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Juan Cabrillo never tired of looking at the Oregon. To him, she was as fine a piece of art as any of the paintings hanging on the walls of her secret passageways. He had to admit that homecomings were sweeter when a mission was complete, not like now, with Tamara Wright in the hands of an Argentine death squad and her exact whereabouts unknown. The cocky wink he had thrown at the pilot was just that cockiness. Her fate lay like a stone in his stomach.
To the Brazilian pilot's credit, he held the skids of the helicopter a foot off the deck when first Max and then Juan jumped to the ship. The two men ducked low in the pounding rotor wash until the JetRanger peeled away and clawed skyward. When it was a glittering speck on the western horizon, the helmsman Juan assumed it was Eric Stone killed the smudge generator that gave the illusion the ship was powered by traditional, albeit poorly maintained, marine diesels.
He gave the Iranian flag hanging from the jack staff his traditional one-finger salute and followed Max toward the superstructure.
They were met at a watertight door by Dr. Huxley and Linda Ross. Hux immediately started escorting Max down to Medical, muttering about the butcher job they had done on him in the hospital.
Welcome back, Linda greeted. That sure wasn't the relaxing couple of days you'd expected.
What's that line: 'yNo good deed goes unpunished'? That was a great job you did in Antarctica.
Thanks. There was an edge of bitterness in her voice. We got the intel to Overholt less than twenty-four hours before the Argentines took over, so it didn't do much good.
What's the latest?
There's been no contact with any of the other stations on the peninsula. We believe that the Argentines grabbed up the remaining interntional scientists and are going to use them as human shields at the oil terminal.
Juan frowned. Borrowing Saddam's playbook.
The Generalissimo plays dirty, that's for sure.
I asked Overholt if they have any assets in Argentina who could find out where they took Tamara Wright. Has he gotten back to you?
Not yet. Sorry.
Cabrillo's scowl deepened. This never would have happened if . . . There was nothing to be gained by venting his feelings so he didn't continue. He motioned for Linda to enter the ship. The Oregon was picking up speed, and the wind was starting to howl across her deck.
We'll be off the coast of Buenos Aires in thirty hours. With luck, Overholt will have something for us.
God, I hope so. Juan raked his fingers through his hair. I need to burn off some of this restless energy. If anyone needs me, I'll be in the pool.
One of the two enormous ballast tanks the Corporation used to raise or lower the ship depending on her disguise was tiled in buttery Carrara marble and lit with a combination of fixtures that approximated sunlight. It had taken a pounding when the Oregon went toe to toe with a Libyan frigate, but the artisans who'd made the repairs had done a masterful job.
Cabrillo shrugged off his robe and strapped four-pound weights to his wrists. The water wasn't kept that deep because the ship was racing for Argentina, so he shallow-dove, barely submerging his entire body, and came up in a breaststroke that he knew from experience he could maintain for hours.
The water had always been his refuge, and it was from here he could free his mind and let himself relax. The repetition of his thrusting limbs and the slow burn building in his muscles was like meditation.
The following morning, after a sumptuous breakfast in the dining hall, Juan stood his watch in the op center. He arrived early and relieved Eddie Seng, who'd had the dog shift. Eddie gratefully relinquished the command chair once he'd briefed Juan on shipping around the Oregon and the weather, which was about to turn nasty. The main view screen, all eight feet of it, showed the seas as if they were on the actual bridge several decks above them. The sky was a sunless gray, full of ugly, roiling clouds, while the sea was as black as slag from a foundry except where the wind tore at the tops of the waves and threw up custard-thick spume.
Water regularly burst over the bows in sheets that raced for the scuppers. A crewman was up on the forecastle, securing a hatchway. He looked as small as a child and nearly powerless in the face of the elements. Juan breathed a little easier when the man returned inside the ship.
Hali Kasim, the ship's communications expert, was at his station along the wall to Cabrillo's right near the now-dim waterfall display for the Oregon's sonar system. In these seas, and at the ship's speed, it was impossible to hear acoustical signals, so the sonar was off-line.
Call for you, Chairman, Hali said. His hair stuck up at odd angles because of the old-fashioned headset he preferred. It's Overholt at the CIA.
About damned time, Juan muttered, and hooked a Bluetooth over his ear. Langston, what have you got for me?
Morning, Overholt grunted. In that one word, Cabrillo knew the news was going to be bad. The President's National Security Council meeting just broke up. The DCI called me no more than five minutes ago.
What's happening?
The Joint Chiefs reported that a Chinese fast-attack submarine was detected off the coast of Chile. Course and speed will put her in the waters around the Antarctic Peninsula in a day or two.
They're playing for keeps, Juan remarked. The move didn't come as a surprise.
Sure are. The Argies confirmed they have our scientists from Palmer Station as well as more than a dozen others from Russia, Norway, Chile, and Australia. The numbers are thankfully low because these are the small winter-over crews.
What's our official response to this? What's the President going to do?
China's a
Gee, Juan said sarcastically, that's a major setback. How will we ever stop them without the UN throwing harsh words their way?
Overholt chuckled through his exhaustion. He shared Cabrillo's low opinion of the international body. Here's the really bad news. The President will not authorize the use of force. England and Russia are rattling their sabers, but the political will in Parliament and the Duma just isn't there. The leadership in the House and Senate have also indicated they aren't willing to defend the Antarctic Treaty with American lives.
So that's it? Juan said with disgust. We call ourselves a moral nation, but when it comes to fighting for an ideal the politicians ram their heads in the sand.
I would say they've rammed their heads in a far less hospitable place, but, yes, that's it.
We are backing down from our moral and legal obligation. I'm sorry, Lang, but this decision is wrong.
You're preaching to the choir, my boy, Overholt said affably. However, I serve at the discretion of the President, so there's not much I can do. For the record, my boss thinks we should kick the Argentines out of Antarctica, as does the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They also see the dangerous precedent this sets.
What happens now?
Why, nothing. We'll craft some UN resolution that the Chinese will shoot down and that's about it, I'm afraid.
Now that he had Antarctica, Paraguay and Uruguay would be next on Generalissimo Ernesto Coraz+|n's list. Cabrillo thought that the only thing sparing Chile was the difficulty of moving an army across the Andes. In Venezuela, Ch+ivez had built up his military with oil-for-weapons deals with Russia, and he had been looking for an excuse to unleash it on Colombia. Iraq's teetering democracy would fall like a house of cards if an emboldened Iran started throwing its weight around.
Juan wanted to say all of this to Overholt, but he knew it was wasted breath. The President's advisers, he was sure, had already laid out the same scenarios and had been unable to sway the man's opinion.