Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

“You saved two of them,” she said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Without you and the teams from the Oregon, all three agents would be dead right now.”

  She was right about that, but it was small consolation to Juan.

  He headed back to his cabin to contact Overholt. When he got there, he found Maurice, the ship’s elderly steward, setting a coffeepot, mug, and fruit plate on the table. Maurice was the sole non-American on the Oregon. He’d served in the Royal Navy for decades before being lured to the Corporation. As always, he was dressed in an immaculate white jacket with a pristine linen napkin draped over his arm.

  “I thought you’d like some refreshment for your call, Captain,” Maurice said. He was the only person on board who didn’t call Juan “Chairman.” He insisted on adhering to naval tradition.

  “Thanks, Maurice,” Juan said, amazed at how the steward kept apprised about everything on the Oregon. Maurice was the epicenter of crew scuttlebutt, yet everyone also trusted him with their private thoughts. “How’s the crew handling the fallout from our recent mission?”

  “They seem to be in relatively good spirits,” Maurice said as he poured the coffee. “We all know that the unfortunate results were due to difficulties you couldn’t have anticipated . . . Will that be all, Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  Without another word, Maurice glided out of the cabin.

  Juan took a breath and made the call.

  Upon answering, Overholt frowned. “You look a little haggard, Juan.”

  “That’s why I’m due at the spa for a facial and manicure later,” Juan joked halfheartedly before turning serious. “I’m sure you’ve read my report by now.”

  “I have, and I must say I’m perplexed. It’s not like you to be caught off guard like that. Have you determined what caused your people to panic and jump the gun?”

  “Not yet. I have Julia Huxley on it. If anyone can figure it out, she will.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to make things worse for you,” Overholt said, “but I have some news that is disturbing.”

  Juan sat forward, expecting a reprimand from Overholt’s superiors for botching the mission.

  “The crew of the Mantícora was rescued,” Overholt continued. “As we feared, the ship was sunk, and they lost nine crew members in the tragedy.”

  Juan tilted his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. What does that have to do with us?”

  Overholt looked troubled. “One of the rescued men was a CIA agent named Jack Perry. Do you know him?”

  Juan shrugged and shook his head. “Must have joined after I left.”

  “Perry was supposed to be covertly buying arms for a rebel action that we are supporting. The transfer of the containers was to be done at sea from a freighter called the Portland.”

  Juan didn’t like where this was going.

  “According to Perry,” Overholt continued, “the Portland opened fire on the Mantícora with Gatling guns and a tank cannon hidden behind hull plates and sent her to the bottom. They also stole the payment for the weapons.”

  Juan gaped at him. “What did the ship look like?”

  “Perry’s description fits the Oregon perfectly, down to the five cranes, peeling paint, and filthy captain’s office.”

  “So he met the captain?”

  Overholt nodded gravely. “The name the man used was Chester Knight, clearly an alias.” He paused for effect. “And he had a prosthetic leg.”

  Juan was stunned. “Is Perry trustworthy?”

  “His story was corroborated by the other survivors, except for the description of Captain Knight. Perry was the only one who saw him.”

  “We didn’t sink the Mantícora.”

  “Of course I know that,” Overholt said. “But it doesn’t help that the attacking ship had a name similar to your own, which makes it sound like you used Portland as a pseudonym.”

  Juan thought about how this would look. “And we were in the general vicinity four days ago.”

  “Exactly my problem explaining this to the CIA brass.”

  “They think we’ve gone rogue?”

  “That’s the conclusion I’m trying to steer them away from,” Overholt said. “But now it’s become exponentially more difficult to make my case defending you. Additional incriminating evidence has come to light.”

  Juan’s stomach sank as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

  The wall monitor switched from a view of Overholt’s face to his laptop screen. A video started playing. It showed a large red cargo ship at sea, lit by the setting sun.

  “That’s the Avignon, a French freighter. She sailed from São Paolo’s Porto de Santo yesterday.”

  “We were on our way to Vitória last night,” Juan said.

  “The problem is, we both know that at the Oregon’s top speed you could have been at sea near São Paolo and still made it to where you are now.”

  Overholt was right. Their alibi was worthless.

  “Where did you get this video?” Juan asked.

  “It was sent to us anonymously. There’s no sound. We think it was taken from a cell phone on a fishing boat. You’ll see in a moment why it has the CIA Director very concerned.”

  A missile streaked in from out of frame and slammed into the side of the Avignon, ripping a gaping hole in her side. A second later, the camera wobbled from the blast concussion.

  Whoever was taking the video pivoted, and that’s when Juan knew the Corporation was being framed. He was horror-struck as he watched a tramp cargo freighter fire a second anti-ship missile at the Avignon to finish her off.

  The attacking ship looked just like the Oregon.

  20

  LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

  Langston Overholt didn’t often have to leave CIA headquarters to meet with people. Because of his position and experience, they almost always came to him. But as liaison to the Corporation, it was his responsibility to deal with the seemingly rogue actions of the Oregon. The Director himself was expressing doubts about Juan Cabrillo, and it had taken all of Overholt’s considerable charm and persuasion to convince him not to declare the Corporation a criminal enterprise and traitorous organization.

