Operations. Former U.S. Army Military Police investigator.
Eric Stone— Chief helmsman on the Oregon. Former U.S. Navy officer, weapons research and development.
Dr. Mark “Murph” Murphy— Chief weapons officer on the Oregon. Former civilian weapons designer.
Russ Kefauver— Intelligence analyst. Former CIA forensic accountant.
Dr. Eric Littleton— Director of the Oregon’s biophysical laboratory. Former WMD inspector, U.S. Army 20th CBRNE Command.
George “Gomez” Adams— Helicopter pilot, chief aerial drone operator on the Oregon. Former pilot U.S. Army 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne) “Night Stalkers.”
Hali Kasim— Chief communications officer on the Oregon.
Dr. Julia Huxley— Chief medical officer on the Oregon. Former U.S. Navy veteran.
Kevin Nixon— Chief of the Oregon’s Magic Shop.
Maurice— Chief steward on the Oregon. Former British Royal Navy.
Arnie Davis— Backup contractor tilt-rotor pilot/copilot. Former pilot U.S. Air Force 20th Special Operations Squadron.
UNITED STATES
Langston Overholt IV— CIA liaison to the Oregon.
REPUBLIC OF COLOMBIA
Amador Fierro— Head of La Liga
Rafael Vargas— La Liga
Vladimir Suárez— FARC assassin
Emilio Cabral— Agente Especial Colombian DAS
REPUBLIC OF EL SALVADOR
Rómulo Olmedo— President of El Salvador
Oscar Tamacas— MS-13/ La Liga
PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
Peng De— Ministry of State Security
Linlin Zhang— Ministry of State Security
Colonel Shi Chang— Ministry of State Security
Agent Tu— Ministry of State Security
Senior Captain Zhao Meili— Captain of the Fuzhou
PROJECT Q
Reginald Stokes— Captain of the Baktun
Dr. Anima Bose— Project Q lead scientist
THE GUARDIANS
Dr. D’Arcy Falconer— the Nexus
Dr. Jagadeesh Gowda
Emily Nighswonger
Aidan Scally
OTHER
Kaarel Varik— Eidolon
Dr. Noam Peretz
Dr. James “Jimmy” Heiskell
All warfare is based on deception.
—SUN
TZU, THE ART OF WAR
HOWARD
March 1997
The UH-1 Huey’s blades beat the heavy blanket of humid night air like an old conga drum, shaking the palm trees lining the grassy strip in the rotor wash as the chopper descended.
The lone passenger, Juan Cabrillo, stood braced in the open doorway, taking it all in. His tattered tropical shirt and shoulder- length hair danced in the swirling vortex of air racing through the cabin. His theatrical sense craved Wagner’s “The Flight of the Valkyries” blasting over a pair of loudspeakers as the Vietnam- era helicopter swooped into a near- emergency landing. But he wasn’t in charge of this rodeo.
As soon as the skids hit the wet tarmac, Cabrillo bolted out the door with a splash of his Birkenstock sandals and bent his tall frame over as the chopper roared away. He dashed toward the nearest Quonset hut, one of three occupied by the local CIA station. There was no time to lose.
Langston Overholt IV, his CIA handler, hovered over a table studying a military map and an open dossier folder. Cigarette smoke clouded the room. He glanced up as his best non- official cover (NOC) bolted into the room.
“Juan, my boy.” He extended his hand. “Glad you made it.”
Though forty years his senior, Overholt’s long patrician fi ngers still gripped like a bench vise. The elder spook carried the air of a wellmannered English squire. Not a bead of sweat could be found on him despite the suffocating humidity. His moisture-wicking nylon shirt and slacks looked freshly pressed. A Colt .45 in a well-worn leather holster perched on his hip.
Few knew Overholt had been recruited by Allen Dulles personally. Fewer still knew of his wet-work exploits carried out behind the Iron Curtain.
“You said the clock’s ticking.” Cabrillo nodded at a pallet of tarped gear in the corner. “That my kit?”
“Everything you asked for.” Overholt’s eyes narrowed. He noticed Cabrillo’s brow glistening with sweat. “You feeling okay?”
“Never better. It’s a sauna out there.” Juan wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Gimme one of those,” he said, nodding at the pack of Camels on the table next to the open dossier.
In truth, a bad case of malaria was racking Juan’s swimmer’s physique. He’d been popping quinine pills like Pez candies for the last forty- eight hours. The worst of the symptoms had passed, but a raging migraine pounded inside his skull.
Overholt tossed him the pack and Juan fi shed one out as Overholt fi red up his Zippo. Cabrillo took a long pull, fi lling his lungs with as much nicotine as he could— anything to help cut through the headache.
Overholt eyed him again.
“That him?” Juan said as he pushed past his mentor and over to the dossier. A dozen telephoto pictures and a half page of handwritten notes in English and Spanish were all that fi lled the fi le marked “Vladimir Suárez, aka Zhukov.”
“What’s with the Russian general’s name?” Cabrillo asked.
“FARC guerrillas love their romantic noms de guerre.”
“Must be a real sweetheart. I don’t normally associate FARC killers with romance.”
Cabrillo studied Suárez’s photos. He noted the cunning eyes, haughty smile, and arrogant posture. It was almost as if he knew he was being photographed secretly and was posing for effect.
Cabrillo was all too familiar with FARC, the Spanish acronym for the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. It was the largest and most violent rebel group in the world, spreading Marxist- Leninist ideology throughout Latin America and beyond. Colombia, a nominal American ally, was on the verge of collapse beneath the weight of FARC’s ruthless leadership and unrestrained violence. The Colombian Army was mostly busy chasing its tail while taking big casualties trying to subdue a well-trained, highly disciplined, and deadly foe.
“Sweetheart, indeed,” Overholt said. “He’s FARC’s number one assassin and his infamous claim is that he’s never failed a mission. The man’s more elusive than a jungle jaguar and more venomous than a poison dart frog. Thanks to an anonymous tip, we know where he’s currently located— here.” Overholt touched a point on the map with his index fi nger. “But only for the next six hours.”
