Chapter 20
Murphy made his way into the deepest bowels of the Oregon, pushed past the armory, and entered the “air lock,” aka the safety room, where pairs of shooting glasses and earmuffs hung from wall pegs.
Murph heard the rapid-fire staccato of a semi-auto pistol mag-dumping on the other side of the insulated wall.
He geared up and pulled open the interior door to the gun range and stepped through.
The familiar tang of burnt gunpowder teased Murphy’s olfactory bulb.
He’d come to love the smell after so many hours of training on this very range.
As much as he enjoyed a good virtual gunfight in outer space, no game controller haptics could ever match the kick of a real bullet smashing back a heavy steel pistol slide.
He made a mental note to visit the Magic Shop and figure out how to incorporate gunpowder smell into a new, full-body virtual reality game he was designing. Kevin Nixon knew all about that stuff.
There was only one shooter on the range, and he stood in lane three.
As Murph approached, he watched Juan Cabrillo raise a pistol in his left hand and rip another fifteen-round string of bullets as fast as he could pull the trigger.
The red bull’s-eye in the center of the paper target twenty-five yards downrange shredded in an instant.
That was fifteen rounds in a hole the size of a child’s fist.
Cabrillo hit the ambidextrous mag-release button with his thumb, and before the empty mag hit the floor he’d already shoved the pistol into the holster on his right hip—backward.
It was only then that Murph noticed Juan’s right hand was wrapped in an Ace bandage, and as he got closer, saw that a handball had been taped to his palm.
Murphy instantly understood Cabrillo was practicing one-handed drills with his supporting hand while simulating a wounded and immobilized strong hand.
No sooner had Murphy connected the dots, Cabrillo fetched a fresh mag from a pouch with his left hand and slammed it into the butt of his pistol.
By the time the pistol was pointed downrange again he had already hit the slide release.
The gun was in battery when he put sights on another target in lane seven, angled away some thirty yards downrange.
As soon as the sights found their target, Cabrillo cut loose.
Fifteen bullets later, another target was shredded.
Cabrillo set the empty pistol down on the bench, its barrel safely pointed downrange. He removed his noise-cancelling earbuds.
“Nice shooting, Chairman.”
“Still a little slow on the left hand, but I’ll keep pushing it. How about you?”
“Haven’t done one-handers in a couple of weeks. Good reminder.”
“We win the gunfight here, not in the field, right?” Cabrillo unwrapped his right hand as he spoke.
“Yes, sir.”
“What can I do you for?”
“I’d like to take shore leave early.”
“You’ll miss the big shindig.” Cabrillo was referring to the Corporation’s private vacation island they anchored at every year. They’d head out as soon as they recovered Linc and Raven from their mission—assuming everything went well.
The gun range and other training facilities were important, but Juan believed in playtime, too.
On the island, the Oregon chefs went all out on beachside barbecues, fast-moving toys from the boat garage were broken out, and Hali Kasim filled the night air with thrumming dance tunes.
The music buffs on board all agreed that Kasim’s mix master skills would’ve put him at the top of the DJ 100 list if he ever made a go of it.
It was all great fun and completely voluntary.
It was meant to be a perk, not a punishment.
“Yeah, I know,” Murph said. “But it’s kinda important.”
“What’s up? Somebody sick?”
“Not exactly. I just got a message from an old grad school friend. They asked to see me right away.”
Juan grinned. He had a paternal affection for the young genius standing in front of him. He’d come a long way over the years, but there was still part of him that was socially awkward, even immature.
The Oregon had no standardized uniforms, but Murphy certainly did.
He wore his customary black skater pants, Doc Martens combat boots, and a psychedelic concert T-shirt.
Cabrillo was never certain if these were actual punk rock bands or just something Murph made up.
The one he was wearing today was a doozy.
The Conundrum Tour
featuring:
P vs NP
Squaring the Circle
Time’s Arrow
Special guests:
The Noise Vandals
Fists of Furry
Cabrillo chuckled. “I noticed you said ‘they.’ Is that a pronoun preference or an evasion on your part?”
“She said she needed to see me.”
Cabrillo cocked an eyebrow. Neither Murphy nor Stone were known to be successful with the ladies. Genius could be off-putting, Cabrillo imagined, but not more than Doc Martens for serious young ladies.
“Girlfriend?”
“First.” Murph blushed lobster red. “And only.”
“Sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Me too.”
“Is she in some kind of trouble? Do you want me to send someone with you?”
Murph hesitated. He’d been running this conversation in his head ever since he stepped into the elevator. He wasn’t at all sure what was going on with Linlin. Showing up with extra muscle might scare her off.
But it would be embarrassing for him if Linlin didn’t bother showing up at all, or was sitting there with her husband and two kids, maybe playing some kind of a cruel joke on him.
He’d never hear the end of it. He also didn’t want the Chairman to waste valuable Oregon personnel on what could turn out to be a wild-goose chase.
“I seriously doubt she’s in trouble. It’s probably just a programming glitch she can’t figure out. Coding was never her strong suit.”
Cabrillo wasn’t sure how to assess the situation.
Murphy never asked for personal favors. And his specialized skills at the weapons station wouldn’t be needed anytime soon.
They were next due at the Port of Lázaro Cárdenas to load up a shipment for delivery to El Salvador.
To maintain its cover, the Oregon operated as a working cargo vessel whenever possible, especially when on a mission.
“When do you leave?”
“That’s the problem. I’ve gotta get there ASAP. I’ve checked all the commercial flights. Everything’s booked up, even first class.”
“Then let’s have Tiny give you a lift.” Chuck “Tiny” Gunderson was the Corporation’s six-foot-four, two-hundred-eighty-pound fixed-wing pilot. The former University of Wisconsin tackle was qualified on the half dozen aircraft owned by the organization including the new Gulfstream G400.
“Isn’t he on standby for Linc and Raven?”
“In case of emergency only. So is Gomez.”
George “Gomez” Adams was the Oregon’s primary tilt-rotor pilot.
The former Night Stalkers combat veteran would lead the extraction operation if Linc and Raven needed one.
Another pilot, Arnie Davis, had just been hired on as a temporary contractor to support Gomez as needed.
The former U.S. Air Force aviator had flown Ospreys for the 20th Special Operations Squadron.
Juan checked his watch out of habit. He always had a running clock and calendar in his mind. “It will be at least seven days before Raven and Linc report in. Plenty of time for Tiny to get you there and back.”
“Wow. That’s awesome of you.”
“I’ll call the boat garage to get you ashore. You call Tiny with your travel plans so he can get the flight logged, then get your gear packed, and vamoose outta here.”
“Thanks, Chairman.”
Juan clapped a hand on Murph’s shoulder.
“I hope it works out for you.”
“Me too.”
“But one thing I know from bitter experience. Nothing burns hotter than an old flame on a tender heart.”