Plague Ship

“Are they asking for help from any ships in the area?”

“Negative, and I doubt they will.”

“Agreed. Firing at civilian freighters without warning violates about fifty international treaties.”

“And what do you call what we did back at Bandar Abbas?” Max asked, just to tease.

“Petty larceny,” Cabrillo dismissed, “punishable by a fine and a couple hours of community service.” Just then, the pair of S-3Bs off the American aircraft carrier streaked over the Oregon and flew less than a hundred feet off the surface of the ocean as they roared down the Kilo’s length. Sailors dove flat on the decks as the jet wash ripped across their uniforms.

“Chairman, the pilot of the lead Viking still wants to talk to you,” Hali said. “And I’m getting an official request from the carrier that we remain in position. It’s a Commander Charles Martin, aboard the George Washington.”

“Pipe it over,” Juan said, and settled earphones over his head and adjusted the integrated microphone.

“This is Juan Cabrillo, master of the MV Oregon. What can I do for you, Commander?”

“Captain Cabrillo, we would like to send over a contingent of men to debrief your crew about what just occurred. The captains of the Saga and Aggie Johnston have already agreed. A helicopter can reach you in twenty minutes. The guided missile cruiser Port Royal will be there in two hours if you don’t have facilities for landing a chopper.”

“With all due respect, Commander Martin, none of my crew saw anything. I myself was asleep, and the watch stander on duty is blind in one eye and can’t see out of the other.” Martin’s voice sharpened. “Captain, I needn’t remind you that coalition forces operating in these waters reserve the right to inspect all shipping entering or leaving the Persian Gulf. I call this a request out of courtesy, but it is an order. You will remain where you are and prepare to be boarded.” Juan understood the pressure the Navy was under to interdict potential terrorists from using the Gulf as a highway for weapons and fighters, but there was no way he was going to let them inspect the Oregon.

Corrupt officials in foreign ports could be easily dissuaded from searching the scabrous freighter, but this was not the case with the U.S. military.

“Could you please stand by?” Juan requested. He covered the mike with his hand and called over to Hali Kasim. “Get Overholt on the horn. Tell him what’s going on, and have him get these guys off our back.

Eric, set a course bearing one hundred and five degrees, and make our speed eighteen knots.” He took his hand away from the microphone. “Sorry about that, Commander. We can’t land a chopper on the Oregon, so you’ll have to send a boarding party from the Port Royal.”

“Very well, Captain. Plan on our arrival at about eleven hundred hours.”

“We’ll leave the light on for ya,” Juan drawled, and ended the call. He glanced around the Op Center.

“Anyone want to bet? Twenty bucks to the person who guesses the closest.” The crew knew immediately what he was referring to.

“They’ll call back in ten minutes,” Hali opined.

“Five,” Linda said.

“They’re going to have their hands full for a while.” This from Mark Murphy. “He won’t notice we’re under way for at least a half hour.”

“I’m with Linda,” Eric said. “Five minutes. We’ll split the twenty.” Juan looked over at Max Hanley. “Care to venture a guess?” Max studied the acoustic tile ceiling for a moment, then leveled his eyes on the Chairman. “Right about now.”

“Holy crap,” Hali cried. “He’s right. Martin’s hailing us again.”

“Put him through,” Cabrillo ordered.

“Captain Cabrillo, consider this your final warning,” Commander Martin said. Juan could hear through the clipped speech that the officer’s teeth were clenched. “If you do not stop immediately, I will order the circling Vikings to open fire on your ship.”

Cabrillo didn’t doubt Martin’s sincerity. But he was also tired of dealing with the man. “Commander, an Iranian submarine just took a potshot at a fully loaded supertanker. I’m not going to wait around for them to come after us. I will be clear of your interdiction sphere before you arrive and there isn’t much you can do about it.”

“You will—” Martin’s voice suddenly cut out. He came back on the line thirty seconds later. Juan couldn’t quite place the new tone in his voice. Awe? Fear? Respect? Some combination of all three?

“Captain, you are free to leave the area at your own discretion.” Cabrillo wondered who Langston had gotten to make the call. It had to be the commander in chief for Naval Operations for the Indian Ocean or one of the Joint Chiefs. Whoever it was, it was nice to have some pull in Washington.

“I thought you’d see it our way. Thank you and good luck. By the way, the Iranian Kilo’s taking on water, so if you want a look inside her I suggest you hurry. Oregon out.” A meaty hand appeared under Juan’s chin. He pulled his wallet from his pant pocket and slapped a twenty-dollar bill into Max’s palm.

Max sniffed the money as though it was a fine cigar. “Like taking candy from a baby.”

“Doesn’t surprise me you know what that feels like.” Cabrillo stood. “Nothing like a little naval battle before breakfast to make you hungry. Navigator, what’s our ETA at the rendezvous site?”

“Not until midnight,” Eric replied.

“Okay, I’ll want senior staff on watch, so shuffle your schedules as needed. I have to go call Langston, thank him for his help, and then explain why we’re only delivering one rocket torpedo.” As he made to leave the Op Center, he grabbed the twenty from Max’s hand. “For costing us that second torpedo, you still owe the Corporation four million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty bucks.” CHAPTER 6

THE SALT TANG OF SEAWATER STRUCK DR. JULIA Huxley as soon as she opened the door to the ballast tank that doubled as a swimming pool. Because of the way the Oregon was configured, it was more of an Olympic-length lap pool, measuring one hundred and sixty-four feet long, but it was only two lanes wide, and flanked by a narrow catwalk tiled in pale marble that was striped with nonskid adhesive tape. The lighting was a mix of fluorescent and incandescent bulbs that gave the illusion of sunshine. The walls were of matching tile, and were a constant source of concern for the cleaning crews, because when the tank was filled to ballast down the ship the glossy marble was inevitably smeared with algae.

Though not much of a swimmer herself, Hux knew the four basic strokes. Freestyle was the speed stroke, breast was for endurance, the backstroke was a quirk of the body’s buoyancy in motion, and the butterfly was the power stroke. It took an incredible amount of strength for a swimmer to haul his arms and upper torso completely out of the water, arch to launch himself forward, and pull himself through the water. She paused at the head of the pool to watch the lone swimmer flying down his lane doing the butterfly. He moved as if he were born to swim, with long, fluid movements, and not a bit of energy wasted, his body sawing up and down like a porpoise, as his arms broke free, with barely a splash with each stroke.

When she looked closer, she noticed waterproof weight bands clamped around his wrists, to make the workout even more difficult. To her way of thinking, this went beyond exercise and leaned toward masochism. Then again, she hadn’t used the ship’s fitness center for a while and tended toward yoga to keep most of the unwanted pounds off her curvy frame.

She had long gotten over how well Juan had adapted to losing his leg. He never let it stop or even slow him. Like everything else in his life, he took it as a challenge to be conquered.

Cabrillo made a crisp flip turn at the far end of the pool and powered his way toward her, his blue eyes obscured by a pair of goggles, his mouth opening wide for every breath. He must have seen her, and knew his time alone was coming to an end, because he suddenly accelerated, pouring on the power to finish the last part of his swim as though it was a sprint.