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Juan repeated Linc’s actions. When he was set, he jumped off the tank and ran forward. His arms extended until his feet came off the ground and he was sliding down. Wind buffeted his hair, and the smell of salt water grew stronger as he neared the coastline.
Gunfire erupted behind him but was quickly snuffed out. Juan thought he knew why, but he couldn’t turn his head far enough to verify it.
They must have seen him flying through the air, puzzled as to how he was doing it, and snapped off some shots. Then some perceptive soldier had to have realized what he was doing and the race was on to find the line he was using. It would only be a matter of seconds before they realized it was attached to the Abrams.
Juan was still more than a hundred yards from the Oregon, but past the waves crashing against the rocks jutting from the surf. A vibration in the rope told him the soldiers had found it and were trying to shake him off. The next step was obvious.
The line suddenly went slack on the hilltop end, the victim of a sharp knife, sending Juan hurtling toward the sea. He straightened his body and entered the water feetfirst.
He plunged ten feet down. Before he released the rifle strap, he grabbed the rope and kicked toward the surface.
He breached the water and the line went taut again. Juan tightened his grip as he was reeled toward the Oregon. He could hear shots coming from the soldiers again, but at this distance in the darkness they might as well have saved the ammo.
The side of the Oregon loomed over him and a rope ladder was tossed over the side. Juan swam to it and climbed to the deck. Eddie and Linc pulled him up and Juan landed on his feet.
“Thanks,” Juan said. “I wasn’t planning to make that a water landing.”
“The guys at the yacht club will never believe what I reeled in,” Linc said with a smile.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Gao,” Juan said to Eddie.
Eddie bowed his head an inch in response. “Captain Holland.”
“Tell Max to get under way and that Plan C worked without a hitch. I’ll meet him in the op center after I dry off.”
As they walked, Eddie relayed Juan’s command on his headset radio. A moment later, the Oregon began to turn away from the coast.
Eddie’s face suddenly took on a more serious expression.
“What is it?” Juan asked.
“M
ax says we’ve just been hailed by a Venezuelan frigate twenty miles due west. Their captain is ordering us to surrender or be destroyed.”
Juan wasn’t going to captain his ship in combat wearing a soaking wet uniform of the Venezuelan Navy.
“Tell Max to put Chimana Grande between us and the frigate,” Juan said to Eddie. “That’ll buy us some time.”
Eddie nodded and relayed the message on his radio while Juan headed to his cabin.
The Oregon’s destination was a small cluster of uninhabited islets ten miles to the northeast. Though the Oregon was out of torpedo and gun range, Venezuelan frigates were equipped with Otomat Mark 2 surface-to-surface missiles, which had a range of one hundred and eighty miles. The mountainous terrain of the islands directly north of their current position, including the largest, Chimana Grande, would make it impossible for the frigate to get a radar lock until the warship was past them.
Juan entered his cabin to find Maurice, the chief steward, standing inside with a pristine white towel draped over his arm and a silver tray holding a steaming mug of coffee. The dignified septuagenarian was elegantly attired in a spotless black jacket, a crisply knotted tie, and shoes shined to a mirror finish. After having provided impeccable service to numerous admirals in the Royal Navy, Maurice prided himself on anticipating his officer’s needs, so Juan was not surprised to see fresh clothes laid out on the bed just moments after he had been pulled from the water.
Juan picked up the mug and took a sip, savoring the warm shot of caffeine. “You’re a lifesaver, Maurice.”
In a British accent fit for the House of Lords, Maurice replied, “Shall I serve you a light meal in the Operations Center, Captain?” Despite the rest of the crew calling Juan Chairman, in deference to his position in the Corporation, Maurice insisted on using naval terminology.
“It’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” Juan said, peeling off his dripping uniform and donning the blue shirt Maurice had selected.
“Very good, Captain. For your post-action dinner, I will bring you a filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, roasted Yukon potatoes, and sautéed asparagus. Of course, I will be pairing it with an appropriate Bordeaux.” Maurice’s skills as a sommelier were unparalleled. He displayed nothing but sangfroid about the upcoming confrontation with the frigate, his subtle phrasing letting Juan know the steward had every confidence the Oregon would neither be sunk nor captured by the Venezuelans.
Without another word, Maurice slipped out of the cabin as silently as a ninja. Juan finished changing and went to the op center, taking the coffee with him.
He took his seat in the Kirk Chair and asked Max for a situation report.
“We’re in the shadow of Chimana Grande on a course bearing zero-four-five. The frigate, whose captain identified her as the Mariscal Sucre, won’t have a firing solution for another thirty minutes at their current closing speed.” The display showed that the Oregon’s pace was a leisurely twenty knots, far below its top speed but in line with the capability of an ancient cargo ship pushing its engines to the limit. As a Lupo-class frigate, the Mariscal Sucre’s maximum speed was thirty-five knots.
