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Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

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Captain Holland—or whatever his real name was—answered. “Calling to gloat?” She could hear coughing in the background, no doubt from the smoke pouring through the ship.

“You see now that you had no chance from the beginning,” Ruiz said. “Surrender and I’ll promise leniency for your crew.”

“We’re not done yet.”

“Captain, your ship is on fire. It will either sink or the fertilizer in your hold will detonate. Think of your men.”

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“It’s nothing that a new coat of paint won’t fix.”

“I admire your resilience, Captain, but you must realize that your position is hopeless.”

“We’ll see about that.” The line went dead.

“He’s a stubborn bastard,” Escobar said.

“If he were in this Navy, I’d either bust him for insubordination or give him command of an entire squadron.” Ruiz saw much of herself in her adversary. It would be interesting to see if his composure continued once he was in the brig at Puerto Cabello Naval Base.

The frigate carved through the swells for ten minutes until it was just three miles away from the target, which was lingering just south of the closest islet. It was apparent that the effort to fight the fire wasn’t going well. The fantail was still ablaze.

“We’ll wait here,” Ruiz said, and Escobar brought the frigate to a halt. Any closer and they’d risk being damaged if the Dolos exploded.

Ruiz ordered a boarding party to be organized. If the captain changed his mind and decided to surrender, she wanted to be ready. That is, if he could save his ship.

“Are there any rafts in the water?” The blaze should have made it easy to spot them despite the darkness.

“None that we can see, Admiral,” Escobar said. “Their crew must still be attempting to put out the fire.”

“They’re fooling themselves. It looks to me as if the flames have spread. It’s only a matter of time before it reaches the cargo.”

“Admiral!” the radar operator cried out. “The enemy ship is moving.”

“What?” Ruiz rushed over to his console. Sure enough, the Dolos was moving away.

“Speed?”

“Fifteen knots and accelerating. She’s rounding the southern point of the island and heading into the channel between Isla Caraca del Oeste and Ilsa Caraca del Este.”

“Their engines seemed to be out of commission,” Escobar said. “How did the crew get them fixed so fast?”

“It doesn’t matter. Prepare to fire the main gun.”

“But she’s hidden behind the nearest island.”

She felt like she was talking to a child. “Use their trajectory and speed to anticipate their position and fire over the island. Impress me.”

“Should we follow?”

She paused as she considered the proper pursuit course. Following them through the tiny strait was hazardous. And if the gun didn’t find its target, she wanted to be between them and the open sea.

“No,” she said. “Plot an intercept course around the island. We’ll head them off in the event that I’m not impressed.”

The Mariscal Sucre accelerated to flank speed in its dash north. The forward turret slewed around to starboard, its gears whining as the 127mm gun rose to aim in a high arc.

“We have the trajectory locked in,” Escobar said.

“Fire,” she said calmly as her heart pounded.



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