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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 m
oved 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.
