The Silent Sea

by Clive Cussler

  “Why did you pull us off our search for the mystery bay?” Eric asked.

  “Because you’ve already found it.”

  “I have?”

  “It’s within snowcat distance of Wilson/George, maybe closer.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “Because I’m the Chairman.” Juan really was exhausted. “Do me a favor, I want you to check the logs of Jackson-Evers field for any private jets that flew out of here between, say, midnight and noon today.”

  In the pre-9/11 days, he probably could have charmed that information out of the pretty receptionist at the general-aviation counter, but not anymore.

  “Give me a second.” Over the connection, he could hear Stone’s fingers flying over his keyboard.

  Juan was playing a hunch, one he felt reasonably certain about.

  “One last firewall,” Eric said absently, then a triumphant, “Got it. Okay, there were two. One was an Atlantic Aviation charter to New York City that left at nine o’clock this morning. The other was a private jet that filed a flight plan for Mexico City that took off at one-thirty this morning.”

  “What can you tell me about that plane?”

  “Hold on. That’s another database.” It took him less than a minute. “The plane’s owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands.”

  “A dummy front?”

  “No doubt. It’s going to take some time to . . . hold on a second. I’m checking its past flights. It arrived in the United States at Seattle-Tacoma International three days ago from Mexico City.”

  “Then flew here yesterday,” Juan finished for him. That was their plane, and if they were heading to Mexico City it was only to refuel. “Thanks, Eric.”

  Juan turned to Max. “They’re taking her to Argentina.”

  NINETEEN

  The horse was a big Arabian stallion with such taut muscles that veins showed in relief under its glossy skin. It was streaked in sweat and blew heavily, and yet was game to keep charging across the Argentine landscape, its hoofs pounding the ground in a thundering drumbeat. Its rider barely moved in her saddle, her slouch hat hanging off her throat by a strap.

  Maxine Espinoza was a superb horsewoman, and raced for the stream five miles from the mansion as though she was gunning for the Triple Crown. She wore tan riding breeches and a man’s white oxford unbuttoned enough so that wind caressed her skin. Her boots had a worn look that bespoke of countless hours riding and an almost equal amount of time being lovingly polished.

  It was that perfect moment of late afternoon, when the sun dappled the ground under the occasional tree and slanted so the grass looked like burnished gold.

  Movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned quick enough to see a hawk lift off from the ground with its dinner clutched in its razor-sharp talons.

  “Ha, Concorde,” she cried, and firmed her grip on the reins.

  The horse seemed to love these wild rides as much as his mistress, and he lengthened his stride. They were of one mind, and existed almost as a Centaur rather than two separate beings.

  Only when they neared the band of forest that lined both sides of a stream did they slow. Maxine entered the glen at an easy walk, the big stallion beneath her heaving great lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils.

  She could hear the stream gurgling over rocks and songbirds in the limbs of trees. She ducked under a branch and weaved Concorde deeper into the woods. This was her sanctuary, her special place, on the sprawling estate. The clear waters of the stream would sate her horse’s thirst, and along the bank was a bed of grass where she’d slept during countless siestas.

  She legged over Concorde’s back and lowered herself to the ground. She needn’t worry about him wandering off or drinking too much. He was better mannered than that. From her saddlebag she pulled a blanket of the finest Egyptian cotton. She was just moving to spread it on the grass when a figure emerged from behind a tree.

  “Excuse me, señora.”

  Maxine whirled, her eyes narrowing in anger at the intrusion. She recognized the man. It was Raul Jimenez, her stepson’s second-in-command. “How dare you come here? You should be on the base with the rest of the soldiers.”

  “I prefer the company of women.”

  She took two steps forward and slapped him. “I should tell the General of your impudence.”

  “And what would you tell him about this?” He grabbed her smoothly and drew her body to his. He kissed her, and for a few seconds she resisted, but it was too much, and soon she had her hand on the back of his head as her hunger grew.

  Jimenez finally pulled back. “God, I’ve missed you.”

  Maxine’s reply was to kiss him again, even more passionately. Now that they were alone, all pretense of his shyness around her was gone. They gave in to their desires.

  It was much later that they were lying side by side on the hastily spread blanket. She gingerly touched the burn scars on his face. They were still red and looked painful.

  “You are no longer so beautiful. I think I should find myself another lover.”

  “I don’t think there is another in the regiment who would dare do what we just did.”

