The Silent Sea

by Clive Cussler

  “Incredible,” Espinoza breathed.

  “Like I said, with limitless fuel anything’s possible down here. You see where the buildings are set. It looks like ice, yes? It’s not. The entire facility sits on a polymer-composite sheet with the same refraction spectrum as ice, so from the satellites it appears that the beach is frozen. It’s a petrochemical we actually make here. After getting the natural gas plant up and running, it was our first priority. All the buildings are made of the same material, except for the large geometric tent that shelters our vehicles. That’s woven Kevlar. We needed it to withstand the winds.”

  “I feel like I’m looking at some kind of moon base,” Jimenez said.

  Laretta nodded. “For all intents and purposes, it is. We have created a working environment in the most inhospitable place on the planet.”

  “Tell me about the defenses,” Espinoza invited.

  “I’ve got an eight-man security force. Well, seven men. One was killed in a Ski-Doo accident. They’re all ex-police. They patrol the camp perimeter, break up fights among the workers—that sort of thing. Then there’s the Admiral Guillermo Brown out in the bay. She’s loaded with antiship and antiaircraft missiles as well as two twenty-millimeter cannons. We also have four fixed antiaircraft missile batteries here on shore. And now we have all of you. The captain of the Brown is in overall charge of at least his ship and our missiles. I’m not sure about . . .”

  “We take orders directly from Buenos Aires. The captain knows this.”

  “Sorry,” Laretta said, “I don’t know much about military command. When I was a kid and other boys were playing soldier, I sat in my room and read histories of Roman engineering feats.”

  Espinoza wasn’t listening. He was thinking about what a big fat target the cruiser was, just sitting out in the bay. If he were the opposing commander, the first thing he’d do after his Special Forces made contact was to hit the warship with a cruise missile from a submarine and then take out the shore-based batteries with radar-homing missiles launched from an aircraft. Not a carrier plane. Sending an aircraft carrier would telegraph their intentions. No, he’d stage the plane out of McMurdo, using aerial refueling. If need be, then, the attacking commandos could be augmented with troops flown in on C-130s like the one he himself had arrived aboard.

  He needed to discuss this with his father and have it relayed to the Brown’s captain. Once the shooting starts, the ship should be moved and the shore batteries’ radars turned on only intermittently.

  This was all contingent on the Western powers responding to the annexation militarily, which wasn’t a foregone conclusion. And that, he believed, was the genius of what they had pulled off. With China backing them, there was a strong chance that no one would send a force south to dislodge them and that his country had gained one of the biggest oil reserves in the world as easily as taking candy from a baby. The double threat of the Kilo-class submarine, and the ecological devastation if the base was attacked strictly by bombs and missiles and its oil spilled, was a strong deterrent to ensure they went unmolested.

  Espinoza was torn. On the one hand, he wanted them to come. He wanted to test himself and his men against the very best in the world. On the other, he wanted to see his country’s bold strategy so intimidate the West that they didn’t dare retaliate. As director Laretta prattled on about the facility, he realized he had no right to be torn. He was a warrior, and as such he wanted the Americans to send their finest troops. He did not want merely to repulse them. He wanted to humiliate them. He wanted to turn the ice red with their blood.

  “Tell me, Luis,” he interrupted, just to stop the director from speaking on and on about the facility, “have our guests arrived?”

  “Do you mean the foreign scientists from the other bases? Yes, they are being guarded by my small security force in a maintenance shed.”

  “No. I mean our friends from China.”

  “Oh, them. Yes. They came in yesterday, with their equipment. I assigned them a workboat. They’ve been getting it ready. Is there really an old Chinese ship sunk someplace in these waters?”

  “If there is,” Espinoza replied, “then we can forget any chance of a reprisal. Our claims to the peninsula would be legitimized by history. I would like to meet them.”

  “Certainly.”