Juan studied the location, paying special attention to the topography.
“At which point he departs for his next mission, according to your message. Any idea what it is?”
“Nothing concrete. But it’s somewhat disconcerting that the bigwigs of the Inter- American Drug Abuse Control Commission are meeting the day after tomorrow in Ecuador. That’s a perfect target for FARC, since the vast majority of their revenue derives from the drug trade.”
“He’s smack- dab in the middle of the badlands, where the Colombians can’t reach him.”
“And the nearest SEAL snatch team is eighteen hours away on another deployment.”
“That’s why you called me.”
“If he gets away, it could prove disastrous. We only have that narrow six-hour window to capture him.”
Juan mopped more fevered sweat off his face with his hand. “Why not take him out?”
“His capture would prove superlatively useful in dismantling FARC networks around the region. His corpse wouldn’t be nearly as informative.”
Juan tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his sandal. “So let’s go get him.”
Overholt fought back a grin. He’d fi rst met young Juan as a brushcut, bleached- blond, blue- eyed surfer boy in a polyester ROTC uniform at Caltech just a few years back.
Now look at him. Eager for the hunt.
Born and bred on the beaches of Southern California, Cabrillo had the powerful, broad- shouldered, wide- chested build of an Olympic swimmer and a dancer’s natural grace. But it was his artistry on the shortboard and high waves that held everyone in awe. To the casual observer, the young man could’ve been written off as just another rock-jawed, carefree surf rat with sand between his toes.
Overholt instantly detected a fi rst-rate intellect behind the mischievous smile and recruited him.
Cabrillo eagerly embraced CIA service as the top-tier opportunity to serve his country and deploy his considerable talents. His linguistic skills were off the charts, and his brief fl irtation with dramatic theater all proved invaluable as an undercover field agent. His sangfroid courage was second to none, and he handled small weapons as if they were mere extensions of his preternaturally powerful hands.
But it was Cabrillo’s innate ability to improvise— what Overholt called his “superpower”— that made the much younger man a prodigy in spycraft. He had proven his gift yet again when he proposed a solution for tonight’s mission. It was daring, unconventional, and risky beyond measure.
And the only shot they had.
Cabrillo currently posed as a surf bum and petty drug dealer on the beaches of Tola, Nicaragua— one of the hottest new spots on the world surfi ng circuit. The Sandinistas found renting longboards to rich German tourists far more profitable than socialism and quite a bit more fun.
Cabrillo’s CIA- fake fi ancée, Gretchen, taught him how to handpaint his long golden hair in the balayage technique with dark brown dye in order to camoufl age it. It gave the effect of the blond hair mim-
icking sun-lightened streaks in naturally dark hair and required little maintenance.
Cabrillo was fully Hispanic on his father’s side, but inherited his mother’s Nordic features. Blond hair and blue eyes were not uncommon in Latin America owing to the extensive European migration of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. But blond hair still attracted too much attention in this part of the world, a potential buzzkill for an undercover agent seeking anonymity in order to survive.
Cabrillo hated wearing contacts, so he didn’t. Besides, his blue eyes were lady- killers and proved useful in that regard on more than one occasion. His physical appearance perfectly fit his cover story, and his faultless acento mexicano passed every sniff test by the local criminals and foreign elements he mixed with as he hoovered up intel on international terrorists and gangs.
“Weather?”
“Latest meteorological reports show favorable conditions, including wind speed. Rain moved out an hour ago.”
“Check. Do we have eyes on him now?”
“Negative.”
“Why not?” Juan glanced at the map one more time.
“Too dangerous. Any other questions?”
“When do we blow this popsicle stand?”
“The C-130 Hercules you requested is fueled and ready to go on the far side of the base.”
Overholt checked his watch. “A Jeep will be here momentarily.”
Just then, brakes squealed outside and a horn tapped twice.
Juan grinned, unsurprised by Overholt’s precision.
“Grab your gear,” Overholt said. “I’ll be riding shotgun.”
“Still don’t trust me?”
“Just watching your six, boyo.”
“Perfect.” Juan crossed over to the pallet and snatched up his gear, including an oil- slicked Uzi submachine gun he slung around his neck and a pair of oversize packs. He slipped the heaviest one over his shoulders.
“If a FARC rebel doesn’t shoot you, or an Indigenous warrior doesn’t spear you, a jittery Colombian Army patrol may well take aim. And that’s assuming Suárez doesn’t put a round through your skull at a thousand yards. So keep your head on a swivel down there.”
“Just the way you trained me.”
A bead of sweat formed on the end of Cabrillo’s nose. He wiped it away with a pinch, trying not to think of the migraine crushing his skull.
“Let’s roll.”
SOUTHERN COLOMBIA
Cabrillo leaped out of the Hercules and into the starry void. He plunged through the dark with the rush of a mighty wind in his ears for just over a minute before yanking the rip cord, cracking the ram- air chute open with a violent jerk of his harness. His shadowed form was backlit by a bright half- moon. Normally he would have planned a jump for a moonless night, but the clock was ticking.
There was neither the time nor the inclination to clear the mission with a Colombian government infested by FARC-friendly bureaucrats and security offi cials. The wrong word in the wrong ear could send Suárez flying the coop, or worse, setting up an ambush that would get Cabrillo captured or killed.
His two-hour fl ight from Panama gave him plenty of time to pull on a wetsuit and Altama jungle boots, slip into his parachute harness, check his weapons and altimeter. Most important of all, he fitted to his chest the special kit he needed to recover Suárez.
Overholt was right about the weather, mostly. It was clear sailing from Panama. However, the weather reports missed the low-hanging fog just a hundred feet above the landing zone. Cabrillo couldn’t see a thing down below. Beneath the fog belt were miles of thick jungle canopy. Hitting one of those trees could snap his neck like a twig.
