Her five cameras could capture half the length of the United States in one hour with only one pass. Her photographic package filmed in black-and-white, color, infrared, three-dimensional, and a few imagery techniques that were highly classified and totally unknown to commercial photographers Lieutenant Colonel James Slade had little to do. It was a long, boring reconnaissance from his base in California's Mojave Desert.
The only time he took manual control in flight was during refueling operations. The Casper's engines had a heavy thirst. She had to be refueled twice on each leg of the flight by aerial tankers.
Slade examined the instruments with a critical eye. The Casper was a new plane, and she had yet to reveal all her bugs. Thankful to find normal readings across the board, he sighed and pulled a miniature electronic game from a pocket of his flight suit. He began pressing the buttons below a small viewing window, trying to get a tiny diver past a giant octopus to reach a treasure chest.
After a few minutes he tired of the game and gazed ahead and down at the frozen isolation that was Antarctica. Far below, the curved, beckoning finger of the northern peninsula and its adjoining islands sparkled under a diamond-clear sky.
The ice and rock and sea created a beautiful vastness, awesome to the eye, intimidating to the soul. The sight may have looked appealing from twenty kilometers overhead, but Slade knew better. He'd once flown supplies to a scientific station at the South Pole and quickly learned the beauty and the hostility in the permanent domain of cold went hand in hand.
He well remembered the chilling temperatures. He didn't believe it possible to spit and see the saliva freeze before it hit the ground. And he never forgot the ferocious winds that scourge the coldest of all continents. The 160-kilometer gusts were unimaginable until he experienced them for the first time.
Slade could never fathom why some men were so attracted to that frozen hell. He had a facetious urge to call a travel agent after he returned to base and inquire about reservations at a good resort hotel close to the polar center.
Suddenly a female voice spoke over one of the three cockpit speakers.
"Attention, please. You are about to cross the outer limit of your flight path where seventy degrees longitude and seventy degrees latitude intersect. Disengage auto pilot and come around a hundred and eighty degrees beginning . . . now. The new heading for your return is programmed into the computer. Please enter the appropriate code. Have a good trip home."
Slade followed the instructions and made a lazy Turn. As soon as the computer locked on the return heading he went back on auto pilot and shifted to a more comfortable position in his cramped seat.
Like so many other men who flew reconnaissance missions, he fantasized about the face and body that went with the embodied voice. Rumor had it she weighed two-hundred pounds, was sixty years old and a grandmother twelve times. No pilot with a sound imagination could believe such a myt."shattering thought. She had to look like Sigourney Weaver. Maybe it was Sigoumey Weaver. He decided to explore the tantalizing possibility on his return home.
That delicate problem solved, Slade re-checked his instrument panel and then relaxed while the icebound land drifted away behind his tail. Over the sea again, he returned to his little electronic treasure game.
He saw little purpose in continuing to watch the world roll by, especially since Tierra del Fuego was covered by thick blankets of charcoal clouds. He'd studied enough geography to know it was a wretched land of constant wind, rain and snow.
Slade was almost thankful he couldn't see the monotonous landscape. He left it to Casper's infrared camera to penetrate the dark overcast and record the desolate, dead end of the continent.
Captain Collins stared into Ammar's mask and had to force himself not to avert his gaze. There was something evil, something inhuman in the eyes of the urbane leader of the hijackers. Collins could sense a chilling unconcern for mere human life about the man.
"I demand to know when you're going to release my ship," said Collins in a precise tone.
Arnmar set a cup of tea on a saucer, patted his lips with a table napkin and looked at Collins detachedly.
"Can I offer you some tea?"
"Not unless you offer it to my passengers and crew as well," Collins replied dryily. He stood erect in his summer white uniform, bitterly cold and shivering.
"The very answer I expected." Ammar turned the empty cup upside down and leaned back. "You'll be happy to know my men and I expect to leave sometime tomorrow evening. If you give me your word there will be no foolish attempt to retake the ship or escape to the nearby shore before we depart, no one will be harmed and you can resume command."
"I'd rather you heat the ship and feed everyone now. We're desperately short of warm clothing and blankets to ward off the cold. No one has eaten in days. The pipes have frozen, blocking all water. And I don't have to mention the sanitation problems. "
"Suffering is good for the soul," Animar said philosophically.
Collins glared at him. ")"at utter tripe."
Ammar shrugged wearily. "If you say so."
"Good God, man, there are people sick and dying on this ship."
"I doubt seriously whether any of your crew and passengers will die of exposure or from starvation before my departure," said Ammar curtly.
"They'll simply have to survive some discomfort for the next hours or so until you can restart the engines and heat the ship."
"That may be too late for any of us if the wall of the glacier breaks off."
"It looks solid enough."
"You don't realize the danger. A massive ice slab might fall any moment. The weight could smash the Flamborough like a ten-story building collapsing on an automobile. You must move the ship."
"A risk I cannot avoid. The ice film on the plastic would melt, giving away our location, and satellite infrared cameras could detect our radiated heat."
