And, suddenly, she was rearing up, her plates scraping against the bridge, as she had done when she’d first entered the canal. She rose higher and higher, climbing up the bridge as if she were cutting an ice pack. With a shearing clang, the mechanical systems that operated the bridge gave out under her titanic weight, and the ship crashed back into the canal with barely a check in her speed.
Juan kept driving at her, seemingly bent on crashing into her armored flank. The men chasing him must have thought he was bent on suicide.
Fifteen yards to go and panic began to hit him. They’d timed it wrong. He was going to slam into the ship as she glided out of the canal. He could feel it. More gunfire erupted from behind him. It was answered by someone firing from the Oregon’s railing. He saw the muzzle flash against the darkened hull.
Seconds now. Speed, vectors, timing. He’d gambled and lost and was about to crank the wheel over when he spotted the yawning opening of the boat garage bathed in red battle lights. The Oregon was ballasted perfectly to the bottom lip of the ramp they used to launch Zodiacs and their assault boat was just slightly lower than the roadway.
Keeping it at exactly fifty-two kilometers per hour, he hit the end of the road, jumping the one-foot gap separating the damaged bridge from the Oregon and landing inside his ship. He hit the brakes and caromed into reinforced netting set up to stop boats during high-speed maneuvers. The jeep’s air bag deployed, further cushioning Juan from the brutal deceleration.
From outside, he heard the squeal of brakes. Tires dug in hard but not hard enough. Spinning sideways, the pursuing jeep slammed into the hull with a dull ring and teetered against the plates as the ship passed by. Metal tore against metal, as the Oregon ground the jeep against the side of the canal, flattening the vehicle and its occupants, until Eric Stone gave a little lateral thrust and the jeep fell into the water.
Max materialized at Cabrillo’s side and helped him dig out from under the deflated air bag. "Plan C, huh?”
“It worked, didn’t it?” They exited the boat garage, Juan moving a little stiffly. “How’s Kyle?”
“He’s sedated down in medical with Hux.”
“We’ll get him straightened out.”
“I know.” Max stopped and looked into Juan’s eyes. “Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary.” They started walking toward the infirmary.
"If plan C was this nuts, you’ve got to tell me about plan D.”
“Oh sure.” Juan grinned. “Only problem with that one was, we couldn’t find enough Spartans to re-create the battle of Thermopylae.”
CHAPTER 15
A PATROL CRAFT FROM THE HELLENIC COAST GUARD approached the Oregon just as the dawn sun crested the horizon. After a mad sixty-mile dash from the Corinth Canal, they were cruising at a steady fourteen knots, an appropriate speed for such a dilapidated ship. The sooty smoke pouring from her funnel made it appear as though the engine was burning as much oil as bunker fuel. Over the radio, the captain of the forty-foot patrol boat didn’t sound too concerned about a rust-bucket freighter, so far from the scene of the crime, being the culprit.
“No, Captain,” Juan bluffed smoothly. “We’ve been nowhere near Corinth. We were on our way to Piraeus when our agent radioed that our contract to haul olive oil to Egypt had been cancelled. We are continuing on to Istanbul. Besides, I don’t even think this old girl could fit in the canal. Too wide in the hips.” Cabrillo gave a lewd chuckle. “And if we had hit a bridge, our bows would have been crushed. As you can see, that is not the case. You are welcome to board and inspect them, if you wish.”
“That won’t be necessary,” the Coast Guard captain replied. “The incident occurred a hundred kilometers from here. By the looks of your vessel, it would take you eight hours to travel that far.”
“And only with the wind at our backs,” Juan quipped.
“If you see any ships acting erratically or have damage to their bows, please contact the authorities immediately.”
“Roger that, and good hunting. Atlantis out.” Juan waved at the small cutter from the wing bridge and ambled back inside, blowing out a long breath. He hung the radio hand mike back on its hook. The coiled cord trailed onto the floor.
“Did you have to invite them over for an inspection?” Eddie Seng asked from where he stood at the ship’s wheel, pretending to steer.
“They never would have taken me up on it. The Greeks want to nail someone’s hide to the outhouse door for what happened back in Corinth. They’re not going to bother with a ship that couldn’t possibly be involved.”
“What happens when they correlate all of their eyewitness accounts of what happened and come to the conclusion that we are the only vessel that fits the description?” Juan slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll be deep into international waters and they’ll be looking for a ship called the Atlantis. As soon as there’s no other boat traffic around, I want the name plates on the fantail and fairleads changed back to Oregon.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Just in case someone has an eye for detail and a long memory, we’ll be avoiding Greece for a while.”
“Prudent precaution.”
“First watch should be up any second. Why don’t you head below and get some well-earned rest. I’ll want your after-action report on my desk by four this afternoon.”
“Should make for some interesting reading,” Eddie remarked. “In my worst nightmares, I never expected that hornet’s nest we walked in on.”
“Me neither,” Juan admitted. “There’s a lot more to these people than what we saw on their website and what the deprogrammer told Linda. That level of paranoia means they’re hiding something.”
“The obvious question is, what?”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky and no one will notice the bug I planted.” Eddie shot him a dubious look. “The first thing their head of security’s going to do is sweep every square inch of that place looking for listening devices.”
“You’re right. I know. So if an electronic spy doesn’t work, we send in a human one.”
“I’ll go.”
“You don’t exactly have the look of a lost soul searching for meaning in life who’s willing to blindly follow some wacko’s rants.”
“Mark Murphy?” Eddie suggested.
“He fits the bill to a tee, but he doesn’t have the skill sets to pull off an undercover job like this. Eric Stone would be another candidate, but the same problem crops up. No. I was thinking of Linda. As a woman, she would draw less suspicion automatically. She’s got a background in intelligence work, and, as we have both seen a dozen times over, she knows how to keep her head.”
“How would you make it work?”
Juan smiled tiredly. “Give me a break, will ya? I’m making this up as I go along. The three of us will meet before dinner and brainstorm a strategy.”
“Just so long as it doesn’t turn into a plan C,” Eddie teased.
Cabrillo threw up his hands in mock exasperation. “Why is everyone giving me a hard time about that?
The plan worked.”
“So do most Rube Goldberg contraptions.”
“Bah!” Juan dismissed him with a wave.
Before heading for his cabin for what he hoped to be about ten hours of uninterrupted sleep, Juan took the elevator down to the Op Center. Hali Kasim was bent over his workstation, papers strewn about his desk as though a hurricane had just passed through. A pair of headphones flattened his otherwise-curly hair. Unlike others whose faces turn to stone when deep in thought, Hali’s Semitic features were serene, a sure sign his brain was churning.