He wished he had access to one of the new GPS devices that were rolling out into the military services, but they were too big and bulky
for a person to carry into close- quarters combat. For now he had to trust a laminated Air Force topographical map and the math skills of the twenty- two- year- old junior navigator, who had given him the green light to jump.
Three and a half minutes later his boots punched through the last of the fog and he got his bearings beneath a gauzy sky, the half-moon now veiled behind the clouds above. He had six seconds before impact. Just enough time to catch a glimpse of his dimly lit target— a large, thatched hut, its stilts half- submerged on the banks of a rushing river. A dozen smaller Indigenous huts were located high and dry in the forest behind, connected by a rutted dirt road. The village, such as it was, had been abandoned by the local Indians after FARC attacks drove them away years before. According to Overholt’s anonymous source, Suárez was the sole occupant of the remote village and took up residence in the stilted communal river hut.
Cabrillo tugged on the steering lines of his chute, took a deep breath, and aimed for the center of the wide and coff ee- colored Caquetá River.
Splash!
With nearly a hundred pounds of gear weighing him down, Cabrillo was plunged a dozen feet beneath the surface. He wrestled his way out of the tangle of cords and the ripstop nylon canopy now enveloping him thanks to the river’s current. He fi nally broke the surface with a sputtering breath.
The noise of his splash wasn’t loud enough to wake the dead, but was the kind of commotion that rang like a dinner bell for the hungry crocodilians dozing on the banks. His wetsuit was only a guard against the high-altitude cold and the vampiric leeches and venomous snakes that infested the river. The thin neoprene wouldn’t protect him against the 1,200 psi bite of the speckled caimans patrolling the waters.
So far, the plan to land in the river instead of the forest had proven a good one. What Cabrillo hadn’t counted on was the speed of the rain- swollen current. Thanks to the Air Force navigator’s apparently superlative math skills, Cabrillo had landed upriver as planned. But
the swiftly moving river was proving a challenge. His parachute rig pulled him downriver like a billowing sea anchor. In the few struggling moments it took to free himself, he had already closed the downriver distance to the hut by over a hundred yards. If he didn’t act quickly, he’d speed past it with no hope of swimming back.
Cabrillo picked a river landing to avoid crashing into the trees, and Suárez’s hideaway hut was located on the bank of the jungle river, at least according to the one aerial photo they had. Unfortunately, that photo had been taken during the dry season. The roiling river now rushed past the crude pylons holding up the ancient thatched structure that was now in the river.
Finally freed from his parachute, Cabrillo threw himself into a furious windmill of swim strokes, clawing at the water with all of his strength, though the malarial effects were taking their toll. Adding to his discomfort was the large and heavy pack that he had transferred from his chest to his back. The graceful California swimmer was now a thrashing humpback gasping for air in a race to cross against the fast-moving current and reach the other side.
And he was losing.
But losing wasn’t something Juan Cabrillo had much experience with. He dug into his deepest reserves and his years of training in the water. He closed the gap just in time. As he was about to pass the hut’s fi rst stilt, he reached out with his nearest hand and grabbed it.
But his grasping fi ngers slipped as he lay hold of the moss- slicked timber, and the river tore him away.
Cabrillo kicked furiously to angle himself toward the next stilt. He crashed into it and wrapped himself around it with his arms and legs like a rubberized barnacle against the relentless current. He glanced around to get his bearings.
The original plan was to hit the beach beneath the cover of trees, ditch his kit, and make his way inside. But now he was pinned against the slimy pole, and there was no chance he could swim fast enough against the current to reach the bank. Equally problematic, the stilt was too slick to climb the eight or so feet to reach the floor above him,
and even if he could reach it, the only egress from beneath was the “honey hole” cut out of the boards some thirty feet away. Worse, his body began shaking from a malarial fever that suddenly reasserted itself.
He was trapped.
Cabrillo’s only hope was to try and reach the staircase leading up into the hut. Luckily it was farther downstream, about twenty feet away. He took a deep breath and let go of his stilt, knowing full well his heavy pack would pull him under the dark and turbulent water. He angled himself toward the staircase, but a violent eddy in the current yanked him away and it was only by the grace of God he was able to snag one of the rickety stairsteps before he was swept away for good.
Summoning the last ounces of his strength, Cabrillo reached over with his other hand and hauled himself up onto the stairs just above the rushing water. He pulled his holstered pistol and paused a moment, pointing his weapon at the unlit doorway above, listening for footsteps in the event Suárez had been alerted. But the wily FARC assassin hadn’t stirred.
A couple of gasping breaths later, Cabrillo stood on wobbly legs and inched his way forward with a two-handed grip on his pistol. He was grateful the ancient lumber didn’t creak beneath each faltering step and the roar of the river proved in his favor. His suppressed pistol was loaded with subsonic ammunition to minimize noise. He preferred a heavier- grained and larger- caliber bullet for man- stopping, but this wasn’t an assassination assignment. He always had the Uzi, now tightly strapped in a chest rig, to fall back on if it came to that.
Cabrillo reached the side of the entrance, careful to stay clear of the doorway, where his fi gure would be framed like a picture. He sliced the pie— a quick peek around the corner— but in the dim moonlight all he saw was a dozen empty hammocks. No sight or sound of anybody, including Suárez.
Had somebody alerted him?
Or was the anonymous tip just a bust?
There was no way of knowing. Cabrillo could only assume danger lurked on the far side of the doorway and his job now was to get inside and fi nd out what he could. He slipped inside in a low crouch with his head on a swivel, gun up, and sped along in short, cat-quiet steps across the rough-hewn boards smoothed by years of bare, calloused feet.
The hut was enormous by local standards, a good forty feet long from end to end and twenty feet across. The size made perfect sense, since it was a communal hut serving an entire tribe. The bulk of the structure was open- spaced with axe- cut poles serving as supports and trusses for a high-pitched roof. A few worn blankets served as room dividers on the far side of the hut.
And behind one of those blankets somebody coughed.
