Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

The CIA suspected the Venezuelans of supplying arms to North Korea, defying a United Nations embargo of the pariah state. The U.S. didn’t know how the weapons were being smuggled, but the shipments did correlate with known deliveries of diesel from Puerto La Cruz to Wonsan. Electronic eavesdropping pinpointed a warehouse along the dock of the oil terminal, which was less than a half mile across a mountainous peninsula from La Guanta Harbor, as a probable coordination point for the shipments. The Corporation’s mission was to obtain evidence of the arms shipments while simultaneously dealing a blow to the fuel delivery that was critical to running the tanks and armored personnel carriers of the North Korean Army. Juan and Linc would be getting the evidence—documents, computer files, photos, anything they could find.

“And your plan is brilliant,” Juan said. “So let’s go put it in motion.” He led Max out of the cabin and walked side by side toward the center of the ship, passing artwork that would have befit any of the world’s great museums. Juan walked without a limp, the result of years of practice perfecting his gait with the artificial limb.

“Are we on schedule?” Juan asked.

“Everyone has checked in and is ready to go.”

“See?” Juan said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“I get the heebie-jeebies when you say that.”

“It’s good luck, like saying ‘break a leg’ to an actor.” Juan looked down at his own metal replacement. “Well, maybe the wrong choice of words.”

“At least I know you won’t break my ship, since I’ll be in command while you’re gone.”

“Since she’ll be tied to the dock, you shouldn’t have any problems, either.”

“Just be back on time,” Max said like a worried mother hen.

“Johnny-on-the-spot as always.”

“Unless you put one of your infamous Plan C’s into effect.” Max turned and headed back to the op center, where he could coordinate all of the mission activities.

Juan called after him, “You should only worry when I get to Plan D.” A dismissive wave of Max’s hand was the only response.

After a ride on an elevator down three decks, Juan reached a cavernous space amidships. A submersible was suspended by a gantry crane over a swimming-pool-sized depression that was filled with water at a level even with the waterline outside the ship. The sixty-five-foot Nomad 1000 could dive to a thousand feet with six people aboard, including the pilot and copilot. Its smaller sister, the Discovery 1000, was missing from its cradle, away on another part of the mission.

The moon pool allowed either sub to be launched undetected through huge doors below

the pool that swung downward. The port was too shallow to allow the doors to be fully opened, so the Discovery 1000 had been launched before they entered La Guanta Harbor. Juan wouldn’t need the Nomad for this mission, so it would stay in its cradle.

Linc was already donning his black neoprene wetsuit. Their scuba equipment lay next to him. Juan put his pistol inside Linc’s waterproof weapons bag and slipped into his wetsuit. The water in the tropical harbor didn’t require the suits, but the black color would render them invisible to any casual observers on the dock.

They both checked over their Draeger rebreathing units. Regular scuba rigs released the exhalations as bubbles that would rise to the surface, leaving a trail that would be easily followed. The Draeger consisted of carbon dioxide scrubbers in a closed-loop system that eliminated bubbles. Although the unit was dangerous to use below thirty feet, the restriction wouldn’t be a problem in this case because Juan and Linc were using the gear only to exit the Oregon undetected.

Juan knew that the harbormaster would have the ship staked out and would follow anyone who left the dock area. He and Linc needed to get to their rendezvous without a tail, so underwater was the only option.

Linc nodded that he was ready. With his gear in place, Juan climbed down the collapsible stairs into the moon pool. He put on his fins, clamped his teeth over the rebreather’s mouthpiece, and lowered his mask. He drifted out into the center, and Linc came behind him. Juan gave the A-OK, and the technician in charge of the moon pool dimmed the lights to a faint smolder so that nobody on the dock would notice anything unusual going on beneath the ship.

Juan felt a slight eddy tug at him as the doors below cranked open with a muffled thrum. After a few seconds, the sound stopped. The technician waved a flashlight, signaling that the crack in the doors was now wide enough for their departure.

They released air from their buoyancy compensators and descended until they were floating below the keel. Juan clicked on a wrist flashlight, just bright enough to see the ship’s metal hull in the murky harbor water. He and Linc swam to the stern, where he shut off the flashlight and referred to the waterproof compass on his other wrist to guide them.

Fifteen minutes later, he grabbed Linc’s arm and gave him a thumbs-up. He slowly kicked upward until his mask broached the surface with the barest of ripples. He silently patted himself on the back. They were only twenty yards from the ancient shed that the Corporation had rented for the month.

Juan scanned the perimeter and confirmed that they were alone. No boats were nearby, and the road along the shore was empty. They had chosen this part of the harbor because it was the least traveled.

Juan and Linc removed their fins and crept onshore. Sure that there were no oncoming vehicles, they dashed across the road and into the run-down shed.

Instead of a grimy storage place for rusty equipment and fishing supplies, it seemed as if they’d stepped into the dressing room on a movie set. On one side of the shed was a well-lit mirror, a counter spread with makeup and latex prosthetics, and a director’s chair. Next to it stood a metal frame where two Venezuelan Navy working uniforms were hung—one for a master chief petty officer, the other for a captain, both in camo gray.

The other side of the shed was occupied by a hulking Humvee painted in the livery of the Venezuelan military. Leaning against it was a slim man with a thick beard. He threw each of them a towel.

“You’re a minute early,” Kevin Nixon said with a bright smile. “I wish my actresses had been so punctual. Often I was happy if they showed up at all. Sober.”

Kevin had been an award-winning Hollywood makeup artist, but after his sister died in the attacks on 9/11 he felt the need to contribute his skills to the war on terror. He applied to the CIA but went with a much more interesting and challenging offer when he was guided to Juan and the Corporation. In addition to disguising the crew’s faces for operations when needed, Kevin and his team also had racks of uniforms and clothing from every nation and built whatever unusual props and gadgets they needed, occasionally tapping Max’s engineering expertise for the most technical items. Kevin was the person responsible for Juan’s earlier disguise, the stuffed rat, and the combat leg he now wore.

Normally, Juan would have met him on board the Oregon in the Magic Shop, the name they’d given the workshop where Kevin crafted his amazing designs. But since Juan had to swim out of the Oregon, any appliances and makeup would have washed off before he reached shore. So they’d prepositioned Kevin in the abandoned shed with enough battery power to keep him off the grid. Linc had flown in the week before, liberated the Humvee from a naval armory near Caracas, and stashed it in the shed for tonight’s use.