Chapter 68

68

Aboard the Oregon

The Timor Sea

Callie’s face soured as her nose crinkled with another sniff of the stale air. She stood with Juan on the false bridge atop the Oregon’s aft superstructure. Though the op center belowdecks was the true command and control center of the ship, the topside bridge was fully functional and used when needed.

Cabrillo’s eyes were glued to a pair of infrared binoculars. Jaco Island, just off the far eastern coast of Timor-Leste, lay three miles due west of their position, but he was scanning the entire horizon. The Oregon’s radar was in perfect working order, but he wanted to get eyes on the area.

There was little commercial shipping traffic in this part of the Timor Sea except for the fishing trawlers, which had already put in to port. A massive storm was racing toward their position. In the distance he saw long, jagged fingers of lightning stabbing the night sky. He was grateful for the bad weather coming their way. It would prove a perfect cover for tonight’s operation.

“What is that horrible stench?” Callie asked.

“Clogged toilet. Blame Nixon.”

“Please tell me that’s part of the charade.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Cabrillo was pulling her leg. Several hours ago, she had witnessed the Oregon’s complete transformation from a proud, shipshape bulk cargo carrier to a rusty scow barely able to stay afloat. The gleaming paint, polished brass, surgically clean decks, and even the ship’s name on the stern were swapped out electronically with faded colors, oxidization, and rust. Like Hollywood set decorators, the Magic Shop and a specialized crew added the finishing touches on the newly christened Estacada, littering her decks with rusted chains, frayed ropes, leaking barrels, and broken machine parts. Interior additions on the bridge included cracked windows with dead flies on the sills and a clogged head in the captain’s cabin. Air misters diffused a variety of malodorous fragrances including the one currently crinkling up Callie’s nose.

All of that subterfuge was designed to drive off any nosy harbormaster or customs authority that came aboard for an intrusive inspection. Invariably, even the most suspicious officials were driven off the filthy ship with watering eyes and heaving stomachs before they ever had a chance to discover the true nature of the Oregon’s design.

Cabrillo lowered his binoculars. He was kitted out for a night raid on the island launching within the hour. The GPS signal they picked up earlier from an American Humvee had originated from there. He was grasping at straws, but it was the only Vendor clue he had at the moment.

“I’m heading to the team room,” Juan said.

“I wish there was something I could do to help tonight.”

“Should be smooth sailing. If we ever capture one of the Vendor’s units, I might have a job for you.”

“Whatever you need, you know I’m here.”

Juan nodded. “You are your father’s daughter. I’d expect no less.”

Callie beamed with pride.

All of the Gundogs were on board except for Raven, who was still recovering from her leg wound. Linda Ross wasn’t one of the Oregon’s designated special operators, but she trained with them regularly and volunteered to take Raven’s place.

Eddie Seng was head of the operation, but it had been Juan’s call to launch out in the middle of a dangerous squall, so he joined the mission. Only an idiot would launch an assault under such conditions, or at least, that’s what Cabrillo hoped the Jaco Island guards were thinking. Massive lightning flashed ever closer, but the chances of getting struck by the booming thunderbolts were a heck of a lot less than drowning—or getting shot by well-armed guards.

That is, if there were any guards.

Juan had ordered Gomez to run drone surveillance over the island earlier. His drone found a large, corrugated-steel warehouse set back beneath the trees some three hundred yards beyond the water, but no one was around it. Not guards. Not warehouse workers.

But there was no question the GPS signal had originated at this location and was still broadcasting. If the Vendor was storing American military equipment on the island, he’d put it in a warehouse like this one for protection from the elements and more importantly to keep it hidden from unwanted surveillance.

The tiny island was an interesting choice, Juan thought. Its remote location was a natural advantage, but it was still on the fringe of the world’s most populous region.

Cabrillo had Eric dig up whatever records he could find. The tiny, impoverished nation of Timor-Leste—“East Timor” in Portuguese—occupied the eastern half of an Indonesian island. According to Eric, a shell company representing unknown real estate interests had purchased Jaco Island. Regional newspapers suspected bribes had greased the wheels of the unusual transaction. Once secured, the private real estate group immediately sealed it off from the rest of the nation and a large private pier had been constructed on the eastern side of the island. All of that fit with the Vendor’s modus operandi. It all made sense.

But did it?

Juan had his suspicions. But there was only one way to find out for sure.

Gomez Adams volunteered to take the wheel since the ’dogs were down a star player. He killed the twin engines just a few yards from shore and the RHIB’s hull hissed to a stop on the wet sand.

“Let’s rock and roll,” Eddie said as he leaped out of the boat and led the way onshore. Juan was right behind him, the straps on his unusual pack cinched tight across his shoulders.

The team fanned out and snaked its way through the trees, the drenching rain hitting the leaves sounding like a Brillo pad scouring a saucepan.

The looming shadow of the warehouse finally came into view. No lights were on. The team split up. Cabrillo, Seng, and Linda approached the front. Linc and MacD took the rear. They were all about ninety yards from the building.

Seng knelt down and scanned the area with an infrared monocular. If there were any warm bodies outside, he’d see them. He whispered in his comms, “All clear.”

MacD had a similar scope. He also replied, “All clear.”

Seng glanced at Cabrillo kneeling next to him. Your call.

There was no obvious reason to not head into the warehouse. But the Vendor had proven too dangerous. There was no way he didn’t have some kind of electronic means of surveillance guarding the place, even if there weren’t any guards. And probably not just surveillance.

Cabrillo unshouldered his pack and unzipped it. The gadget inside was something Murph had put together. He powered it on and hit the charge button. The device sent out a jamming signal that would break any Wi-Fi or radio network within a hundred yards. Any electronic device that was remotely powered or activated would be rendered harmless. The RHIB was safely behind them at over two hundred yards. The last thing Cabrillo wanted to do was fry the boat’s motors.

“Okay, let’s go,” Juan said. He bolted to his feet and jogged forward. Eddie and Linda were on his heels, their heads still on swivels looking for trouble. A massive thunderclap overhead lit up the area like Yankee Stadium for a nanosecond. They were surrounded by trees, and nothing else—except the dark that suddenly closed back in on them.

Juan hated being off comms with Linc and MacD, but they knew to stay put. Cabrillo had suspected the Vendor had laid some sort of a trap. But it was beginning to feel as if he had been overly cautious.

The windowless warehouse was buttoned-up tight. Cabrillo approached the big steel rolling door. Seng dashed up with a pair of bolt cutters in his hands. A quick snap of his arms and the thick padlock fell away. Linda reached down and yanked the door. The steel clattered as it rolled up.

Juan pointed at his boots.

A Chinese-made IED was positioned right next to the door, its laser trip light pointed across the entrance. If Cabrillo hadn’t killed its circuitry with Murph’s gadget, the three of them would be piles of bloody Swiss cheese lying on the ground.

Not one to tempt fate, Cabrillo still stepped over what would have been the laser line and headed into the warehouse. It was pitch-black, but another flash of lightning lit up the interior. The building was completely empty.

Except for a table. And on the table stood a small electrical device. If he had to guess, it was a GPS transponder—probably pulled from a Humvee.

A shock wave shot through Cabrillo’s spinal column.

“It’s a trap!”