  He steered the snowcat off the escarpment overlooking the base and down a track worn into the ice. When they were in the facility itself, Espinoza was amazed at the level of activity. Men in arctic gear were working on oddly shaped buildings and countless personal snowmobiles zipped about, many towing sleds laden with what he assumed was oil-drilling gear. Where the natural snow had blown away in spots, he could see the composite mats made to look like ice, fitted together like the artificial runways he’d seen erected in the jungle. It could easily take the weight of their big vehicle.

  There were several workboats tied up on a quay easily large enough to accommodate the Admiral Brown. They were all about forty feet long, steel-hulled, with large open spaces on their sterns and blocky pilothouses hunched over their bows. They were painted white, though much of their cargo areas had been so scraped up by material they transported out to the disguised rigs that bare wood shone through. Service boats like these were ubiquitous at offshore drilling sites all over the world.

  Laretta parked alongside one of the crafts. Men bundled against the cold were working on a torpedo-shaped device sitting in a cradle under an A-frame crane mounted to the stern. None looked up from his task as the three men approached. One of them finally glanced at them when their weight made the boat bounce as they stepped aboard. He detached himself from the group and came over.

  “Señor Laretta, to what do we owe the pleasure?” The man was covered head to foot, and his voice was muffled by scarves wrapped around his face. He spoke accented English.

  “Fong, this is Major Espinoza. He’s the commander of our augmented security force. Major, this is Lee Fong. He heads the technicians sent out to find the Silent Sea.”

  The two men shook hands so heavily gloved it was like grabbing a balled-up towel. “Is that a sonar unit?” Espinoza asked.

  “Side-scan,” Fong replied. “We’ll tow it behind this boat, and it profiles a hundred-meter swath of the ocean floor.”

  “You have a rough idea where the wreck is located, yes?”

  “From what I understand, we have you to thank for it.”

  Espinoza wasn’t sure if he liked the fact that the Chinese knew of his exploits, but then he realized his father had been bragging about him to their newest allies and he felt pride replace his trepidation. “We got lucky,” he said.

  “Let’s hope we stay lucky. Wrecks are a funny thing. I’ve had GPS coordinates, loran numbers, and eyewitnesses, and I’ve still failed to find one. Other times, I’ve found them on the first pass with no information other than the ship had sunk in the general area.”

  “Will the cold affect your gear?”

  “That’s the other factor. I’ve never searched in waters like this. We won’t know how well the sonar will work until we get it in the water and test it here in the bay. We’re hoping for today, but the light’s going, so it will probably have to be tomorrow.”

  “From what I gather of the situation, we have more than a little time,” Espinoza said. “The Americans are still reeling from our announcement, and they’re too afraid of your country’s reprisal if they launch a counterstrike.”

  “Fortune favors the bold,” Fong said.

  “That’s attributed to Virgil,” Luis Laretta told them. “It’s a Latin expression, Audentes fortuna juvat. There’s another, by Julius Caesar, that’s also apt—Jacta alea est. He said it on his march to Rome when he crossed the Rubicon River.”

  Raul Jimenez surprisingly supplied the translation: “The die is cast.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  With no landmass to break its cycle, winds circled the earth at the lower latitudes in endless loops that built and built. Below the fortieth parallel,
they were called the Roaring Forties. Then came the Furious Fifties and the Screaming Sixties. A constant wind of eighty miles per hour wasn’t unusual, and gusts of a hundred were an everyday event. The effect this had on the sea was ferocious. Waves built to forty and fifty feet, huge rolling masses of water that tossed aside everything in their path. Even the great icebergs that calved off the mainland glaciers were no match for the ocean when the winds came up. Only the superbergs, as large as cities and sometimes small states, were immune.

  It was into this hell that Juan Cabrillo drove his ship and crew. Everything that could be tied down had been, and all activity except essential services was suspended. Although the ship had crossed southward only a week earlier, the weather then had been downright tranquil compared to what was hitting them now.

