the U.S. look incompetent and, more important, unprepared. So when there is a problem—”
“Like how the Agency trusted a guy who turns out to work for the rebels trying to overthrow his government.”
“Like that. They go into CYA mode and nobody pays the piper for the mistake. That particular corporate culture is why no one saw 9/11 or Iraq’s initial invasion of Kuwait or the sophistication of India and Pakistan’s nuclear programs, and,” Juan concluded, “part of the reason I left.”
“Well, at least we’re going to be in position to set things right this time. Uh, Juan?”
The change in tone in Hanley’s voice made Cabrillo look up from his work.
“You going to be okay?” Max asked and nodded at the parachute.
Of every human emotion Cabrillo detested pity most of all. The looks of cheerless sympathy passersby had given him the day Julia Huxley had wheeled him out of a San Francisco hospital with one pants leg neatly pinned had enraged him. He vowed from that day onward no one would ever look at him like that again. So since losing his leg he had undergone three surgeries and literally thousands of hours of physical therapy so he could run without the slightest trace of a limp. He could ski and swim better than when he’d had both limbs and was able to balance himself on the prosthesis with ease.
He had a handicap, but he wasn’t handicapped.
However, there were still things he couldn’t do as well as when he had both legs and one of those was skydiving. Keeping your body arched and stable while falling through space required minute adjustments of your arms, but mostly it was the legs that kept a diver steady. Juan had made dozens of practice jumps in the past couple of years and no matter how he tried he couldn’t prevent himself from going into a slow rotation that quickly turned into a dangerous spiral.
Unable to feel the sensation of wind pressing against his ankle and foot he couldn’t correct the spin without a jump partner grabbing and steadying him. It was a rare defeat that Juan hated to admit and Max knew it.
“It’ll be fine,” Cabrillo said, and continued to fold his chute.
“You sure?”
Juan glanced up with a smile. “Max, you’re acting like an old woman. Once I’m out of the plane I just need to arch my back. We won’t be in free fall long enough for me to start my Dervish impersonation.
HAHO, old friend. High altitudehigh opening. If this was any other kind of jump I’d be in the op center watching the monitors with you.”
“All right.” Max nodded. “Just making sure.”
A half hour later Juan handed his chute and gear to one of the riggers to carry to the chopper hangar near theOregon ’s fantail. Before heading to his cabin for some long-overdue sleep he stopped by the medical bay to check up on Sloane. Doc Huxley wasn’t at her desk or in the adjoining operating theatre so he searched the three recovery rooms. He found Sloane in the third. The lights were turned down to a muted glow as she slept propped up on a hospital-style bed. She’d pushed aside her blankets and Juan could see the dressing covering the wound under her arm. There was no indication the gunshot was still bleeding.
Her copper hair was fanned against the white sheets and a wisp of it fell across her forehead. Her lips were slightly parted and as Juan brushed the cowlick aside her mouth pursed as if to receive a kiss and her eyelids fluttered for a moment before she slid deeper into unconsciousness.
He straightened her blankets and strode from the room. Ten minutes later, and despite the distraction of the upcoming rescue and the weight of the missing weapons preying on his mind Cabrillo was in a sleep as deep as Sloane’s.
His alarm sounded an hour before he was scheduled to fly to the Swakopmund airport to meet up with Tiny Gunderson. His eyes snapped open, clear and blue and ready to face anything. He rolled out of bed, contemplated another quick shower, and decided against it.
Juan turned on a couple of lights and hopped to his walk-in closet. Ranked like riding boots at the back of the closet were his artificial legs. Some were flesh-toned and hardly recognizable as prosthetics while others were industrial-looking affairs with titanium struts and visible actuators. He sat on a bench and fitted on what he called his combat leg, version 2.0. The original had been mangled a few months earlier at a shipbreakers yard in Indonesia.
Inside the round calf was a throwing knife and a .380-caliber Kel-Tec automatic pistol, one of the smallest handguns in the world. There was also enough room for a small survival kit and a diamond dusted garrote wire. Kevin Nixon, who’d modified the leg for Juan, had also placed a flat packet of C-4
explosives in the foot and hidden the timer/detonator in the ankle. Plus there were a few other tricks built into the limb.
He made sure the leg was snug and as an added precaution put on a belt with straps to tie so the prosthesis wouldn’t come off no matter what Cabrillo did. He dressed in desert camouflage fatigues and a pair of rugged boots. He retrieved another Glock and an H&K MP5 submachine gun from his gun safe. The armorer would have loaded magazines waiting for him at the helipad. He placed the weapons and a spare combat harness into a cheap nylon bag.
Maurice knocked gently on the cabin door and let himself in. As per Cabrillo’s earlier instructions he carried a breakfast tray that was heavy on fruit and carbohydrates. And while he would have loved some of his steward’s powerful coffee, Juan settled for several glasses of orange juice. They were going into the desert, and while everything had been well planned, he wanted to be as hydrated as possible just in case something did go wrong.
“You do the Royal Navy proud,” Juan said wiping his lips and tossing the napkin on the tray when he’d finished.
“Please, Captain Cabrillo,” Maurice said in that reserved voice of his. He was the only member of the Corporation to call Juan captain rather than chairman. “I oversaw the serving of high tea for twenty officers in a force seven storm off the Falkland Islands during that little flare-up. If you would permit me to be frank, sir, you have yet to tax my abilities.”
“All right then,” Juan said with a fiendish glint. “Next time we hit a hurricane I would like a Gruyere cheese and lobster souffle with a baked Alaska for dessert.”
“Very well, Captain,” Maurice intoned and retreated from the room.
On his way to the hangar Juan ducked into the infirmary again. Julia Huxley was just closing up a pair of red plastic medical cases. She wore scrubs, but her ubiquitous lab coat was slung over the back of her chair.
“I take it by your packing that you’re coming with us and our patient is doing well?” he asked by way of greeting.
“She woke up about an hour ago,” Julia said. “Her vital signs are all stable and I see no sign of infection so she’ll be fine for as long as I’m away. Besides, my orderlies are better trained than most ER nurses.”
“All right then. Give me a minute to say hi and I’ll help you with your cases.”
Sloane was lying back against a bank of pillows. Her face was pale and her eyes were somewhat sunken, but when she saw Juan leaning against the doorjamb her mouth split into a radiant smile.
“Hello there, sunshine. How are you feeling?” Juan crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“A little groggy from the meds but okay, I think.”
“Hux says you’re going to be fine.”
“I was surprised that your doctor is a woman.”
“There are eleven women on my crew,” Juan told her, “including my second officer, Linda Ross.”
“Have I been hearing a helicopter?”
“Yeah, just ferrying some men to shore.”
She eyed his fatigues and gave him a dubious look. “You said you’d tell me who and what you really are.”
“And I will,” he promised, “as soon as I get back.”
“Where are you going?”
“To do the job we came to Namibia for and hopefully find who was behind the attacks on you and who built the wave-powered generators.”
“Are you with the CIA or something?”
“No. But I used to be. And that’s all I’m going to tell you until tomorrow. How about I come by at eight and
