Plague Ship by Clive Cussler Page B

his seat and leaving a puddle on the dark vinyl. “You’ve more than earned it.”
    The team was waiting under the hatch when the Nomad was set onto its cradle and the outer lid popped open. Despite the fact he was still dripping on the nonslip floor, Juan let his team precede him out of the mini. A tech handed him a headset without being asked. “Eric, you there?”
    “Right here, Chairman,” Eric Stone said from his place in the Operations Center.
    “As soon as the doors are closed, take us up to eighteen knots. How long before we clear the strait?”
    “Two and a half hours, give or take, and it will be another fifteen hours to the rendezvous coordinates.”
    Cabrillo would have liked to have the torpedoes and all the technical information Eddie had pirated from the computer off the ship as quickly as possible, but the timing to meet up with the USS Tallahassee , a Los Angeles Class fast-attack submarine, had to be carefully coordinated to avoid spy satellites and the chance of a nearby ship spotting the transfer.
    “Okay, thanks. Tell Hali to keep a sharp ear out for military chatter coming from Bandar Abbas. If he gets anything, wake me in my cabin.”
    “Will do, boss man.”
    Max was overseeing the removal of the rocket torpedoes from under the Nomad, working a chainfall himself to lower them onto motorized carts. Eddie had already placed the computer drive loaded with information into a waterproof hard case.
    Juan slapped one of the weapons with his palm. “Five million apiece, plus another million for the information off the computer. Not bad for a day’s work.”
    “You should call Overholt now so he knows we nabbed two of these babies and doesn’t have a heart attack when he gets our bill.”
    “A shower first,” Juan said. “Then I’ll call him. You turning in?”
    Max glanced at his watch. “It’s near four-thirty. I think I’m going to stay up and help out with the rest of the work to put the ship back in order. Maybe enjoy a sunrise breakfast.”
    “Suit yourself. Good night.”
    THE TERM POSH originated during the time of the British Raj in India, when passengers booking ships to their imperial postings in Bombay or Delhi asked for portside cabins on the way to India and for starboard cabins on the return to England. This way, their rooms were always on the shaded side of the ship. Booking agents shortened “Port Out, Starboard Home” to POSH, and a new word entered the English language.
    Cabrillo’s cabin was on the port side of the Oregon , but the angle the ship sailed relative to the sun allowed light to stream through his porthole and made his suite swelter despite the air-conditioning. He woke bathed in sweat, momentarily disoriented about what had roused him until he heard the phone ring a second time.
    He glanced at the big wall clock opposite his bed, as he yanked his arms free of the twisted sheets. It wasn’t yet eight and already the sun was a torture.
    He lifted the handset. “Cabrillo.”
    “Chairman, it’s Hali. The jig is up.”
    Juan did some mental calculations as the news sank in. The Oregon would be clear of the strait by now but wouldn’t have ventured very far into the Gulf of Oman. They were still very much within Iran’s military sphere of influence.
    “What’s happening?” he asked, swinging his legs out of bed and running a hand across his crew cut.
    “There was a burst of chatter out of Bandar Abbas about five minutes ago and then nothing.”
    Juan had expected this. It would take some time for the base commander to figure out what had happened and finally have the courage to report the theft to his superiors in Tehran. They in turn would have immediately told the naval base to stop using radios and nonsecure telephones and to switch to dedicated landlines.
    During the first Gulf War, America tipped her hand to the world concerning her eavesdropping abilities. Using its satellites and ground listening stations, the NSA could listen in on or read