Piranha (11 page)

The ship also featured hatches that could be blown away to fire Exocet antiship missiles and cruise missiles for land targets, and Russian-made torpedoes could be launched from tubes below the waterline. Surface-to-air missiles were at the ready in case the chopper pilot didn't take the hint.

They hadn't battle-tested their newest weapon system yet, a one-hundred-barrel multi-cannon based on a design by a company called Metal Storm. Unlike the Gatling gun's six rotating barrels that fired a stream of rounds fed by a belt, the Metal Storm firing system was completely electronic, so there were no moving parts, making jams impossible. Rounds were loaded into the grid of barrels so that the projectiles lined up nose to tail. The electronic control allowed for a precise firing sequence that made the Gatling gun's rate of three thousand rounds per minute seem pokey. With each barrel of the Metal Storm gun firing simultaneously at forty-five thousand rounds per minute, the entire weapon could pump out tungsten slugs at a staggering rate of four and a half million rounds per minute.

“The helicopter is turning around,” Hali said.

Juan wasn't surprised. The latest shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile would seem like just the kind of weapon to be used by a spy ship with small arms and RPGs, so the pilot was wise to keep his distance. He would have no way of knowing that the
Oregon
's missiles were orders of magnitude more potent.

“Let us know if he changes his mind, Mr. Kasim.”

The next twenty minutes passed without incident. The three islets they were heading toward curled around one another in two-mile-long angular ridges jutting from the sea. They lay directly across from a pair of uninhabited peninsulas. The islets were so close together that the spans of water between them were barely longer than the
Oregon
.

When Isla Caraca del Oeste was off their port bow, Hali called out, “Surface contact! Bearing one-six-eight at ten miles out. It's the
Mariscal Sucre
. She must have her engines running flat out.”

With the
Oregon
in full view, the frigate's next action was predictable, but even so, Hali's next words got Juan's attention.

“I have a missile launch!”

Juan leaned forward in his chair, his eyes on the map displayed on the front screen that showed a red blip racing toward the symbol for the
Oregon
. A video feed next to the map showed the image from one of the deck cameras. The missile wasn't yet visible, but it would be soon.

“Wepps, time to impact?”

“Fifty-two seconds,” Murph said. The missile's cruising velocity was just below the speed of sound.

“Ready the Metal Storm battery. Let's see what it can do. But spool up the aft Gatling gun just in case.”

The Metal Storm multi-cannon rose into firing position from its hiding place behind the stern-most hold. The plate covering the Gatling gun flew open and the barrels spun up to firing speed.

“Both weapons have a radar lock on the missile,” Murph announced.

“Remember,” Juan said, “don't fire until it's only six hundred yards out.” That would only be two seconds before impact.

“Ready and waiting,” came Murph's confident reply. “The system is programmed to fire automatically at that distance.”

On the front screen, a dot of fire bloomed in the night sky, growing brighter with each passing second as it skimmed low over the water. When the missile reached the six-hundred-yard mark, the Metal Storm battery fired without Murph having to lift his finger from the Gatling gun safety.

The Gatling would have taken ten seconds to fire five hundred rounds. The Metal Storm unleashed that many rounds in less than the blink of an eye. In fact, it was so fast that on the video feed it seemed to emit a single flash, accompanied by a sound like a jackhammer echoing through the ship.

The missile didn't stand a chance. Murph had programmed the Metal Storm to fire the rounds so that they formed an impenetrable wall of tungsten in midair. The Otomat met the rounds three hundred yards from the
Oregon
's stern and exploded in a fireball that temporarily overloaded the deck camera's imaging system and blanked out the screen.

Despite the missile's destruction, the
Oregon
didn't come out unscathed. When the image of the outside deck returned, it showed a massive fire raging.

Admiral Dayana Ruiz smiled at the ship blazing on the horizon. The missile had done its job and the
Dolos
slowed to a crawl.

