The Silent Sea (2010) - Cussler Clive - Страница 26

He and the others had arrived aboard the Oregon three hours earlier after a flight back to Brazil from the Paraguayan capital. They'd spent the first hour talking with members of the crew about what had happened and how Jerry had sacrificed himself so they could get away. Already a memorial service was in the works for that evening. The kitchen staff was making traditional Polish food, including pierogi, Kotlet Schabowy, and Sernik, a popular cheese-cake, for dessert.

Cabrillo usually led such a service, but because of their friendship Mike Trono asked if he could have the honor.

Juan left his cabin to do a slow inspection of his ship as she lay at anchor just outside the port of Santos. The tropical sun beat down on the steel decks, but the trade winds that blew through his white linen shirt kept him cool. Even to the most observant eye, the Oregon looked ready for the breaker's yard. Junk littered the deck, and any areas of paint that weren't chipped or peeling were applied so haphazardly and in such a myriad of off-putting colors that it almost looked like she wore camouflage. The central white stripe of the Iranian flag hanging over her fantail looked to be the only spot of brightness on the old freighter.

Juan approached an oil drum placed next to the ship's rail. He fished an ear microphone from his pocket and called the op center. The Oregon was wired with encrypted cellular service.

Hello, answered the high-pitched voice of Linda Ross, who had the conn.

Hello yourself, Cabrillo said. Do me a favor and activate the number five deck gun.

Is there a problem?

No. Just giving the old girl a once-over. Juan was well aware his crew knew he inspected the ship whenever he was troubled.

You got it, Juan. Coming up now.

The oil drum's lid lifted silently on an armature until it was completely folded over the side. An M-60 medium machine gun rose barrel first and rotated down so it was pointed out to sea. He examined the ammunition belt. The brass showed no trace of corrosion, while the weapon itself was well coated in gun oil.

Looks good to me, Cabrillo said, and asked Linda to stow it once again.

Next, he ambled down to the engine room, the heart of his creation. It was as clean as an operating theater. The ship's revolutionary power plant used supercooled magnets to strip free electrons from seawater in a system called magnetohydrodynamics. Currently, the technology was still so experimental that no other ship in the world utilized it. The room was dominated by the cryopumps used to keep the magnets cooled to three hundred degrees below zero. The main drive tubes ran the Oregon's length and were as big around as railroad tanker cars. Inside were variable-geometry impellers that, had they not been locked away in the guts of an old tramp freighter, would have served as the focal point of any modern-art museum. When water was being run through them, the whole space thrummed with unimaginable power.

The Oregon could reach speeds unheard of in a ship her size and stop as quickly as a sports car. With her powerful athwartship thrusters and directional drive outlets, she could also turn on a dime.

He continued on, ambling about the vessel with no direction in mind.

The hallways and work spaces were usually filled with lively conversation and banter. Not today. Downcast eyes had replaced ready laughter. The men and women of the Corporation performed their duties with the knowledge that one of their own was no longer with them. Juan could sense no blame from the crew, and that was what started easing the burden he carried. There was no blame because they all felt a measure of responsibility. They were a team, and, as such, they shared the victories and defeats in equal measure.

Cabrillo spent five minutes staring at a small Degas hanging in a corridor near where most of the crew's cabins were located. The discreetly lit painting showed a ballerina lacing a slipper up her ankle. In his opinion, the artist captured light, innocence, and beauty better than any painter before or since. That he could appreciate one of Degas's masterworks and the ugly functionality of a machine gun in the same tour was an irony lost on the Chairman. Aesthetics came in all forms.

In the forward hold he watched crewmen preparing to pull their spare RHIB from storage. When they were at sea and away from prying eyes, a deck crane would lift the RHIB from the hold, set it in the water off the starboard side, and it would be winched into the boat garage located at the waterline.

He checked in on the ship's swimming pool. It was usually his favorite form of exercise, and the reason he maintained his broad shoulders and lean waist, but after so much time in the water over the past two days he would probably use the nearby weight room for a while.

At the very bottom of the ship was one of her best-kept secrets. It was a cavernous room directly above the keel from which they could launch a pair of submersibles. Massive doors split open along the bottom of a moon pool, and the minis could be launched and recovered even when the ship was under way, though it was preferable that the Oregon remain stationary. The engineering needed to create such a space and maintain the hull's integrity had been Juan's single greatest challenge when he'd converted her from an old lumber carrier.

The hangar under the aftmost of the ship's five holds was deserted. The black MD-520N sat on her struts with her main blades folded back. Unlike a traditional chopper, this model didn't have a tail rotor. Instead, the jet engine exhaust was ducted through the tail to counter the torque of the overhead rotor. It made her quieter than most helicopters, and Gomez Adams said it made him look cooler.

The space had a cramped feel because of modifications they'd been forced to make when upgrading from the small Robinson R44 helicopter they'd once used.

In the infirmary he found Julia Huxley, their Navy-trained doctor, bandaging one of the engineer's hands. The man had sliced it while working in the machine shop and had needed a couple of stitches. Julia wore her trademark lab coat and ponytail fashioned with a rubber band.

Lay off the rum rations until after your shift, Sam, Hux joked after finishing taping down gauze pads.

I promise. No more drilling under the influence.

You okay? Juan asked him.

Yeah. Stupid, though. My father taught me the first day in our garage never to take your eyes off your tools. So what do I do? I look away while I'm milling a piece of steel and the damned thing slips and, wham, it looks like I was slaughtering a pig down there.

Juan's headset chirped. Yes, Linda.

It's Max. Sorry to bother you, but Langston Overholt's on the line, and he says he'll only discuss something with you.

Cabrillo thought for a second and nodded to himself as if he'd made a decision. I was done anyway. Thanks. Tell him to give me a second while I head back to my cabin.

HELLO?

Juan, sorry to call so soon after a mission but I'm afraid something rather peculiar has come up, Lang said in his usual understatement.

Have you heard? Cabrillo asked.

I had to talk with Max before he relented and put the call through. He told me about your man. I'm sorry. I know what you're feeling. For what it's worth, Overholt continued, you did a magnificent job. The Argentines will complain to the UN and accuse us of everything under the sun, but, bottom line, we have the power cell back and they've got nothing.

I have a hard time believing it was worth a man's life, Juan muttered.

In the great scheme of things it probably wasn't, but your guy knew the price going in. You all do.

Juan wasn't in the mood for a philosophical discussion with his former case officer, so he asked, What's this delicate situation you mentioned?

Overholt told the Chairman everything he knew about the situation at the Wilson/George Station, including what he'd learned from Tom Parker.