Piranha

When the Washington was headed for the scrapyard, the Corporation bought her for a pittance, setting Juan’s plan in motion. His crew had spent the past week altering her appearance so that the Washington and the Oregon would appear identical. They also filled her hold with the ammonium nitrate fertilizer that was supposed to be inside the Oregon. Then they’d moved the Washington to her anchorage nestled among the isolated Islas Caracas and left Eric Stone and Mark Murphy behind so that they could make the final preparations.

The part of the mission to regain anonymity had all been meticulously pla

After getting the intel about the smuggling operation, it was just a matter of baiting the frigate to the desolate islands where the Washington was hidden.

Like the squibs Kevin Nixon had designed for Eddie’s staged shooting, Murph had created his own giant squibs for the Oregon. At the moment the Metal Storm battery had neutralized the incoming missile, close enough to the ship to make Ruiz think it had hit, Murph simultaneously activated explosives on the deck of the Oregon as well as preset gas jets that simulated the look of a raging fire while posing no actual danger to the ship. He assured Juan that the paint wouldn’t even be charred.

The Washington, however, wouldn’t be as fortunate. With Eric’s help, Murph had covered her deck with canisters that would spew jellied gasoline when they were detonated, mimicking the fake fire on the Oregon. Additional explosives were rigged throughout the ship including the bridge superstructure.

Juan had idled the Oregon’s engines until the frigate was close enough to use her gun, floating at a spot that would quickly put them in the lee of Isla Caraca del Oeste after she got under way again. Once the island shielded them, Juan ramped her up to full throttle, knowing that the Mariscal Sucre would target Oregon’s presumed position based on the slower speed they’d been sustaining. The shells fell harmlessly in their wake. When the last one plunged into the water, Murph activated the explosives on the deck of the Washington.

Juan thought the odds were even between the Mariscal Sucre following them into the cha

Gomez, who got the nickname because he’d once been the paramour of a woman who was a dead ringer for the original Morticia from The Addams Family TV show, was the Oregon’s resident helicopter pilot. The ship carried an MD 520N chopper secreted within the aft hold that could be raised into launch position within ten minutes, but this night Gomez was seated comfortably in the op center.

In addition to his duties as a rotary-aircraft pilot, Gomez was also their most skilled drone operator. The Oregon was equipped with an array of UAVs for aerial reco

Thanks to their eye in the sky, they’d watched the frigate race to the northern side of the island, so Juan ordered full reverse and the Oregon made it out of the cha

“Gomez,” Juan said, “bring it around so we have a good shot of the Washington.”

“No problem.” The drone turned smartly. The ru

“You’d make Spielberg proud. What’s your distance?”

“Three miles.”

“That should be far enough. I can’t say the same for the Mariscal Sucre, but that’s their problem. They know what the cargo is. Are you set, Mr. Murphy?”

“Say the word,” Murph replied, his finger at the ready.

“Do it.”

Murph punched the button.

Explosives carefully placed beside the ammonium nitrate inside the hold of the Washington detonated, setting off a chain reaction within the fertilizer. A cataclysmic ball of fire bloomed silently on-screen. The ship was ripped apart by the blast and cleaved in two. Pieces of her hull pelted the neighboring islands. Only her broken keel would be left to settle on the seafloor, leaving little to examine even if the Venezuelans sent a dive team down to investigate. As far as they knew, the ship that had blown up was the Dolos, and no proof would be left to indicate otherwise.

To Juan, it was like watching the Oregon herself sink, and the pang of regret returned. At least it was a nobler end for the Washington than to be cut apart and sold for scrap.

A minor tsunami washed up on the islet shores and rushed toward the Mariscal Sucre, which was rocking back and forth from the explosive concussion. Seconds later, the drone bobbed drunkenly.

Gomez struggled to maintain control. “Man, that was bigger than I expected.” He pulled the drone up and leveled out. No doubt the frigate wouldn’t be paying much attention to its radar signature, if their radar array had even survived the blast.

Gomez kept the camera trained on the frigate. There was no movement.

“Well, I bet that woke them up,” Max said.

“And blew out their eardrums,” Juan said. “I’d be surprised if any of their bridge windows are still intact.”

“If they go anywhere, it’ll be back to port for repairs.”

“I agree. But Gomez, keep an eye on them until we’re thirty miles out. Then ditch the UAV.”

“You got it.”

The hull clanged as the shock wave from the blast now fifteen miles away reached them.

“Max, change us back to the Oregon. The Dolos has served us well, but we’ll consign her name to the sea.”

“Gladly.”

The name on the fantail could be changed at a moment’s notice using its magnetized panel, which could be programmed with any name and font they chose. At the press of a button, Max deactivated the magnets and the iron filings clinging to the fantail fell away. He remagnetized the filings and nozzles sprayed them into place, spelling out Oregon. Once they were in the open ocean and away from the shipping lanes, the crew would repaint the hull in a new decayed pattern and color, deck equipment would be rearranged, phony cargo pallets would be added, and the second fu

“Good work, everyone,” Juan said. “I’d say we just bought ourselves a few more years of anonymity. Drinks are on me next shore leave.”

“I hear that,” Max said. “For this bunch, it’s go