Treasure

  Hollis was short-he'd barely met the height requirements of the Special Forces-and almost as wide in the shoulders as he was tall. Forty years old but immensely tough, he had survived a rigorous simulated guerrilla war in the swamps of Florida for three weeks, and parachuted right back in for another exercise. His closely cropped brown hair was dun and graying early. His eyes were a blue-green, the whites slightly yellowed from too much time in the sun without proper glasses.

  An astute man who always looked over the next hill and planned accordingly, he left very little to chance. He blew a smoke ring from the cigar with a degree of elation. He couldn't be leading a better team if he'd picked the medal winners of a military Olympics. They were the elite of the elite for fighting low-intensity conflicts. The eighty men of his team, who called themselves the Demon Stalkers, were selected for the Lady Flamborough rescue because they actually had engaged in assault exercises against mock terrorists who had held a ship and crew hostages off the coast of Norway. Forty were "shooters" while the other half acted as logistical and support fighters.

  His second in command, Major John Dillenger, rapped on the door and stuck his head in. "You busy, Mort?" he asked in a decided Texas twang.

  Hollis waved a casual hand. "My office is your office," he assured Dillenger jovially. "Squeeze in and sit yourself in my new French leather designer couch."

  Dillenger, a lean, stringy man with a pinched face, but hard as an anvil, stared dubiously at the canvas seat bolted to the floor and sat down. Forever kidded about being saddled with the same name as the famous bank robber, he was a master of the art of tactical planning and the penetration of almost impossible defenses.

  "Covering the bases?" he asked Hollis.

  "Going over meteorological forecasts, ice and terrain conditions. "

  "See any jazz in your crystal ball?"

  "Too early." Hollis raised an eyebrow. "What plans are forming in your perverted mind?"

  "I can recite and draw pictures of six different ways to board a ship by stealth. I've already familiarized myself with the design and deck layout of the Lady Flamborough, but until we learn whether we're coming in by parachute, by scuba, or by foot from hard beach or ice, I can only plot an outline."

  Hollis nodded solemnly. "Over a hundred innocent people are on that ship. Two Presidents and the SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations.

  God help us if one steps in our line of fire."

  "We can't go in with blanks," Dillenger said caustically.

  "No, and we can't drop from noisy helicopters with all weapons blasting.

  We've got to infiltrate before the hijackers know we're there. Complete surprise is crucial."

  "Then we hit 'em by 'stealth parachute' at night."

  "Could be," Hollis acknowledged tersely.

  Dillenger shifted uncomfortably in the canvas seat. "A night landing is dangerous enough, but dropping blindly on a darkened ship can mean slaughter. You know it, and I know it, Mort. Out of forty men, fifteen will miss the target and fall in the sea. Twenty will sustain injuries impacting on hard, protruding surfaces of the ship. I'll be lucky to have five men in fighting trim."

  "We can't rule it out."

  "Let's wait until more info comes in," suggested Dillenger. "Everything hinges on where the ship is found. Whether she's moored or sailing across the sea makes all the difference in the world. As soon as we receive word on her final status, I'll formulate a tight assault plan and lay it in your hands for final approval. "

  "Fair enough," said Hollis agreeably. "How are the men?"

  "Doing their homework. By the time we land at Punta Arenas, they'll have memorized the Lady Flamborough well enough to run around her decks blindfolded."

  "A lot is riding on them this time out."

  "They'll do the job. The trick is to get them on board in one piece.

  "There is one thing," Hollis said, a deep apprehension on his face. "The latest estimate from intelligence sources on the strength of the hijackers . . . it just came in from the Pentagon. "

  "How many are we talking about, five, ten, maybe twelve?"

  Hollis hesitated. "Assuming the crew of the Mexican ore camer that boarded the cruise ship are also armed . . . we could be looking at a total of forty."

  Dillenger gaped. "Oh, my gawd. We're going up against an equal number of terrorists?"

  "Looks that way." Hollis nodded grimly.

  Dillenger shook his head in shocked disapproval and drew a hand across his forehead. Then his eyes burned into Hollis's.

  "Some people," he said disgustedly, "are going to get their butts stomped before this caper is over."

  Deep in a concrete bunker tunneled into a hill outside Washington, D.C., Lieutenant Samuel T. Jones came rushing into a large office, panting as though he'd just run a two-hundredmeter dash, which indeed he had-only two steps shy of the exact distance from the communications room to the photoanalysis office.

  His face was flushed with excitement, and he held a huge photograph spread between his upraised hands.

  Jones had often rushed along the corridors during crisis exercise drills, but he, and the other three hundred men and women who worked in the Special Operations Forces Readiness Command, hadn't really put their hearts into it until now. Practice did not make the adrenaline pump like the real thing. After waiting like hibernating groundhogs, they had erupted into life when the alert on the Lady Flamborough hijacking came in from the Pentagon.

  Major General Frank Dodge headed up the SOF He and several members of his staff were tensely awaiting the arrival of the latest satellite image depicting the waters south of Tierra del Fuego when Jones burst into the room.

  "Got it!"

  Dodge gave the young officer a stern look for unmilitary enthusiasm. "Should have been here eight minutes ago," he grunted.

  "My fault, General. I took the liberty of trimming the outer perimeters and enlarging the immediate search area before having it computer-enhanced."

  Dodge's stern expression softened and he nodded approvingly.

  "Good thinking, Lieutenant."

  Jones gave a short sigh and quickly clipped the newest satellite image on a long wallboard under a row of hooded spotlights. An earlier image hung nearby, showing the Lady Flamborough's last known position circled in red, her previous course marked in green, and predicted course in orange.

