From anyone else, that would have been gross insubordination, but the gristly Sergeant had more than earned the right to tease his commanding officer from time to time.
“You’d need a thirty-year coma to help that mug of yours,” he called back, and the men who heard snickered.
“All set, Sarge,” the soldier working the ladder called over.
Espinoza was the first to climb up, with two men bracing the base in case of a wind gust. He had modified his outer gloves so he could peel back the index finger, and when he unholstered his pistol he could get his finger through the trigger guard. He peered over the gunwale. The deck was a mess of loose clutter, oil drums, and scrapped pieces of nautical gear. He saw no movement, so he climbed over and signaled for the next man to join him.
Wind moaned though the crane’s rigging, a warbling keen that sent shivers down his spine. It sounded like a dirge. He looked up at the bridge windows but saw nothing but the reflection of the sky.
Raul was at his side a moment later, followed by Lugones. The Sergeant carried a machine pistol with a powerful flashlight secured under the stubby barrel. They crossed the deck, moving carefully, and with one of them always covering the advance of the others. There were no hatches on the forward bulkhead under the bridge, so they moved to the starboard rail and proceeded aft. Here, they found a door just a few feet away. Above them were the two skeletal arms of the empty davit. A steel cable hung from each.
Jimenez undogged the latches, and when he glanced at Espinoza, who nodded, he pulled open the door. Sergeant Lugones had his weapon at the ready.
The interior hallway was dim, so he snapped on his light. The paint job inside was about as bad as the exterior. The linoleum floor was badly chipped in places and looked like it had never seen a mop.
Their breaths formed halos around their heads.
“Looks like nobody’s home.”
“A wry observation, Lieutenant. Let’s get to the bridge. If there are any answers to this mystery, that’s where we’ll find them.”
The men climbed up several decks, checking rooms as they went. Judging by the way the furniture had been tossed around, it was clear the derelict had seen some heavy weather. Beds had been overturned, and a great number of the wooden pieces had been smashed. They found no evidence of the crew, living or dead.
The bridge was broad and dim because of the rime of salt on the windows. Again, they found nobody, but on the chart table behind the helm was a piece of paper that had been placed in a plastic sleeve and heavily taped in place.
Lugones used a combat knife to cut the paper free and handed it to his superior.
Espinoza read aloud: “ ‘To anyone who finds this, we were forced to abandon the Norego when the pumps failed and the sea poured through a breach in the hull caused by a rogue wave. Chief Engineer Scott did everything in his considerable power, but they would not restart. The decision was not an easy one to make. These are treacherous waters far from any shore. But a floating lifeboat is better than a sinking ship. I pray for my men. If we don’t make it, please tell my wife that I love her and our boys very much. It is safe to assume that goes for all the men and their families.’
“It’s signed ‘Captain John Darling of the Proxy Freight Line,’ and, get this, it’s dated January of last year. This old girl’s been adrift for twenty months.”
“Think the crew was rescued?” Lugones asked.
Espinoza shook his head. “No idea. I’m wondering why the ship didn’t sink. For a captain to abandon his vessel, he should be damned sure of his reason. I want to check the engineering spaces.”
It took several minutes and more than a few wrong turns to find a stairwell that led down into the guts of the ship. As soon as Jimenez pulled the door open, a six-inch surge of icy water washed over their boots. Lugones trained his light into the stairwell. It was completely flooded. The water was thick with oil and flashed rainbow spectrums at them.
“That answers that,” the Sergeant said. “She’s flooded, all right.”
“I wonder what she was carrying.” Jimenez mused. “If I remember my salvage law, whoever finds her gets to keep not only the ship but her cargo.”
“And when did you study salvage law?” Espinoza asked sarcastically.
“Okay. I saw something on TV about it.”
“Tuck your larcenous hands back in your pockets. We’re soldiers, not scrap dealers. More than likely, this heap will drift off again at the next high tide or when another storm brews up.”
“Think we should pop some more holes in her to make sure she sinks for real this time?”
Espinoza considered Lugones’s question. “You know what? No. Let her keep wandering. If she’s survived this long, more power to her.”
A DECK BELOW WHERE the three men stood, Juan Cabrillo relaxed back into his chair. He hadn’t thought the Argentine Major, whose face he was beginning to see in his dreams, had a romantic side. That had been his one main concern—that they would use the Oregon for target practice. These soldiers were once boys who probably liked to blow stuff up. The only difference is, now they had plastique explosives rather than firecrackers. The crew had defeated the thermal imaging by cutting the heat to the “public” parts of the ship, lowering the temperature in the rest, and letting the flooded ballast tanks shield them from the scan. The trick with the flooded staircase had been accomplished by simply closing the bottom hatch and pumping in some bilgewater.
Cabrillo looked over at Max Hanley, who was shaking his head. “What?” he said. “I told you I could hide the ship right on their doorstep.”
“This doesn’t count,” Max groused.
“The more outrageous the lie, the more easily it’s accepted. By rights, they should be suspicious as hell, and look at them. They called off the search after ten minutes, and our good Major is practically in tears.”