Piranha Read online

  No captain likes to be stranded in the middle of the ocean with a dead engine, so the mechanical systems are tuned and maintained rigorously to run at peak operating efficiency. If the engineer heard a pounding in the engine room that couldn’t be located, he would recommend that they stop the ship until the problem could be diagnosed. Of course, in this case there wouldn’t be a problem at all, and the onboard instrumentation would tell them that. Max estimated they would have thirty minutes before the engineer deemed the engines safe and cranked them back up.

  “Hold on, boys,” Linda said. “We’re heading under.”

  She flicked the joysticks expertly and dived the sub, maneuvering the Discovery so that it was below the path the Sorocaima would take. The rush of water being pushed by the immense tanker’s bow grew until it sounded as if the sub were a barrel floating toward Niagara Falls.

  Using the onboard LIDAR, or light detection and ranging system, which relied on a series of reflected lasers that would re-create a three-dimensional image of anything they saw, Linda could see the tanker’s hull soar over them like a zeppelin drifting through the clouds.

  Linda clicked on her on-screen control and the tube on top of the beatbox inflated until it made the apparatus neutrally buoyant. She retracted the robotic arms and then backed the Discovery away, unspooling the filament control wire as she did. She stopped when she was a hundred yards away.

  The positioning was perfect. The beatbox hovered twenty feet below the centerline of the tanker.

  The tanker’s gigantic single screw thrashed as it got closer. Linda would have to time this right. Too early and she’d get the beatbox too far forward of the engine room to be mistaken for a problem with the turbine. Too late and she’d get the beatbox chewed up by the screw or miss the tanker entirely. If that happened, there was no way the sub would be able to catch up and try again.

  When the last hundred feet of the tanker passed overhead, she clicked another button, activating the powerful magnet on the beatbox. It flipped as the magnetized side was pulled by the steel hull of the Sorocaima. A loud bang signaled that the beatbox had made contact and was holding fast to the tanker only four feet from where Linda had been aiming.

  The filament continued to feed out. She clicked another button and the hammer inside the beatbox started to pound away. She nudged the joysticks forward to the sub’s maximum speed so that they would be as close as possible when the tanker came to a stop.

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” she said.

  There was an agonizing wait as she looked for any signs that the tanker was slowing. A thousand yards of the filament had already played out. They had three thousand to go. After that, she’d have to cut it loose.

  Another thousand yards came and went before she finally saw the unspooling of the filament slowing down.

  “Good old Max,” she said.

  “I knew he wouldn’t let us down,” Mike said, rechecking the pistol that he was bringing along as a precaution even though their mission was to avoid any contact.

  “Looks like we’re going to have ourselves a cliff face to tackle,” MacD said, and assembled their climbing gear.

  When the Discovery caught up with the now stationary tanker, Linda’s watch told her that they had twenty-five minutes left out of Max’s thirty-minute limit. She surfaced the Discovery next to the bow, as far as possible from the engine room and bridge, where the center of activity would be taking place right now.

  MacD popped the hatch and looked outside. When he came back in, he wore a grim expression.

  “We’ve got something of a problem,” he said.

  Linda leaned forward and peered up through the mini-sub’s front viewport. She immediately saw what MacD meant.

  They were expecting the Sorocaima to be dark except for its running lights, the cloud cover allowing Mike and MacD plenty of pitch-black areas of the deck to move through unnoticed. That would be impossible now. From stem to stern, the tanker was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Red battle station lighting bathed the bridge of the frigate Mariscal Sucre in a hellish splendor that Admiral Dayana Ruiz relished. She had risen to her position as the top-ranking woman in the Venezuelan military not only because of her refusal to accept anything less than perfection from her subordinates but also because of her ability to command a ship in battle. She had never lost a war game exercise, and now she had the opportunity to show off her skills in actual combat.

  She only hoped that the ship called Dolos was as formidable as the stories had claimed. The tip she’d received about the tramp freighter and its captain had come from an officer in the Libyan Navy she had met at an arms bazaar in Dubai. He told her that he had experienced the mythical ship’s capabilities firsthand when it had nearly destroyed his frigate, the Khalij Surt—the Gulf of Sidra. Although she’d heard secondhand tales of such a covert ship, she had previously dismissed them as fantasy. But the officer’s eyewitness account was compelling. She spread word throughout the naval community that she would be happy to bag the mystery ship as a prize.

  Then Gao Wangshu of the Chinese Navy had come to Ruiz with a story similar to the Libyan’s. He had intelligence that the ship would be coming to Venezuela, although he thought the port of call would be Puerto Cabello. At the last minute, he gave word that La Guanta was where it would dock, and she sent him to the harbormaster there to get confirmation it was the right ship.

