Page 111 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

Juan and Linc crested a small hill to get their bearings, no longer afraid of being spotted by drones overhead. After destroying theMak?i, Juan ordered the remaining drones to ground and disarm themselves, then used the Mini-Sniffer to scramble and disable theirsoftware permanently. He also killed the radio signals to all of the island’s hidden cameras, blinding the Vendor.

Unfortunately, the handy device didn’t have a controller function or the ability to display camera feeds, otherwise he would have deployed the drones to take out the Vendor in a direct assault on his fortified compound. He made a mental note to raise those deficiencies with Stoney and Murph before they began a Mini-Sniffer version 2.0 build-out.

“There it is,” Linc said, using the spotter scope for a better view. He handed it to Juan.

They had both heard the heavy helicopter blades beating the air earlier, but they were under the jungle canopy at the time and couldn’t see it. But now up on the hill with a clear line of sight, Juan saw the big chopper leap off the tallest building in the compound and arc out over the ocean.

“I guess the party’s over, now that we’ve tossed a turd into their punch bowl,” Linc said.

“I’m just praying the Vendor isn’t on that chopper.” Juan checked his watch. “Oregon’s still four hours away.”

“We’re still a fair hike from the strike zone. We should get moving.”

Juan wanted visual confirmation of the spider-bot’s destruction. What he was really hoping for was that Rahul was standing close by when the first drone hit. If so, maybe there was some intel on the corpse or on the robot they could use against the Vendor. They had plenty of time to get there before theOregonwould arrive.

They also both agreed there wasn’t any advantage to hanging out with the other mercs. They were already on Plata’s radar and the prospect of splitting twenty million dollars with two fewer members of their team could prove too tempting to resist.

Juan pulled his canteen and took a swig of water as the beating helicopter blades faded in the distance. The scent of sweet and musky jasmine in the air brightened his spirits after a long and adrenaline-fueled day.

“Yeah. Let’s get after it.”

57

Washington, D.C.

Erin Banfield plopped down in front of her home computer with a full tumbler of scotch on the rocks in one hand. It was a daily vice that helped calm her nerves as she accessed the dark side of her life on her secure private network.

First and foremost, she reviewed her investment portfolios, several of which were located in carefully hidden overseas accounts far from the prying eyes of U.S. government auditors. Her nest egg was almost large enough to flee her Georgetown roost. Still, she needed to accumulate as much tax-free cash as possible if she hoped to sustain her beachside love nest with her hot-blooded Portuguese paramour for the long run.

That need for extra cash drove her to a second checklist item, which was monitoring Langston Overholt’s affairs via the private server of his that she managed to hack. Years ago, she would have done this at the office, but CIA internal security had gotten tighter in the last decade. Network administrators were continually monitoring unwarranted activities and unauthorized access on federal machines. Her Georgetown bastion was more secure than any government sensitive information facility and the safest place from which to spy on Overholt.

She quickly scanned Overholt’s files and discovered the old man’s emergency exfil request two hours prior for a quick reaction force to be deployed immediately to a specified GPS location.

She stopped reading the email in order to geolocate the coordinates. She discovered it was a private island off the southern coast of Mindanao, the Philippines.

Her eyes then fell on the next email posted five minutes later. It was another request from Overholt canceling the emergency quick response force, no reason given.

Strange.

She was still processing the unusual pair of requests when she suddenly realized she hadn’t finished reading the first email. She pulled it back up for details.

The emergency exfil request was for the rescue of two American contractors deployed with the vesselOregon.

Oregon?Oregon? Where had she heard that name before?

Banfield took a long pull from her scotch and set her glass down on a dog-eared copy of Jumble puzzles she had finished in a day. They were too easy for her incredible intellect, but they always brought her warm memories of doing them as a young girl with her father on her weekend visits to his house. The puzzles required her to unscramble random letters to form intelligible words. The praise her father heaped upon her had been an elixir for her broken, impressionable soul. It had also ignited the intellectual fire that would ultimately lead to her current career as a CIA intelligence analyst.

And then it suddenly hit her. O-R-E-G-O-N could also be spelled N-O-R-E-G-O.

“Norego,” she whispered.

That was the name of the ship that the Vendor had requested information on after it had caused him some problems he didn’t want to talk about.

This was the first bit of intel on theNoregoshe had been able to uncover.

She needed to contact him immediately.

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