  Overholt needed to buy Juan some time. He had to drive into D.C. to visit the State Department and keep the situation from becoming a full-blown diplomatic incident with both France and Brazil. Meanwhile, he’d instructed Juan to do whatever he could to find out who was pinning their crimes on the Oregon.

  As he reached the main entrance, Overholt heard his name called. He turned to see Catherine Ballard hurrying toward him carrying a briefcase. With flaxen hair, a trim build, and a long stride, Ballard still carried herself like a field agent even though she’d been promoted to running her own operations at Langley three years earlier. Her tailored pantsuit and tortoiseshell glasses did little to hide the beauty she’d used to her advantage on more than one mission.

  “It looks like you’re off to the State Department now,” she said. “We’ve just received some new information about the Portland, so I’m going down to NUMA headquarters to follow up on it. Can I talk to you about it when I get back?”

  Ballard was running the Nicaragua rebel operation and had become friends with Jack Perry, the agent who met Juan Cabrillo’s impostor.

  “Since we’re headed in the same direction, do you want to ride with me and give me the briefing on the way?” Overholt asked.

  She looked surprised at the offer, but after thinking about it she agreed to join him. “I can get an Uber back here after the meeting.”

  Overholt’s black Suburban SUV was waiting at the entrance. As they walked to it, he said, “How’s Perry doing?”

  “He was pretty dehydrated when they found the lifeboat, but he’s recovering well. He should be back at work in a few days.”

  “Don’t you think it’s odd that their lives w
ere spared?”

  Ballard shrugged. “Remember, the man calling himself Chester Knight wanted him to convey a message to us, that Knight didn’t want to work for us any longer.”

  Overholt nodded. “Still, I find it strange. It was Perry who hired the Portland to bring the weapons from South Africa, correct?”

  “Yes. He found them through a referral from an emir in the Persian Gulf who had used them for security purposes.”

  That did fit Juan’s MO. The Corporation didn’t work exclusively for the CIA and had a web of contacts for finding other jobs, one of which was providing security at sea for friendly governments and companies.

  When they arrived at the Suburban, Jeff Connolly, Overholt’s driver and bodyguard, was holding the rear door open for them. Ballard smiled a thank-you to the burly Connolly and got in.

  “What’s the traffic look like this afternoon, Jeff?” Overholt asked, before he joined her.

  “Surprisingly, the G.W. Parkway doesn’t look bad today, sir,” Connolly said with a Texas twang. “We should be there in half an hour.”

  “Ms. Ballard needs to go over to NUMA headquarters after you drop me off, if you don’t mind taking her.”

  “Not a problem, sir.”

  As they pulled away, Overholt asked Ballard, “What’s that new information about the Portland you wanted to tell me?”

  She hesitated and pointedly looked at Connolly.

  “It’s all right,” Overholt assured her. “Jeff is a former Navy SEAL, and his security clearance is almost as high as mine. He’s just pulling this duty for a few months so he can be closer to his family.”

  “Kids?” she asked Connolly.

  He shook his head. “My mother has been recovering from chemo. I’ve been helping out my dad.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thanks.”

  Overholt saw them make a connection in the mirror. He suspected that Connolly’s bare ring finger didn’t go unnoticed by Ballard.

  “Back to the Portland,” he said to her, knowing she and Connolly would have plenty of time to banter on the way to NUMA. “Did you find anything that tells us who is operating it?”

  “Nothing. I can’t find any record of the Portland. According to my research, the ship that sailed from Cape Town with our cargo was called the Norego.”

  Overholt’s stomach went cold. That was one of the aliases Juan used for the Oregon.

  Ballard continued, “We also discovered that the Norego took on containers from Stellenbosch that weren’t in our order. We now think they contained a load of twelve Exocet anti-ship missiles.”

  “The same kind used to sink the Avignon.”

  She nodded. It was looking worse and worse for the Corporation. Exocet missiles were part of the Oregon’s weapons complement.

  “And you hope NUMA can help you track down the origin of the Portland?” Overholt asked. The National Underwater and Marine Agency had the most comprehensive database of ships in the world.

  “I figured with an issue of this sensitivity, it was better to make the request in person.”

  “Smart thinking.”

  They’d been making good time along the parkway just as Connolly had predicted, but he suddenly hit the brakes as they approached the Chain Bridge Road exit. The highway narrowed temporarily to a single lane at the juncture, and a truck pulled out from the shoulder directly in front of them.

  “What an idiot,” Connolly muttered. He laid on the horn, and the truck accelerated until they were back at highway speeds. But now it took up both lanes.

  “You believe this guy?” Connolly asked. “Wait . . . What the . . . ?”

  Overholt leaned forward and saw the rear door of the trailer snap up. In the darkness of the interior, he saw the points of two huge harpoons aimed at them.

  “Get us out of here!” Overholt shouted. It was too late.

  The harpoons fired and rammed through the front grille, embedding themselves in the engine block. Steam from the destroyed radiator gushed into the air. At the same time, a ramp extended from the back of the trailer.

