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Juan sat back in his chair, relieved that the friendly fire incident hadn’t turned deadly. “Tell Gomez he can land.”
“Aye, Chairman. And I’ve got Langston Overholt on video.”
“Let’s see him,” Juan said.
A dignified older gentleman in a three-piece suit appeared on the view screen. Overholt, Juan’s former boss at the CIA who had supported the creation of the Corporation, was seated in his stately Langley office.
“I’m glad you stayed at work so late tonight,” Juan said, knowing that it had to be in the wee hours halfway across the world in Washington. “I suppose we have you to thank for calling off the Indonesian Air Force?”
Overholt, trim and vigorous for a man his age, nodded. During his decades with the agency, he’d seen everything and knew every secret the CIA and its people held. Despite being well past retirement age, his experience and connections made it impossible to oust him before he was ready, which Juan didn’t think would be anytime soon.
“I made a call to my counterpart in the Indonesian State Intelligence Agency. Now I owe him a favor, and I will expect to collect the same at a later date from Senators Schmidt and Muñoz. Are their families safe?”
“Oliver Muñoz is badly injured, but Julia Huxley is tending to him.”
“Understood,” Overholt said. “Keep me informed about his well-being. And good work on keeping the attack from being much worse than it was. I look forward to your briefing.”
He hung up.
Juan stood. “I’m going to meet our guests. Stoney, you have the conn.”
“Conn, aye,” Eric replied, taking control of the ship.
Juan left the op center to rendezvous with the tiltrotor. He just hoped the delay in getting them on board hadn’t cost Oliver Muñoz his life.
EIGHTEEN
THE TIMOR SEA
It took Sylvia longer than she thought it would to swim all the way to the Empiric, swallowing and spitting up seawater all the way in her panic. By the time she heaved herself up the dive ladder on the stern platform where the drone was launched, she was completely spent from the ordeal.
She lay on her belly while she gathered strength to stand. The ship was eerily quiet. All Sylvia could hear was her own breathing and water lapping at the ship’s hull.
“Hello?” she shouted. “Is anyone here?”
No answer. She feared what she would find when she ventured into the ship.
Her thirst finally drove her to get up. She found a rinsing hose and slurped fresh water from it, careful not to drink so fast that she vomited it back up.
When she was sure she could move without collapsing, she found the nearest door to the interior and steeled herself to open it. She pulled the handle and peered into the corridor.
It was empty. No dead bodies. No blood.
“Hello. Can anyone hear me?”
In response, a moan came from deeper in the ship.
Even though it sounded as if the person was in trouble, Sylvia was momentarily elated. At least someone was alive.
“It’s Sylvia Chang,” she called out as she walked toward the groaning, which continued unabated. “Where are you?”
The person didn’t answer, but the moan became more urgent.
Sylvia picked up her pace. “Tell me where you are.”
No words, just moaning. Sylvia was becoming more distraught by the second.
Coming to an intersection of corridors, she stopped and called again.
