Chapter 4

4

Aboard the Oregon

“What are we doing standing in a janitor’s closet?” Callie asked, still wearing her Oakleys.

She, Juan, and Linda stood in the cramped little room. Shelves were stocked with cleaning supplies and a rolling mop bucket stood in one corner. A whiteboard hung next to a worn utility sink.

The three of them had made their way across the hot steel deck to the stern. They passed into the superstructure, down a linoleum-tiled corridor, and through a modest mess hall with stainless steel picnic benches, a serving window, and a corkboard littered with “for sale” items, typed notices, and U.S. Coast Guard regulations.

They finally reached the far end of the mess hall, where the janitor’s closet was located, and where they now stood.

Juan explained to her that everything above decks was fully functional and the Oregon was, in fact, a fully licensed and operational cargo freighter.

“But what we’re really all about is on the other side of this door—and belowdecks.”

“I’m not clear about what it is you actually do here,” Callie said. “Mr. Hanley was a little vague.”

“According to our records search, you’ve secured several previous government contracts requiring top secret clearance,” Juan said. “Including two with the Navy’s WARCOM.”

“Spying on me, Mr. Cabrillo?”

“Not as often as Facebook, Alexa, or Instagram. And at least I’m not trying to sell you organic toothpaste or aluminum siding.”

“What Juan is suggesting is that your discretion is greatly appreciated,” Linda said. Her almond eyes narrowed. “In fact, it’s a matter of national security.”

Callie nodded. “Understood.”

Juan placed his wide swimmer’s paw on the whiteboard, activating a handprint scanner. An electronic lock clicked audibly, and the rear wall of the janitor’s closet swung open.

Juan gestured toward the plush-carpeted corridor just beyond his hand.

“Welcome to our own private rabbit hole.”

---

★As they marched through the corridor, Juan pointed out a couple of his favorite masterpieces hanging on the walls, one of several art displays around the ship. The three of them crowded into the small elevator and Juan punched the button to the lowest level.

“Hope you’re not claustrophobic,” Linda said in the tight space.

“In my line of work, I can’t afford to be,” Callie said. “But then again, I do like a big window.” She finally pulled off her sunglasses and pocketed them.

The elevator descended farther into the belly of the steel beast.

“I assumed you were some kind of government research vessel,” Callie said. “But now I’m guessing you’re with one of the national intelligence or security agencies.”

“Not exactly,” Linda said. “We’re independent contractors. Most of the time we’re doing jobs for the federal government—the ones they can’t or won’t do on their own.”

“By ‘independent contractors’ you mean mercenaries,” Callie said. She eyed Juan up and down. “Where are all your tats?”

“We’re not guns for hire,” Juan said. “Most of what we do is intelligence gathering. And as far as tats go, we don’t like to advertise.”

“Not all of our jobs are with the federal government, but we never do anything that would harm the interests of the American people,” Linda said. “Our crew is comprised almost entirely of former military veterans or, like Juan, former intelligence community personnel. We’re as American as apple pie and Chevrolet.”

“More like protein bars and Smith & Wesson,” Juan said.

The elevator finally dinged. They had reached the lowest level of the ship. The polished brass door slid open.

Callie sniffed the air as she followed Juan out of the elevator. It smelled of salt water and cold steel.

Juan pointed at the large waterline door. A steep ramp stood next to it.

“We launch our Zodiacs, Jet Skis, and RHIBs through that door. The ramp is Teflon-coated for faster egress.”

“Sounds like you’re operating the world’s biggest party barge,” Callie said. “A couple of wakeboards and some fruity drinks and you’d be all set.”

Linda laughed. “You’re going to fit right in with this crew of pirates.”

The muffled reports of large-caliber pistols thumped in the distance.

“Gun range,” Linda said. “Right across from our armory department.”

Juan gestured expansively. “On the lower decks we have world-class machine shops, a fully functional aircraft maintenance hangar, weapons storage, additional crew’s quarters and, of course, our engine compartment.”

“I don’t smell any bunker fuel,” Callie said. “Where do you keep it?”

“We don’t have any,” Juan said.

“Then how are you powering the boat?”

Linda grinned. “Seawater.”

“Excuse me?”

