"Yes, thank you."
"I'd prefer a beer," said Giordino.
Cabrillo poured and held out a mug to Giordino. "A Philippine San Miguel." Then a wineglass to Pitt. "Wattle Creek chardonnay from Alexander Valley, California."
"You have excellent taste," Pitt complimented Cabrillo. "I have the feeling it extends to your kitchen."
Cabrillo smiled. "I pirated my chef from a very exclusive restaurant in Brussels, Belgium. I might also add that should you get heartburn or indigestion from overindulging, we have an excellent hospital staffed by a top surgeon who doubles as a dentist."
"I'm curious, Mr. Cabrillo, what sort of trade is the Oregon engaged in, and who exactly do you work for?"
"This ship is a state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering vessel," Cabrillo replied without hesitation. "We go where no U.S. Navy warship can go, enter ports closed to most commercial shipping and transport highly secret cargo without arousing suspicion. We work for any United States government agency that requires our unique array of services."
"Then you're not under the CIA."
Cabrillo shook his head. "Although we're staffed by a few ex-intelligence agents, the Oregon is operated by an elite crew of former naval men and naval officers, all of whom are retired."
"I couldn't tell in the dark. What flag do you fly?"
"Iran," replied Cabrillo with a faint smile. "The last country any port authority would identify with the United States."
"Am I correct in assuming," said Pitt, "you're all mercenaries?"
"I can honestly say we're in business to make a profit, yes. By performing a variety of clandestine services for our country, we are paid extremely well."
"Who owns the ship?" asked Giordino.
"Everyone on board is a stockholder in the corporation," answered Cabrillo. "Some of us own more stock than others, but there isn't a single crew member who hasn't at least five million dollars stashed away in foreign investments."
"Does the IRS know about you?"
"The government has a secret fund for operations like ours," Cabrillo explained. "We have an arrangement whereby they pay our fees through a network of banks in countries that do not open their records to IRS auditors."
Pitt took a sip of his wine. "A sweet setup."
"But one that isn't unknown to peril and occasional disaster. The Oregon is our third ship. The others were destroyed by unfriendly forces. I might add that over thirteen years we've been in operation, we've lost no fewer than twenty men."
"Foreign agents caught on to you?"
"No, we've yet to be unmasked. There were other circumstances." Whatever they were, Cabrillo didn't explain them.
"Who authorized this trip?" inquired Giordino.
"Between you and me and the nearest porthole, our sailing orders came from within the White House."
"That's about as high as you can go."
Pitt looked at the captain. "Do you think you can put us reasonably close to the United States? We have a couple of acres of hull to inspect, and our time underwater is limited due to the Sea Dog IIs battery power. If you have to moor the Oregon a mile or more away, just getting to the liner and back will cut our downtime considerably."
Cabrillo stared back at him confidently. "I'll put you near enough to fly a kite over her funnels." Then he poured himself another glass of the chardonnay and held it up. "To a very successful voyage."
16
PlTT WENT OUT ON DECK and looked up at the mast light as it swayed back and forth across the Milky Way. He planted his arms on the railing and gazed across the water at the island of Corregidor as the Oregon sailed out of Manila Bay. The indefinable black mass rose from the night, guarding the entrance to the bay in tomblike silence. A few lights glimmered on the interior of the island along with red warning lights on a transmitter tower. It was difficult for Pitt to imagine the onslaught of death and destruction that inundated the rocky outcropping during the war years. The number of men who died there, Americans in 1942, Japanese in 1945, numbered in the thousands. A small village of huts sat near the decaying dock from which General Douglas Mac Arthur had boarded Commander Buckley's torpedo boat for the initial stage of his journey to Australia and later return.
Pitt smelled the pungent odor of cigar smoke and turned as a crewman moved beside him at the railing. Under the running lights, Pitt could see a man who was in his late fifties. He recognized Max Hanley, who had been introduced earlier, not as the chief engineer or first officer, but as the corporate vice president in charge of operational systems.
Once safely out to sea, Hanley, like the rest of the dedicated crew members, transformed himself into a different person by donning comfortably casual clothes better suited for a golf course. He wore sneakers and was dressed in white shorts and a maroon polo shirt. He held a cup of coffee in one hand. His skin was reddened with no trace of tan, the brown eyes alert, a bulbous nose and only a wisp of auburn hair splayed across his head.