Cabrillo checked the rest of the cavernous space with one quick glance, then raced forward in stealthy silence. He gripped the pistol in one hand and gently pulled back the blanket with the other.
A white woman lay on a cot just a foot from the blanket door. Her eyes fluttered open at just that moment, her brain unable to process the unfolding nightmare of Cabrillo’s neoprene form looming over her, pistol in hand. She opened her mouth to scream, but Cabrillo fell on her, clasping his free hand across her mouth.
“Cállate,” Cabrillo growled, hoping to terrorize her into silence long enough to zip-tie and gag her.
But she was having none of it. Her terrified eyes suddenly narrowed with feral ferocity and she kicked at his groin as she reached up to claw his eyes out. Cabrillo had no choice but to drop his weapon on the cot and grip her neck with his empty gun hand while keeping her mouth shut. Her muffl ed panic rose as his grip crushed against her carotid artery, her eyes widening with terror as she embraced her last dying moment.
Only, it wasn’t.
Cabrillo had simply cut off the blood flow to her brain, depriving it of oxygen until she blacked out and slumped harmlessly into the cot.
Cabrillo didn’t want to smack her skull with his pistol. Hitting her hard enough to do that was as likely to kill her as stun her and she wasn’t on his target list.
Cabrillo snatched up his pistol and listened for any other movements. He thought he heard a floorboard creak and he headed in that direction, both hands on the pistol grip, the long, suppressed barrel leading the way.
Suddenly, an old electric generator shuddered to life on the far wall. Cabrillo spun on his heel toward the rattling noise of the ancient machine powered by a rusted propane tank standing next to it.
It took Cabrillo a heartbeat to take it all in, but that was just enough time to distract him from the weight of Suárez crashing into him from out of the dark.
Suárez hit Cabrillo hard in a flying tackle that would have made Dick Butkus proud.
Cabrillo was tossed off his feet, his back hitting the floorboards with a sickening thud. The pack simultaneously softened the blow, but distended his spine like a plumber’s pipe bender. Despite the shock of the bone-rattling hit, Cabrillo never lost his grip on the pistol.
Suárez, the larger man, grabbed the suppressor with one hand while crushing Cabrillo’s grip on the pistol with the other, trapping Cabrillo’s fi nger inside the trigger guard as he arced the business end of the barrel toward the bottom of Cabrillo’s chin.
Cabrillo countered by bridging his powerful legs upward and twisting his torso, using the leverage of the pack to roll both men over. Cabrillo tried to buck Suárez off in the maneuver, but the Colombian killer was straddling him between his vice- gripped thighs and continued pressing his attack.
As the barrel inched toward Cabrillo’s face, the terrible geometry of the curved trigger against Juan’s trapped index fi nger fi nally collided and the pistol barked. The single shot blistered Juan’s cheek before plowing into the propane tank with a metallic spang. But rather
than ricocheting off the tank, the rusting metal gave way to the hot piece of lead, instantly igniting the propane inside. The resulting explosion knocked Suárez off Juan and set the thatched wall and roof near the tank ablaze.
Suárez’s violent departure also tore the gun out of Cabrillo’s grip. The two men quickly recovered and both scrambled for the pistol some ten feet away.
Surprisingly nimble for his size, Suárez was on top of the weapon before Cabrillo could reach it. But as the Colombian rolled over on his back to put a round through the American’s skull, Cabrillo pulled another weapon from his utility— a direct- contact Taser— and jabbed it into Suárez’s crotch.
The Colombian screamed and folded in half like a spring- loaded bear trap, his entire body rigid and contorted in pain. His gnarled hand mashed the gun and a round discharged harmlessly away from Cabrillo, who emptied the last of the electric charge into the killer’s body.
Amped up on a new adrenaline load, Cabrillo hadn’t noticed the hut had entirely fi lled with choking smoke and half the walls and roof were now engulfed in fl ames. The searing heat burned the skin on his face. He suddenly remembered the woman behind the blanket in her cot. He turned to fetch her just as a giant fl aming beam smashed into the makeshift bedroom, dragging a roaring heap of burning thatch with it.
He started forward, but the heat was unbearable and there was no chance she survived the crashing timber— and no time to mourn her dismal fate. The hut was going up fast. Cabrillo felt like he was standing inside a tiki torch, but he had a job to do.
He grabbed the paralyzed Colombian and dragged him across the long floor to the entrance, as far away from the fl ames as he could get. He pulled on his hands-free radio headset as he unzipped his pack.
“Phaeton, Phaeton. Do you read me? This is Torpedo.”
“We read you five by five, Torpedo.” Overholt’s voice rang clear on the headset. “What’s your status?”
“Ready when you are. What’s your ETA?”
Overholt’s garbled answer was swallowed in the roar of burning roof timbers crashing onto the weakening floor as the back wall tore away in a heap of embers.
Cabrillo suddenly saw a fleet of speeding headlights slashing through the dark, the beams weaving and jerking on the muddy road in his direction.
So much for Suárez being out here all alone.
The roaring fl ames ate away at the remaining roof and walls. Cabrillo ignored the cauldron of unbearable heat as he wrestled the groaning Colombian into the body bag and cinched it up like a madman’s straight jacket, immobilizing Suárez’s limbs, but keeping his head exposed for air.
The headlights squealed to a braking halt outside in a hail of angry shouts. Cabrillo glanced up to see a dozen men with rifl es bolting through the headlight beams and splashing into the water.
He grabbed the bagged Colombian and dragged him down the steps in painful thuds, close enough to the water to toss him in and jump in behind him.
Keeping a grip on the bag and holding Suárez’s head above the water, Cabrillo pulled the charging handle on the outside of the Skyhook bag. An attached bottle of helium instantly infl ated a heavy black balloon that raced into the sky. Seconds later, the air thundered with the roar of four big Allison turboprops as the Hercules raced in on a lowaltitude approach above the rushing water.