  Now it seemed like she had even more reason to believe the Dolos was a spy ship. The call from Lieutenant Dominguez about the two impostors who had tied him up couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Ruiz finished her black coffee as she angrily waited for the phone call from Puerto La Cruz. She wanted to fling the mug against the window, but the rigid reflection staring back at her made her stop. Her short raven hair, tan angular face, and tall, ramrod-straight frame under an immaculately pressed uniform, projected the reputation she had as an ice-cold commander, ready to sacrifice anyone or anything for victory. Any histrionics would dispel that image and allow the macho Latin American men under her command an opportunity to question her ability. She would not let that happen, but these latest developments were testing her stoicism.

  Lieutenant Dominguez was one of her brightest pupils and she had trusted him with some of the most valuable information about her operations that would propel her planned rise to power in the Venezuelan government. There had already been a female defense minister, but her ambitions were much higher than that. Hugo Chávez had been her idol and she foresaw following in his footsteps.

  But Dominguez had let her down and her empire was threatening to crumble.

  She had called him to check on the status of her arms smuggling operation. When he didn’t answer, she had called the guardhouse at the warehouse to check on him. Soon after the guards arrived at the security office, they found Dominguez and another man tied up in the bathroom. She immediately ordered the entire facility locked down so they could find the impostors who had sneaked in. She was now awaiting news that they had been found since no one had seen them leave the base.

  The phone rang and she snatched up the receiver.

  “Report,” she snapped.

  “Dominguez here, Admiral,” he said. “We have them cornered.”

  “Where?”

  He cleared his throat. “On the ship. They’re in the cargo bay. They knocked one of my men unconscious and locked themselves inside.”

  Ruiz had to find out who they were, how they’d discovered her operation, and whether any other part of it was in jeopardy.

  “I want them captured alive,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am. We have all the exits covered.”

  “What about the cargo door?”

  “We’ve cut power to that part of the ship. There’s no way they can lower it. I have fifty additional men on the way. There’s no way they can escape.”

  “Do you know
what they were after?”

  Another hesitation.

  “Don’t lie to me, Lieutenant. I will find out.”

  “They took the laptop and my phone.” He added quickly, “The computer is encrypted and I destroyed the phone, so they won’t be able to transmit any information from inside the ship.”

  Ruiz’s hand tightened on the mug until it seemed in danger of shattering.

  “You had better be right, Dominguez, or I’ll use you for target practice.”

  She could hear him gulp. “Aye, Admiral.”

  “Describe these men.”

  “Both were dressed in Navy uniforms. One was a large black man. The second . . . well, I could have sworn he was Captain Ortega. But, then, he thought you were a man. I was about to arrest him, but he and the other impostor were so quick—”

  “Enough. I’ll read about it in your report later. Call me the moment you have them in custody.”

  She hung up without waiting for acknowledgment.

  The news that they’d gotten hold of the computer and phone was the most disturbing part of Dominguez’s report. She could survive the discovery of her arms smuggling operation, but if anyone outside her inner circle found out about the second aspect of her illicit activities her standing in Venezuela would be destroyed. She’d be executed as a traitor.

  She retreated to her cabin. The next calls required more privacy.

  Ruiz dialed a number that she had memorized. She erased the number after every call.

  On the second ring, a clipped voice answered. “What?”

  “We’ve had an incident, Doctor,” she said in fluent English using the only name she knew him by.

  “So?”

  “I want to make sure it doesn’t jeopardize my plans. Is the Ciudad Bolívar on schedule?” she asked.

  “It will be in position in thirty-six hours just like I said it would.”

  “Have you detected any interest in our activities?”

  “No,” the man replied. “I expect the final payment to come through as soon as the Bolívar goes down.”

  “And in exchange you will hand over the encrypted software code for controlling the drones as we agreed?”

  “Yes,” the Doctor said.

  “Then we’ll proceed. Dominguez will report when the Ciudad Bolívar is sunk. Make sure the drones are ready by tomorrow night.”

  “Of course. That’s why you’re paying me.”

  He hung up. Ruiz wasn’t used to being treated with such disrespect, but the Doctor’s special skills demanded that she tolerate insubordination that would get a sailor sent to the brig.

  Her next call was to the harbormaster, Manuel Lozada. She was afraid that the Dolos would cast off early and leave the spies behind if they knew they were cornered and would eventually confess to the covert ship’s true nature.

  “A pleasure to hear from you, Admiral,” he said upon answering. “I was just about to—”

  “Lozada, I want you to raid the Dolos. I will have thirty soldiers there in ten minutes to assist the police.” She would redirect some of Dominguez’s reinforcements to La Guanta Harbor.

  “But Admiral, that’s why I was about to call you. The Dolos has just cast off.”

  “What? You gave them permission?”

  “Yes. You told me that you would capture them at sea, so I thought . . .”

  Ruiz was steaming. She had idiots working for her. But she kept her voice calm.

  “Lozada, do whatever you can to slow them down. If they leave Venezuelan waters before we get there, capturing them would cause an international incident.”

  “At once, Admiral!”

  “And use any information that Gao can tell you about the ship. It might give you a tactical advantage.”

  “Excellent suggestion, Admiral. We will do everything in our power to keep them from leaving.”

  “I want regular updates about its location.”