“Shall we finish them off, Admiral?” Captain Escobar asked. His face was bathed in red from the battle lights on the bridge of the
Mariscal Sucre
.

Ruiz lowered her binoculars. “No. I want to capture the ship intact. Well, as intact as it will be if they are able to extinguish the fire.”

“At our present speed, we will intercept them in fifteen minutes.”

“Hail them.”

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.”

“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.

Escobar relayed the command. The frigate was shaken by the thunderous blast of the cannon firing its seventy-pound shell. The first round was followed by three more in quick succession.

Their view of the freighter was blocked by the islet's rugged terrain, so they would only be able to see the effect of the shots. Rounds that splashed into the ocean wouldn't be visible. Only if the target were hit would they see the flash of a fireball.

The frigate's weapons officer counted down the time to impact. The opening shot landed without effect. The second round likewise missed. When the third round fell with no apparent impact, Ruiz could see perspiration dripping from Escobar's brow.

The last round, however, made up for the misses: a bright flare briefly illuminated the clouds from beneath. The bridge erupted in cheers.

“Excellent shooting, Captain,” Ruiz said. “I will be adding a commendation to your report.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

“Now get us around the island. I want to see if there's anything left for us to salvage. Examining the wreckage may reveal who is behind their mission. And I still want to question any survivors. At dawn we'll get the helicopter into the air to see if anyone made it onto one of the islands.”

In five minutes, the frigate came around the northwest point of Isla Caraca del Oeste, revealing the
Dolos
motionless in the channel between the neighboring islands.

The
spy freighter would be going nowhere. Fire had extended to the entire back half of the ship, making it easy to see that the bridge superstructure had been destroyed by the frigate's shell.

Ruiz was disappointed. She couldn't imagine that the captain who had given her so much trouble had abandoned his post. He must have died on the bridge. They'd be lucky to find anything left of him.

“Your orders, Admiral?” Escobar asked.

“There's nothing to do but wait,” she replied. “It's only a matter of time now.”

Ruiz knew very well the sight of a vessel in its death throes.

Juan felt a stab of regret at seeing the ship aflame. The familiar outline made the sight even more poignant, but she had served her purpose and now they had to leave her behind.

“Be sure to keep the islets between us and the frigate until we're out of radar range, Mr. Stone,” Juan said.

“Aye, Chairman,” Eric replied. “Shouldn't be too hard. The
Mariscal Sucre
doesn't appear to be moving.”

“I don't think she's going anywhere,” Max said. “Ruiz is like an arsonist watching her handiwork burn.”

“Then let's show her the grand finale. Mr. Murphy, ready the fireworks.”

Murph rubbed his hands together in glee. “With pleasure, Chairman.”

Just as they had planned, Ruiz thought she was looking at the
Oregon
burning and adrift when it was really dashing northeast across the Caribbean at more than forty-five knots. The video feed on the front view screen proved their success in fooling Ruiz. The image being sent from a tiny drone circling the warship at a safe distance confirmed that it was stationary. If she hadn't been deceived, it would have shown the frigate in hot pursuit.

Although the mission commissioned by the CIA was to sabotage the tanker diesel fuel bound for North Korea and to recover evidence of the Venezuelan arms smuggling operation, Juan saw it as a good opportunity to add a third objective: regain their anonymity.

For the last few years, they'd gotten into scrapes around the world with various Third World countries and battled the occasional naval vessel, sinking a few of them along the way. No incident in isolation was enough to reveal the
Oregon
's hidden purpose and identity, but the rumors had started to make the rounds that there was some kind of spy ship cruising the seas of the world, although the stories conflicted radically on what the ship was called and what she looked like. But Juan and his officers agreed that it was only a matter of time before someone would make the connection and blow their cover. Which meant they needed to take action that would not only convince everyone this mythical spy ship was crewed by nothing more potent than a ragtag bunch of mercenaries but also that it was no longer a threat because it was at the bottom of the ocean.

