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.”