  Any other ship would have turned back or faced being torn apart by the waves. But Juan had so overengineered his beloved Oregon that she was in no real danger. Her hull could take the stresses, and there wasn’t a seam topside that the wind could exploit to start peeling back sheet metal. The davits holding her two lifeboats would not fail even in a category five hurricane. Though, right now, she only carried one of them. The other had been set adrift with a ping locator activated so they could recover it later.

  But there was a real danger. Not from the ocean but from the prowling Chinese fast-attack submarine. She was somewhere between the tip of South America and the Antarctic Peninsula. This was a choke point much like the GIUK Gap that NATO used to box in Soviet submarines at the height of the Cold War. They had set up pickets of subs, like fishermen, between Greenland, Iceland, and the United Kingdom, and waited for their catch to come to them.

  Juan had laid a course toward Antarctica by staying close to the South American coastline, as if the Oregon were making for the Drake Passage around Cape Horn, and then heading dead south into the Bellinghausen Sea, the area the Argentines and Chinese had said was now forbidden to shipping.

  Now he had to put his mind into that of the Chinese sub captain. With a couple hundred miles to patrol, Juan had to guess where he would be. The obvious answer was the middle of the narrows between South America and Antarctica. That would give him maximum coverage. But any ship making a dash southward would make that assumption and avoid the middle like the plague. So do they stay close to the peninsula or run a westward end around. The sub couldn’t be in both places. A wrong guess would put them square in the Kilo-class’s sights.

  Cabrillo remembered an old school-yard saying. Never play chicken with a stranger. Meaning, if you don’t know your opponent, you can’t control the outcome.

  He sat in the command seat in the middle of the op center, his body swaying with the roll of his ship. All on-duty personnel were strapped into their chairs with lap and shoulder harnesses. He hadn’t shaved this morning—water wouldn’t stay in the sink—so when he ran a hand across his chin, his beard rasped. East or west, he thought. East or west?

  “Radar contact,” Linda Ross called out.

  “What have you got?”

  “Aircraft flying south at twenty-five thousand feet. Speed three-eight-five. Range twenty miles.”

  Juan looked at her sharply.

  “He must have dropped out of the clouds.”

  It had to be a big Hercules aircraft heading down with more supplies for the Argentines, Cabrillo thought. “Helm, show me the rear-deck camera.”

  Eric Stone typed a command into his computer, and the image on the main view screen switched to a camera mounted just below the jack staff at the very stern of the ship. Even in such heavy seas, the Oregon’s wake was a white slash through dark gray water leading right up to the ship. They couldn’t announce themselves more if they had put on every light and broadcast across every frequency.

  Juan’s decision about east or west was moot. He knew the plane would radio their presence to the Argentines, who would pass that information on to the Chinese submarine. The Kilo-class would be coming after them like the hounds of hell.

  “Can we jam his radios?” he asked.

  “As long as he’s in range,” replied Hali Kasim, their communications specialist. “As soon as he moves on, he’ll be free to report our position.”

  “We can shoot him down,” suggested Mark Murphy from the weapons station next to helm control. “I can have SAM lock in in fifteen seconds and splash him ten seconds later.”

  “Negative.” As tempting as it was, Juan wouldn’t consider it. He had always been a firm believer in letting the other guy throw the first punch. He toggled his microphone to make a shipwide announcement. “This is the Chairman. There’s a real good chance we were just spotted, and that means the sub knows where we are. We’re already at combat stations, but I want all hands to be extrasharp.”

  “What does this mean, Juan?” Tamara Wright asked. He had forgotten all about her, as she sat strapped in to one of the damage-control stations over his shoulder.

  He spun around in his chair to look her in the eye. “It means I should have gone with my gut and forced you off the ship when I had the chance.”

  Her chin lifted slightly and her eyes narrowed. “You would have had to knock me unconscious and truss me up.”

  “I know, and I should have done it.”

  “And left me alone in that little lifeboat of yours in these conditions? No way and no how,” she countered. “Besides, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, and one thing is I never walk away from a fight.”

