Typhoon Fury (Oregon Files 12)

The Oregon’s chief steward had a knack for knowing within seconds when to make an entrance. As the only member of the crew older than Max, he carried himself with a regal sophistication from his days in Britain’s Royal Navy. Dressed in black tie and white jacket, with a spotless napkin draped over the arm and carrying a silver tray, Maurice was in his element in the luxurious surroundings of the Oregon’s hidden interior.

“May I clear those away, Captain?” Unlike the rest of the crew, Maurice adhered to naval tradition instead of addressing Juan as “Chairman.”

“Yes. Thanks, Maurice.”

“I will indeed, sir. Would you care for anything else?”

“Nothing for me right now. Maybe later. Hux?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to get back to work.” Julia had a ritual of preparing the med bay before a mission in case it was needed. When she stood, her voluptuous five-foot-three figure provided a stark contrast with Maurice’s tall, thin frame.

“Remember what I said, Juan,” she said before excusing herself.

As Maurice cleared the dishes, he said, “I understand you are currently working with Ms. Anders. Will you please convey my gratitude for the magnificent art she has brought to our lives?”

Juan suppressed an amused chuckle. He was always amazed at how well connected the steward was with shipboard scuttlebutt.

“Happy to. I plan to invite her on board in the near future. If you’d like, you could give her a guided tour.”

Little could scratch Maurice’s stoic demeanor, but Juan thought he could detect a slight curl of a smile. “I’d be delighted, Captain.” With the tray full, he glided to the door and turned before exiting. “I shall have your favorite Cuban from your private humidor and a vintage port awaiting your return from the mission. A 1985 Fonseca, if that will suit you.”

On the Oregon it was considered bad luck to wish someone “good luck” before an operation, but Maurice had his subtle way of expressing his wish for a safe return.

“Thank you, Maurice. Looking forward to it.”

Maurice nodded and eased the door closed behind him. A few seconds later, the phone rang. It was Hali Kasim.

“Chairman, Murph spotted a cargo ship matching the Magellan Sun’s profile approaching on long-range radar thirty miles to the west.”

“ETA?”

“At their present speed, they’ll reach the coast in two hours. And I’ve got Langston Overholt on the vid line.”

“Okay, put him through to my cabin screen. And tell Linc and Eddie that I’ll meet them in the moon pool for mission prep as soon as I’m off the call.”

“Aye, Chairman.”

Juan hung up, and the moonlit waters of the Sulu Sea on the wall monitor were replaced by the giant face of Juan’s octogenarian mentor. Dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, the patrician career intelligence official with the shock of white hair sat behind a spartan but elegant desk. A copse of trees dappled by the morning sun was visible out the background windows, reminding Juan that his old mentor was twelve hours behind him.

Overholt looked just the same as he did the day he brought Juan into his group as a Foreign Service officer, and he seemed just as imposing up on the big screen.

“How’s it going out there, Juan?”

“Just about to go down and prep for the mission. Do you have any new info for us?”

“Well, we’ve got Dr. Ocampo and his friends squared away in a safe house outside Manila, where CIA officers are debriefing them. And through anonymous sources we’ve informed the Philippine National Police about the incident at the chemical lab. They’re scouring the crime scene as we speak.”

“I doubt they’ll find anything useful,” Juan said.

“That’s our assessment as well. Which is why we are giving you our support to go after Salvador Locsin. If Typhoon is as dangerous as Dr. Ocampo says it is, it could pose a clear and present danger to U.S. national security. In recent years, the Philippines remains one of our most important allies in the region to push back against Chinese expansion in the South China Sea. They’re even allowing us to base naval vessels there again. If Locsin were to threaten government stability, it might give China a blank check for taking over Taiwan and the rest of Southeast Asia.”

“Understood. Were you able to find any information about the Magellan Sun? Murph and Eric could only trace ownership to a Hong Kong shell corporation called Tai Fong Shipping and that it sails under the flag of the Marshall Islands.” Registering a cargo ship under a flag of convenience was common, and the Oregon herself often hoisted a Liberian, Panamanian, or Iranian flag on her jackstaff to maintain her anonymity.

Overholt shook his head. “Sorry. The only thing we can add to what you already know is that it was owned by the Chinese government before it was sold to Tai Fong.”

“Then we’ll have to assume everyone on board is a member of Locsin’s insurgency.”

“I think that would be wise.”