Piranha (Oregon Files 10)

When Linc radioed with the news about the sub controller, Juan told him to warn the Oregon to be on the lookout for any subs. But without any intel on them, he didn’t know if they would be able to spot them or outrun them. He had to get the controller away from Dominguez and deactivate the subs.

Eddie had circled around behind the dump truck where Dominguez was hiding. Juan was waiting behind it in the shadow of another truck’s fender. Eddie prepared to flush Dominguez out.

“I’m in position,” Juan whispered into his radio.

“So am I,” Eddie replied.

Juan unloaded half his magazine into the side of the truck’s enormous bed. Dominguez and another man poked their eyes above the lip and returned fire. At the same time, Eddie used the distraction and noise to climb into the cab. He activated the bed’s hydraulic lift.

With a whine, it started to raise. Juan was hoping Dominguez would scrabble to stay in the truck, but he jumped over the side near Juan while the other gunman went over the opposite side. Eddie would have to take care of that guy.

Juan sprinted after Dominguez on the angled deck. He could see the controller device in the lieutenant’s hand, its screen illuminated. Dominguez stopped to turn and fire at Juan, but his footing failed him and he lurched to catch himself.

Juan tackled Dominguez, sending their weapons flying. The two of them locked together in a vise grip and tumbled until Juan’s back hit the tread of another bulldozer, knocking the wind out of him. But in their fall he’d snatched the controller from Dominguez’s hand.

Juan could see three dots on a grid. Two of them were side by side and labeled “Ciudad Bolívar” and “Bahia Blanco,” which had to be the fishing trawler. The third dot was labeled “Unknown.” It had to be the Oregon. Crosshairs hovered over it.

Dominguez drew his knife from a hip sheath. Not wanting to drop the controller, Juan blocked the knife with one hand while he kept hold of the device with the other. That left an opening for Dominguez’s other hand to squeeze Juan’s neck, cutting off his air.

Juan was intent on the controller. Dominguez had his knee atop Juan’s arm, but he could still move his hand. His fingers shook as he moved his thumb to “Bahia Blanco.” He tapped once and the crosshairs now centered on the trawler. An on-screen button said “Confirm target.” Juan pressed it and with a flick of his wrist tossed the controller away. It slid down the deck and out of sight.

With his free hand he jammed his thumb into Dominguez’s left eye. Dominguez released the grip on his neck and yelped. Now that he could breathe, Juan whipped the knife around and shoved the blade into Dominguez’s chest. The lieutenant gasped in shock, then with a final choking wheeze he fell on his side.

Juan got to his feet in time to see Eddie approach.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Juan nodded at the limp body.

“Mine is history, too. The Oregon?”

“Safe. But the trawler should be heading to the bottom any moment.”

“Then there’s no one l

eft to answer why someone wanted to keep us from saving this ship.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with the Ciudad Bolívar,” Juan said. “I think whoever sent those Haitian assassins in Jamaica didn’t want us to find out about the subs. When we recover them, we’ll get some answers.”

Juan and the others got up on deck in time to see the smoking ruins of the fishing trawler slip beneath the waves. Max told him that the trawler had exploded, possibly when one of the subs lanced into a fuel line. It was long past sunset. The Oregon swept the sea with searchlights but found no surviving crew.

They left the bodies of Dominguez and the others where they were on the car carrier. Because the incident happened in international waters on a ship owned by a Venezuelan company but flagged in Panama, jurisdiction was hazy at best. Any investigation would likely be carried out by the insurer, but all of the viable evidence would lead back to the Venezuelan Navy.

Gomez had the MD 520N fuel tank patched up and he ferried the five of them back to the Oregon, which had been temporarily renamed the Norego in case they were still around when other rescue ships arrived.

After Maria’s injuries were tended to, Juan suggested that she change into a fresh set of clothes and go to the public mess hall for food and coffee. He then joined Max and Murph on deck to oversee the retrieval of the subs.

Three of them had survived the explosion and were floating on the surface, awaiting their next command. Juan had searched for the controller, but it seemed to have been lost in the standing water in the Ciudad Bolívar’s hold. The car carrier was still listing, but it was stable for now.

Juan studied the subs with binoculars while his crew readied the crane to haul them up. The sleek design made them look like tiny jet fighters, with short wings, a rudder, a water intake on the front end and an exhaust port at the stern. The subs were topped with a dorsal protrusion that housed whatever was used to anchor it to the hull and cut through it. A short antenna jutted from the body to receive the controller’s instructions.

“I can’t wait to take one of those babies apart,” Max said, rubbing his hands together with glee. “I might be able to build one for ourselves. You never know when it could come in handy.”

“Have you ever seen a design like that?”

“No, but it seems way too sophisticated for the Venezuelans to create. I’m guessing they bought it from the Chinese or Russians.”

“Or they stole it,” said Murph, who was taking photographs of the floating subs. “When I was a systems developer, we had to assess potential technologies for the military. One was an underwater stealth drone for attacking ships, but it was barely on the drawing board when I left. These could be based on that design.”

“If they’re based on American technology,” Max said, “the CIA is going to want them back. I predict Langston Overholt is going to be writing a big check in the near future.” Juan had to agree that this discovery would be riveting news for his old CIA mentor and liaison.