Page 11 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Song-hyok offered a noncommittal grunt, turned on his booted heels, and marched toward the waiting truck.
If all went according to plan, the world as he had known it for the last five decades would soon change forever.
4
Aboard theOregon
“What are we doing standing in a janitor’s closet?” Callie asked, still wearing her Oakleys.
She, Juan, and Linda stood in the cramped little room. Shelves were stocked with cleaning supplies and a rolling mop bucket stood in one corner. A whiteboard hung next to a worn utility sink.
The three of them had made their way across the hot steel deck to the stern. They passed into the superstructure, down a linoleum-tiled corridor, and through a modest mess hall with stainless steel picnic benches, a serving window, and a corkboard littered with “for sale” items, typed notices, and U.S. Coast Guard regulations.
They finally reached the far end of the mess hall, where the janitor’s closet was located, and where they now stood.
Juan explained to her that everything above decks was fully functional and theOregonwas, in fact, a fully licensed and operational cargo freighter.
“But what we’re really all about is on the other side of this door—and belowdecks.”
“I’m not clear about what it is you actually do here,” Callie said. “Mr. Hanley was a little vague.”
“According to our records search, you’ve secured several previousgovernment contracts requiring top secret clearance,” Juan said. “Including two with the Navy’s WARCOM.”
“Spying on me, Mr. Cabrillo?”
“Not as often as Facebook, Alexa, or Instagram. And at least I’m not trying to sell you organic toothpaste or aluminum siding.”
“What Juan is suggesting is that your discretion is greatly appreciated,” Linda said. Her almond eyes narrowed. “In fact, it’s a matter of national security.”
Callie nodded. “Understood.”
Juan placed his wide swimmer’s paw on the whiteboard, activating a handprint scanner. An electronic lock clicked audibly, and the rear wall of the janitor’s closet swung open.
Juan gestured toward the plush-carpeted corridor just beyond his hand.
“Welcome to our own private rabbit hole.”
?
As they marched through the corridor, Juan pointed out a couple of his favorite masterpieces hanging on the walls, one of several art displays around the ship. The three of them crowded into the small elevator and Juan punched the button to the lowest level.
“Hope you’re not claustrophobic,” Linda said in the tight space.
“In my line of work, I can’t afford to be,” Callie said. “But then again, I do like a big window.” She finally pulled off her sunglasses and pocketed them.
The elevator descended farther into the belly of the steel beast.
“I assumed you were some kind of government research vessel,” Callie said. “But now I’m guessing you’re with one of the national intelligence or security agencies.”
“Not exactly,” Linda said. “We’re independent contractors. Most of the time we’re doing jobs for the federal government—the ones they can’t or won’t do on their own.”
“By ‘independent contractors’ you mean mercenaries,” Callie said. She eyed Juan up and down. “Where are all your tats?”
“We’re not guns for hire,” Juan said. “Most of what we do is intelligence gathering. And as far as tats go, we don’t like to advertise.”
“Not all of our jobs are with the federal government, but we never do anything that would harm the interests of the American people,” Linda said. “Our crew is comprised almost entirely of former military veterans or, like Juan, former intelligence community personnel. We’re as American as apple pie and Chevrolet.”
“More like protein bars and Smith & Wesson,” Juan said.