Juan had gotten the brainstorm for how to do it when he learned that the
Oregon
's only surviving sister ship was scheduled to be scrapped. Before being rebuilt as a technological marvel, the
Oregon
had been a sturdy lumber hauler, carrying loads between the Pacific Northwest and Asia. Four other ships of the same design were constructed, but service lives had ended for all but the
Washington
, which continued to ply the waters around her namesake state, ferrying supplies to Alaska.

When the
Washington
was headed for the scrapyard, the Corporation bought her for a pittance, setting Juan's plan in motion. His crew had spent the past week altering her appearance so that the
Washington
and the
Oregon
would appear identical. They also filled her hold with the ammonium nitrate fertilizer that was supposed to be inside the
Oregon
. Then they'd moved the
Washington
to her anchorage nestled among the isolated Islas Caracas and left Eric Stone and Mark Murphy behind so that they could make the final preparations.

The part of the mission to regain anonymity had all been meticulously planned to lure one of the Venezuelan frigates into battle. Eddie Seng's trickery had ensured that harbormaster Manuel Lozada would report the
Oregon
's arrival to his superiors in the Navy, and Eddie stayed glued to Lozada so that he could apprise Max of the Venezuelans' activities. Langston Overholt, their CIA connection, kept them informed about the location of Venezuelan warships via satellite observation. The
Mariscal Sucre
was the closest frigate on patrol, so they knew their target would be coming from the west.

After getting the intel about the smuggling operation, it was just a matter of baiting the frigate to the desolate islands where the
Washington
was hidden.

Like the squibs Kevin Nixon had designed for Eddie's staged shooting, Murph had created his own giant squibs for the
Oregon
. At the moment the Metal Storm battery had neutralized the incoming missile, close enough to the ship to make Ruiz think it had hit, Murph simultaneously activated explosives on the deck of the
Oregon
as well as preset gas jets that simulated the look of a raging fire while posing no actual danger to the ship. He assured Juan that the paint wouldn't even be charred.

The
Washington
, however, wouldn't be as fortunate. With Eric's help, Murph had covered her deck with canisters that would spew jellied gasoline when they were detonated, mimicking the fake fire on the
Oregon
. Additional explosives were rigged throughout the ship including the bridge superstructure.

Juan had idled the
Oregon
's engines until the frigate was close enough to use her gun, floating at a spot that would quickly put them in the lee of Isla Caraca del Oeste after she got under way again. Once the island shielded them, Juan ramped her up to full throttle, knowing that the
Mariscal Sucre
would target
Oregon
's presumed position based on the slower speed they'd been sustaining. The shells fell harmlessly in their wake. When the last one plunged into the water, Murph activated the explosives on the deck of the
Washington
.

Juan thought the odds were even between the
Mariscal Sucre
following them into the channel or intercepting them on the other side and he had to be sure which way to go, backward or forward, to be out of visual and radar range by the time the frigate spotted the
Washington
in flames. George “Gomez” Adams was the ace up his sleeve that made the decision easy.

Gomez, who got the nickname because he'd once been the paramour of a woman who was a dead ringer for the original Morticia from
The Addams Family
TV show, was the
Oregon
's resident helicopter pilot. The ship carried an MD 520N chopper secreted within the aft hold that could be raised into launch position within ten minutes, but this night Gomez was seated comfortably in the op center.

In addition to his duties as a rotary-aircraft pilot, Gomez was also their most skilled drone operator. The
Oregon
was equipped with an array of UAVs for aerial reconnaissance and Juan had ordered one launched as the frigate approached. The off-the-shelf design with a four-foot wingspan had been modified by Max to carry a gimbaled high-definition video camera whose signal was linked back to the
Oregon
. Gomez, sporting a mustache that would have made Wyatt Earp proud, and blessed with looks so striking that Murph had once suggested that they have a shipwide “handsome-off” between him and MacD, stared at his monitor as he expertly guided the drone just above the wave tops to keep it below the
Mariscal Sucre
's radar.

