Chapter 3
Aboard the Oregon
Present Day
Juan Cabrillo’s eyes popped open. He was tangled up in a twisted heap of sweaty sheets on his luxurious king-size bed.
His eyes still bleary from a fitful sleep, he stared at the coffered ceiling for a moment as he sought his bearings.
The spinning blades of the ceiling fan provided a whisper of cleansing air that finally cleared his mind.
He suddenly remembered he was in his cabin.
Cabrillo normally didn’t suffer the nightly terrors haunting men who had spent years in desperate close-quarters combat, reliving each harrowing encounter snatching away an opponent’s life.
He slept well because his conscience was clear.
He hated killing and did it only when necessary—and never out of anger or revenge.
He had been taught as a child that even a crazed assassin bore the image of his Maker, even if that image was marred and desecrated by evil.
Cabrillo was merely the instrument that made the introductions between them and God sooner than the bad guys had planned.
But the Colombian mission was different. He couldn’t shake the regret of having failed. He could still smell the charred timbers and feel the searing heat on his skin. But it was the distant screams of the woman trapped in the burning hut still ringing in his ears.
He hadn’t thought of her for many years, and why this nightmare had come back to him now, he didn’t know. He willed away her keening cries until they finally faded.
Cabrillo checked the analog clock on the mantle.
It was early evening. He had taken the overnight shift to give the scheduled crew a much-needed break from their normal routine.
The Oregon had been on extended duty for some time now.
No one complained, and they all did their jobs.
But Cabrillo could see the fatigue in their eyes.
They needed a break, and the scheduled trip to their private vacation island was still a few days away.
After Cabrillo’s overnight shift was completed, he headed to the Olympic-size pool in the ship’s converted ballast tank and put in a solid five miles before heading up to his cabin.
He had a mountain of paperwork to sort through before he hit the rack and was glad when he finally crawled into bed.
Now it felt like a net. Time to get moving.
Cabrillo untangled himself from his silken sheets and sat up. He had showered after his swim, but now he was slick with sweat and needed to rinse off. He pulled up his prosthetic swim leg from the floor and fitted it on before heading to the shower, a custom affair like the rest of his cabin.
Every member of the Oregon crew received an allowance for the design of their private quarters, one of the many perks of working for the Corporation.
The hard-charging crew spent months away from shore-bound family and friends.
Cabrillo rewarded that sacrifice with Cordon Bleu–trained chefs, world-class workout facilities, and luxury quarters.
Cabrillo had chosen for himself an exact replica of Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca, his favorite.
Every stick of furniture and artwork, from the ceiling fans down to the handwoven Persian carpets on the floor, were period accurate.
And all of that was thanks to Kevin Nixon’s Magic Shop.
Cabrillo blasted himself with hot water as he lathered up with his favorite soap, then scrubbed away the briny perspiration that clung to him like his troubled dream. He rinsed off by slamming the lever to icy cold to shock his system, a daily war against the temptations of comfort and complacency.
After a quick toweling, he headed for his dressing room and swapped his swim leg for a dressing leg that not only perfectly matched the color and texture of his skin but even featured a spray of his own fine blond hair carefully placed one shaft at a time.
Re-legged, he pulled on a pair of linen shorts, a tropical shirt, and a pair of calfskin loafers.
Just as the second loafer slipped over his heel, a message rang in the overhead speakers.
“Chairman, do you read me?” Max Hanley asked.
He was the number two in the Corporation.
Cabrillo and Max were the ones who originally designed and converted the original Oregon, a broken-down lumber hauler, into the world’s most advanced combat and intelligence-gathering vessel.
In the years since, they had brought her through several iterations, including the current one, the best yet.
Max’s natural command abilities as a former swift boat captain played an important role in the smooth operation of the Oregon in or out of combat when Cabrillo was otherwise unavailable.
But the truth of the matter was that Max’s first love was engineering, and in particular, the magnetohydrodynamic engines he designed for the Oregon.
“Loud and clear,” Juan said. “Is there a problem?” It was unlike Max to call down to Cabrillo’s cabin in his off-duty hours.
