the Silent Sea (2010) tof-7

by Clive Cussler

  How's the noggin?

  Hurts like hell, but the concussion's mild.

  Good thing they shot you in the head, otherwise they could have hit something important.

  You're all heart.

  As soon as Cabrillo was settled next to Max, the car pulled away from the sheriff 's office. The agent in the passenger's seat turned and held up a key. Juan wasn't sure what he wanted until he recognized it as the key to his cuffs. He held up his hands and they were freed.

  Thanks. We won't give you any trouble. Where are you taking us?

  Airport.

  And then?

  That's up to you, sir. Though my orders were to recommend you leave the country.

  Max and Juan exchanged knowing smirks. Langston Overholt had done it. God only knew how, but he'd gotten them out of that quagmire. Juan wanted to call him right away, but his cell phone had finally died from its soak in the river, and Max's hadn't been returned to him.

  The agents dumped them at the curb in front of the Jackson-Evers terminal. Juan hailed a taxi as soon as they'd pulled out of sight.

  I take it we're not going to follow their advice? Max asked.

  We are, but I don't want to hear you grumble about flying commercial. There's a charter service here.

  Now we're talking.

  Twenty minutes later, they were in the general-aviation terminal waiting for their plane to be fueled. Juan was using his laptop to act as a telephone. His first call was to Overholt.

  I take it you're out? the old CIA agent asked.

  Charter jet's fueling as we speak. Max and I both owe you one. How'd you do it?

  Suffice it to say, it's done, and leave it at that. How could you possibly know about Argentina and China?

  Juan wanted to tell him about Tamara Wright's abduction, but for now even someone as powerful as Overholt couldn't do anything more than was already being done by local law enforcement and the FBI.

  He explained what Linda Ross and her team had discovered when they checked into the Argentine research station. He also told him about the gruesome find at Wilson/George.

  Okay, so I understand your thinking that Argentina's going to make a play for the peninsula; they've been rattling sabers over it for years, even before the current junta. But China? That caught the CIA, State Department, and the White House completely by surprise.

  Here's the thing. When I spoke to you last night, Max and I were with a woman named Tamara Wright

  The one they kidnapped?

  You've read the police report?

  Just bits and pieces. They're taking it seriously, but there are no leads. The speedboat was discovered in Natchez, where a van was stolen from a plumber's house. The APB is out, but so far no hits.

  I figured it would be something like that. They're smart. I bet that van will be found wherever they stole the cigarette boat. They'll have their own set of wheels back and could be just about anywhere.

  Agreed. China? Overholt prompted.

  Dr. Wright told us about a Chinese expedition in the late 1400s that sent a fleet of three ships to South America. Juan paused, expecting Overholt to question the validity of such a claim, but the wily case officer knew when to keep quiet. One of the ships was afflicted by a disease that drove the crewmen insane. Sound familiar?

  The guy at Wilson/George, Langston breathed.

  They ate tainted food provided by island natives. I think it was human flesh, most likely brain, and they got a dose of prions. The ship was scuttled with the crew aboard, and the remaining two ships ventured northward and eventually back to China.

  Five hundred years later, along comes Andrew Gangle, who finds a mummy someplace near their base. It's carrying gold and jade. Somehow, he gets infected, most likely he accidentally stabbed himself on a shard of bone. Now he's got a prion disease rotting away his mind until he snaps and goes berserk.

  That scuttled ship is off the coast of Antarctica? Dear God, Overholt exclaimed as he made the intuitive leap that Cabrillo had had the night before. If they can prove that Chinese explorers discovered Antarctica a couple hundred years before the first European, they . . .

  Exactly, Juan said. They'll lay claim over it, or at least the peninsula. But with Argentina already so well entrenched, the smart move for them is to partner up and share the spoils. I believe this has been in the works for some time, long before we got involved. I think the Argentines were courting the Chinese because they would need the protection of a superpower and the patronage of someone in the UN. It was the chance discovery of that blimp and the subsequent events, like getting their hands on tangible proof that the Chinese had visited South America, that cemented the deal.

  Do the Argentines or Chinese know the location of the third ship?

  Not yet, but they'll be able to figure it out with enough research. Admiral Tsai's drawing was pretty specific. A good computer program and Google Earth should do it. But here's the thing: even if they don't find it, they can still claim the ship visited Antarctica. Who's to stop them?

  We are.

  What's the official White House position?

  Events are unfolding too fast. They haven't said much, beyond the usual condemnation.

  What does your gut tell you?

  I honestly don't know. China currently holds the lion's share of our national debt, so they have us over a barrel in that respect. Also, logically, are we willing to go to war over a part of the world only a handful of people care about?

  This is about principles, Juan pointed out. Do we stick to our ideals and risk lives for a bunch of penguins and a forty-year-old treaty or do we let them get away with it?

  That's it in a nutshell, and I don't know what the President will do. Hell, I don't know how I feel. Part of me says to kick the bastards back to Beijing and Buenos Aires, but what's the point? Let them have the oil and the penguins. It's not worth putting our military personnel in harm's way.

  Dicey call, Juan agreed, though in his mind the decision was a no-brainer. Argentina broke a binding international treaty by invading neighboring territory that didn't belong to them. They deserved the full wrath of the United States, and any other signatory to the Antarctic Treaty. He suddenly remembered something. Has NASA had a chance to analyze the power cell we recovered from their downed satellite?

  Yes, and it is possible it was shot down, like your guy suggested, though they hedged and said the cause was indeterminate.

  Why would they risk it? Cabrillo mused. Why, with everything at stake, would they take the chance and intentionally shoot down one of our birds?

  If you want a real head-scratcher, it wasn't a spy satellite and was never rumored to be one. It was designed to monitor carbon dioxide emissions and was going to be used to make sure countries stay within their targets when and if a new treaty is implemented to replace the Kyoto Protocol.

  Juan remained quiet for a moment, thinking. Of course, he said. They can hide the thermal signature of their Antarctic activities using sea water, but oil-and-gas exploration would produce a dense plume of carbon dioxide in a place that shouldn't have any. Once that satellite went active, we'd have known exactly what they were up to.

  If they were going to annex the peninsula only a week after shooting down the satellite, why bother? Overholt asked.

  You haven't been paying attention, Lang. The deal with China was only cemented in the last couple of days. Without that alliance, Argentina would need to keep their activities secret for months, maybe a year. China might have helped them shoot it down as a good-faith gesture or to guarantee they get the bulk of the crude that's pumped from those new wells. Either way, it shows they've been in bed together for a while.

  I should have thought of that.

  I've spent the last eighteen hours under police interrogation and I saw it, so, yeah, you should have. Juan was teasing, which at a time like this was an indication of the depths of his exhaustion.

  What are your plans now?

  I've got to make contact with the Oregon befo
re I know where we're heading, but I'll keep you updated. Please do the same.

  Talk to you soon.

  Max had listened to Juan's end of the conversation. You don't know where we're going?

  Juan pulled the microphone from his ear. Do you honestly think I'm going to trust the locals to find Tamara Wright? We got her into this mess and we're damned sure going to get her back out. I've rented the plane with the greatest endurance they have here, so we're going to get her no matter where she is.

  That's why I love you. You'll spare no expense trying to get me a date.

  Cabrillo grinned at Max's shamelessness and replaced the Bluetooth headset to call the Oregon. He asked Hali Kasim, their communications specialist, to patch him through to Eric Stone.

  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.

  The Silent Sea

  Chapter 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, se+|ora.

  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?

  'yBravest,' 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 counterfeit.

  He was taking the two men from Rio's Gale+uo 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.