Chapter 5

5

Juan, Linda, and Callie rode the elevator back up to the dining level. Linda waved off lunch. She had a scheduled brown bag in the ship’s biophysical laboratory to discuss equipment upgrades. She promised to catch up with them back at the moon pool after lunch. Shepherding such mundane details was the least glamorous aspect of her job, but vitally important for the efficient operation of the Oregon.

Juan led Callie into the dining room. She couldn’t stifle a small gasp.

“This is…amazing.”

Like everything else on the Oregon—save for the crew’s individual quarters—Juan had designed the dining room down to the smallest detail.

He modeled the sumptuous mess hall after a classic English gentlemen’s club. The dining room featured dark walnut paneling, polished brass fixtures, and coffered ceilings. Along the far wall beyond the main dining room were chesterfield sofas and club chairs arranged near the floor-to-ceiling bookcases featuring a number of first-edition Herman Melville and C. S. Forester seafaring classics.

“We can order from the table or just grab something from the lunch line,” Juan offered. “They always put up a couple of good choices to keep things moving faster.”

“The lunch line works for me.”

Juan and Callie headed for the serving window. They grabbed a couple of trays along with plates and silverware and shuffled into the cafeteria-style line.

A squadron of chefs in pristinely white, double-breasted cloth jackets maneuvered with cheerful military precision around the flaming stoves with bubbling saucepans and sizzling skillets. A senior chef called out orders even as she inspected the finished plates at the pass.

Callie stepped up to the serving window. A smiling, befreckled young sous-chef greeted her.

“Your protein, ma’am?” she said.

“Let’s surf and turf our guest,” Juan said.

“Aye, Chairman,” the young woman said as she plated the meal. “And for yourself?”

“The same.”

Callie and Juan proceeded down the line and helped themselves to bacon-wrapped asparagus, smoked corn on the cob, and stacks of khubz ragag—paper-thin sheets of local Omani bread. Juan then led the way to an unoccupied booth in the far corner.

The two of them tucked into their food before a server took their order for drinks. Both chose fruit-infused Tahitian waters.

“I’m stunned at the quality of this food,” Callie said between bites. “I can practically cut this steak with a spoon.”

“We employ Cordon Bleu–trained chefs who hand-select the finest ingredients they can find in our ports of call or, when needed, fly them in from their favorite sources.” Juan dipped a pillowy soft bite of lobster into his butter dish and plopped it into his mouth.

“Why so extravagant, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“A boat is only as good as its crew, and I’ve got the best crew in the business. Most of them are separated from their families for months at a time, and the job comes with a few risks. They deserve the best.”

“You’re a good boss.” Callie forked a piece of rib eye into her mouth.

Juan studied her face. She really was a lovely woman in the most natural kind of way. No makeup, no pretense. She had an athlete’s poise, but a feminine demeanor. There was also something uncanny about the way the light played in her hazel eyes.

“It’s just good business, that’s all,” Juan said. “We have workout facilities, an Olympic-sized pool, a sauna, a climbing wall—you name it. Peak physical conditioning is important for the job, but it’s also great for morale.”

“Are your people all on contract?”

“A top-shelf operator doesn’t need a contract, and a bum won’t live up to one. We’re mostly a handshake operation.”

“Isn’t that risky in your line of work?”

“Not the way we do business. We have a very selective hiring process. Essentially, if we don’t know you, you can’t be on the team. But once you’re on the team, you stay on for as long as you’re an asset. We all know when it’s time to hang up one’s hat.”

“I imagine the pay is pretty good.”

“Every crew member owns a piece of the Corporation’s profits. Their percentage of ownership depends on their rank and time of service. The more profit we make, the more coin in everyone’s pocket. The result is that everybody takes extreme ownership of every mission. Even the lowest deckhand can expect to retire a millionaire after enough time in service with us.”

Callie finished chewing her steak as she pointed a silver fork at the surrounding room. “All of this costs a pretty penny. I don’t think even John D. Rockefeller could’ve written a check for a luxury liner like this.”

“The first Oregon was funded from the Cayman Islands account of an assassin-for-hire who, shall we say, no longer needed the money. Since then, we’ve earned that ‘pretty penny’ the old-fashioned way—through a lot of blood, sweat, and tears.”

“There’s been more than one Oregon?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. The very first Oregon was a converted lumber hauler heading for the scrapyard—almost half the size of the current vessel. We built another one from scratch, but we lost her in combat a while back.” Cabrillo sighed. “We’ve had brothers-in-arms fall along the way, too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the high price we’re all willing to pay so that others can sleep at night.”

Callie nodded her appreciation as she took the last few bites of her meal.

Juan finished his in short order. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

“How do you like it?”

“Black as tar.”

Juan grinned. “A Navy brat?”

“Couldn’t be any prouder.”

“How about we take this conversation over to the lounge?”