  Cables attached to the harpoons went taut and started drawing them toward the truck.

  Connolly stood on the brakes. The tires squealed and smoked, but the cables pulling them were too strong and dragged them forward while they were careening down the highway. He wrenched the wheel right and left, the Suburban swerving side to side, to not much effect. Jumping out wasn’t a viable option, not at the current speed.

  “Do you have a weapon?” Overholt asked Ballard. He could see her mind working overtime considering their options.

  “No,” she said.

  Connolly gave up on wrestling with the steering wheel, bent down and gave her the revolver from his ankle holster, before drawing a Colt semiautomatic from his jacket.

  In seconds, the Suburban hit the ramp and was methodically drawn into the darkened trailer until the door snapped down behind them.

  “I can see four of them,” Connolly said. “They’ve got ballistic shields. But if we—”

  A single shot snuffed out Connolly’s last words. But it didn’t come from outside. Catherine Ballard had shot him in the back of the head with his own gun.

  She turned it on Overholt, who looked at her in shock. She held up her hand for the men outside to wait. She seemed to want to savor the moment.

  “So, you’re the mole,” Overholt said.

  She nodded and grinned, apparently pleased with herself. “You would have eventually figured out that I was the one who compromised the identities of Machado, López, and Belasco. It was a risk, but I was confident we’d kidnap you before that happened.”

  “How could you know I would invite you to ride with me?”

  “Oh, I didn’t. That was pure luck. I was planning to follow you in my own car to signal the truck. But since I was in the car with you, tracking with the GPS on my phone made the job even easier.”

  Overholt was furious at himself for being duped. “So the Oregon’s whole extraction mission was a setup?”

  Ballard nodded. “From the very beginning. And you played right into it.”

  “Of course, I wouldn’t have any reason to suspect a decorated agent like yourself.”

  “Of course not. Why would you? I’m as pure as fresh snow.”

  “Then why throw it all away like this? What do you want from me?”

  “You and Juan Cabrillo owe a debt to Zachariah Tate for what you two did to him,” Ballard said, motioning for the men in the truck to come get Overholt. “For what you did to us. Now it’s time for payback.”

  21

  THE ATLANTIC OCEAN

  After leaving Vitória, the next forty-eight hours on the Oregon were spent reconfiguring her profile to make her look different from the ship that sank the Avignon. They spray-painted the hull a patchy dull gray, added a false block to the superstructure, and were now taking apart two of the disabled cranes. Juan hoped it would be enough of a change that they could search for the doppelgänger ship without being readily targeted by the Brazilian Navy.

  Juan walked across the deck to join Max, who was overseeing the alterations. His Hawaiian shirt was drenched in sweat from the midday sun.

  “How long until we can get going?” Juan asked him.

  “Shouldn’t be more than an hour to finish up here,” Max said. He had developed a modular system for assembling and disassembling the nonfunctioning cranes quickly.

  “It’s time to give the ship another name.”

  “Great minds think alike. I was just going to suggest that we make up a new one. We have to assume all of the go-to names we’ve used are compromised.”

  Everyone in the crew called the ship the Oregon no matter what was listed on the stern, but they changed the visible name each time they arrived at a new port. The jackstaff
often flew an Iranian flag to disguise her country of registry, and iron filings sprayed onto magnets embedded in the hull allowed them to change the name in seconds.

  “Can we get away with Queen Anne’s Revenge?” Max asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Naming ourselves after Blackbeard’s pirate ship might be a tad obvious. How about Anacapa? We’ve never used that before.”

  “In honor of the Q-ship? I like it.”

  The Q-ship had its heyday during the Second World War. Like the Oregon, they were merchant vessels armed with concealed weaponry. The aim was to look like helpless cargo transports in order to lure submarines to the surface, rendering the subs vulnerable. The Q-ships were also used to target enemy freighters by coming close before revealing their true nature and opening fire. The Anacapa was an American Q that had operated in the Pacific Theater.

  The sound of footsteps pounded across the deck behind them. Juan turned to see Eric Stone sprinting in their direction. Eric was the Oregon’s helmsman and a Navy vet. Although he and Mark Murphy were the same age, both certified geniuses, and nearly inseparable in downtime, spent largely on video games and computer hacking, their appearances couldn’t have been more different. While Murph favored the slacker look, Eric was always neatly dressed, usually in khakis and a blue button-down shirt. The two of them had worked together on a Department of Defense missile defense project before joining the Corporation. And they shared similar difficulties courting the opposite sex, despite MacD’s extensive coaching efforts.

  As Eric came skidding to a stop in front of Juan and Max, he adjusted his black-framed glasses.

  “What’s got you in such a hurry?” Max asked. “Did they announce a new Batman movie or something?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Eric said. “We’ve received a call from Langston Overholt’s private number.”

  “What do you mean ‘from Langston Overholt’s private number’?” Juan asked.

  Eric shook his head. “It’s not Mr. Overholt on the line. It’s someone else. He won’t say who it is. And, he’ll only talk to you on video chat.”