Page 18 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest

“Well played, Captain Ross,” Juan said.

Linda Ross’s high voice giggled in the speakers overhead.

“Almost got you, Chairman. Thought you didn’t want to use the kinetics?”

“I didn’t. But some traitorous member of my command decided she could run the table on me.”

Ross laughed again. “Blame the AI, not me.”

Linda Ross was Cabrillo’s third in command. She was a former U.S. Navy intelligence officer, a priceless addition to a spy ship like theOregon. She quit the blue-water Navy once she hit her private glass ceiling. Navy brass didn’t think anyone would take her seriously in a command position owing to her diminutive elfin stature and helium-squeaky voice, so they never offered Ross her own ship—the only thing she ever wanted.

But Cabrillo instantly recognized the fierce intelligence behind the impish green eyes and offered her the job. She became an outstanding helmsman in her own right, and took command of theOregonwhen Juan and Max were on mission. She had also acquired superlative sub-driving skills. It was only natural to assign her to one of theOregon’s three submersibles for today’s combat-realistic exercise.

“I was hoping the laser and EMP cannons were enough,” Juan said. “Glad we added the Vulcans.”

Eric and Murph stole a look at each other and fought back a laugh. They were theOregon’s biggest sci-fi nerds.

“Lasers are for rock concerts, not combat,” Max said. “I’m an analog guy all the way.”

“Next time we’ll put a trebuchet on the foredeck,” Cabrillo said.

“When do I get to take another run at you?” Ross asked.

“Come on back to the barn. I want to run over today’s digital recordings and do an after-action review. We’ll come up with a different game plan then.”

“Roger that.”

Cabrillo nodded at Hali to end the call. Ross would maneuver theNomadunderneath theOregonso that it could be lifted up into its place in the boat garage next to the smallerGatorand theOregon’s newest vessel, theSpook Fish, a deepwater submersible.

Overall, Cabrillo was pleased with the exercise. TheOregonhad survived the drone attack, and his new drone system had proven frighteningly effective.

The hits to theOregonwere real enough, but the drones themselves were unarmed. Max’s damage reports were only computer-based estimates. Had Linda’s AI-piloted vehicles been carrying real payloads it might have been a very different story.

Still, it was a good learning experience, and all part of the retrofit he and Max had initiated after their mission against the Vendor. Besides acquiring new offensive and defensive systems, significant improvements were made to the power plant, hull design, and several other departments. Everything was still in testing mode.

Cabrillo knew that combat technologies were always changing, but lately they seemed to be accelerating exponentially. He was determined to modify theOregonto make her lighter, better armored, better defended, faster, and more lethal.

He ruefully knew the bad guys would be doing the same.

TheOregon’s AI-enhanced defenses had barely survived Ross’s AI-commanded drone assault. They were still fumbling in the dark, trying to master this new form of warfare, but the Island of Sorrows incident had made one thing crystal clear: drone technology was the future of combat.

Cabrillo’s fingers drummed against his armrest as he studied the after-action data scrolling across his displays. The future wasn’t coming—it was here. And they weren’t ready. Not yet.

In the distance, thunder rumbled across the Pacific like artillery—a warning of storms to come.

10

Colombia

The pilot’s deft control of his ScaleWings SW-51 allowed him to put the wheels softly down on the grassy airstrip. The plane was a near-perfect replica of the famous P-51 Mustang fighter of World War II fame. But like its pilot and owner, Amador Fierro, the carbon fiber aircraft with its cutting-edge avionics was a high-tech wonder and a product of the twenty-first century.

And with its custom-mounted .50-caliber machine gun, it—and he—could also kill.

The four-bladed prop feathered to a stop after Fierro killed the Rotax engine. A Land Rover SUV bounded down the hill as he slid the canopy aft and lifted it on its hinges to egress.

The airstrip was part of Fierro’s mountaintop villa nestled on a plateau in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta in northern Colombia. The vast estate afforded him breathtaking views of both the mountains and the sea, and was surrounded by a working coffee plantation. He had inherited the property along with the rest of his empire after the murder of his father several years before. His father, Jerónimo Fierro, ran one of the most violent and profitable drug cartels in Latin America. The old man had used his vast wealth to purchase the estate and to fill it with museum-quality objets d’art. He also acquired precious gems, legitimate enterprises, and a healthy stock portfolio.

But Jerónimo’s single best investment had been a Stanford MBA forhis brilliant young son. Graduating at the top of his class, telenovela-handsome Amador steered clear of the cartel’s violent day-to-day operations with his father’s blessing. He launched into a successful career as a high-tech venture capitalist in Silicon Valley—laundering family drug money. When his father was murdered, both family honor and boundless potential obligated him to take over the family business.