Tate didn’t answer. Ballard approached with a handheld scanner.
“Find it and take it out,” Tate said.
Ballard nodded and waved the device over Juan, beginning with his head. It remained silent until she reached his left thigh and started beeping.
“Here it is,” she said and flipped open a switchblade.
“Careful,” Juan said. “This dive suit is my favorite.”
“Was he always like this?” she asked Tate as she sliced the suit open.
“It may be hard to believe,” Tate replied, “but he’s gotten worse. He thinks he can joke himself out of any situation. But not this time, my friend.”
Ballard palpated his quad muscle until she found what she was looking for. When she dug the knife into Juan’s leg, he didn’t give Tate the satisfaction of watching him wince from the pain.
She plucked out a tiny disc and handed it to Tate, who took it from her in a handkerchief. He cleaned the disc and held it aloft to inspect.
“So you thought your crew would find you with this tracker?” Tate asked, his delight returning.
“Seemed prudent to have it, given the psychos I’m dealing with.”
“Does that make you feel better? Thinking we’re all psychos?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Is it psychotic to want justice, to get revenge on the people who’ve wronged you? Are we psychos for doing mercenary work, which is the exact same thing you do?”
Juan shook his head in disgust. “We don’t sink ships for money and kill innocent people in the process.”
“You were willing to let hundreds of innocent people die in a terrorist attack in Moscow just because you were squeamish about my interrogation methods.”
“You were going to kill that man’s whole family. His children.”
Tate waved away that point. “They deserved it for supporting a terrorist.”
Juan didn’t see any reason to keep arguing with him. “You said I’m not staying much longer. Where am I going? Overboard?”
Tate grinned. “After all this, do you think it would be that easy?” He handed the intact tracker to Ballard. “Take this to the international airport and stash it in someone’s luggage.”
She nodded. “His people will be looking for him on another continent.”
“And where will I be?” Juan asked.
“A while ago,” Tate said, “it seems you destroyed a joint China–Argentina base in Antarctica, costing them a fortune. Several of the Argentinian officers responsible for the project survived the attack, although they’ve been demoted or drummed out of the service, pariahs in their own military. They didn’t appreciate your role in ruining their careers.”
Juan didn’t like the sound of this.
“When these officers found out they’d get a second crack at you,” Tate continued, “they jumped at the chance and greased the skids for my operation here in Buenos Aires. In return, I promised them you.”
Now everybody in the Portland’s op center was smiling.
“You don’t want to keep me here to torture me?”
Tate shook his head. “This rogue military unit has a secret prison in Las Armas not run by the regular Army. Apparently, it makes the Black Hole of Calcutta look like a Ritz-Carlton. You’re going to be spending the rest of your long and very miserable life with a wonderful selection of fellow inmates.”
“But then you won’t be able to lord it over me when you eventually capture the Oregon.”
Tate knelt in front of Juan for effect. “I’m not going to attempt another hijacking, my old buddy. That ship has sailed, so to speak. No, I’m going to sink her. It’ll be on video, playing on a loop in your cell. I’m going to make you watch your own ship go down and there’ll be nothing you can do about it. I imagine that’ll be worse than any physical torture I can dream up. The sight of your crew dying over and over will break you. I guarantee it.”
Tate stood and took in a deep, refreshing breath. “You know what? I’m feeling better already just at the thought of it all. Let’s get him topside.”
Juan was unbound and shoved toward the exit. Up on deck, they were met by six soldiers in camo garb. Juan didn’t recognize any of them.
“Colonel Sánchez,” Tate said to the oldest one, “I present Juan Cabrillo, as we agreed.”
Sánchez stepped forward and said to Juan in his native tongue, “You killed my cousin.”
“That’s funny,” Juan replied in Spanish with a fluent Argentinian accent. “I don’t recall ever meeting someone as ugly as you. He must have gotten the good genes in the family.”
Sánchez sneered at him. “We’ll see how many jokes you want to make once we get you to Las Armas tomorrow.”
Tate held up a finger. “One more thing, Colonel.” He handed the Argentinian a generic prosthetic leg. “You’ll want to replace his fake leg with this one. He tends to keep all kinds of surprises inside his own.”
“You’ve thought of everything,” Juan said.
“That’s me. Thoughtful. Good-bye, Juan. Maybe I’ll deliver the video to you in person so I can see firsthand what a good time you’re having.”
As the soldiers led Juan away, he called over his shoulder, “Visitors are always welcome!”
Before they left the ship, two of the soldiers held him tightly while another two switched out the prosthetic leg. The new one fit poorly, so Juan had to walk carefully to keep it from slipping off.
Before he got into the waiting truck, Juan pressed three times on his right thigh. That activated the backup tracker Julia Huxley had injected in his leg. Since it hadn’t been transmitting, Tate found only the one Juan wanted him to find. Juan’s original intent had been to lead the Oregon to the Portland via his tracker and ambush it, but that operation was obviously off the table.
Now Juan just had to hope the Oregon crew could intercept him before he got to the prison. From the sound of it, if he made it all the way to a cell, he might never get out.
