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He was trapped.
Bradley dropped the scuba gear to the floor and slumped onto the bench. He didn’t know how much air he had. Even with all the oxygen tanks, he doubted it would last until someone arrived to save him.
He sat there totally defeated until he remembered the notepad and pen Noland had stuffed in his pocket. Bradley took them out and used his left hand to begin awkwardly writing. Before he suffocated, it was his duty to record what happened to the crew on the final cruise of the Kansas City.
3
VITÓRIA, BRAZIL
Juan Cabrillo enjoyed the solitude of swimming laps. It was an opportunity to turn his mind off for a while, the rhythmic motion and focus on his breath serving as his form of meditation. He didn’t have to make any decisions other than what stroke to use. Right now, he was powering through the butterfly, using his broad shoulders and wide arm span to launch his body out of the water and pull himself forward. As he flipped and kicked against the wall as he turned, he counted his nineteenth Olympic-length lap, nearly two thousand meters.
Juan wore goggles to protect his eyes from the saltwater. The two-lane pool doubled as the ballast tank of his ship, the Oregon, so the sea was used to fill it. A combination of fluorescent and incandescent lighting simulated a sunny day, and the walls and floor of the tank were tiled in white marble that tended to become smeared with algae after being filled to the top.
This afternoon, he had the pool to himself. Most of the ship’s crew were on R & R in Vitória, a small but vibrant city located three hundred miles northeast of Rio. Although it had a wealth of fine beaches, Juan didn’t mind staying aboard to relax, exercise, and get some work done. He was looking forward to a generous cut of Brazil’s best prime rib and a bottle of well-aged cabernet sauvignon at a cigar bar and jazz club later that evening.
He and the crew had earned the rest and relaxation after their most recent mission, a two-week cruise tracking down a squad of ISIS terrorists bound for the United States. Juan and his team nabbed them on a cargo ship en route to Latin America, where they intended to cross the U.S. border from Mexico and initiate attacks across the country. Vitória had been the closest city where the Oregon could deliver the six Syrians into the custody of the CIA.
Juan had once been a CIA officer himself. After distinguishing himself in clandestine services, he got fed up with the bureaucracy and left midway through his career to form the Corporation, a covert organization designed to undertake operations in a way that gave the U.S. government plausible deniability. To undertake those missions, they operated from the Oregon, which was specially built for the task. Rescuing kidnapped VIPs, infiltrating terrorist networks, retrieving critical intelligence from belligerent nations, and investigating threats against the United States made up a large portion of their work.
Although they could be considered mercenaries, Juan’s number one rule was that they only acted in America’s interests. Hiring themselves out to hostile foreign powers was unthinkable. It was dangerous work, and they’d lost several crew members over the years. But it was also lucrative. Every member of the crew was a financial partner in the Corporation and could expect to retire in well-earned luxury.
When he came up for his next breath, Juan heard his name echoing off the tile. The voice was calling from the other end of the pool, so he flipped around and switched to a faster freestyle stroke and accelerated his pace. He knew if someone was interrupting his swim, it had to be urgent.
When he reached the edge of the pool, Juan easily vaulted from the water to find Max Hanley holding out a towel for him.
“You know, swimming would be easier if you didn’t wear those,” Max said, pointing at the weighted bands on Juan’s wrists and the drag suit he was wearing for additional resistance.
Juan removed the weights and took the towel. “At my age, I have to earn our steak dinner tonight,” he said as he dried himself.
Max, who was more than thirty years older than Juan, scoffed as he eyed Juan’s lean physique. “If I had abs like that when I was your age, maybe my second wife wouldn’t have left me.”
“It didn’t stop you from getting a third wife.”
Max shrugged and patted his ample belly. “That ex likes her men built for comfort, not speed. Believe me, I’ve seen a picture of her new husband.”
While Juan was tall, blond, and tanned from a lifetime in the sun and water—the epitome of a California surfer—Max, a Vietnam veteran, retained the ashen pallor of his Irish ancestors. The bright lighting reflected off a bald spot ringed by reddish gray hair, and his ruddy cheeks were framed with wrinkles etched by time, weather, and laughter.
The one
thing that Juan envied about Max was that he still had both his legs. Juan ran the towel down his right leg and over the titanium prosthesis that began just below the knee. The rest of it had been blown off by the cannon of a now sunken Chinese destroyer. Juan was now so accustomed to the prosthetic limb that it rarely limited him in any way, but the residual ache in his stump never let him forget the day he lost his leg.
“So what brings you here?” Juan asked as he put on a T-shirt and sweatpants. “I know it’s not to go for a swim.”
Max smiled and shook his head. “I earned my steak with the walk down the stairs.” Then the smile vanished. “Unfortunately, I don’t think either of us is going to eat one tonight. We got an urgent message from CIA headquarters. You and I need to go make a call.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It sounds like a job.”
Juan served as chairman of the Corporation and captain of the Oregon. Max was the president and Juan’s second-in-command. Together, they had formed the organization, and Max was the engineer responsible for designing the Oregon. He also served as a valuable sounding board for Juan, and the two of them were best friends even though their respective ages should have made the relationship more like father and son.
When they were out of the ballast tank, Juan closed and latched the watertight door behind him. “We’ll make the call from my cabin.” They arrived there a minute later.
Since all of the crew members lived on the ship, each of them was allotted a cabin with a generous allowance for furnishing it. Juan chose a classic 1940s style based on Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca. The anteroom where he held small meetings had a four-person dining table, sofa, and chair, while his bedroom was outfitted with an antique oak desk and a large vintage safe. Inside it were the Oregon’s valuables, including Juan’s personal weapons, working cash, and gold bullion and cut diamonds for untraceable purchases.
All of the décor was authentic, down to the old-fashioned black telephones. An original Picasso hanging on the wall of his anteroom was one of the pieces of artwork that the Corporation had acquired over the years for investment purposes. A few paintings were kept on board to dress up the ship’s interior, but most were stored in a bank vault for safekeeping.
Juan and Max took a seat at the table, and Juan picked up a computer tablet to dial up his CIA contact. What looked like a window that took up one entire wall of the anteroom was actually a high-definition video screen. It changed from a view of Vitória’s skyline to a close-up of Langston Overholt IV, Juan’s former boss at the CIA and the man who had suggested he create the Corporation in the first place.