Suárez startled, screaming curses and shouting, “Asesino! Asesino! Te mataré! ”
Cabrillo was about to shut him up when the air split with a horrifying scream behind them.
The woman in the hut was still alive.
Cabrillo wanted to puke. He should’ve tried to get her.
“Nadia! Nadia!” Suárez was manic with terror.
The wire line connecting the balloon to Suárez’s bag snapped taut as the balloon reached full altitude three hundred feet above the river and clear of the tree line.
Shattering AK- 47 gunfi re echoed from the shoreline. Bullet splashes
geysered the water around Cabrillo as he spun with Suárez in the swirling current. Cabrillo called out to Overholt.
“We’re good to go, Phaeton.”
“ETA in ten seconds, my boy.”
Cabrillo glanced back at the shore. Some of the trucks were moving again, tracking their progress downriver. In the moonlight Cabrillo caught a glimpse of the truck-mounted heavy machine guns in their beds.
The original plan was for Cabrillo to get Suárez airborne and then he would hike over to the nearby Peruvian border about ten miles away, where a local would guide him to a waiting airplane. But with the arrival of FARC soldiers now tracking him along the shoreline, that plan was in the crapper. They’d cut him down before he could even get out of the river, or worse, snatch him up.
He needed a plan B, and fast.
The Hercules came in like a thunderclap over the tree line, its Yshaped nose yoke pointed directly at the Skyhook balloon line.
Cabrillo’s instincts took over. He grabbed the restraining straps on Suárez’s bag and scissored his legs around the assassin in a death grip just as the yoke snagged the cable. The two men rocketed into the sky with a spine- jolting snap. Red tracers from the truck- bed machine guns zipped through the night sky, alternately streaking for the Hercules or its human cargo suspended in the air as AKs fl ashed from the riverbanks.
The two men whirligigged as the Hercules gained altitude. Cabrillo’s guts dumped into the bottom of his boots at the nearly vertical climb. His eyes fi xed on the glowing red sparks pouring up from the still-burning hut with each passing spin, wondering if the woman escaped a fiery death.
“Torpedo, status!” Overholt barked over the radio.
“No time to buy a ticket,” Cabrillo shouted as he streaked through the sky at over three hundred miles per hour. “Thought I’d hitch a ride.” Cabrillo’s grip was wrapped through the straps and cemented with another adrenaline surge, but he wondered if he could hold on long enough for Overholt to reel the two of them in.
“We need to stay low,” Overholt said. “That means a lot of turbulence. We’re pulling you up now. You good?”
“Just peachy. One question.”
“What’s that?”
“When does a guy get a cup of coffee and a bag of peanuts on this lousy airline?”
ABOARD THE OREGON
Present Day
Juan Cabrillo’s eyes popped open. He was tangled up in a twisted heap of sweaty sheets on his luxurious king- size bed. His eyes still bleary from a fitful sleep, he stared at the coffered ceiling for a moment as he sought his bearings. The spinning blades of the ceiling fan provided a whisper of cleansing air that fi nally cleared his mind. He suddenly remembered he was in his cabin.
Cabrillo normally didn’t suff er the nightly terrors haunting men who had spent years in desperate close- quarters combat, reliving each harrowing encounter snatching away an opponent’s life. He slept well because his conscience was clear. He hated killing and did it only when necessary— and never out of anger or revenge. He had been taught as a child that even a crazed assassin bore the image of his Maker, even if that image was marred and desecrated by evil. Cabrillo was merely the instrument that made the introductions between them and God sooner than the bad guys had planned.
But the Colombian mission was diff erent. He couldn’t shake the regret of having failed. He could still smell the charred timbers and feel the searing heat on his skin. But it was the distant screams of the woman trapped in the burning hut still ringing in his ears.
He hadn’t thought of her for many years, and why this nightmare had come back to him now, he didn’t know. He willed away her keening cries until they fi nally faded.
Cabrillo checked the analog clock on the mantle. It was early evening. He had taken the overnight shift to give the scheduled crew a much-needed break from their normal routine. The Oregon had been on extended duty for some time now. No one complained, and they all did their jobs. But Cabrillo could see the fatigue in their eyes. They needed a break, and the scheduled trip to their private vacation island was still a few days away.
After Cabrillo’s overnight shift was completed, he headed to the Olympic- size pool in the ship’s converted ballast tank and put in a solid five miles before heading up to his cabin. He had a mountain of paperwork to sort through before he hit the rack and was glad when he fi nally crawled into bed. Now it felt like a net. Time to get moving.
Cabrillo untangled himself from his silken sheets and sat up. He had showered after his swim, but now he was slick with sweat and needed to rinse off. He pulled up his prosthetic swim leg from the floor and fitted it on before heading to the shower, a custom affair like the rest of his cabin.
Every member of the Oregon crew received an allowance for the design of their private quarters, one of the many perks of working for the Corporation. The hard- charging crew spent months away from shore-bound family and friends. Cabrillo rewarded that sacrifice with Cordon Bleu– trained chefs, world- class workout facilities, and luxury quarters.
Cabrillo had chosen for himself an exact replica of Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca, his favorite. Every stick of furniture and artwork, from the ceiling fans down to the handwoven Persian carpets on the floor, were period accurate. And all of that was thanks to Kevin Nixon’s Magic Shop.
Cabrillo blasted himself with hot water as he lathered up with his favorite soap, then scrubbed away the briny perspiration that clung to him like his troubled dream. He rinsed off by slamming the lever to
icy cold to shock his system, a daily war against the temptations of comfort and complacency.
After a quick toweling, he headed for his dressing room and swapped his swim leg for a dressing leg that not only perfectly matched the color and texture of his skin but even featured a spray of his own fi ne blond hair carefully placed one shaft at a time. Re- legged, he pulled on a pair of linen shorts, a tropical shirt, and a pair of calfskin loafers. Just as the second loafer slipped over his heel, a message rang in the overhead speakers.