  She hung up, and strode back onto the bridge. She checked their position. They were still forty miles from Puerto La Cruz. At their present speed, they would reach the port in a little more than an hour.

  The Mariscal Sucre, a Lupo-class frigate, was the pride of the Venezuelan Navy. It was armed with a 127mm forward gun, eight Otomat Mark 2 surface-to-surface missiles, and twin Mark 32 triple torpedo tubes. Ruiz had no compunction about unleashing her arsenal on the spy vessel no matter how well armed or how defenseless it was.

  She just had to make sure they got there in time.

  “Captain Escobar,” she barked to the ship’s commander, “I don’t care if you burn the turbines out. Give me all the speed you can muster.”

  After a smart “Aye, aye,” Ruiz could feel the ship vibrate from the increased output, matching the adrenaline coursing through her system. She had never been more ready for a fight, and there was no way she would be denied her victory.

  Juan and Linc had the cargo bay’s stern door covered, occasionally taking shots to keep Dominguez’s men from pouring through. The bow door was still locked tight, with a chain looped through the handle, but they could hear someone hammering away at it on the other side. It was only a matter of time before it was breached.

  Bullets pinged off the armored vehicles around Juan and Linc as sailors with assault rifles poked their heads through the door to fire off a few shots. None came close. It was as if the men were simply trying to keep them pinned down.

  Juan guessed that was exactly their plan. The Venezuelans had the high ground because the doors on either end, one toward the bow and one toward the stern, were at the top of the three-story-high hold, with stairs leading down to the floor, where the vehicles were lined up in eight rows of four. It was a stalemate; Juan and Linc couldn’t leave and the Venezuelans couldn’t charge down the exposed stairs.

  “How many rounds do you have left?” Juan asked Linc.

  “Two magazines, but at this rate I’ll be out in a few more minutes.”

  “I’m down to one on the rifle I borrowed from our friend who let us in here.” A chop from Linc’s hand had dealt the guard a blow that would have him woozy for days. That still left enough men to beat them by attrition alone. There was no chance they’d make it all the way back to the Humvee. They had to find another way out.

  Even if they concentrated on one door and made a break for it, the only way off the ship was by sea. They’d be sitting ducks for anyone taking potshots from the dock.

  However, they did have one possibility on this very cargo deck.

  “Remember how gouged the floor in the warehouse was?” Juan asked.

  Linc nodded. “Sure. The treads on the armored vehicles will tear concrete like that to shreds when they turn. The tanks weigh upward of sixty-five tons.”

  “Which means they have some gas in them. How hard do you think it would be to drive this?” Juan said, jerking his thumb at the M1 Abrams next to him. It was the tank closest to the dock side of the ship.

  Linc was used to Juan’s improvisation, so he didn’t even blink at the suggestion. Instead, he said, “We’ve got to get the cargo door down first.”

  “So you’ve driven one?”

  “I sat in the driver’s seat of one back in the old days. A buddy of mine in the SEALs used to be a Marine tank driver. It looks pretty simple. Motorcycle-type handles for steering and acceleration, and a brake pedal. Not much different from my Harley.” Linc kept a customized Harley-Davidson in the Oregon’s hold for day trips at ports of call.

  “So that would be a no.”

  Linc smiled. “I learn quickly.”

  “I like your attitude. Only one problem.” Juan pointed at the battery-powered emergency lights that were on overhead. “I’d bet they cut off the power so the door won’t go down.”

  “That is a problem. Even a tank can’t smash through a ship’s hull.”

  “But y
ou did see the crates as we ran down here?”

  A look of understanding crossed Linc’s face and he turned to squint at the other side of the hold. Two metal shipping containers were placed end to end along the wall. Each of them was marked with yellow warning placards that said “EXPLOSIVES.”

  They held the ammunition for the armored vehicles. This really was a full-service smuggling operation. No sense in buying tanks that didn’t come with ammo.

  “Keep me covered,” Juan said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He felt extremely confident in Linc’s ability to protect his flank. Linc was an exceptional sniper, and even in the dim light he could take down any sailor who tried to rush in as long as he still had a round in the chamber.

  Juan sprinted between the tanks, keeping his head low as he ran. He felt the shock wave of bullets passing overhead, but they were few and hastily aimed thanks to Linc’s expert covering fire.

  Juan crouched behind the last tank and saw that the end of the freight container was exposed to the sailors at the stern door.

  It was also locked.

  A sizable padlock was looped through the handle. Either the North Koreans or Venezuelans didn’t trust the sticky fingers of their dockworkers.

  Juan hitched up his pant cuff and accessed the hidden compartment in his combat leg. He’d leave the pistol and knife there for now. The plastic explosive and detonator were what he needed.

  The small amount of C-4 would take care of a padlock easily enough.

  He removed the explosive from its package and readied its detonator.

  “Give me ten seconds on the stern door!” he called out to Linc.

  “Roger that!”

  “Now!”

  Linc concentrated his fire on the stern door, keeping the gunmen pinned outside.