Piranha by Clive Cussler Read Free Book Online Page A

They got in the Humvee and Kevin opened the shed doors. Linc started it up and eased out onto the road.
    They didn’t have far to go. It was a two-minute drive to the warehouse and dock.
    When they reached the gatehouse, a guard armed with an assault rifle similar to Linc’s waved them to a stop behind the lowered bar. A second guard stood behind him. The first guard leaned in and saluted when he saw Juan’s lapel insignia and face.
    Juan returned the salute and handed him the ID card that Kevin had forged for him. Although the guard clearly recognized him, the check was required.
    The guard handed it back and motioned for the other guard to open the gate.
    â€œWelcome back, Captain,” the first guard said. “If you’re here to see Lieutenant Dominguez, he’s in the security office.” The guard pointed, leaving no doubt as to their destination. It was a door at the corner of the warehouse. The huge garage doors were closed and no light leaked from underneath. Aside from the arc lamps around the compound, the only other lights shone on the deck of the giant oil tanker docked behind the warehouse. Workers swarmed around the front of the ship, where they were connecting pipes to feed the holds from the nearby refinery, one of Venezuela’s largest.
    Juan used his Spanish to order the guard not to announce their arrival, and Linc pulled away from the gate.
    â€œSo we have a host,” Juan said. “We were hoping for a skeleton crew at this time in the evening.”
    â€œYou know what they say,” Linc replied. “No plan survives contact with the enemy.”
    â€œTrue, but I’d hoped it would last longer than this. We may have to act more quickly than we expected. Follow my lead, and remember to let me do all the talking.”
    Linc just laughed. While Juan was fluent in Spanish, Arabic, and Russian, Linc could speak and understand only English. Using a parabolic microphone during his surveillance, Linc had captured enough of Ortega’s speech to give Juan time to practice mimicking the Venezuelan’s cadence, tone, and accent. Although limited to a Saudi accent when speaking Arabic, Juan could modify his Spanish with ease to match virtually any accent in Latin and South America.
    But the usefulness of the makeup and mimicry was predicated on cowing enlisted sailors and noncommissioned officers. If this lieutenant was very familiar with Ortega, it would only be a matter of time before he saw through the disguise.
    Linc pulled up to the front of the warehouse office door next to a second Humvee. They got out, and Linc looped the FAL over his shoulder in as nonthreatening a way as possible. It was common to see soldiers and sailors carrying around assault rifles in South America, and Captain Ortega’s adjutant had been no different.
    Juan flung open the door in the style he’d memorized from Linc’s video and strode into the office, surprising four men, three of whom were sitting behind desks, the fourth in front of a bank of video monitors and ignoring them. A radio in the background was playing a soccer match.
    The heads turned toward the visitors as one and the radio flicked off. All four men leaped from their chairs and snapped to attention.
    Juan scanned the group for only a moment and focused on the sailor with lieutenant’s bars on his epaulettes.
    â€œÂ¡Teniente
Dominguez!”
he bellowed.
“¿Cuál es el significado de está?”
—
What is the meaning of this?
    The chastened officer was caught off guard, his eyes wide with fear. He showed no sign that Juan’s voice was anyone’s other than Ortega’s.
    â€œCaptain Ortega, I thought you were in Puerto Cabello.”
    â€œThat’s what you were meant to think. I see that I should conduct surprise inspections more often. Despite your mistaken assumption, it is not your patriotic duty to listen to our national team play Argentina. Quickly—how many are