Chapter 41

41

Aboard the Oregon

The Malacca Strait

Steve Gilreath sat at the Oregon’s helm station in the op center, its cool confines dimly lit by the blue glow of LED monitor lights. He was the only one in the room. Rimsky-Korsakov’s Capriccio Espagnol played softly on the overhead speakers. The giant LED screens wrapping around the room were as dark as the night engulfing the ship. The only thing they displayed were a few distant ship lights on the far horizon and the blanket of stars above.

It was two a.m. and he was sipping his third cup of coffee. The retired tin can driver served on the overnight watch or whenever Eric Stone or Linda Ross were unavailable. When the ship was in port or anchored, anyone could stand watch while the rest of the crew slept, but not while at sea, and especially at high speed. The Oregon had been racing for Kuala Lumpur over the last three days in order to provide backup to Juan and Linc. It was a long way from the Gulf of Oman to Malaysia.

The Oregon’s magnetohydrodynamic engines were spinning like Swiss clockwork and the speed log held a constant forty knots—an incredible feat for a ship as large as theirs. Of course, the Oregon was capable of even faster speeds, but the sight of a 590-foot break-bulk carrier rooster-tailing through the water like a Jet Ski drew too much unwanted attention.

Just as Gilreath brought the steaming cup of brew to his lips, a sudden thud rang the ship’s hull like Big Ben, sending a shudder through the deck and spilling his coffee onto his shirt.

Collision alarms screamed. Gilreath smashed the all stop button on his console, killing the engines. Just as he put his ceramic mug aside, Max came storming bleary-eyed and barefoot into the op center wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a rumpled T-shirt emblazoned with the “Budweiser” SEAL trident, an homage to his son, who recently graduated from there.

“Status!” Max bellowed as he raced over to the engineering station.

Gilreath killed the alarm. “We hit something—I just don’t know what.” He dashed over to the Kirk Chair and punched a button on the console, throwing the external cameras into night vision mode.

“Possible hull damage,” Max said as he scrolled through his sensor screens.

Eric raced into the op center and Mark Murphy came in right behind him. Both men were disheveled and red-eyed, wearing whatever clothes they could pull on in a hurry. In Murph’s case, straight out of his dirty laundry basket.

Gilreath scanned the full aft monitors, but saw nothing. He turned to the starboard/stern camera as Eric took over the helm and Murphy ran to the sonar and radar stations.

Linda Ross raced into the room, too.

“What did we hit?” she asked. “A sub?”

“Not sure yet,” Max said from his station.

“There!” Gilreath said.

Max and Linda dashed over to him. A mostly submerged and badly dented yellow shipping container bobbed in the water some three hundred yards behind the Oregon.

“It didn’t show on radar,” Gilreath offered. He didn’t need to. The radar was designed to pick up other ships on the water, not objects just below the surface.

Callie padded unnoticed into the room, still yawning.

Max picked up the phone and called down to the engine room. Other than punching a hole through the hull and sinking the vessel, damaging the engines was the next worst possibility.

A sleepy voice picked up. Max asked for a status report.

“Engines check…all clear. No damage, far as I can tell. Nozzles are rotating one hundred percent, too.”

“We dodged a bullet, then.”

“Oh, we got hit all right,” Murph offered. “We just don’t know where it hit exactly.”

“We need to put divers in the water and inspect the hull,” Max said.

“I’ll make the call.” Linda picked up another phone.

“What about using my drone instead?” Callie offered.

Everyone turned around, not realizing she was standing there.

“I’d like to get as many human eyes on the problem as possible,” Max said. “It’ll probably be faster, too.”

“But also more dangerous—and incredibly dark. And it’s going to take time to get your people in the water. I can have the drone on duty in fifteen minutes. It’s already powered up and hooked to a camera. Murph can help me feed the video signal into your system.”

“No problemo,” Murph said.

“I can set it to automatic and make sure we cover every square inch with the video recorder for later analysis.”

“No offense,” Max said, “but I prefer human judgment on this one. The more eyes, the better.”

“Why not do both?” Linda asked. “Let her put the drone in the water now and the divers can join in as soon as they can and conduct a closer investigation.”

Max rubbed his nearly bald head. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You just haven’t had your coffee yet,” Linda said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, Callie. Get after it.”

Callie beamed. “You got it.”

---

★Twenty-four minutes after the Spook Fish’s drone hit the water, its video camera displayed a wrecked stabilizer fin, mostly torn away. There appeared to be no other damage to the hull. The divers confirmed the drone’s damage assessment with their own visual inspection they completed an hour later.

Maurice, the Oregon’s dapper but aged steward, arrived at the op center with a dining cart loaded with Danishes, churros—and gallons of fresh coffee.

“The galley is whipping up a hearty breakfast for you all. Until then, enjoy this sugary repast,” Maurice said in his cultured English accent. Despite the early-morning hour, and unlike the rest of the crew, the Englishman arrived in sharply creased black slacks and a crisp white shirt, his shoes buffed to a high gloss.

Max snatched up a churro and took a bite, spilling sugar and cinnamon onto his T-shirt. He washed it down with a slurp of black joe.

As Linda poured herself a cup of hot water for tea, she said to Max, “You’re asking yourself, do we press on with the wrecked fin so we can get to Juan and Linc? Or do we wait and affect repairs?”

Max took another bite. “If we press on, we can’t make good speed without that stabilizer fin repaired. But it’s going to cost us at least three hours to fix it.”

“We can always do that later,” Linda offered. “But no telling when we might need to put the pedal to the metal. We can’t achieve maximum speed without that stabilizer fin in place.”

“Truth is, we don’t even know where they are. Their trackers are still offline and they haven’t contacted us. We’re in a big hurry, but we don’t know where we’re going exactly. I think we need to fix it.”

“Agreed.”

Callie stepped over. “Sorry to butt in. I’d like to help with the repairs. Underwater salvage is how I got my feet wet in this business—eh, sorry about the pun.”

“It would be another good test for the Spook Fish,” Linda said. “I saw what it could do on that Airbus.”

“You should join me,” Callie said to Max. “Get a firsthand view of what she’s capable of.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer. But I still want a couple of diver-welders on hand in case we run into any problems.”

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Linda said.

Callie flashed her surfer-girl smile. “And I’ll prep the Spook Fish.”

The two women headed for the door.

Max shoved the rest of the churro into his piehole and munched away, staring at the giant port wall screens and the purpling light promising another sunrise.

His friends were out there, somewhere.

He hoped they could see the sunrise, too.