“I need you to come down to the engine room. We’ve got a situation.”
Cabrillo frowned. There were few problems Max Hanley couldn’t handle on his own, especially in the engine compartment.
Hanley had also recruited a handpicked, highly experienced engineering crew, all former military like most of the Oregon personnel.
For Max to call him into the mix meant there was something serious going on.
And if the engines were down, the Oregon was dead in the water.
Powered by stripping free electrons from the ocean with powerful supercooled magnets, the Oregon’s revolutionary engines not only drove the boat but powered every other electronic component on the vessel including radar, weapons, sick bay, and the Cray supercomputer.
He suddenly realized the absence of the low thrum of the purring engines, a minimal but constant background noise on the ship.
“I’m on my way.”
★
The polished brass elevator doors slid open.
Cabrillo stepped out into the hallway belowdecks, his perfect gait showing no indication of his reliance upon the artificial leg.
That perfect gait was a function of both the prosthetic’s custom design and years of dedicated physical training.
Juan kept physically fit through a wide regimen of weight lifting, wall climbing, and martial arts, but his primary strength and endurance came from countless hours of swimming.
He was as fit as any of the younger special operator Gundogs in his command.
Cabrillo passed into the dimly lit corridor and headed for the engine compartment, which was strangely dark.
Juan knew his ship like the back of his hand, and no light was needed for him to make his way forward.
But his heart began to race at the thought of a catastrophic event disabling the engines and thus the Oregon, leaving his beloved ship and crew at the mercy of the pitiless sea and countless enemies.
He stepped carefully over the elevated threshold of the watertight doorway and into the wide, main compartment. A bank of LED lights suddenly exploded in his eyes, blinding him.
“Surprise! Happy birthday!”
Cabrillo nearly pooped his pantaloons at the cacophony of shouts, laughter, and noisemakers. He rubbed his blinded eyes to clear them. Juan couldn’t help but laugh as familiar hands clapped him on his shoulders, and cheerful voices wished him well.
“Okay, you guys got me good,” Juan said as his eyes began to clear. When he finally blinked them fully open, he laughed again. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
The expansive room was crowded with pirates, comic book characters, famous scientists, movie legends, and historical figures variously fitted with togas, crowns, antlers, chaps, and chain mail.
Each Oscar-worthy costume was perfectly constructed, historically accurate, and anatomically correct.
The 3D printed masks were all custom-fitted and utterly lifelike.
Cabrillo imagined he was standing in the middle of a studio cafeteria from the golden age of Hollywood.
The crowd of happy well-wishers parted as Maurice emerged pushing a cart carrying a massive white cake with Happy Birthday! emblazoned in dark chocolate script, and a single lit candle.
Maurice, the oldest member of the Oregon crew, abandoned his normal attire of crisp white shirt and starched black trousers for an Admiral Nelson costume, including a jaunty black ostrich-feathered bicorne hat—a tribute to the steward’s former days in the British Royal Navy.
“Congratulations, Captain,” Maurice offered in his cultured British accent. He was the only member of the crew that didn’t call Cabrillo “Chairman,” a habit Cabrillo could neither break nor condemn in the old sailor and his Old World respect for the rank.
Cabrillo glanced around the room and took in all the smiling faces.
He’d personally vetted every one of them.
Each had stellar records, impeccable credentials and, most important, sterling characters.
They had hired on as employees of the Corporation, which meant they were technically mercenaries.
But they were all patriotic to the core, and were glad the Oregon never took a job that put American lives or interests at risk even if it cost them money.
They had served valiantly and loyally through every imaginable hazard and mission.
Cabrillo couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Time to make a wish and blow out the candle.
But what is there to wish for? He had it all.
Then Linc and Raven came to mind. The two valued crew members were absent, currently in transit for a mission to Panama. They wouldn’t check in for another forty-eight hours, but their implanted trackers indicated they were on schedule. What waited for them on the other side was anybody’s guess.
Cabrillo made his wish.