  “Are you saying I am not worth a court-martial?”

  “To me, you are worth death itself, but you forget I am the bravest man in the Army,” he joked. And then a shadow passed behind his eyes.

  “What is it, darling?”

  “ ‘Bravest,’ I said.” His voice filled with bitterness. “It takes little bravery to gun down villagers or kidnap American women.”

  “Kidnap Americans? I don’t understand.”

  “That is where your husband sent us, to America, where we grabbed a woman who’s an expert on Chinese ships or something. I have no idea why. I tell you, though, it’s not what I joined the Army to do.”

  “I know my husband,” Maxine said. “Everything he does is planned, from eating breakfast to commanding your regiment. He has his reasons. This must be why he took off for Buenos Aires just as you and Jorge returned.”

  “We met him at your apartment in the city. He had some men with him—Chinese, I think.”

  “They’re from the embassy. Philippe has been meeting with them quite a bit recently.”

  “I’m sorry, but I still don’t like it. Don’t get me wrong. I love the Army and I love Jorge, but these past few months . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “You may not believe this,” Maxine said, her voice crisp and firm, “but I love my husband very much, and I love this country. Philippe may be many things, but he is not reckless. Whatever he is doing is for the greater good of Argentina and its people.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen some of the things he’s ordered us to do.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” she said stubbornly, the romantic cocoon they had built for themselves dissolving.

  He placed a hand on her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset,” she replied, but had to wipe at her eyes. “Philippe tells me very little, but I have always trusted him. You should, too.”

  “Okay,” Jimenez said, and reached for her.

  Maxine slithered out of his grip. “I must be getting back now. Even with Philippe in BA, the servants talk. You understand?”

  “Of course. My servants are always gossiping.” They both laughed because he had come from a poor family.

  Maxine moved off to dress. She climbed aboard Concorde, who had stayed near them the entire time.

  “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked, stuffing the blanket back into the saddlebag.

  “So long as you promise not to discuss my husband or his work.”

  “I will be the good soldier and do as you order.”

  THE CHOPPER PILOT WAS RELIEVED that his passengers had paid cash because when he saw their destination he knew any check they wrote would have bounced. As it stood, he considered radioing his business partner and having him make sure the money wasn’t cou
nterfeit.

  He was taking the two men from Rio’s Galeão International Airport to a cargo ship a hundred miles offshore. From a distance, it looked like any of the dozens of vessels that approached Brazil every week, but as they neared and details came into focus he could see she was a floating heap of rust barely held together by duct tape and baling wire. The smoke from her stack was so black, he suspected she burned bunker fuel and lubricating oil in equal ratios. Her cranes looked like they could barely hold themselves up, let alone lift any cargo. He glanced over his shoulder at the younger passenger as if to say: Are you sure?

  The man had the sallow look of someone who hadn’t slept for days, and whatever burden he carried was just ounces away from crushing him. And yet, when he realized the pilot was looking at him, the passenger winked one of his bright blue eyes, and the mask of consternation melted away.

  “She’s not much to look at,” the passenger said over his mike, “but she gets the job done.”

  “I don’t think I can land on the deck,” the pilot said, his English tinted with a hint of Portuguese. He didn’t add that he thought the weight of his Bell JetRanger would probably collapse a hatch cover.

  “No problem. Just hover over the fantail, and we’ll jump.”

  The second passenger, a man in his late fifties or early sixties with a bandage on his head, groaned at the prospect of leaping from the helicopter.

  “You got it.” The pilot turned his attention back to flying while the passengers gathered up their luggage, which consisted of a laptop case and a battered canvas shoulder bag. Everything else had been dumped in Mississippi.

  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: ‘No 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 international 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 announced that any attempt to censure Argentina at the UN will be vetoed immediately. There will be no resolutions or sanctions.”

  “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 Corazón’s list. Cabrillo thought that the only thing sparing Chile was the difficulty of moving an army across the Andes. In Venezuela, Chávez 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.

  “Tell me some good news,” Juan said wearily.

  “Ah, that I have as well.” Overholt’s voice perked up. “We have an asset in Argentina who says that your missing professor is being held in Buenos Aires.”

  “That narrows it down to a city of twelve million.”

  “Ye of little faith,” Overholt chided. “She’s in a fifth-floor penthouse apartment in the Recoleta District just off Avenue Las Heras.”