“We deploy magnetohydrodynamic engines,” Juan said. “Liquid helium cryogenically cools the seawater and powerful magnets strip away the free electrons. We never run out of fuel so long as we’re at sea.”

“I thought that technology was still under development,” Callie said.

“For everyone else, it is. We just happen to actually use it.”

“How fast can this ship travel?”

“Over sixty knots.”

“Impossible! This ship must be at least eleven thousand tons.”

“Closer to thirteen.”

“What kind of props are you using?”

“We don’t. Four massive pump jets are directed through two Venturi nozzles with three-hundred-sixty-degree turning radius.”

Callie laughed. “The world’s biggest party boat is also the world’s biggest Jet Ski.”

“We can turn on a dime—but when we do, better hold on to your britches,” Linda said.

“I’d love to get a tour of the entire boat sometime,” Callie said.

“Soon as we get through your field tests,” Juan said. “Speaking of which, here we are.” He gestured at the cavernous expanse in front of them.

“Welcome to the moon pool.”

---

★Callie gazed in wonder at the voluminous space lit by floodlights. They were standing in the very center of the deepest part of the ship. The brackish tang of salt water and metal were heavy in the air.

Deckhands had pulled the steel grates above the two massive keel doors. The bottom of the ship, at least in this part of the keel, was now opened to the sea. And because this part of the open hull was level with the sea, the Oregon didn’t sink.

Underwater floodlights illumined the dark waters below. Beyond the reach of the powerful beams were the vast depths of the Gulf of Oman, reaching nearly twelve thousand feet into the abyssal dark.

Callie glanced up. Overhead cranes on the far side of the compartment cradled the Oregon’s two mini subs.

“The one that looks like something out of The Jetsons is the Gator,” Linda said. “That’s my baby.” She was referring to the Gator’s sleek, flat forty-foot deck and pilot’s cupola of slim, angled windows that barely broke the surface when operating in stealth mode. “She has a depth limit of a hundred feet, but she’s got a thousand horses under the hood. She can carry ten fully kitted-out operatives and still do over fifty knots on the surface.”

“A stealthy insertion vehicle,” Callie said. “Nice design.”

Linda pointed at the other craned submarine, long and white like a German Weisswurst sausage. Its sixty-five-foot hull was fixed with ballast tanks, battery packs, and thrusters arranged almost as an afterthought. Its blunt-nosed bow featured three viewing portals, powerful xenon lamps, and a pair of articulating mechanical arms.

“That larger one is the Nomad. She’s capable of a thousand feet, but she can carry a crew of two and a complement of eight divers in full gear—more if we pull out the storage lockers. She has an air lock for egress and a decompression chamber on board as well.”

Callie pointed at a third cradle. It was covered in shadows. “And that’s my Spook Fish.”

Juan smashed a light switch on a nearby support beam. A pair of spotlights lit up the mini submarine. Callie’s smile radiated like a Coleman lantern.

The Spook Fish 5000 sported a bulbous, optically perfect acrylic cockpit—like a fishbowl perched on top of a pair of blue pontoons. It could accommodate one pilot and two passengers and featured a single mechanical arm for the pilot to maneuver.

But what set this particular unit apart was the large sealed yellow pod attached beneath the submersible’s hull. Callie’s deepwater breakthrough lay inside of it and was the reason for Cabrillo’s enthusiasm for her project. Its potential could prove a real game changer for future Oregon operations.

“Did you name her after an actual fish?” Linda asked.

“Yes. The spook fish is more commonly known as a barreleye. They’re engineering marvels, really. They inhabit deep water, up to three thousand feet.”

Callie then gestured with her hands and fingers to demonstrate what she was describing. “The top half of their skulls are transparent, like the cockpit glass on an F-35 Lightning. Their eyes are poised mid-skull and point upward toward the surface, though they can articulate forward as needed. I suppose I picked the name mostly because my submersible sorta looks like one.”

The brilliant young engineer turned back to Juan.

“Your entire operation is really quite impressive, Mr. Cabrillo. Given the depth limitations of your two submersibles, I can see why my Spook Fish would be an excellent addition to your operations. I want to get started right away prepping for tomorrow’s demonstration dive. Is there anything holding us up?”

“A really fantastic lunch, actually,” Juan said. “Let’s eat first and then we’ll get to work. Deal?”

Callie smiled. “Well, I am kinda hungry.”