“God, I hope so.” Juan raked his fingers through his hair. “I need to burn off some of this restless energy. If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the pool.”

One of the two enormous ballast tanks the Corporation used to raise or lower the ship depending on her disguise was tiled in buttery Carrara marble and lit with a combination of fixtures that approximated sunlight. It had taken a pounding when the Oregon went toe to toe with a Libyan frigate, but the artisans who’d made the repairs had done a masterful job.

Cabrillo shrugged off his robe and strapped four-pound weights to his wrists. The water wasn’t kept that deep because the ship was racing for Argentina, so he shallow-dove, barely submerging his entire body, and came up in a breaststroke that he knew from experience he could maintain for hours.

The water had always been his refuge, and it was from here he could free his mind and let himself relax. The repetition of his thrusting limbs and the slow burn building in his muscles was like meditation.

The following morning, after a sumptuous breakfast in the dining hall, Juan stood his watch in the op center. He arrived early and relieved Eddie Seng, who’d had the dog shift. Eddie gratefully relinquished the command chair once he’d briefed Juan on shipping around the Oregon and the weather, which was about to turn nasty. The main view screen, all eight feet of it, showed the seas as if they were on the actual bridge several decks above them. The sky was a sunless gray, full of ugly, roiling clouds, while the sea was as black as slag from a foundry except where the wind tore at the tops of the waves and threw up custard-thick spume.

Water regularly burst over the bows in sheets that raced for the scuppers. A crewman was up on the forecastle, securing a hatchway. He looked as small as a child and nearly powerless in the face of the elements. Juan breathed a little easier when the man returned inside the ship.

Hali Kasim, the ship’s communications expert, was at his station along the wall to Cabrillo’s right near the now-dim waterfall display for the Oregon’s sonar system. In these seas, and at the ship’s speed, it was impossible to hear acoustical signals, so the sonar was off-line.

“Call for you, Chairman,” Hali said. His hair stuck up at odd angles because of the old-fashioned headset he preferred. “It’s Overholt at the CIA.”

“About damned time,” Juan muttered, and hooked a Bluetooth over his ear. “Langston, what have you got for me?”

“Morning,” Overholt grunted. In that one word, Cabrillo knew the news was going to be bad. “The President’s National Security Council meeting just broke up. The DCI called me no more than five minutes ago.”

“What’s happening?”