Piranha

“That’s not something you see every day,” Gomez Adams said as he nudged the nose of the chopper down.

“At least we won’t need the welding equipment,” Eddie said from the back, flanked on either side by Linc and MacD. A few months before, they’d come upon a completely capsized mega-yacht whose hull they had to cut into to save the passengers. They were ready to do the same with the car carrier, but the acetylene tank wouldn’t be necessary now that they could see the ship’s interior was accessible. The coils of nylon rope, however, might still come in handy.

The Oregon was behind them and approaching at top speed, but it would be thirty minutes before it arrived.

“Do you think you can land?” Juan asked Gomez.

“I can get the skids in contact with the hull so you won’t have to rope down, but I can’t see anything flat enough to keep us stable.”

“How long can you loiter?”

“I can stick around until the Oregon gets here.”

The Oregon’s helicopter, which was stowed in the aftmost hold, could be raised and lowered on an elevator platform for launch and recovery. The MD 520N was an unusual design because it lacked a tail rotor. Instead, exhaust vented from the turbine was used to turn the chopper and maintain rotational stability. It was so maneuverable that Gomez boasted he could outfly a hummingbird. He was a skilled enough pilot that Juan almost believed him.

They had launched the helicopter as soon as they’d received the distress call. The Oregon had been steaming south from Jamaica ever since Juan had realized the Ciudad Bolívar was in danger. Repeated calls to the shipping company warning them of the impending danger were met with wariness about their motives, and Juan couldn’t blame them. Without a more concrete analysis of the threat, all the company could do was issue a vague caution to the ship’s captain. By the time they were within range to radio the ship directly, the distress call was already being broadcast. When the Maydays abruptly ceased, no ship besides the Oregon was within five hours of the Ciudad Bolívar.

Juan had ordered the helicopter launched so they could get to the ship as fast as possible. Despite repeatedly hailing the ship during their flight, there had been no response. Although they didn’t know if piracy factored into the equation, the fact that there hadn’t been any survivors in the previous sinkings made Juan cautious. All four of the landing party were armed, and Juan had do

“Let’s find out where the lifeboat is before we set down,” Juan said. “It couldn’t have gone far.” The unspoken concern was that if the lifeboat had launched, they should have heard from someone on its radio by now.

“I’ll give us a good look all around her,” Gomez said.

He came in low, and details of the hull were now visible. The stern and starboard vehicle loading ramps seemed intact and in place. Juan examined the bottom, and his eyes settled on a six-inch-diameter hole in the red paint just above the waterline near the bow. It was the only obvious damage.

“Looks like they’ve got a gopher problem,” Linc said.

“Or someone was drilling for oil in the bottom of the ship,” MacD suggested.

Juan was the most experienced sailor on the chopper, but he couldn’t come up with anything more realistic than their jokes. “Get some pictures of that, Linc.”

Gomez paused for the snaps and then continued back and around the stern. It was only after they reached the port side that they saw a fishing trawler nestled against the car carrier near the bridge at the bow end.

Juan was surprised to see a boat, given the lack of a response to their hails. There was no sign of the lifeboat, but it could be under the water still attached to its davits. Juan’s first thought was that the fishing trawler had come alongside to take the crew off, but as Gomez edged closer Juan knew that was the wrong conclusion.

Cables snaked into the water next to the trawler, eight of them, co

As Gomez got closer, Juan could see that the man on the ship had an automatic weapon slung across his back and was balancing himself on a railing. He was facing the helicopter and speaking into a headset microphone. Juan recognized him instantly.

It was Lieutenant Dominguez from the warehouse in Venezuela.

“Those don’t look like rescuers to me,” Eddie said.

As if in response to Eddie’s observation, the men on the trawler snatched up their own assault rifles and opened fire. Rounds pocked the helicopter’s fuselage before Gomez was able to swing the chopper over the car carrier and out of view.

Juan checked the backseat. “Anyone hit?”

“We’re fine,” Eddie replied for them.

“That was the Navy lieutenant we tied up in Venezuela,” Juan told Linc.

“I know. I think he recognized me.”

“If they’re trying to sink her,” MacD said, “why is he climbing on board?”

“Their original plan must not have worked,” Juan said. “Our hails spooked Dominguez because he didn’t expect to see anyone out here. He could be looking for another way to send her to the bottom and get rid of the evidence.”

“And witnesses,” Linc added. “There could be crew still on board.”

Gomez tapped the gas gauge. “We’ve got a new problem, Chairman. One of the rounds hit our gas tank. We’re losing fuel. What do you want me to do?”

“Can you make it back to the Oregon?”

“I think so, but I’ll have to leave right now.”

“Is everyone up for an excursion?” Juan asked.

“Seems wrong to come all this way and turn tail,” Linc said. Eddie and MacD nodded solemnly. They knew what they were signing up for.

“All right. Gomez, put us down on the stern right behind the fu

Gomez hovered over the fantail, making sure to keep the fu

Before Juan could exit, Gomez said, “Take my life raft.”

“You’ll need it if you can’t make it back to the Oregon,” Juan replied.

“You’ll need it if they sink this ship.”

“No we won’t. If this ship goes down, Dominguez isn’t going to leave behind survivors. This mission is all or nothing. See you soon.”

Without waiting for an argument, Juan took off his headset, climbed out, and slammed the door behind him. By the time he reached the nearest hatch to join the others, the helicopter was beating a hasty retreat toward the northern horizon.

Maria Sandoval gingerly tightened the torn sleeve of her sweater around her left biceps where she’d been gashed by the glass she jumped through. The crude bandage was soaked with blood, but she didn’t want to cut off the circulation and render her arm useless.