32
OFF THE COAST OF ARGENTINA
Eddie Seng opened the top hatch on the Nomad after it surfaced in the Oregon’s moon pool. It was six hours after they had rescued Overholt from the diving bell. The smell inside the submersible had gotten noticeably rank from four men in such close quarters, so Eddie was happy to inhale the smell of seawater and oil.
Max and Linda were waiting on the deck next to the pool. Max had a gauze bandage across his nose and a bruise spreading on his face.
“Where’s Doc Huxley?” Eddie asked them as he helped Overholt out of the sub.
Overholt shook his head. “Don’t bother, I’m fine.”
“Still, I think she should give Mr. Overholt a thorough examination. We had to revive him after he inhaled some water.”
“The doc is pretty busy right now,” Max said with a grim expression.
“Does that have something to do with that bandage on your face?”
“Linda helped me put this on, but yes.”
Linc and Eric climbed out and joined them.
“What happened?” Eddie asked.
“We were attacked. It disabled the entire crew except for Linda here. If she weren’t deaf, we’d probably all be at the bottom of the Atlantic right now.”
“What are the casualties besides your nose?”
“Luckily, nothing too serious,” Linda said. “Four broken bones, two concussions, and a good number of stitches required.”
Eddie was surprised Linda had responded to him since Max just said she was deaf. When she noticed his puzzled expression, she added, “I can’t hear you, but my glasses translate your speech to text.”
“How’s the ship?”
“Some damage to the port torpedo tubes and the forward operational crane, but it could have been much worse.”
“How did all that happen?”
&n
bsp; “From a missile fired at us by me,” Max said sheepishly, pointing at his nose. “That’s how I got this. Linda had to put a boot to my face to keep me from killing us all. I certainly deserved it.”
“It’s not your fault,” Linda said, patting him on the shoulder. “Believe me, I know what it feels like to be out of control from the effects of that sonic weapon.”
“We must have escaped the weapon’s range since the effects dissipated once Linda evacuated the tranquilizer gas,” Max said. “We think it was some kind of underwater device, but we never pinpointed the source.”
“Can’t wait to hear more about that,” Eddie said.
“What about the Chairman?” Eric asked. “Did you get his signal?”
“We’re tracking two,” Max said. “The original one is currently on a commercial flight headed to New York. We think that’s a decoy.”
“And the backup?” Eddie asked. “Is that one still on the Portland?”
“No. The tracker is currently broadcasting from the Edificio Libertador in Buenos Aires. It’s the headquarters for the Army and one of the most heavily guarded buildings in the country. If Juan is in there, we’d need a whopper of a plan to get him out.”
“Let me see what I can find out,” Overholt said. “Despite my current situation, I still have some friends in the NSA who could tell me if they’ve intercepted any calls about him.”
“Then I’ll take Mr. Overholt to Doc Huxley in the infirmary,” Linc said.
Max nodded. “Meanwhile, Eddie can fill me in on Buenos Aires, and I’ll recap our run-in with the sonic weapon. Let’s all reconnect in a couple of hours and come up with a plan to rescue Juan.”
* * *
—
Two hours later Max, Linda, Eddie, Murph, and Eric were in the Oregon’s executive boardroom. A map of Argentina was projected on the wall monitor behind Max, who sat at the head of the long oaken table. They’d heard that Overholt had acquired relevant information from his NSA contact, so everyone stopped talking and turned their attention to him when Julia escorted him into the room.
“You let me know if you have any subsequent symptoms,” she said while she stood at the door.
Overholt eased into a seat. “As I said, I’m feeling much better.”
Julia looked at Max. “I could barely get him off the phone long enough to examine him, but he doesn’t seem to have any residual effects from his near drowning.”
“You have an amazing sick bay facility,” Overholt said, throwing a glance at Julia, “and the medical staff seems to be top-notch, if a little overcautious.”
Julia ignored his lighthearted complaint. “I’ll check him again tomorrow for any signs of pneumonia. In the meantime, I’ve cleared him to be up and about. I’m going back to the medical bay to tend to my other patients.”
She closed the door behind her when she left.
“Glad to see you’re doing well, Mr. Overholt,” Max said.
“And I appreciate everything you did to rescue me. Has Juan’s status changed?”
Max shook his head. “The tracker still has him in the same building in Buenos Aires.”
“Then we still have time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Intercepting the right phone calls was a challenge because Cabrillo is a fairly common name in Argentina, but I was able to find out from my NSA contact that Juan is scheduled to be moved tomorrow.”
“Did you get any specific intel about the move?” Max asked. He wasn’t surprised that Overholt had been able to acquire the necessary intelligence so quickly. The CIA officer had been one of the most well-connected people in Washington for decades and he would still have friends there even if he was under suspicion of treason.
“He’s being held by rogue elements of the Argentine Army. They plan to transfer him to a prison near Las Armas tomorrow morning by truck convoy.”
Max had Murph plot the most likely routes the convoy would take from Buenos Aires to Las Armas, which was located two hundred miles south of the capital.
“Luckily, there’s only one obvious route for the convoy to take,” Murph said, tracing a highway through Argentina’s coastal lowlands. “Any other option would take them far out of the way.”
