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“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 starship Enterprise . Every aspect of the Oregon ’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 the Oregon . 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 the sparkle 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 the Oregon ’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 the Oregon .”

“Can’t wait to get my paws on the Spook 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?”

“Are you kidding me? I’m afraid anything I ever order again from one of those swanky restaurants will taste like cat food.” She turned to Max. “No problems securing the Spook Fish and my support equipment?”

“Everything arrived on time and was inventoried at the dock before I took possession, as per your instructions,” Max said.

Callie surveyed the huge wall displays again. A Panamax oil tanker was steaming south a few miles to port. She turned around, her eyes wide with amazement. Astern she caught a glimpse of the contrails of a high-flying airliner streaking north.

“I feel like I’m standing on the Oregon ’s bridge even though we’re belowdecks.”

“We run everything from down here in the op center because we’re protected by armor plating. The bridge in the superstructure you saw when you boarded is fully functional. We use it when the operation calls for it.”

Max pointed a thick finger at each of the workstations as he called them out. “We have comms, navigation, sonar, radar, weapons—”

“Weapons? I thought you were an intelligence-gathering operation,” Callie said.

“That’s our primary function,” Juan said. “But not everybody appreciates us snooping around in their dirty laundry. We have to be able to defend ourselves when the need arises.”

“I’m surprised. I didn’t see any guns when I came aboard.”

“We keep them under wraps. Besides, our best defense is anonymity. By appearing to be just another ordinary cargo ship, we can slip in and out of ports all over the world without attracting attention.”

“Sort of like the old Q-ships from the world wars,” Max added.

“That helps explain your need for the Oregon ’s incredible speed,” Callie said. She turned to Max. “Your engines are a miracle of engineering. I’d love a personal tour sometime before I leave.”

Max beamed with pride. “I’d be happy to.” His attention was snatched away by a flashing light on the arm of the Kirk Chair. The voice of Hali Kasim, the Oregon ’s chief communications officer, reverberated in the armrest speaker. He was in the hangar assisting a comms upgrade on the AW tilt-rotor.

“What is it, Hali?”

“Langston Overholt IV, on a secure line.”

Juan frowned. It wasn’t like his former CIA handler to call him out of the blue unless something was up.

“Tell him to hold.” Juan turned to Callie. “This sounds urgent. If you don’t mind…”

“No, of course not.”

“Linda, would you please show Callie to her quarters while I get this? I’ll brief you later.”

“Aye, Chairman.” Linda tugged on Callie’s elbow and they headed for the exit. When they were clear, Juan fell into the Kirk Chair, fingered the touchscreen, and took the call.