Page 17 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
“Whatever I’ve got, I got it from my dad.” She took another sip of coffee. “This is so good.”
“Fresh-ground Cuban dark roast pour-over. My personal favorite.”
“So what about you? How did you wind up in this line of work? My guess is former CIA.”
“I was a NOC for longer than I can remember.”
“Non-official cover. A spook out in the cold.”
“More like in the hot, most of the time.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“The American intelligence community has largely become just another government bureaucracy, as sluggish and dysfunctional as your local DMV. Red tape, executive orders, legal opinions, and too many white-shoed political appointees more interested in the D.C. cocktail circuit than the national interest. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“But you’re still in the same game.” Callie gestured at the ceiling. “So why do all of this?”
“Same arena, different game. Now we play by our own rules. Andwe’re still playing, because there are still monsters out in the world that mean to do us harm. I’m beholden to only one voice now and that’s the one in my head. My mission is the safety of my country and my crew. There isn’t anything I won’t do to secure both.”
Juan picked his cigar back up and took another satisfying drag. If it had been after dinner he would have ordered a couple of fingers of twenty-three-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon, but a full workday was still ahead of them, including a test dive with Callie’sSpook Fish.
“Dessert?” Juan asked. “Chef makes a tiramisu that will sing in your mouth like a Puccini aria.”
“I’m already stuffed to the gills. Maybe I can have a rain check?”
“Of course.” Juan checked his watch. “There’s one more department I want to show you before I cut you loose to get to work. You game?”
Callie’s eyebrows bounced.
“Always.”
7
“This looks like a spaceship.”
Callie’s smile beamed as she surveyed the chilled room bathed in the blue glow of LED lights. Multiple touchscreen workstations were arranged in tiered semicircles of steel and glass. Two of the stations were occupied by a couple of young techs, who didn’t turn around when she came in.
The entire room was encircled by floor-to-ceiling wraparound 4K high-definition LCD screens providing a bridge-eye, three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the ocean all around them.
“Welcome to the op center,” Juan said. “If the engines are the beating heart of the ship, this is the brain.”
“Are you referring to the Cray supercomputer or to me?”
Max Hanley sprang up from the command chair centered in the top tier overlooking the room. It was also known as the Kirk Chair, named after the fabled captain of the starshipEnterprise. Every aspect of theOregon’s operations, from engines to weapons to navigation to comms, could be controlled from it by a single person.
Hanley was one of the older members of theOregon. The fringe of auburn hair circumnavigating his balding dome was silvering. His hard belly strained the buttons on his Tommy Bahama shirt despite Dr. Huxley’s mandated daily torture sessions on the Peloton. But thesparkle in his eyes, the flush of his taut skin, his oversized forearms, and a pair of sledgehammer-sized hands told Callie he was still in fighting form. She shook his calloused hand.
“Glad to finally meet you in person, Ms. Cosima,” Max said. His infectious enthusiasm was infused with a rakish charm.
“Callie, please.”
Juan clapped the slightly shorter man on his broad shoulder.
“Max is my number two and theOregon’s chief engineer. Not only does he baby the engines, he also manages our day-to-day operations. He was also one heck of a swift boat captain back in the day, and he does a fair job of handling theOregon.”
“Can’t wait to get my paws on theSpook Fish’s controls and take her for a spin,” Max said.
“Get in line, bub,” Linda said as she marched into the room. “Ladies first.” Linda turned to Callie. “How was your lunch?”