Collins's face was ed with helpless rage. "You're either a fool or you're insane. What good has any of this proven? What profit will you get out of it? Are we being held for ransom or as hostages in return for freeing your fellow terrorists behind bars somewhere? If you're simply walking off and leaving us, I fail to see the purpose."
"You have an irritating degree of curiosity, Captain, but a dedication of purpose after my own heart. You will learn the reasons behind our capture of your ship soon enough."
Ammar rose and nodded at the guard who stood behind Collins. "Return the Captain to confinement."
Collins refused to move. "Why can't you provide hot tea, coffee, soup, anything that will alleviate the suffering?"
Ammar did not bother to Turn as he walked from the dining salon.
"Goodbye, Captain. We won't meet again."
Animar went directly to the communications room. Ibn was standing, watching a teletype hum out the latest wire-service news. His electronics man was seated at the radio, listening to an incoming transmission while a voice recorder copied it on paper. The radio and teletype were powered by a portable generator.
Ibn turned at Ammar's approach, gave a brief nod in recognition and tore a long sheet of paper from the teletype.
"The international news media are still reporting the Lady Flamborough as lost," he reported. "Salvage ships are only now arriving off Uruguay to conduct an underwater search. My compliments, Suleiman; you fooled the world. We'll be safely back in Cairo before the West learns the truth."
"What news of Egypt?" asked Ammar.
"Nothing worth celebrating yet. Hasan's cabinet ministers still control the government. They stubbornly hold on to power. They've played it smart by not sending in security forces to smash the demonstrations. The only bloodshed was caused by our fundamentalist brothers who mistakenly blew up a busload of Algerian firemen attending a convention in Cairo.
it was thought the bus was part of a government police convoy. The Cairo news network is claiming Akhmad Yazid's movement is a front for Iranian fanatics. Many supporters are wavering in their loyalty and there has be
en no mass demand for Hasan's cabinet to dissolve the government."
"That idiot Khaled Fawzy was behind the bus explosion," snarled Ammar.
"The military, where do the armed forces stand?"
"Defense Minister Abu Han-iid will not commit himself until he views the bodies of President Hasan and Hala Kamil to confirm their deaths."
"So Yazid has yet to make a triumphal takeover."
Ibn nodded and his expression turned grave. "There is another news item. Yazid has announced that the cruise ships crew and passengers still live, and he will personally negotiate with the terrorists and arrange for the release of everyone. He has gone so far as to offer his life in exchange for Senator George Pitt to impress the Americans."
A numbing, paralyzing rage swelled within Ammar, sharpening his senses and opening his thoughts like envelopes inside his mind. After a few moments, he looked at Ibn.
"By Allah, the Judas goat has led us to slaughter," he said incredulously. "Yazid has sold out the mission."
Ibn nodded in agreement. "Yazid has used and betrayed you. "
"That explains why he stalled off ordering me to kill Hasan, Kamil and the rest. He wanted them unharmed until Machado and his scum could remove you and me and our people."
"What do Yazid and Topiltzin gain by keeping the hostages alive?" asked Ibn.
"By playing the saviors of two presidents, the SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations and an important United States politician, Yazid and Topiltzin will gain the admiration of international leaders. They automatically become stronger while their opponents lose ground. They are then free to assume the reigns of their governments in peaceful takeovers, widening their power base and increasing their benevolent images in the eyes of the world."
Ibn bent his head in resignation. "So we've been thrown to the vultures."
Ammar nodded. "Yazid meant for us to die from the beginning to guarantee our silence on this and other missions we've performed for him,"
"What of Captain Machado and his Mexican crew? What happens to them after they've eliminated us?"
"Topiltzin would see to it they vanished after their return to Mexico."
"They would have to escape the ship and island first."
"Yes," Annnar replied thoughtfully. He paced the communications room angrily. "It seems I badly underestimated Yazid's cunning. I was smug in thinking Machado was impotent because he knew nothing of our arrangements for escaping to a safe airfield in Argentina. But thanks to Yazid, our Mexican comrade has implemented his own departure plans."
"Then why hasn't he murdered us by now?"
"Because Yazid and Topiltzin won't give him the order until they're ready to act out their sham negotiations for the hostage release."
Suddenly Ammar turned and gripped the shoulder of the radio man, who quickly removed his headphones. "Have you'received any unusual messages directed to the ship?"
The Egyptian communications expert looked curious. "Strange you should ask. Our Latin friends have been in and out of here every ten minutes, asking the same question. I thought they must be stupid. any acknowledgment to a direct transmission would be intercepted by American-European intelligence listening facilities. They'd fix our position within seconds."
"So you've intercepted nothing suspicious."
The Arab communications man shook his head. "Even if I did, any message would certainly be in code."
"Shut down the equipment. Make the Mexicans think you're still listening for something. Whenever they ask about an incoming message, play dumb and keep saying you've heard nothing."
Ibn stared at him expectantly. "My instructions, Sideiman?"
"Keep a sharp watch on Machado's crew. Get them off balance by acting friendly. Open the lounge bar and invite them to drink. Give the worst guard duty to our men, so the Latins can relax. This will lower their defenses."