“Chairman, do you read me?” Max Hanley asked. He was the number two in the Corporation. Cabrillo and Max were the ones who originally designed and converted the original Oregon, a broken-down lumber hauler, into the world’s most advanced combat and intelligencegathering vessel. In the years since, they had brought her through several iterations, including the current one, the best yet.
Max’s natural command abilities as a former swift boat captain played an important role in the smooth operation of the Oregon in or out of combat when Cabrillo was otherwise unavailable. But the truth of the matter was that Max’s fi rst love was engineering, and in particular, the magnetohydrodynamic engines he designed for the Oregon.
“Loud and clear,” Juan said. “Is there a problem?” It was unlike Max to call down to Cabrillo’s cabin in his off - duty hours.
“I need you to come down to the engine room. We’ve got a situation.”
Cabrillo frowned. There were few problems Max Hanley couldn’t handle on his own, especially in the engine compartment. Hanley had also recruited a handpicked, highly experienced engineering crew, all former military like most of the Oregon personnel. For Max to call him into the mix meant there was something serious going on. And if the engines were down, the Oregon was dead in the water. Powered by stripping free electrons from the ocean with powerful supercooled magnets, the Oregon’s revolutionary engines not only drove the boat but powered every other electronic component on the vessel including radar, weapons, sick bay, and the Cray supercomputer. He suddenly
realized the absence of the low thrum of the purring engines, a minimal but constant background noise on the ship.
“I’m on my way.”
★
The polished brass elevator doors slid open. Cabrillo stepped out into the hallway belowdecks, his perfect gait showing no indication of his reliance upon the artifi cial leg. That perfect gait was a function of both the prosthetic’s custom design and years of dedicated physical training. Juan kept physically fit through a wide regimen of weight lifting, wall climbing, and martial arts, but his primary strength and endurance came from countless hours of swimming. He was as fit as any of the younger special operator Gundogs in his command.
Cabrillo passed into the dimly lit corridor and headed for the engine compartment, which was strangely dark. Juan knew his ship like the back of his hand, and no light was needed for him to make his way forward. But his heart began to race at the thought of a catastrophic event disabling the engines and thus the Oregon, leaving his beloved ship and crew at the mercy of the pitiless sea and countless enemies. He stepped carefully over the elevated threshold of the watertight doorway and into the wide, main compartment. A bank of LED lights suddenly exploded in his eyes, blinding him.
“Surprise! Happy birthday!”
Cabrillo nearly pooped his pantaloons at the cacophony of shouts, laughter, and noisemakers. He rubbed his blinded eyes to clear them. Juan couldn’t help but laugh as familiar hands clapped him on his shoulders, and cheerful voices wished him well.
“Okay, you guys got me good,” Juan said as his eyes began to clear. When he fi nally blinked them fully open, he laughed again. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The expansive room was crowded with pirates, comic book characters, famous scientists, movie legends, and historical fi gures variously fitted with togas, crowns, antlers, chaps, and chain mail. Each Oscar-worthy costume was perfectly constructed, historically accu-
rate, and anatomically correct. The 3D printed masks were all customfitted and utterly lifelike. Cabrillo imagined he was standing in the middle of a studio cafeteria from the golden age of Hollywood.
The crowd of happy well-wishers parted as Maurice emerged pushing a cart carrying a massive white cake with Happy Birthday! emblazoned in dark chocolate script, and a single lit candle.
Maurice, the oldest member of the Oregon crew, abandoned his normal attire of crisp white shirt and starched black trousers for an Admiral Nelson costume, including a jaunty black ostrich-feathered bicorne hat— a tribute to the steward’s former days in the British Royal Navy.
“Congratulations, Captain,” Maurice offered in his cultured British accent. He was the only member of the crew that didn’t call Cabrillo “Chairman,” a habit Cabrillo could neither break nor condemn in the old sailor and his Old World respect for the rank.
Cabrillo glanced around the room and took in all the smiling faces. He’d personally vetted every one of them. Each had stellar records, impeccable credentials and, most important, sterling characters. They had hired on as employees of the Corporation, which meant they were technically mercenaries. But they were all patriotic to the core, and were glad the Oregon never took a job that put American lives or interests at risk even if it cost them money. They had served valiantly and loyally through every imaginable hazard and mission. Cabrillo couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Time to make a wish and blow out the candle.
But what is there to wish for? He had it all.
Then Linc and Raven came to mind. The two valued crew members were absent, currently in transit for a mission to Panama. They wouldn’t check in for another forty- eight hours, but their implanted trackers indicated they were on schedule. What waited for them on the other side was anybody’s guess.
Cabrillo made his wish.
He then took a big, theatrical breath, but gently blew out the single birthday candle to a wild round of applause.
The head chef began cutting the cake as her sous- chefs wheeled in
carts of ice cream, fresh- baked Austrian pastries, pots of pour- over Cuban coffee, and a variety of adult libations.
“What kind is it?” Cabrillo asked as the chef handed him the fi rst plate.
“Your favorite. White chocolate macadamia nut cheesecake laced with raspberry sauce.”
Juan’s eyes rolled with ecstasy at the fi rst bite. “Perfecto.”
The head chef flushed with pride. “Enjoy.”
“Surprised you made it this far,” Max offered with a wide grin and a heavy clap on Cabrillo’s back with his meaty hand. Hanley was dressed like Friar Tuck. It wasn’t much of a reach. His thinning grayauburn hair was already ringed like a tonsure, and the heavy wool tunic draped over his high, hard belly. And just like Robin Hood’s number two, Max was the man Cabrillo wanted with him in any bar fight or gun battle.
“You look gassed. Didn’t you grab any shut- eye?” Max asked.
“Snagged a few winks. Shift change.”
Max eyed his friend, one hand clutching his fighting staff. He had his suspicions, but kept them to himself.
Cabrillo took another bite of cheesecake. “Who’s minding the store?”
“Linda’s in the chair. I’ll head topside after I grab a plate of goodies and send her down.”
