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gear only to exit the
Oregon
undetected.
    Juan knew that the harbormaster would have the ship staked out and would follow anyone who left the dock area. He and Linc needed to get to their rendezvous without a tail, so underwater was the only option.
    Linc nodded that he was ready. With his gear in place, Juan climbed down the collapsible stairs into the moon pool. He put on his fins, clamped his teeth over the rebreather’s mouthpiece, and lowered his mask. He drifted out into the center, and Linc came behind him. Juan gave the A-OK, and the technician in charge of the moon pool dimmed the lights to a faint smolder so that nobody on the dock would notice anything unusual going on beneath the ship.
    Juan felt a slight eddy tug at him as the doors below cranked open with a muffled thrum. After a few seconds, the sound stopped. The technician waved a flashlight, signaling that the crack in the doors was now wide enough for their departure.
    They released air from their buoyancy compensators and descended until they were floating below the keel. Juan clicked on a wrist flashlight, just bright enough to see the ship’s metal hull in the murky harbor water. He and Linc swam to the stern, where he shut off the flashlight and referred to the waterproof compass on his other wrist to guide them.
    Fifteen minutes later, he grabbed Linc’s arm and gave him a thumbs-up. He slowly kicked upward until his mask broached the surface with the barest of ripples. He silently patted himself on the back. They were only twenty yards from the ancient shed that the Corporation had rented for the month.
    Juan scanned the perimeter and confirmed that they were alone. No boats were nearby, and the road along the shore was empty. They had chosen this part of the harbor because it was the least traveled.
    Juan and Linc removed their fins and crept onshore. Sure that there were no oncoming vehicles, they dashed across the road and into the run-down shed.
    Instead of a grimy storage place for rusty equipment and fishing supplies, it seemed as if they’d stepped into the dressing room on a movie set. On one side of the shed was a well-lit mirror, a counter spread with makeup and latex prosthetics, and a director’s chair. Next to it stood a metal frame where two Venezuelan Navy working uniforms were hung—one for a master chief petty officer, the other for a captain, both in camo gray.
    The other side of the shed was occupied by a hulking Humvee painted in the livery of the Venezuelan military. Leaning against it was a slim man with a thick beard. He threw each of them a towel.
    â€œYou’re a minute early,” Kevin Nixon said with a bright smile. “I wish my actresses had been so punctual. Often I was happy if they showed up at all. Sober.”
    Kevin had been an award-winning Hollywood makeup artist, but after his sister died in the attacks on 9/11 he felt the need to contribute his skills to the war on terror. He applied to the CIA but went with a much more interesting and challenging offer when he was guided to Juan and the Corporation. In addition to disguising the crew’s faces for operations when needed, Kevin and his team also had racks of uniforms and clothing from every nation and built whatever unusual props and gadgets they needed, occasionally tapping Max’s engineering expertise for the most technical items. Kevin was the person responsible for Juan’s earlier disguise, the stuffed rat, and the combat leg he now wore.
    Normally, Juan would have met him on board the
Oregon
in the Magic Shop, the name they’d given the workshop where Kevin crafted his amazing designs. But since Juan had to swim out of the
Oregon
, any appliances and makeup would have washed off before he reached shore. So they’d prepositioned Kevin in the abandoned shed with enough battery power to keep him off the grid. Linc had flown in the week before, liberated the Humvee from a naval armory near Caracas, and stashed it