Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

“Prepare to abandon the Deering,” Schultz said. “Release the schooner’s anchors before you return to the Bremen.”

“Jawohl.”

With the sails still set, the Deering would continue on, so the cutter would have no reason to investigate the unusual sight of a stationary ship in open water.

His men efficiently carried out their tasks, and Schultz was the last to disembark as the Deering began to move. He was met on the Bremen’s conning tower by Horváth.

“This might be an interesting opportunity to test the Irre Waffe on a warship,” the Hungarian said hopefully.

“We’ve already pushed our luck, Herr Doktor,” Schultz replied. “Let’s return home and enjoy our rewards.”

Horváth looked disappointed, but nodded.

When the Bremen was buttoned up and Schultz was back in the control room, he ordered the U-boat to dive. He raised the periscope and watched the cutter approach until she abruptly turned north.

Schultz turned to see the schooner receding into the distance, the words CARROLL A. DEERING, BATH etched in white on her black fantail. She would likely be ripped apart by the storm, but even if she weren’t, there was no evidence that the U-boat had ever been in contact with her. The Deering’s missing crew would forever remain a mystery.

Schultz lowered the periscope and said, “Set a course due south. Back to base.”

That drew a raucous cheer from the crew, but Schultz was contemplating where they’d go next after they sold off the current load of cargo. With the Bremen’s range of twenty thousand miles, it really could be anywhere.

The entire earth was their hunting ground.

1

THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

PRESENT DAY

Jack Perry stared in amazement at the approaching cargo ship. He wondered not only how it had made the voyage thousands of miles from South Africa, but also how it stayed afloat in the first place.

With the afternoon sun behind him, Perry had a good view of the decrepit vessel. The peeling hull was painted in so many different hideous shades of green that it looked like a collage of rotting avocados. Gaps in the deck railing were patched together by rusty chains, and the five cranes were so dilapidated that they seemed capable of collapsing at any moment. The bridge windows on the dingy white superstructure set two-thirds of the way toward the stern were so caked with dust that Perry couldn’t see the crew inside.

He shook his head in disgust at the ancient steamer called the Portland. Why his employers back in Virginia would trust such an important operation to this rickety ship was far above his pay grade. When he had the freight safely transferred over to his own container carrier, he’d breathe much easier.

The Mantícora wasn’t a fancy ship by any means, but she had to be fifty years newer than the Portland. The bridge where Perry was standing was set near the bow, and she was smaller. Designed as a containership for smaller ports, the Mantícora had two recently overhauled cranes.

Perry turned to the captain and said in Spanish, “Make sure we lift the containers aboard using our cranes, not theirs.”

“Sí, señor,” the captain replied as he eyed the Portland with contempt. “I wouldn’t trust those cranes to carry a feather pillow.”

“How long will the transfer take?”

The captain looked at the bridge clock, which read 14:17. “Once you complete the transaction with the Portland’s captain, it shouldn’t take more than an hour to haul four containers over and secure them.”

“And when will we arrive in Nicaragua?”

“There’s no significant weather expected along the route to slow us down, so less than a week.”

“Good. Then let’s get this over with.”

Perry left the bridge and climbed a rope ladder down to the lifeboat that had been lowered into the water. The Portland was now stationary two hundred yards off the starboard bow of the Mantícora. Perry couldn’t be sure, but he thought the creaky ship was listing slightly. He didn’t relish getting on her, but he had to check the cargo to make sure they were getting what they’d ordered.

When the lifeboat reached the Portland, he climbed aboard and was greeted by a man in his fifties with thinning gray hair tied back in a ponytail and a gut that threatened to pop the buttons on his Hawaiian shirt. His khaki pants were stained with grease, oil coated his boots, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

The man stuck out a hand and smiled. “Chester Knight is my name. I’m the master of this fine ship.” His New England accent made him sound like he was straight off a Gloucester swordfish boat.

Perry nearly recoiled, not wanting to get his clean clothes anywhere near the man, but he shook it anyway. The man’s grip was surprisingly strong.