Page 13 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

Deckhands had pulled the steel grates above the two massive keel doors. The bottom of the ship, at least in this part of the keel, was now opened to the sea. And because this part of the open hull was level with the sea, theOregondidn’t sink.

Underwater floodlights illumined the dark waters below. Beyond the reach of the powerful beams were the vast depths of the Gulf of Oman, reaching nearly twelve thousand feet into the abyssal dark.

Callie glanced up. Overhead cranes on the far side of the compartment cradled theOregon’s two mini subs.

“The one that looks like something out ofThe Jetsonsis theGator,” Linda said. “That’smybaby.” She was referring to theGator’s sleek, flat forty-foot deck and pilot’s cupola of slim, angled windows that barely broke the surface when operating in stealth mode. “She has a depth limit of a hundred feet, but she’s got a thousand horses under the hood. She can carry ten fully kitted-out operatives and still do over fifty knots on the surface.”

“A stealthy insertion vehicle,” Callie said. “Nice design.”

Linda pointed at the other craned submarine, long and white like a GermanWeisswurstsausage. Its sixty-five-foot hull was fixed with ballast tanks, battery packs, and thrusters arranged almost as an afterthought. Its blunt-nosed bow featured three viewing portals, powerful xenon lamps, and a pair of articulating mechanical arms.

“That larger one is theNomad. She’s capable of a thousand feet, but she can carry a crew of two and a complement of eight divers in full gear—more if we pull out the storage lockers. She has an air lock for egress and a decompression chamber on board as well.”

Callie pointed at a third cradle. It was covered in shadows. “And that’s mySpook Fish.”

Juan smashed a light switch on a nearby support beam. A pair of spotlights lit up the mini submarine. Callie’s smile radiated like a Coleman lantern.

TheSpook Fish 5000sported a bulbous, optically perfect acrylic cockpit—like a fishbowl perched on top of a pair of blue pontoons. It could accommodate one pilot and two passengers and featured a single mechanical arm for the pilot to maneuver.

But what set this particular unit apart was the large sealed yellow pod attached beneath the submersible’s hull. Callie’s deepwater breakthrough lay inside of it and was the reason for Cabrillo’s enthusiasm for her project. Its potential could prove a real game changer for futureOregonoperations.

“Did you name her after an actual fish?” Linda asked.

“Yes. The spook fish is more commonly known as a barreleye.They’re engineering marvels, really. They inhabit deep water, up to three thousand feet.”

Callie then gestured with her hands and fingers to demonstrate what she was describing. “The top half of their skulls are transparent, like the cockpit glass on an F-35 Lightning. Their eyes are poised mid-skull and point upward toward the surface, though they can articulate forward as needed. I suppose I picked the name mostly because my submersible sorta looks like one.”

The brilliant young engineer turned back to Juan.

“Your entire operation is really quite impressive, Mr. Cabrillo. Given the depth limitations of your two submersibles, I can see why mySpook Fishwould be an excellent addition to your operations. I want to get started right away prepping for tomorrow’s demonstration dive. Is there anything holding us up?”

“A really fantastic lunch, actually,” Juan said. “Let’s eat first and then we’ll get to work. Deal?”

Callie smiled. “Well, I am kinda hungry.”

5

Juan, Linda, and Callie rode the elevator back up to the dining level. Linda waved off lunch. She had a scheduled brown bag in the ship’s biophysical laboratory to discuss equipment upgrades. She promised to catch up with them back at the moon pool after lunch. Shepherding such mundane details was the least glamorous aspect of her job, but vitally important for the efficient operation of theOregon.

Juan led Callie into the dining room. She couldn’t stifle a small gasp.

“This is…amazing.”

Like everything else on theOregon—save for the crew’s individual quarters—Juan had designed the dining room down to the smallest detail.

He modeled the sumptuous mess hall after a classic English gentlemen’s club. The dining room featured dark walnut paneling, polished brass fixtures, and coffered ceilings. Along the far wall beyond the main dining room were chesterfield sofas and club chairs arranged near the floor-to-ceiling bookcases featuring a number of first-edition Herman Melville and C. S. Forester seafaring classics.

“We can order from the table or just grab something from the lunch line,” Juan offered. “They always put up a couple of good choices to keep things moving faster.”

“The lunch line works for me.”

Juan and Callie headed for the serving window. They grabbed a couple of trays along with plates and silverware and shuffled into the cafeteria-style line.

A squadron of chefs in pristinely white, double-breasted cloth jackets maneuvered with cheerful military precision around the flaming stoves with bubbling saucepans and sizzling skillets. A senior chef called out orders even as she inspected the finished plates at the pass.

Callie stepped up to the serving window. A smiling, befreckled young sous-chef greeted her.

“Your protein, ma’am?” she said.