“Expect the escort to be well armed and ready to fight,” Overholt said. “My contact claims that they are under the command of a Colonel Sánchez. For the transfer mission, he’s using handpicked mercenaries who are disgraced former soldiers. They plan to throw Juan into a cell under a false name. There would be no way to get him out without a full-scale assault on the prison.”
“Then the best option for springing him would be to intercept them en route,” Max said.
“That’s what I would advise,” Overholt said. “Do you have the capability for such a scenario?”
Max thought about it as he inspected the map. Then he pointed to a port just seventy miles south of Las Armas called Mar del Plata.
“We can dock there to unload,” Max said.
“Unload what?” Overholt asked.
“The PIG,” Eddie said.
Max nodded and said to Overholt, “We’ve got a truck of our own with a few hidden surprises.” He turned back to Eddie. “What would you say about taking Linc and Raven on a road trip?”
33
ARGENTINA
The next morning at the port of Mar del Plata, Eddie stood on the dock as the Oregon’s lone functional crane lowered a truck taken out of the ship’s cargo hold. The boxy-looking vehicle with the large four-person cab and oversized tires looked as rusted and junky as the vessel it was removed from. Its side bore the faded words VERTEGAS OIL EXPLORATION. The PIG, which stood for “Powered Investigator, Ground,” looked completely unremarkable, just as intended.
The customs inspector watched it coming down with a faintly repulsed expression.
“This thing actually is working?” he asked in heavily accented English as he checked his clipboard.
Eddie nodded. “You’d be surprised.”
“I am surprised. Show me.”
When it reached the ground, Raven and Linc detached the cables while Eddie took the inspector on a quick tour of the truck. He opened the rear doors and revealed that the cargo bay was stacked floor to ceiling with six steel drums.
“What are these?” the inspector asked.
“Spare fuel,” Eddie replied. “We plan to be exploring some remote regions in the south.”
The inspector knocked on one of the barrels and heard the distinctive sound of a full container of liquid echoing back.
“If you want, I can take one out for you to look inside,” Eddie offered.
The inspector thought about it, then glanced at his watch.
“You’re probably in a hurry,” Eddie said, flashing a few hundred American dollars he was holding in his hand. “Maybe we can both get out of here sooner.”
The inspector eyed the money and slowly nodded. “I think that is best.”
He handed over the clipboard so that Eddie could sign the customs form. He tucked the bills under the paper and gave it back with a smile.
“Thank you, señor.”
“De nada.”
As the inspector walked off, tucking the money in his pocket, Raven said, “Have you ever had to show an inspector that there really is fuel in those drums?”
Eddie shook his head. “But I always offer, which makes them think that we aren’t hiding anything.”
Although the six drums were actually full of spare fuel, the ones behind them, that would be exposed by their removal, were simply half shells concealing the real cargo bay.
The PIG was Max’s brainchild, and he had designed it from the ground up. The beefed-up Mercedes Unimog chassis was fitted with an armored body strong enough to withstand rifle fire, and the self-sealing tires were driven by an eight-hundred-horsepower tur
bo-diesel that could be nitrous-boosted for short periods up to one thousand horses.
A .30 caliber machine gun was hidden in the front bumper, and rockets could be fired from racks that swung down from the PIG’s sides. A seamless hatch in the roof would slide back to allow the launch of mortar rounds, and a smoke generator could lay down a thick screen of fumes behind the truck.
Eric and Murph had persuaded Max to add a feature to the drive-by-wire system that would let someone operate the PIG remotely with a handheld control. Raven had it in her pocket.
Although the cargo bay could hold up to ten fully kitted soldiers, Eddie, Linc, and Raven would be the only passengers until they were able to rescue Juan.
They got into the cab, which was painted to look filthy. Though the leather seats were torn and stained, they were soft and supportive. Eddie took the passenger seat, while Linc stepped into the back and opened the cargo bay hatch so he could unpack firearms. Raven got behind the wheel and fired up the engine. It burbled like a regular diesel would, but Eddie could feel the immense power coursing through the chassis.
Raven toggled a switch, and the antiquated dashboard retracted and flipped over, revealing a high-tech control panel that gave them access to all of the onboard weaponry. It also had a large LCD screen displaying a map of Argentina. Juan’s tracker was flashing in red.
“Looks like they’re seventy miles outside of Buenos Aires,” Raven said.
Eddie did the math and said, “That makes our intercept point about twenty-five miles north of the prison at Las Armas. It’ll be close.”
“Don’t worry,” Raven said. “I’m a leadfoot.”
She put the PIG into gear and steered it out of the port. As they left, the Oregon was already untied from the dock and putting out to sea.
* * *
—
The convoy from Buenos Aires had been on the road for two hours now, and Juan continued to flex his fingers behind his back to keep the blood flowing to them. The cuffs weren’t too tight, but sitting in that position for so long in the back of the SUV was awkward. At least they didn’t put a seat belt over the jumpsuit he was wearing. That would have made it more difficult to act if the situation presented itself.
Marauder (The Oregon Files) Page 16