The Emperor's Revenge (Oregon Files 11)

Juan shook his head. “Just two.” To change the subject, he said, “Why don’t I show you the op center and get this show on the road.”

Gretchen held his eyes for a moment, then said, “Lead the way.”

They left Juan’s cabin and walked down the corridor to the Oregon’s Operations Center, the command hub buried deep in the ship’s center where it was protected by the armored hull. Gretchen gaped as she entered.

A giant view screen at the front of the room displayed the same overhead camera feed of Vlorë Castle that had been piped into Juan’s cabin. As opposed to the bright daylight of the morning sun outside, the charcoal-colored op center was bathed in a soft blue glow from the latest computer monitors that were at every workstation. With touch screen displays, slick control systems, and sound-deadening rubber floors, the high-tech facility would have been beyond the starship Enterprise.

Gretchen walked right over to the rotating chair that sat on a pedestal in the middle of the room.

“This must be your position,” she said to Juan.

“We call it the Kirk Chair,” Max said. “Controls in the armrests let Juan operate nearly every aspect of the Oregon, if needed, including driving the ship.”

“With the expert crew that I have,” Juan said, “that’s rarely necessary.”

He gave her a tour of the different stations, starting with Eric Stone at the helm and Mark Murphy at the weapons station. Linda controlled radar and sonar, and Max took up his position at engineering and propulsion.

“And this is Hali Kasim,” Juan said, introducing the slim Lebanese American wearing a headset. “He’s our communications officer. This is Gretchen Wagner, on loan from Interpol and the CIA.”

“Oh, do you speak Arabic?” she asked.

“Not a lick,” Hali said. “Born and raised in Philadelphia. My parents believed in i

mmersing me in American culture. Sure would come in handy sometimes if I did.”

“I’d be happy to give you some lessons if we have time.”

“We might be a little busy for that if your intel pans out,” Juan said.

He moved on to the last workstation, where a strikingly handsome man wearing a generous mustache and a cowboy hat casually thumbed a pair of joysticks that were maneuvering the unmanned aerial vehicle above the castle.

“Here we have George Adams, our resident helicopter and UAV pilot,” Juan said. “Don’t bother telling him how good-looking he is. He already knows.”

He shook her hand. “Call me Gomez.”

“Gomez Adams?” Gretchen said. “As in the Addams Family?”

He grinned and winked at her. “That’s what I get for going out with a woman who looked like Morticia. She’s gone, but the nickname stuck.”

“What’s our status?” Juan asked him.

“The Wasps have about an hour on station before their batteries are drained,” Gomez said, referring to the foot-long drone that was circling above the castle. The gimballed camera on its underside had a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of view. “I’m rotating them out every hour to recharge so that we have eyes on the castle at all times.”

“Any chance they’ve been seen?”

“I doubt it. I’ve got them flying about a mile above. No way they’re loud enough to be heard from that distance. I’m recording the whole time so that we can look back if we need to.”

Juan peered up at the screen. One of the buildings in the castle’s central yard had the long and narrow look of a barracks, with a satellite dish and microwave antennas mounted on the roof. Five large cars were parked near the gates, indicating that there could be twenty or more people in the compound.

“Any movement?” Juan had been watching for only the last ten minutes.

“About a half hour ago, we saw two men come out of that multistory main building with the smoke coming out of the chimney,” Gomez said, referring to the structure at the opposite end of the yard from the front gate. “They were carrying what looked like trays to that barracks-style building in the center with all of the electronic gear. They went inside, and, two minutes later, two different men came out with empty trays.”

“Changing of the guard?” Gretchen said.

“Could be. None of them matched the photos you provided of Erion Kula or Dalmat Simaku.” Gomez was referring to the hacker Whyvern and the Mafia boss. While the live feed continued, Gomez played back an earlier recording in a corner of the screen. It was footage of men walking to and from the barracks. All of them were in their twenties or thirties, dressed casually in light jackets and jeans. The full trays held food and drinks.

“I’d guess they’re low-level soldiers,” Juan said.