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“So?”
“I want to make sure it doesn’t jeopardize my plans. Is the Ciudad Bolívar on schedule?” she asked.
“It will be in position in thirty-six hours just like I said it would.”
“Have you detected any interest in our activities?”
“No,” the man replied. “I expect the final payment to come through as soon as the Bolívar goes down.”
“And in exchange you will hand over the encrypted software code for controlling the drones as we agreed?”
“Yes,” the Doctor said.
“Then we’ll proceed. Dominguez will report when the Ciudad Bolívar is sunk. Make sure the drones are ready by tomorrow night.”
“Of course. That’s why you’re paying me.”
He hung up. Ruiz wasn’t used to being treated with such disrespect, but the Doctor’s special skills demanded that she tolerate insubordination that would get a sailor sent to the brig.
Her next call was to the harbormaster, Manuel Lozada. She was afraid that the Dolos would cast off early and leave the spies behind if they knew they were cornered and would eventually confess to the covert ship’s true nature.
“A pleasure to hear from you, Admiral,” he said upon answering. “I was just about to—”
“Lozada, I want you to raid the Dolos. I will have thirty soldiers there in ten minutes to assist the police.” She would redirect some of Dominguez’s reinforcements to La Guanta Harbor.
“But Admiral, that’s why I was about to call you. The Dolos has just cast off.”
“What? You gave them permission?”
“Yes. You told me that you would capture them at sea, so I thought . . .”
Ruiz was steaming. She had idiots working for her. But she kept her voice calm.
“Lozada, do whatever you can to slow them down. If they leave Venezuelan waters before we get there, capturing them would cause an international incident.”
“At once, Admiral!”
“And use any information that Gao can tell you about the ship. It might give you a tactical advantage.”
“Excellent suggestion, Admiral. We will do everything in our power to keep them from leaving.”
“I want regular updates about its location.”
She hung up, and strode back onto the bridge. She checked their position. They were still forty miles from Puerto La Cruz. At their present speed, they would reach the port in a little more than an hour.
The Mariscal Sucre, a Lupo-class frigate, was the pride of the Venezuelan Navy. It was armed with a 127mm forward gun, eight Otomat Mark 2 surface-to-surface missiles, and twin Mark 32 triple torpedo tubes. Ruiz had no compunction about unleashing her arsenal on the spy vessel no matter how well armed or how defenseless it was.
She just had to make sure they got there in time.
“Captain Escobar,” she barked to the ship’s commander, “I don’t care if you burn the turbines out. Give me all the speed you can muster.”
After a smart “Aye, aye,” Ruiz could feel the ship vibrate from the increased output, matching the adrenaline coursing through her system. She had never been more ready for a fight, and there was no way she would be denied her victory.
Juan and Linc had the cargo bay’s stern door covered, occasionally taking shots to keep Dominguez’s men from pouring through. The bow door was still locked tight, with a chain looped through the handle, but they could hear someone hammering away at it on the other side. It was only a matter of time before it was breached.
Bullets pinged off the armored vehicles around Juan and Linc as sailors with assault rifles poked their heads through the door to fire off a few shots. None came close. It was as if the men were simply trying to keep them pinned down.
Juan guessed that was exactly their plan. The Venezuelans had the high ground because the doors on either end, one toward the bow and one toward the stern, were at the top of the three-story-high hold, with stairs leading down to the floor, where the vehicles were lined up in eight rows of four. It was a stalemate; Juan and Linc couldn’t leave and the Venezuelans couldn’t charge down the exposed stairs.