“It must kill her not to be at a costume ball like this.” Linda Ross, despite her previous life in the buttoned- down U.S. Navy, had a penchant for wild hair colors— currently cotton candy pink.
“Oh, trust me, she got her Pat Benatar on just fi ne. You’ll see later.”
Someone tossed on a Gipsy Kings album over the loudspeakers, one of Cabrillo’s favorites.
Juan tugged on Max’s elbow and pulled him aside.
“This whole thing wasn’t your idea, was it?”
“Me? No way. I know you’re not crazy about birthday celebrations, let alone surprise parties.”
“Then whose idea was it?”
Max nodded toward a Texas Ranger in the far corner, wearing the traditional buckskins and pistols of an early Western lawman.
“Kevin’s idea?” Cabrillo asked.
“Yup.”
“Huh. Makes sense.”
Kevin Nixon had been a renowned Hollywood special effects artist, winning numerous awards, including an Oscar. His department on the Oregon, known as the Magic Shop, created the costumes, makeup, and special effects vitally necessary for the undercover work that Juan and other team members carried out.
In addition, Nixon’s department helped transform the Oregon ’s sleek deck lines from a modern bulk cargo carrier into a rusting, derelict hulk in a moment’s notice with phony dead fl ies in the sills, gutwrenching stench blown through the HVAC ducts, and a hundred other special effects pioneered by his department. It was all deployed to scare away nosy port authorities and added to the perfect camoufl age the Oregon needed to sneak into ports around the world undercover.
Max’s chest swelled with pride as he fi ngered his monkish vestments. “Makes me want to go to Hollywood after I retire.”
“Not a monastery?”
Max laughed. “And on that note, I’m gonna fetch some cake and relieve Linda. See ya in the funny papers, brother.” Max’s face suddenly saddened. He raised his palm in a small, priestly gesture and whispered something Cabrillo couldn’t hear over the music before he turned away and headed for the snack bar.
Just then, a phlegmy voice growled behind Cabrillo.
“Qu’ buSHa’chugh SuvwI’, batlhHa’ vangchugh, qoj matlhHa’chugh, pagh ghaH SuvwI’’e’.”
Cabrillo turned around.
A pair of tall, lanky Klingon warriors with pronounced cranial ridges spanning their foreheads sneered at him. They carried traditional mek’leth short swords with curved blades and serrated edges, and wore metal and leather armor along with thick- soled combat
boots that made them seem larger and more imposing than they really were.
“Nice little suits ya got there, boys.”
Dr. Mark Murphy’s proud shoulders slumped and Eric Stone blushed beneath his heavy olive- colored makeup. Murph was the Oregon’s chief weapons officer and one of the youngest members of the crew. He was doubtless the most brilliant, earning two PhDs before the age of twenty- five. Stoney was his best friend, and the Oregon’s chief helmsman.
“Thanks, Chairman.” Eric fl ashed a mouth full of sharpened teeth, his voice altered by one of Nixon’s patented voice synthesizers. “We just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”
“Was that how the Klingons say it?”
“Actually, Klingons don’t wish each other happy birthday,” Murphy said. “So I said, ‘If a warrior ignores duty, acts dishonorably, or is disloyal, he is nothing.’ ”
“That’s actually way cooler. Thanks.”
Murphy and Stone straightened up and beamed proudly, and wished him happy birthday again before marching off toward the pastry bar.
A few minutes later Cabrillo stood alone fetching a cup of coffee. Kevin Nixon sheepishly meandered over, his spurs clinking with each step. He was one of the few Oregon crew members that wasn’t former military. After his sister was killed in a terrorist attack, he decided to take a stand and left Tinseltown in search of a more signifi cant life. Technically, it found him— a billet on the Oregon, deploying his special talents.
“Happy birthday, Chairman,” he said, offering his hand.
“Thanks, Kevin. Nice shindig.” He glanced around the room still buzzing with party energy. “You went to a lot of trouble to do all of this.”
“Just my way of saying thank you,” Nixon responded.
“For what? Getting older is like falling off the back of a turnip truck. It kinda happens all by itself.”
“I turned fi fty last month,” Nixon said.
“Quite a milestone.”
“I’ve been reflecting on my time on the Oregon. Without a doubt, these have been the best years of my life.”
“Not a lot of starlets and after- party shenanigans around here.” Cabrillo held up his empty plate. “Though we’ve got some pretty mean cheesecake.”
Nixon blushed. The brilliant special effects artist had worked with some of Hollywood’s most famous actors, directors, and executives. They were the beautiful people with all of the money and power and privileges the industry could afford. But none of them had ever impressed Nixon the way Cabrillo did.
“I don’t miss any of it. Besides, it almost killed me.” He touched his fi nger to the side of his nose and sucked air through it like a vacuum cleaner, an embarrassed nod toward a prior affection for illicit drugs. Nixon stood tall and trim in front of Cabrillo. In fact, the two men were about the same size. But when Nixon fi rst came on board he was a physical wreck and weighed over three hundred pounds. Dr. Huxley had put him on a strict diet and exercise regimen, literally saving his life.
Cabrillo smiled. “You’re a great addition to the crew. Your services have been invaluable.”
“I used to be wrapped up in my own career and my own vanity, but the war on terror woke me up. I just didn’t know what to do about it. You gave me a place to use my skills. I’ve seen and done things I never could have imagined, and all in service to my country.” Kevin gestured toward the crowded room. “This little ‘shindig’ was my way to thank you for the opportunity to serve my country and this crew. You’ve given me a life with purpose— a life worth living.”
Cabrillo was moved by Nixon’s heartfelt words and saw the deep emotion in his eyes. He knew it took a lot for Nixon to express himself this way.
“Every time you do your thing, you serve this crew and me. That’s thanks enough.”
Nixon reached out with an awkward hug and whispered in Juan’s ear. “You gave me my life back. I can never repay you for that.”
“You don’t have to.”
Kevin stepped back. “I’ve seen you risk your life for this crew time and time again. Just know that wherever you lead, we’ll all follow— even through the fiery gates of hell.”