"Shall we kill them before they kill us?"
"No," said Ammar, a flicker of sadistic pleasure in his eyes.
"We'll leave that job to the glacier."
"Can't be less than a million icebergs down there," said Gior dino bleakly. "Be easier picking a midget headwaiter out of a colony of penguins. This could take days."
Colonel Hollis was in the same mood. "There has to be one matching the Lady Flamborough's contour and dimensions.
Keep looking."
"Bear in mind," said Gunn, "Antarctic bergs tend to be flat.
The superstructure under the plastic shroud will give the ship a multipinnacle shape."
Dillenger's eye was enlarged four times its size through a magnifying glass. "The definition is amazing," he muttered.
"Be even better when we see what's on the other side of those clouds."
They were all grouped around a small table in the communications compartment of the Sounder, examining a huge color photo from the Casper. The aerial reconnaissance film had been processed and sent through the survey ship's laser receiver less than forty minutes after the aircraft landed.
The well-defined detail showed a sea of bergs broken away from the Larsen Ice Shelf on the eastern side of the peninsula, while hundreds more could be distinguished near glaciers off Graham Land to the west.
Pitts concentration was aimed elsewhere. He sat off to one side, studying a large nautical chart draped across his lap. Once in a while he looked up, listening, but did not contribute to the conversation.
Hollis turned to Captain Stewart, who stood next to the receiver, wearing a headset with attached microphone. "When can we expect the Casper's infrared photo?"
Stewart raised a hand as a signal not to interrupt. He pressed the headset against his ears, listening to a voice at CIA headquarters in Washington. Then he nodded toward Hollis. "The photo lab at Langley says they'll begin transmitting in half a minute."
Hollis paced the small compartment like a cat listening for the sound of a can opener. He paused and stared curiously at Pitt, who was unconcernedly measuring distances with a pair of dividers.
The Colonel had learned a great deal about the man from NUMA in the past few hours, not from Pitt himself, but from the men on the ship. They talked of him as though he were some kind of walking legend.
"Coming through now," announced Stewart. He removed the headset and waited patiently for the newspaper-size photo to emerge from the receiver. As soon as it rolled free, he carried it over and placed it on the table. Then everyone began scrutinizing the shoreline around the upper end of the peninsula.
"The technicians at the CIA photo lab have computer-converted the specially sensitive film to a thermogram," explained Stewart. "The differences of infrared radiation are revealed in various colors. Black represents the coldest temperatures. Dark blue, light blue, green, yellow and red form an increasingly warmer scale to white, the hottest."
"What reading can we expect from the Lady Flamborough?" asked Dillenger.
"Somewhere in the upper end between yellow and red."
"Closer to a dark blue," Pitt broke in.
Everyone turned and glared at him as though he'd sneezed during a chess match.
"That being the case she won't stand out," Hollis protested. "We'd never find her."
"Heat radiation from the engines and generators will show as plain as a golf ball on a green," Gunn argued.
"Not if the engineering room was shut down."
"You can't mean a dead ship?" Dillenger asked in disbelief.
Pitt nodded. He stared at the others with a passing casual gaze that was more disturbing than if he had thrown a wet blanket over the enthusiasm of a breakthrough.
He smiled and said, "What we have here is a persistent urge to underrate the coach on the other team."
The five men looked at each other and then back at Pitt, waiting for some kind of explanation.
Pitt laid his nautical charts aside and rose from his chair. He walked to the table, picked up the infrared photo and folded it in half, revealing only the lower tip of Chile.
"Now then," Pitt continued, "hav
en't you noticed that every time the ship went through a change of appearance or altered course, it came immediately after one of our satellites passed overhead."
"Another example of precise planning," said Gunn. "The orbits of scientific data-gathering satellites are tracked by half the countries of the world. The information is as readily attainable as phases of the moon."
"Okay, so the hijack leader knew the orbiting schedules and guessed when the satellite cameras were aimed in his direction," said Hollis. "So what?"
"So he covered all avenues and shut down power to prevent detection by infrared photography. And, most important, to keep the warmth from melting the thin layer of ice coating the plastic shroud."
Four out of five found Pitts theory quite plausible. The holdout was Gunn. He was the fastest intellect in the bunch. He saw the flaw before anyone else.
"You're forgetting the subzero temperatures around the peninsula," said Gunn. "No power, no heat. Everyone on the ship would freeze to death in a few hours. You might say the hijackers were committing suicide at the same time they murdered their prisoners."
"Rudi makes good sense," Giordino said. "They couldn't survive without some degree of warmth and protective clothing."
Pitt smiled like a lottery winner. "I agree with Rudi one hundred percent."
"You're driving in circles," said Hollis in aggravation. "Make sense."
"Nothing complicated: The Lady Flamborough didn't enter the Antarctic."
"Didn't enter the Antarctic," repeated Hollis mechanically. "Face the facts, man. The last satellite photo of the ship showed her halfway between Cape Horn and the tip of the peninsula, steaming hell-bent to the south."
"She had no place else to go," protested Dillenger.
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