Golden Buddha (Oregon Files 1)

WITH magnetohydrodynamics engines powering the Oregon, there was no need to slow down to change directions on the drives. There were no shafts to twist, no props to bend, no gears to strip. The water jets from the stern came out of a rectangular shaft with a scoop on the end that could be diverted like the thrust of a Harrier jet engine to the fore or to the rear. With the push of a few buttons, one of the propulsion engineers could divert the flow of one engine forward and one back and the Oregon would almost pivot on her keel, so long as the speeds were kept below thirty knots. Such an abrupt maneuver made for a rough ride—the ship would kneel over and the gunwales would dip almost into the water—but the Corporation had done it more than once. Other than a few broken dishes and other objects being tossed around, the Oregon had been none the worse for the wear.

The engineer plotted in a turn-radius profile on the computer that resembled a U-turn. Then he alerted the control room that they were ready. Once the ship commander gave the order, the engineer simply pushed a button and held on to a nearby table as the Oregon threaded herself across the surface of the water as if she were on rails. Down in the engine room, Sam Pryor glanced over at Gunther Reinholt, who had just disconnected his IV and was sipping from a cup of strong coffee after inputting the command for the turn.

“Elementary, Mr. Reinholt,” Pryor said, smiling.

“Indubitably, Mr. Pryor,” Reinholt said.

Both men stared at the lying-down U-shaped track on the computer screen for a second.

“Mr. Chairman,” Reinholt said over the intercom, “we’re ready when you are.”

“WE’RE going to do a fast turn and bunch up the three ships chasing us,” Cabrillo said over a scrambled radio link. “You will need to take out the pair of cruisers fast so the Zodiacs can slow before they run up on the stern of the frigate.”

“Understand,” Adams said.

“We’ll alert Seng and Kasim to slow as soon as the cruisers are disabled.”

“I’ll blow all the ordnance of the port pod on the lead cruiser,” Adams said, “and the starboard on the following craft. That should stop them cold.”

“Do your best to hit them in the sterns,” Cabrillo said. “If possible, we want to keep casualties to a minimum.”

AT almost the same instant that the lead harbor police patrol boat caught sight of Kasim’s Zodiac in the lessening fog, the lookout also reported a helicopter approaching from out to sea. Adams had turned and looped the R-44 around to intercept the lead boat straight on her rear quarter. Placing the crosshairs on the firing screen on the rear third of the forty-six-foot aluminum ship, Adams flipped a switch so all the missiles were targeted to the same spot just above the waterline.

Then he took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger.

The lookout caught a quick glimpse of the bubble canopy of the helicopter a second before the port weapons pod erupted with a volley of four missiles. The missiles were small—only slightly thicker than a man’s arm—but their noses were packed with high explosives. With a six-foot plume of fire belching from the rear, the missiles raced across the gap and slammed into the side of the lead cruiser and severed the bow from the stern as easily as a machete through a pineapple.

The captain just had time to sound the alarm to abandon ship before the bow started sinking.

“NOW, Mr. Reinholt,” Cabrillo said as an alarm sounded throughout the ship.

Reinholt reached up to the console and pushed a red button, then took hold of the table next to him in a death grip. The Oregon keeled over and started to turn. It was as if the ship were on the track of a roller coaster. The g forces were severe. Everyone in the ship clutched the nearest immovable object and bent their knees like mogul skiers on a gnarly slope. A few moments later, the Oregon came out of the fallen U and rolled upright again.

Lincoln, sitting in a tall fire control chair with a seat belt across his lap, shouted, “Yeah, baby.”

“We’ll pass abreast of the hydrofoil in twenty seconds,” Hanley said.

“Hit them in the pontoon, Mr. Lincoln,” Cabrillo said.

“WHAT the—” Ching started to say as he watched the massive cargo ship change directions. “Hard a’ port,” he ordered.

But before the order could be carried out, the Oregon was almost alongside them.

“ E VERYWHERE I go, I’m just a gigolo…,” Lincoln sang as he lined up his target and fired.

The missile battery on the bow of the Oregon popped up and rotated toward the target. Now, at Lincoln’s command, a pair of Harpoon missiles burst from their launchers and streaked across the distance. They slammed into the thin slab-sided pontoon that reached down into the water and blew it off as cleanly as a guillotine would a finger.

The Gale Force was still making fast forward speed when she was hit. Once the pontoon allowing her to ride up above the waterline disappeared, her main deck lurched to the side, then began to topple over. She didn’t quite flip over on her back—it was more of a crippled disintegration into the water. The helmsman managed to place the engines in neutral before she flipped, and that saved lives if not the ship.

A minute after being hit, the Gale Force had her decks awash and she was rapidly sinking.

Captain Deng Ching was bleeding from his nose and mouth after slamming into the command console. He was in a daze from pain. The second in command gave the order to abandon ship.

“A helicopter just attacked,” the captain of the rapidly sinking harbor police boat shouted into a portable radio as he climbed into the emergency raft. “Our boat is sinking.”

“Understood,” the captain of the second harbor boat said. “We’ll come pick you up.”

“I’ll shoot a flare.”