Page 7 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest

Then Linc and Raven came to mind. The two valued crew members were absent, currently in transit for a mission to Panama. They wouldn’t check in for another forty-eight hours, but their implanted trackers indicated they were on schedule. What waited for them on the other side was anybody’s guess.

Cabrillo made his wish.

He then took a big, theatrical breath, but gently blew out the single birthday candle to a wild round of applause.

The head chef began cutting the cake as her sous-chefs wheeled incarts of ice cream, fresh-baked Austrian pastries, pots of pour-over Cuban coffee, and a variety of adult libations.

“What kind is it?” Cabrillo asked as the chef handed him the first plate.

“Your favorite. White chocolate macadamia nut cheesecake laced with raspberry sauce.”

Juan’s eyes rolled with ecstasy at the first bite. “Perfecto.”

The head chef flushed with pride. “Enjoy.”

“Surprised you made it this far,” Max offered with a wide grin and a heavy clap on Cabrillo’s back with his meaty hand. Hanley was dressed like Friar Tuck. It wasn’t much of a reach. His thinning gray-auburn hair was already ringed like a tonsure, and the heavy wool tunic draped over his high, hard belly. And just like Robin Hood’s number two, Max was the man Cabrillo wanted with him in any bar fight or gun battle.

“You look gassed. Didn’t you grab any shut-eye?” Max asked.

“Snagged a few winks. Shift change.”

Max eyed his friend, one hand clutching his fighting staff. He had his suspicions, but kept them to himself.

Cabrillo took another bite of cheesecake. “Who’s minding the store?”

“Linda’s in the chair. I’ll head topside after I grab a plate of goodies and send her down.”

“It must kill her not to be at a costume ball like this.” Linda Ross, despite her previous life in the buttoned-down U.S. Navy, had a penchant for wild hair colors—currently cotton candy pink.

“Oh, trust me, she got her Pat Benatar on just fine. You’ll see later.”

Someone tossed on a Gipsy Kings album over the loudspeakers, one of Cabrillo’s favorites.

Juan tugged on Max’s elbow and pulled him aside.

“This whole thing wasn’t your idea, was it?”

“Me? No way. I know you’re not crazy about birthday celebrations, let alone surprise parties.”

“Then whose idea was it?”

Max nodded toward a Texas Ranger in the far corner, wearing the traditional buckskins and pistols of an early Western lawman.

“Kevin’s idea?” Cabrillo asked.

“Yup.”

“Huh. Makes sense.”

Kevin Nixon had been a renowned Hollywood special effects artist, winning numerous awards, including an Oscar. His department on theOregon, known as the Magic Shop, created the costumes, makeup, and special effects vitally necessary for the undercover work that Juan and other team members carried out.

In addition, Nixon’s department helped transform theOregon’s sleek deck lines from a modern bulk cargo carrier into a rusting, derelict hulk in a moment’s notice with phony dead flies in the sills, gut-wrenching stench blown through the HVAC ducts, and a hundred other special effects pioneered by his department. It was all deployed to scare away nosy port authorities and added to the perfect camouflage theOregonneeded to sneak into ports around the world undercover.

Max’s chest swelled with pride as he fingered his monkish vestments. “Makes me want to go to Hollywood after I retire.”

“Not a monastery?”

Max laughed. “And on that note, I’m gonna fetch some cake and relieve Linda. See ya in the funny papers, brother.” Max’s face suddenly saddened. He raised his palm in a small, priestly gesture and whispered something Cabrillo couldn’t hear over the music before he turned away and headed for the snack bar.