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Thank you, sir. May I ask what this is all about?
General Espinoza chuckled. Even if we were alone together here at the house, I could not tell you. I am sorry. I can say that in a few days an alliance is going to be a
His father wasn't one to use such a frivolous turn of phrase, so Jorge took it as a sign of his happiness. Like any good son, he was especially proud when he could bring his father joy.
See to your injured man, the General continued, and be ready to move at a moment's notice. I am not sure if you will come back home or if you will have another mission. It all depends what we learn from the rubbing. He paused to give weight to his following words. I am proud of you, son.
Thank you, Father. It's all I ever want you to be. Espinoza hung up. He had more on his mind than simply waiting for orders. He wasn't sure what the Americans had learned from the old man, but it wasn't unreasonable to guess they might show up at his private island.
CABRILLO HAD ALWAYS HELD the belief that if you threw enough money at a problem, it would go away, and he figured getting to the bottom of the Treasure Pit should be no different.
He and Max spent two hours in the woods watching the cheery glow of the fire as James Ronish's little ranch house burned to the ground. They waited that long to make sure the better-armed Argentines had left the area. Nothing remained of the house but a toppled chimney and smoldering ash piles that spat and hissed in the rain. As a parting gift, all four tires on their rented SUV had been shot out, forcing them to drive back to the motel on flats.
Before they could think about hot showers and beds, they had to cut up the tires to retrieve the bullets so when they brought the truck to a garage the mechanic wouldn't report the incident to the police. They also smashed a headlight and keyed dozens of random lines into the glossy paint. Coming on the heels of such a fatal fire, it wouldn't do to arouse any kind of suspicion in the sleepy little town. The truck looked like the victim of juvenile vandals.
It was this kind of attention to detail, no matter how minute, that made the Corporation such a success.
The next morning, while Max went to find a garage to get the truck repaired, muttering about 'ythose damned kids these days,' Juan set up a video conference with his brain trust. When he told Mark and Eric that he had no choice but to dive the Treasure Pit, they looked like they were ready to jump ship to join him.
My question to you is: How do I do it? How do I duplicate what only the Ronish brothers managed to accomplish on the eve of World War Two?
Have you gone over the information you recovered from the Flying Dutchman? Eric asked. Juan had caught them eating breakfast. Over Stone's shoulder, Mark Murphy was munching on a banana. They could have left a clue there.
I took a quick peek. Despite the protection, the paper is in pretty bad shape. I don't know if I'll be able to get anything off of it. Assume I can't, and tell me what you two think. The pit has thwarted a number of attempts. You mentioned one that used some pretty high-tech solutions and yet they failed. What do you think the brothers figured out?
Mark swallowed a mouthful of food, and said, We know their first attempt ended in disaster, so obviously one of them learned something during the war that gave him the answer.
Which one?
I doubt the pilot. He was an observer on a blimp. I can't imagine that kind of job giving him much inspiration.
So it's either the Marine or the Army Ranger, Juan said.
Mark leaned in toward the webcam. Look, this is an engineering problem, hydrodynamics, stuff like that. The Marines faced some pretty tricky booby traps as they fought their way to Japan. My bet is, he saw something the Japanese had done and thought Pierre Devereaux had come up with it first.
Eric looked at him crossways, and said what Cabrillo was about to. You still think this is about an old pirate? There's no way the Argentines would be this interested if the Treasure Pit turns out to be just that.
Murph looked a little defensive. What is it about, then?
Obviously, I can't answer that question. Eric turned back to Juan. Do you have any ideas, Chairman?
Nothing. Ronish died before he could talk. And Max and I weren't in any position to search his place. Come on, think. What did they figure out? How do we crack the Treasure Pit?
Mark tapped his chin. A device . . . a device . . . A booby trap . . . Something involving water . . . Hydrostatic pressure.
You have an idea?
Murph didn't answer because he didn't have one. Sorry, man. I've been so wrapped up in the history, I never really thought about the technology.
Juan blew out a breath. Okay. Don't sweat it. Max and I will think of something.
May I ask what? Eric said.
God, no. I'm winging it here.
For the next hour, they created a list of equipment the pair might need and went about filling it. What couldn't be purchased in Port Angeles would be delivered from Seattle. By the time they were done, a delivery van was headed to Forks from Washington's queen city and a small ferry was under way from Port Angeles and would pick up Max and Cabrillo at the fishing pier in the town of La Push. That coastal village was just a few miles north of Pine Island. The only problem was that they would lose another day because the sophisticated underwater communications equipment was coming in as airfreight from San Diego.
When it was all said and done, there was an additional forty thousand dollars' worth of charges on the Chairman's Amex, but, as he'd always believed, problem solved.
Hopefully.
He asked about the crew's morale, especially Mike Trono's. Eric said, He spent an hour or so after the service talking with Doc Huxley. She was the Oregon's de facto shrink. He says he's fit for active duty. Linda cleared it with Hux, so he's back working with the rest of the fire-breathers.
Probably for the best. Staying busy is a hell of a lot better than sitting still. Cabrillo knew that he was taking his own advice. We'll call you when we're set up on Pine Island. I assume you want video feed when we're there.
Hell yes, they said in unison.
Juan killed the co
He was also being paid to forget this trip ever took place.
The approach to Pine Island went smoothly because its only beach was alee of the wind. They could only get about forty feet from shore before they had to lower the front ramp. Juan estimated they were in at least four feet of water.
He looked across to see that Max was strapped in before backing the Explorer to the very back of the ferry. Ready?
Hanley tightened his grip on the armrest. Hit it.
Juan mashed the gas pedal, and the Ford's tires chirped against the deck. The heavy truck shot across the ferry and raced down the ramp. It hit the ocean in a creaming wall of water that surged over the hood and then over the roof, but there was enough momentum to shoulder most of it aside. The weight of the engine dragged the nose down, allowing the front tires to find purchase on the shale seabed.