Piranha

Juan sprinted after Dominguez on the angled deck. He could see the controller device in the lieutenant’s hand, its screen illuminated. Dominguez stopped to turn and fire at Juan, but his footing failed him and he lurched to catch himself.

Juan tackled Dominguez, sending their weapons flying. The two of them locked together in a vise grip and tumbled until Juan’s back hit the tread of another bulldozer, knocking the wind out of him. But in their fall he’d snatched the controller from Dominguez’s hand.

Juan could see three dots on a grid. Two of them were side by side and labeled “Ciudad Bolívar” and “Bahia Blanco,” which had to be the fishing trawler. The third dot was labeled “Unknown.” It had to be the Oregon. Crosshairs hovered over it.

Dominguez drew his knife from a hip sheath. Not wanting to drop the controller, Juan blocked the knife with one hand while he kept hold of the device with the other. That left an opening for Dominguez’s other hand to squeeze Juan’s neck, cutting off his air.

Juan was intent on the controller. Dominguez had his knee atop Juan’s arm, but he could still move his hand. His fingers shook as he moved his thumb to “Bahia Blanco.” He tapped once and the crosshairs now centered on the trawler. An on-screen button said “Confirm target.” Juan pressed it and with a flick of his wrist tossed the controller away. It slid down the deck and out of sight.

With his free hand he jammed his thumb into Dominguez’s left eye. Dominguez released the grip on his neck and yelped. Now that he could breathe, Juan whipped the knife around and shoved the blade into Dominguez’s chest. The lieutenant gasped in shock, then with a final choking wheeze he fell on his side.

Juan got to his feet in time to see Eddie approach.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Juan nodded at the limp body.

“Mine is history, too. The Oregon?”

“Safe. But the trawler should be heading to the bottom any moment.”

“Then there’s no one left to answer why someone wanted to keep us from saving this ship.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with the Ciudad Bolívar,” Juan said. “I think whoever sent those Haitian assassins in Jamaica didn’t want us to find out about the subs. When we recover them, we’ll get some answers.”

Juan and the others got up on deck in time to see the smoking ruins of the fishing trawler slip beneath the waves. Max told him that the trawler had exploded, possibly when one of the subs lanced into a fuel line. It was long past sunset. The Oregon swept the sea with searchlights but found no surviving crew.

They left the bodies of Dominguez and the others where they were on the car carrier. Because the incident happened in international waters on a ship owned by a Venezuelan company but flagged in Panama, jurisdiction was hazy at best. Any investigation would likely be carried out by the insurer, but all of the viable evidence would lead back to the Venezuelan Navy.

Gomez had the MD 520N fuel tank patched up and he ferried the five of them back to the Oregon, which had been temporarily renamed the Norego in case they were still around when other rescue ships arrived.

After Maria’s injuries were tended to, Juan suggested that she change into a fresh set of clothes and go to the public mess hall for food and coffee. He then joined Max and Murph on deck to oversee the retrieval of the subs.

Three of them had survived the explosion and were floating on the surface, awaiting their next command. Juan had searched for the controller, but it seemed to have been lost in the standing water in the Ciudad Bolívar’s hold. The car carrier was still listing, but it was stable for now.

Juan studied the subs with binoculars while his crew readied the crane to haul them up. The sleek design made them look like tiny jet fighters, with short wings, a rudder, a water intake on the front end and an exhaust port at the stern. The subs were topped with a dorsal protrusion that housed whatever was used to anchor it to the hull and cut through it. A short ante

“I can’t wait to take one of those babies apart,” Max said, rubbing his hands together with glee. “I might be able to build one for ourselves. You never know when it could come in handy.”

“Have you ever seen a design like that?”

“No, but it seems way too sophisticated for the Venezuelans to create. I’m guessing they bought it from the Chinese or Russians.”

“Or they stole it,” said Murph, who was taking photographs of the floating subs. “When I was a systems developer, we had to assess potential technologies for the military. One was an underwater stealth drone for attacking ships, but it was barely on the drawing board when I left. These could be based on that design.”

“If they’re based on American technology,” Max said, “the CIA is going to want them back. I predict Langston Overholt is going to be writing a big check in the near future.” Juan had to agree that this discovery would be riveting news for his old CIA mentor and liaison.

“Speaking of checks,” Juan said, “did you call Atlas Salvage?”

Max nodded. “They’ll be on their way shortly with an oceangoing tug from Kingston. The owner, Bill Musgrave, is negotiating the contract with Cabimas. As a finder’s fee, he’s cutting us in for ten percent.”

Salvage was a lucrative and dangerous business, so the payouts were usually a percentage of the ship and cargo value. In this case, it would be more than one hundred million dollars if they were able to get the ship back to port intact, so the Corporation’s split would be handsome.

Not bad for a day’s work. And they were about to bring in even more.

The crane lowered its net toward the water, and divers in the RHIB would wrap it around each sub to pick it up.

Without warning, the first sub sank below the surface.

Max blurted. “What the . . .”

Another sub disappeared. Then the third.

Juan radioed to the op center. “We’re losing the subs. Are they preparing to attack? Report.”

“Negative, Chairman,” Linda replied. “Sonar shows they’re aiming straight for the bottom.”

Juan called for the divers to try to snag one of them, but it was too late. All three were shooting two miles to the seafloor. Even if they could eventually recover the subs, at the rate they were descending little would be left on impact.

“Get those pictures to Overholt,” Juan told Murph. “I’m going to talk to our guest.”

Juan entered the fake mess hall and got a cup of coffee for himself before sitting down with Maria.

“Is my crew treating you well?” he said.

While looking around at the dingy room, she said, “Everyone has been wonderful. I’d never imagine that a ship in this, uh, condition would have such excellent food.”

“It’s all for appearances. The ship is cleaner than she looks. We spend the money where it counts. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course. Anything. You saved me and my ship.”

“We’d appreciate you not mentioning our involvement.”

“Why? You and your men should get a medal for what you did.”

“Because of the cargo we tend to carry, we don’t like a lot of attention.” There was no harm in giving her the impression that they were smugglers. The fact that they had been experienced with guns and fighting tactics would only enhance the notion.

Maria gave him a knowing look. “Ah, I see. What about the dead men on my ship?”