Page 82 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

Linda Ross raced into the room, too.

“What did we hit?” she asked. “A sub?”

“Not sure yet,” Max said from his station.

“There!” Gilreath said.

Max and Linda dashed over to him. A mostly submerged and badly dented yellow shipping container bobbed in the water some three hundred yards behind theOregon.

“It didn’t show on radar,” Gilreath offered. He didn’t need to. The radar was designed to pick up other ships on the water, not objects just below the surface.

Callie padded unnoticed into the room, still yawning.

Max picked up the phone and called down to the engine room.Other than punching a hole through the hull and sinking the vessel, damaging the engines was the next worst possibility.

A sleepy voice picked up. Max asked for a status report.

“Engines check…all clear. No damage, far as I can tell. Nozzles are rotating one hundred percent, too.”

“We dodged a bullet, then.”

“Oh, we got hit all right,” Murph offered. “We just don’t know where it hit exactly.”

“We need to put divers in the water and inspect the hull,” Max said.

“I’ll make the call.” Linda picked up another phone.

“What about using my drone instead?” Callie offered.

Everyone turned around, not realizing she was standing there.

“I’d like to get as many human eyes on the problem as possible,” Max said. “It’ll probably be faster, too.”

“But also more dangerous—and incredibly dark. And it’s going to take time to get your people in the water. I can have the drone on duty in fifteen minutes. It’s already powered up and hooked to a camera. Murph can help me feed the video signal into your system.”

“No problemo,” Murph said.

“I can set it to automatic and make sure we cover every square inch with the video recorder for later analysis.”

“No offense,” Max said, “but I prefer human judgment on this one. The more eyes, the better.”

“Why not do both?” Linda asked. “Let her put the drone in the water now and the divers can join in as soon as they can and conduct a closer investigation.”

Max rubbed his nearly bald head. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You just haven’t had your coffee yet,” Linda said.

“Yeah, that’s it. Okay, Callie. Get after it.”

Callie beamed. “You got it.”

?

Twenty-four minutes after theSpook Fish’s drone hit the water, its video camera displayed a wrecked stabilizer fin, mostly torn away.There appeared to be no other damage to the hull. The divers confirmed the drone’s damage assessment with their own visual inspection they completed an hour later.

Maurice, theOregon’s dapper but aged steward, arrived at the op center with a dining cart loaded with Danishes, churros—and gallons of fresh coffee.

“The galley is whipping up a hearty breakfast for you all. Until then, enjoy this sugary repast,” Maurice said in his cultured English accent. Despite the early-morning hour, and unlike the rest of the crew, the Englishman arrived in sharply creased black slacks and a crisp white shirt, his shoes buffed to a high gloss.