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Juan thought the odds were even between the Mariscal Sucre following them into the channel or intercepting them on the other side and he had to be sure which way to go, backward or forward, to be out of visual and radar range by the time the frigate spotted the Washington in flames. George “Gomez” Adams was the ace up his sleeve that made the decision easy.
Gomez, who got the nickname because he’d once been the paramour of a woman who was a dead ringer for the original Morticia from The Addams Family TV show, was the Oregon’s resident helicopter pilot. The ship carried an MD 520N chopper secreted within the aft hold that could be raised into launch position within ten minutes, but this night Gomez was seated comfortably in the op center.
In addition to his duties as a rotary-aircraft pilot, Gomez was also their most skilled drone operator. The Oregon was equipped with an array of UAVs for aerial reconnaissance and Juan had ordered one launched as the frigate approached. The off-the-shelf design with a four-foot wingspan had been modified by Max to carry a gimbaled high-definition video camera whose signal was linked back to the Oregon. Gomez, sporting a mustache that would have made Wyatt Earp proud, and blessed with looks so striking that Murph had once suggested that they have a shipwide “handsome-off” between him and MacD, stared at his monitor as he expertly guided the drone just above the wave tops to keep it below the Mariscal Sucre’s radar.
Thanks to their eye in the sky, they’d watched the frigate race to the northern side of the island, so Juan ordered full reverse and the Oregon made it out of the channel and behind the next island well before the Mariscal Sucre came into view.
“Gomez,” Juan said, “bring it around so we have a good shot of the Washington.”
“No problem.” The drone turned smartly. The running lights on the Mariscal Sucre were visible behind the blazing cargo freighter. “How’s that for an artistic shot?”
“You’d make Spielberg proud. What’s your distance?”
“Three miles.”
“That should be far enough. I can’t say the same for the Mariscal Sucre, but that’s their problem. They know what the cargo is. Are you set, Mr. Murphy?”
“Say the word,” Murph replied, his finger at the ready.
“Do it.”
Murph punched the button.
Explosives carefully placed beside the ammonium nitrate inside the hold of the Washington detonated, setting off a chain reaction within the fertilizer. A cataclysmic ball of fire bloomed silently on-screen. The ship was ripped apart by the blast and cleaved in two. Pieces of her hull pelted the neighboring islands. Only her broken keel would be left to settle on the seafloor, leaving little to examine even if the Venezuelans sent a dive team down to investigate. As far as they knew, the ship that had blown up was the Dolos, and no proof would be left to indicate otherwise.
To Juan, it was like watching the Oregon herself sink, and the pang of regret returned. At least it was a nobler end for the Washington than to be cut apart and sold for scrap.
A minor tsunami washed up on the islet shores and rushed toward the Mariscal Sucre, which was rocking back and forth from the explosive concussion. Seconds later, the drone bobbed drunkenly.
Gomez struggled to maintain control. “Man, that was bigger than I expected.” He pulled the drone up and leveled out. No doubt the frigate wouldn’t be paying much attention to its radar signature, if their radar array had even survived the blast.
Gomez kept the camera trained on the frigate. There was no movement.
“Well, I bet that woke them up,” Max said.
“And blew out their eardrums,” Juan said. “I’d be surprised if any of their bridge windows are still intact.”
“If they go anywhere, it’ll be back to port for repairs.”
“I agree. But Gomez, keep an eye on them until we’re thirty miles out. Then ditch the UAV.”
“You got it.”
The hull clanged as the shock wave from the blast now fifteen miles away reached them.
“Max, change us back to the Oregon. The Dolos has served us well, but we’ll consign her name to the sea.”
“Gladly.”
The name on the fantail could be changed at a moment’s notice using its magnetized panel, which could be programmed with any name and font they chose. At the press of a button, Max deactivated the magnets and the iron filings clinging to the fantail fell away. He remagnetized the filings and nozzles sprayed them into place, spelling out Oregon. Once they were in the open ocean and away from the shipping lanes, the crew would repaint the hull in a new decayed pattern and color, deck equipment would be rearranged, phony cargo pallets would be added, and the second funnel would be removed, completely altering the silhouette of the ship. The Oregon would steam into the next port looking nothing like the Dolos.
“Good work, everyone,” Juan said. “I’d say we just bought ourselves a few more years of anonymity. Drinks are on me next shore leave.”
“I hear that,” Max said. “For this bunch, it’s gonna cost you.”
“Happy to do it. Mr. Stone, once we’re out of radar range, set a course to pick up the Discovery.”
“Wait’ll they see the video,” Murph said. “MacD and Trono will be sorry they missed it.”
