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enjoyed the transition from the deceptively decrepit topside to the sleek and elegant world belowdecks. It symbolized everything he loved about the ship. Although her fantail currently bore the name
Dolos
, down here he never referred to her as anything but her original name—
Oregon
.
    The
Oregon
was Juan’s creation. As Chairman, he had conceived a ship that would not only avoid attention but would actually repel it. Few knew about the technological marvels hidden within the
Oregon
’s apparently crumbling hull. That trickery made her virtually invisible in the Third World ports that she plied. In reality, she was a fourth-generation, state-of-the-art intelligence-gathering vessel. She could travel where no U.S. Navy warship could go, enter ports closed to most commercial shipping, and transport highly secret cargo without arousing suspicion.
    Juan entered his cabin, which was the antithesis of the fake one he’d shown to Lozada. Like all the members of his crew, he had a generous allowance to decorate it to his taste since the space served as his home. It was currently fashioned as an homage to Rick’s Café Américain from the movie
Casablanca
.
    Juan shucked his costume and removed the artificial leg that was strapped below his right knee, a disability he’d acquired courtesy of shell fire from a Chinese destroyer called the
Chengdo
. He rubbed the stump, but as usual the phantom pain wouldn’t go away. He hopped over to his closet and placed the prosthesis at the end of a neat line of them that all had different purposes, some cosmetic, some practical. The one he’d taken off mimicked the look of a real leg, down to toenails and hair.
    He picked up the one he’d dubbed the “combat leg” and put it on. The unique titanium prosthesis was packed with backup weapons, including a classic .45 ACP Colt Defender with a Crimson Trace laser sight—an accurate and reliable upgrade from his old Kel-Tec .380—a package of plastic explosives no bigger than a deck of cards, and a ceramic throwing knife. The heel concealed a short-barreled shotgun loaded with a single .44 caliber slug.
    With the leg attached, he pulled on a pair of swim trunks, a breathable swim shirt, and fin boots for comfort.
    He walked into his office and opened the nineteenth-century railroad safe, where he kept his personal armory. Most of the small arms aboard the
Oregon
were stored in a central armory adjacent to the ship’s shooting range, but Juan preferred his own cache. Rifles, submachine guns, and pistols shared space with cash from multiple countries, gold coins totaling over a hundred thousand U.S. dollars, and several small pouches of diamonds.
    Juan chose his favorite pistol, a Fabrique Nationale Five-seveN double-action automatic, loaded with 5.7mm cartridges that allowed the grip to hold twenty rounds plus one in the chamber. Despite their small size, the bullets were designed to drill through most ballistic armor but tumble once they reached their target to prevent overpenetration. Heavier weaponry wouldn’t work for this operation, much as he wanted to bring some along.
    A double-tap knock came at the door, and Max Hanley walked in without waiting for a response. The
Oregon
’s chief engineer had been Juan’s first hire for the Corporation and Juan relied on his old friend’s judgment more than anyone else aboard. Auburn hair fringed Max’s otherwise bald head, and a paunch was the only other clue that the solidly built president of the Corporation was into his sixties, having served two tours of duty in Vietnam.
    â€œLozada seemed to fall for the whole thing,” Max said with a frown. He had seen and heard the entire exchange via the hidden cameras and microphones generously apportioned throughout the upper decks.
    â€œYou don’t look happy about it,” Juan said.
    â€œIt’s not Lozada. I just don’t like us being spread thin like