Cabrillo saw the fierce determination in his eyes. He believed him.
THE PACIFIC OCEAN
Captain Lanxi sat at his cramped desk in his ship’s shabby cabin, working on a secret ledger. A dim lamp barely illuminated his scrawl. His fi nal tabulation was worse than he had feared. He set his pencil down and rubbed his tired eyes.
The holds of his shark-harvesting boat were only half full of illicit cargo. Shark fi ns were an increasingly rare and expensive delicacy that sold for the price of silver in his country. Chinese people were crazy for shark fi n soup, which supposedly had medicinal benefits. In truth, the expensive delicacy was primarily a display of ostentatious wealth. His people reveled in such spectacles, none more so than the government overlords, who secretly supported the illegal trade.
Lanxi’s operations, strictly speaking, were prohibited according to Chinese law, which had recently issued a moratorium. The international community had been outraged by China’s vast fi shing fleet destroying stocks of fi sh around the globe after having depleted her own in the previous decade. In their ruthless efficiency, Chinese vessels harvested protected species on an industrial scale, including the squid and sharks rapidly disappearing in these waters.
But his employer— one of China’s largest criminal gangs—was protected by the government they dutifully served. In fact, it was a Chinese government satellite that had located the heat signature of a large school of sharks migrating in these cold waters.
Lanxi’s rusty ship with its ancient engines had only just reached the area a few hours ago. He deployed the longlines after his sonar confi rmed the sharks’ course, depth, speed, and direction. Miles of steel cable with baited hooks now trailed behind him. With any luck, over the next twenty-four hours, those hooks would be fi lled with freshly caught sharks and reeled in, and his holds fi lled to capacity. He might yet keep his head attached to his neck and perhaps even pocket a handsome sum of gold if all went according to plan. And if not? He shuddered to think about it.
A sharp rap of knuckles on his door startled him. It was his sturdy Indonesian fi rst officer.
“Captain, come see. Quickly!”
Captain Lanxi stood on the exterior bridge wing, his binoculars pinned to his crow-footed eyes. After thirty years at sea, he had seen inexplicable things. It was impossible to live on the vast ocean and not believe in the supernatural.
But this?
Beneath a blanket of stars, an ancient high- sterned pirate junk ablaze with St. Elmo’s fi re ran broadside in the far distance, its translucent decks festooned with cannons.
Impossible.
“Radar?” Lanxi barked.
“Nothing, sir. No Doppler reflection at all. No AIS. Nothing.”
“Radio?”
“No response.”
Lanxi lowered his binoculars and glanced down at the deck. His young crew had gathered along the rail, pointing and shouting at the ghostly vessel. The old captain snorted. The men were mostly rural peasants tricked into indentured service on his boat. They were as superstitious as old women. They complained constantly about the lack of food and sleep and were on the verge of mutiny after so many days
at sea away from home without internet or phone connections. The apparition in the distance was sending them into a panic.
“What do you make of it, Captain? A patrol vessel of some sort?”
Lanxi was concerned. That boat could mean trouble. He had been plying the waters of the remote eastern Pacific for months, often crossing illegally into the territorial waters of Ecuador and the other bordering nations in search of his elusive prey. Those nations had become far more aggressive. An Argentine patrol boat had even sunk a Chinese vessel. In order to save face, the Chinese government would sometimes make examples of criminal fi shing boats that were caught in the act, tossing their captains into prison.
“That’s no patrol boat,” Lanxi growled.
“Then what is it?”
Lanxi leaned over the railing. “You men down there. Back to work. Now. Or half rations.”
Suddenly an explosion of light erupted in the mast wires.
A giant, eyeless woman shrouded in billowing grave clothes stood high in the rigging, wielding a fl aming sword.
His crew saw her, too, along with a dozen fiery minions who suddenly appeared, laughing and cursing them all.
The howling apparition pointed her sword at Lanxi.
“Captain, turn your ship around— now. Or face my wrath.”
The young sailors cried out in terror with one voice. “Captain, turn around!”
Lanxi turned toward the Indonesian. His stern, unfl appable face was pale with terror.
“What do you make of it?” Lanxi asked.
The Indonesian stammered, unable to form a sentence. He was raised on tales of demons and ghosts just like the rest of the crew.
His fi rst offi cer’s terror unnerved Lanxi. He’d seen the man still as an iceberg in the middle of a typhoon that nearly swamped them. But now the surly Indonesian looked like a child about to soil himself.
Lanxi spat on the deck. Turning around was out of the question.
“Sir, what should we do?” the helmsman cried out from inside the bridge.
“Steady as she goes. We’ve got shark to catch.”
The eyeless demon raised her fl aming sword on high.
“Lanxi, time to die!”
Cannons boomed in the distance. All eyes turned toward the pirate junk.
Seconds later, Lanxi’s ship rocked beneath an explosion of cascading water that slammed into the rusting steel. His men toppled over like bowling pins. Lanxi grabbed the rail before he crashed to the deck as well.
They had been hit badly. The old captain knew his ship had suffered a fatal blow. She was already beginning to list.
“Give the orders to abandon ship!”
The radioman hit the alarm and Klaxons wailed. The poorly trained crew scrambled for the lifeboats and whatever jackets they could fi nd. Few of the men could swim, and most wouldn’t survive— the lifeboats were in disrepair and nearly worthless.
The Indonesian tugged at Lanxi’s arm, his hands welded to the railing. The bridge crew had already abandoned their stations and were racing for the lower decks.
The eyeless ghoul and her demon horde laughed above the cries of the crew.
“Captain, let’s go. There’s no time!”
Lanxi shook his head. “Go.”
The Indonesian didn’t argue with him. He turned and fl ed down the steps.
Lanxi would remain on the bridge and go down with his ship, now listing badly.
Whatever fate awaited him below the frigid waves was far better than the unimaginable cruelties his employers would infl ict upon him.