  “This might not be a fight but a turkey shoot. That submarine has all the advantages going for it.”

  “Then if my fate is to die with all of you, I am ready to accept that.”

  “Sounds like Eastern fatalism to me.”

  “I grew up in Taiwan, remember.” She slipped her yin-and-yang pendant from under a blouse lent to her by the Magic Shop. “I’m a Taoist. It’s not fatalism I believe in, just fate.”

  “You’re as stubborn as Max. I can see why he has a thing for you.” Over Juan’s other shoulder, he heard Max Hanley groan aloud and the sound of his palm slapping his forehead. He swiveled to look at his second-in-command. “Sorry, Max, was that a secret?”

  Max’s blush started at the base of his throat and didn’t stop until the crown of his head was as red as a cherry. Snickers filled the op center. Juan felt bad for teasing Hanley like this, but he needed something to relieve the tension.

  “Mr. Hanley, I had no idea.” Tamara’s smile was genuine. “Come to think of it, my Mississippi cruise was cut short because of you. I think it only fair that, when this is all over with, you find some way to make it up to me.”

  Married and divorced three times, Max had always been comfortable around women, especially the ones he found attractive, but for the first time Cabrillo could remember his friend was tongue-tied.

  “Helm,” Juan said to get their heads back in the game. “What’s our current speed?”

  “Twenty-one knots. That’s the best we can manage in these seas.”

  “I’ll get you an extra ration of grog if you can get us a few more knots. Also, alter course to one-zero-five for the next ten minutes, then back to eighty-five. The old zigzag worked for allied convoys, so lets hope it works for us.”

  The Oregon’s two torpedo tubes were flooded, though their outer doors were still closed. Linda Ross was covering their sensor suite, and they were doing everything they could to confound the Chinese sub. There was nothing left to do but wait and hope they snuck through.

  Juan didn’t know how he did it, but the ship’s phlegmatic chief steward suddenly appeared at his shoulder with a big thermos of coffee and Styrofoam cups with plastic lids.

  “What, Maurice, no Royal Doulton?” he teased, knowing he’d never get a rise out of the English septuagenarian.

  “Considering the circumstances, I thought a less delicate alternative was more appropriate. If you wish, I can return to the pantry for a proper china service.”

  “This is fine. Thank you. I know I could go for a cup.”
<
br />   Maurice managed to pour cups all around and not get a single drop on his snowy-white apron. And how he maintained traction in spit-polished wingtips was a mystery for another day.

  “I gather from your announcement, Captain, that the first watch will be on for the duration?” Maurice had retired from the Royal Navy and wouldn’t abide by calling Cabrillo anything but Captain. He was as much a stakeholder in the Corporation as any of them, but this was a ship, and its commander was called Captain and there would be no argument about it.

  “Looks that way.”

  “I will make sure to bring you dinner at six. Again, taking the weather into consideration, I think it best I serve something you don’t need utensils to eat. Perhaps burritos?” He said the last word with ill-disguised disgust.

  Juan smiled. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “Very good, sir.” With that, he slipped away as silently as a cat.

  The hours dragged on. There was minimal conversation, just an occasional whispered word, a quick order, and then silence once again. The only real sounds were the swoosh of air through the ventilators and the noises made by the ship and sea as they fought against each other. The hull would creak. Waves would slam. And all the while water sluiced through the ship’s drive tubes under enough force to speed her up to twenty-five knots.

  Juan had put off going to the head for as long as he could possibly take it. The nearest facilities were just beyond the op center’s back door, but he didn’t want to leave for even the minute it would take.

  He had just unsnapped his shoulder harness and was reaching for his lap belt when Linda cried. “Contact! Sonar. Bearing two seventy-one degrees. Range, five thousand yards.”

  Cabrillo could hardly believe she could hear a submarine at that distance in these conditions, but Linda Ross knew her job.

  Juan forgot all about his bladder. “Do you have a depth and heading?”