Linda Ross entered the op center with Sloane Macintyre in tow. Sloane stopped as soon as she stepped through the door. Her mouth hung a little loose as she looked around the futuristic command center. The main view screen on the forward bulkhead was split into dozens of camera angles showing activity all around the ship as well as a clear shot of the Oregon’s bow as she powered through the sea.

“Linda said I’d get a better idea of what you all do if I came with her,” Sloane finally said as she approached Juan. “I think I’m more confused now than I was five seconds ago. What is all this?”

“The heart and soul of the Oregon,” Juan said. “From here we can control the helm, the engines, communications, safety teams as well as the ship’s integrated weapons systems.”

“So you are with the CIA or something?”

“Like I told you before, I used to be. We’re private citizens running a for-profit company that does freelance security work. Though I will admit the CIA has thrown us a lot of business over the years, usually with missions best left off their blackest books.

“Originally, our contract was to sell some arms to a group of African revolutionaries. The arms had been modified so the rebels could be tracked. Unfortunately we were double-crossed but we only learned about it after committing ourselves to rescue Geoffrey Merrick. So now we’re back to get the weapons, only it turns out Merrick’s ex-partner has other plans for them.”

“Who paid you to supply the guns in the first place?”

“It was a deal worked out between our government and the Congo’s. Most of the money came from the CIA; the rest was going to come from selling the blood diamonds we were given in exchange for the arms.”

“The diamonds you gave to Moses Ndebele for his help?”

“You got it. Hey, I guess the story wasn’t so long after all,” Juan quipped.

“And you make a living doing this?” she asked and then answered her own question. “Of course you do. I saw the clothes in Linda’s closet. It’s like Rodeo Drive in there.”

“Chairman, can I talk to you privately?” Linda asked.

Juan didn’t like the tone in her voice. He got up from his chair and offered it to Sloane with a flourish. “The ship’s yours.” He guided Linda to the far corner of the op center. “What’s up?”

“I was going over my interrogation notes and, while I’m not positive, I think Susan Donleavy withheld something.”

“Something?”

“Not about what Singer’s attempting here. I got everything out of her about this that I could. It’s something else. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“It’s about the timing of this whole operation,” Juan stated.

“It could be. I don’t know. Why would you say that?”