“Daniel Singer plans to cause the biggest oil slick in history and helping him is a mercenary army that we provided the weapons to.”

The news shocked any vestiges of sleep from Cabrillo’s brain.

He reached the boardroom in fourteen minutes, his hair still wet from the shower. Maurice had coffee waiting for him and an omelet bursting with sausage and onions. His first thought was for Linda Ross. The diminutive intelligence officer was at her customary seat with a laptop opened in front of her. Her face had the pale brittle look of a porcelain doll, and her normally bright eyes were as dull as old coins. Though only a few hours had passed since she began interrogating Susan Donleavy, Linda seemed to have aged a decade. She tried to smile at Juan but it died on her lips. He gave her a nod of understanding.

Franklin Lincoln and Mike Trono were also present, to make up for Eric Stone’s and Mark Murphy’s absence.

Max was the last to arrive and he was talking on a phone when he entered the room. “That’s right. A coastal oil facility. I don’t know exactly where, but your pilot must have some ideas.” He paused a beat while he listened. “I know some of the radio tags must have failed by now. I also know that you overbuilt them enough so a couple are still transmitting. You’ll just have to get closer to find them.”

“Murph?” Juan asked after hastily swallowing a bite of his omelet.

“I want him focusing on the coast. I did a little research and found there’s a long string of offshore oil production platforms at the mouth of the Congo River that arc north to Angola’s Cabinda province.”

“Angola’s to the south of the Congo,” Eddie said.

“That’s what I thought, too.” Max eased himself into his chair. “But there is an enclave north of the river and it’s sitting on a couple billion barrels of oil. For what it’s worth, I actually found out the U.S. gets more crude from Angola than it does from Kuwait, which pretty much negates the war for oil rant of a couple years ago.”

Juan turned to Linda. “Want to fill us in?”