Thanks to their eye in the sky, they'd watched the frigate race to the northern side of the island, so Juan ordered full reverse and the
Oregon
made it out of the channel and behind the next island well before the
Mariscal Sucre
came into view.

“Gomez,” Juan said, “bring it around so we have a good shot of the
Washington
.”

“No problem.” The drone turned smartly. The running lights on the
Mariscal Sucre
were visible behind the blazing cargo freighter. “How's that for an artistic shot?”

“You'd make Spielberg proud. What's your distance?”

“Three miles.”

“That should be far enough. I can't say the same for the
Mariscal Sucre
, but that's their problem. They know what the cargo is. Are you set, Mr. Murphy?”

“Say the word,” Murph replied, his finger at the ready.

“Do it.”

Murph punched the button.

Explosives carefully placed beside the ammonium nitrate inside the hold of the
Washington
detonated, setting off a chain reaction within the fertilizer. A cataclysmic ball of fire bloomed silently on-screen. The ship was ripped apart by the blast and cleaved in two. Pieces of her hull pelted the neighboring islands. Only her broken keel would be left to settle on the seafloor, leaving little to examine even if the Venezuelans sent a dive team down to investigate. As far as they knew, the ship that had blown up was the
Dolos
, and no proof would be left to indicate otherwise.

To Juan, it was like watching the
Oregon
herself sink, and the pang of regret returned. At least it was a nobler end for the
Washington
than to be cut apart and sold for scrap.

A minor tsunami washed up on the islet shores and rushed toward the
Mariscal Sucre
, which was rocking back and forth from the explosive concussion. Seconds later, the drone bobbed drunkenly.

Gomez struggled to maintain control. “Man, that was bigger than I expected.” He pulled the drone up and leveled out. No doubt the frigate wouldn't be paying much attention to its radar signature, if their radar array had even survived the blast.

Gomez kept the camera trained on the frigate. There was no movement.

“Well, I bet that woke them up,” Max said.

“And blew out their eardrums,” Juan said. “I'd be surprised if any of their bridge windows are still intact.”

“If they go anywhere, it'll be back to port for repairs.”

“I agree. But Gomez, keep an eye on them until we're thirty miles out. Then ditch the UAV.”

“You got it.”

The hull clanged as the shock wave from the blast now fifteen miles away reached them.

“Max, change us back to the
Oregon
. The
Dolos
has served us well, but we'll consign her name to the sea.”

“Gladly.”

The name on the fantail could be changed at a moment's notice using its magnetized panel, which could be programmed with any name and font they chose. At the press of a button, Max deactivated the magnets and the iron filings clinging to the fantail fell away. He remagnetized the filings and nozzles sprayed them into place, spelling out
Oregon
. Once they were in the open ocean and away from the shipping lanes, the crew would repaint the hull in a new decayed pattern and color, deck equipment would be rearranged, phony cargo pallets would be added, and the second funnel would be removed, completely altering the silhouette of the ship. The
Oregon
would steam into the next port looking nothing like the
Dolos
.

“Good work, everyone,” Juan said. “I'd say we just bought ourselves a few more years of anonymity. Drinks are on me next shore leave.”

“I hear that,” Max said. “For this bunch, it's gonna cost you.”

“Happy to do it. Mr. Stone, once we're out of radar range, set a course to pick up the Discovery.”

“Wait'll they see the video,” Murph said. “MacD and Trono will be sorry they missed it.”

Juan walked over to Murph and handed him Lieutenant Dominguez's phone memory card.

“Before you show off your pyrotechnic skills, the first priority for you and Eric is to decrypt this.”

Murph turned it over in his hands. “It feels damp.”

“I had it in my pocket when I went into the drink. Linc has a laptop for you as well, but that should be nice and dry.”

“Too bad,” Murph said. “I like a challenge.”

“I have a hunch our new friend Admiral Ruiz doesn't want us to find out what's on this memory card. I want to know what else she's up to.”