Treasure

Hollis hesitated. "Assuming the crew of the Mexican ore camer that boarded the cruise ship are also armed . . . we could be looking at a total of forty."

Dillenger gaped. "Oh, my gawd. We're going up against an equal number of terrorists?"

"Looks that way." Hollis nodded grimly.

Dillenger shook his head in shocked disapproval and drew a hand across his forehead. Then his eyes burned into Hollis's.

"Some people," he said disgustedly, "are going to get their butts stomped before this caper is over."

Deep in a concrete bunker tu

His face was flushed with excitement, and he held a huge photograph spread between his upraised hands.

Jones had often rushed along the corridors during crisis exercise drills, but he, and the other three hundred men and women who worked in the Special Operations Forces Readiness Command, hadn't really put their hearts into it until now. Practice did not make the adrenaline pump like the real thing. After waiting like hibernating groundhogs, they had erupted into life when the alert on the Lady Flamborough hijacking came in from the Pentagon.

Major General Frank Dodge headed up the SOF He and several members of his staff were tensely awaiting the arrival of the latest satellite image depicting the waters south of Tierra del Fuego when Jones burst into the room.

"Got it!"

Dodge gave the young officer a stern look for unmilitary enthusiasm. "Should have been here eight minutes ago," he grunted.

"My fault, General. I took the liberty of trimming the outer perimeters and enlarging the immediate search area before having it computer-enhanced."

Dodge's stern expression softened and he nodded approvingly.

"Good thinking, Lieutenant."

Jones gave a short sigh and quickly clipped the newest satellite image on a long wallboard under a row of hooded spotlights. An earlier image hung nearby, showing the Lady Flamborough's last known position circled in red, her previous course marked in green, and predicted course in orange.

Jones stepped back as General Dodge and his officers crowded around the image, peering anxiously for the tiny dot indicating the cruise ship.

"The last satellite sighting put the ship about one hundred kilometers south of Cape Horn," said a major, tracing the course from the previous chart. "She should be well out into Drake's Passage by now, approaching the islands off the Antarctic peninsula."

After nearly a full minute of appraisal, General Dodge turned to Jones.

"Did you study the photo, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. I didn't take the time. I rushed it over as quickly as possible."

"You're certain this is the latest transmission?"

Jones looked puzzled. "Yes, sir."

"No mistake?"

"None," Jones replied unhesitatingly. "The NUMA Seasat satellite recorded the area with digital electronic impulses that were sent to ground stations instantaneously. You're seeing an image no more than six minutes old."

"When will the next photo come in?"

"The Landsat should orbit the region in forty minutes."

"And the Casper?"

Jones glanced at his watch. "If she returns on schedule, we should be looking at film in four hours."

"Get it to me the instant it arrives."

"Yes, sir. "

Dodge turned to his subordinates. "Well, gentlemen, the White House ain't going to like this."

He went over and picked up a phone. "Put me through to Alan Merger."

The National Security Adviser's voice came over the line within twenty seconds. "I hope you've got some good news, Frarik.

"Sorry, no," Dodge answered flatly. "It appears the cruise ship-"

"She sank?" Mercier cut him off.

"We can't say with any certainty."

"What are you saying?"

Dodge took a breath. "Please inform the President the Lady Flamborough has vanished again."

By the early 1990s equipment for sending photographs or graphics around the world by nucrowave via satellite or across town by fiber optics became as common in business and government offices as copy machines.

Sca

So it was that within ten minutes of General Dodge's call, the President and Dale Nichols were hunched over the desk in the Oval Office scrutinizing the Seasat image of waters off the tip of South America.

"She may really be on the bottom this time," said Nichols. He felt tired and confused.

"I don't believe it," the President said, his face a mask of repressed fury. "The hijackers had their chance to destroy the ship off Punta del Este and make a clean getaway on the General Bravo. Why sink her now?"

"Escape by submarine is a possibility."

The President seemed not to hear. "Our inability to deal with this crisis is frightening. Our whole response seems mired in inertia."

"We were caught unprepared and unequipped," Nichols offered lamely.

"An event that occurs too frequently around here," the President muttered. He looked up, fire in his eyes. "I refuse to write those people off. I owe George Pitt. Without his support, I wouldn't be sitting in the Oval Office." He paused for effect. "We're not going to snap at a red herring again."

Sid Green was scrutinizing the satellite images too. A photo-intelligence specialist with the National Security Agency at its headquarters in Fort Meyer, he had projected the last two satellite pictures on one screen. Intrigued, he ignored the most recent photo, the one that failed to reveal the ship, and concentrated on the earlier one. He zoomed in on the tiny blip that represented the Lady Flamborough with a computerized lens.

The outline was fuzzy, too indistinct to make out little more than the ship's profile. He turned to the computer at his left and entered a series of instructions. A few details that were hidden to his eye became apparent now. He could discern the fu

He played with the computer keyboard, trying to sharpen the cruise ship's features. He spent nearly an hour at it before he finally sat back, put his arms behind his head and rested his eyes.

The door to the darkened room opened and Green's supervisor, Vic Patton, entered. He stood behind Green for a moment looking at the projections.

"It's like trying to read a newspaper on the street from the roof of the World Trade Center," he observed.

Green spoke without turning. "A 70-by-130 kilometer swath doesn't offer us much resolution, even after enlarged enhancement."

"any sign of the ship on the last linage?"

"Not a hint."

"Too bad we can't drop our KH spy birds that low."

"A KH-15 might get a picture."

"The situation in the Middle East is heating up again. I can't pull one out of orbit until the dust settles."

"Then send in a Casper."

"One is on the way," said Patton. "You should be reading the color of the hijackers' eyes by lunch."