  Jones stepped back as General Dodge and his officers crowded around the image, peering anxiously for the tiny dot indicating the cruise ship.

  "The last satellite sighting put the ship about one hundred kilometers south of Cape Horn," said a major, tracing the course from the previous chart. "She should be well out into Drake's Passage by now, approaching the islands off the Antarctic peninsula."

  After nearly a full minute of appraisal, General Dodge turned to Jones.

  "Did you study the photo, Lieutenant?"

  "No, sir. I didn't take the time. I rushed it over as quickly as possible."

  "You're certain this is the latest transmission?"

  Jones looked puzzled. "Yes, sir."

  "No mistake?"

  "None," Jones replied unhesitatingly. "The NUMA Seasat satellite recorded the area with digital electronic impulses that were sent to ground stations instantaneously. You're seeing an image no more than six minutes old."

  "When will the next photo come in?"

  "The Landsat should orbit the region in forty minutes."

  "And the Casper?"

  Jones glanced at his watch. "If she returns on schedule, we should be looking at film in four hours."

  "Get it to me the instant it arrives."

  "Yes, sir. "

  Dodge turned to his subordinates. "Well, gentlemen, the White House ain't going to like this."

  He went over and picked up a phone. "Put me through to Alan Merger."

  The National Security Adviser's voice came over the line within twenty seconds. "I hope you've got some good news, Frarik.

  "Sorry, no," Dodge answered flatly. "
It appears the cruise ship-"

  "She sank?" Mercier cut him off.

  "We can't say with any certainty."

  "What are you saying?"

  Dodge took a breath. "Please inform the President the Lady Flamborough has vanished again."

  By the early 1990s equipment for sending photographs or graphics around the world by nucrowave via satellite or across town by fiber optics became as common in business and government offices as copy machines.

  Scanned by laser and then transmitted to a laser receiver, the image could be reproduced almost instantly in living color with extraordinary detail.

  So it was that within ten minutes of General Dodge's call, the President and Dale Nichols were hunched over the desk in the Oval Office scrutinizing the Seasat image of waters off the tip of South America.

  "She may really be on the bottom this time," said Nichols. He felt tired and confused.

  "I don't believe it," the President said, his face a mask of repressed fury. "The hijackers had their chance to destroy the ship off Punta del Este and make a clean getaway on the General Bravo. Why sink her now?"

  "Escape by submarine is a possibility."

  The President seemed not to hear. "Our inability to deal with this crisis is frightening. Our whole response seems mired in inertia."

  "We were caught unprepared and unequipped," Nichols offered lamely.

  "An event that occurs too frequently around here," the President muttered. He looked up, fire in his eyes. "I refuse to write those people off. I owe George Pitt. Without his support, I wouldn't be sitting in the Oval Office." He paused for effect. "We're not going to snap at a red herring again."

  Sid Green was scrutinizing the satellite images too. A photo-intelligence specialist with the National Security Agency at its headquarters in Fort Meyer, he had projected the last two satellite pictures on one screen. Intrigued, he ignored the most recent photo, the one that failed to reveal the ship, and concentrated on the earlier one. He zoomed in on the tiny blip that represented the Lady Flamborough with a computerized lens.

  The outline was fuzzy, too indistinct to make out little more than the ship's profile. He turned to the computer at his left and entered a series of instructions. A few details that were hidden to his eye became apparent now. He could discern the funnel and shape of the superstructure and blurred sections of the upper decks.

  He played with the computer keyboard, trying to sharpen the cruise ship's features. He spent nearly an hour at it before he finally sat back, put his arms behind his head and rested his eyes.

  The door to the darkened room opened and Green's supervisor, Vic Patton, entered. He stood behind Green for a moment looking at the projections.

  "It's like trying to read a newspaper on the street from the roof of the World Trade Center," he observed.

  Green spoke without turning. "A 70-by-130 kilometer swath doesn't offer us much resolution, even after enlarged enhancement."

  "any sign of the ship on the last linage?"

  "Not a hint."

  "Too bad we can't drop our KH spy birds that low."

  "A KH-15 might get a picture."

  "The situation in the Middle East is heating up again. I can't pull one out of orbit until the dust settles."

  "Then send in a Casper."

  "One is on the way," said Patton. "You should be reading the color of the hijackers' eyes by lunch."

  Green motioned at the computer lens. "Take a look and tell me if something looks out of place."

  Patton pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece and peered at the speck that was the Lady Flamborough. "Too damned blurred to discern incidentals. What am I missing?"

  "Check the bow section."

  "How can you tell the back from the front?"

  "By the wake behind the stern," Green answered patiently.

  Okay, I've got it. The deck behind the bow looks obscured, almost as if it was covered."

  "You will first prize at the fair," said Green.

  "What are they up to?" Patton mused.

  "We'll know when the film from the Casper comes in."

  On board the C-140, now cruising over Bolivia, there was an atmosphere of bitter disappointment. The photo minus the cruise ship came over the aircraft's laser receiver and caused as much agitation inside the cramped command center as in Washington's power circles.

  "Where in hell did it go?" Hollis demanded.

  Dillenger could only mutter blankly, "She can't be gone."

  "Well, she sure is. See for yourself."

  "I did. I can't spot her any more than you can."

  "This makes three times in a row we've been shut out at the gate by bad information, lousy weather or equipment breakdown. Now our target ups and plays hide-and-seek."

  "She must have sunk," munfoled Dillenger. "I don't see any other explanation."

  "I can't see forty hijackers all agreeing on a suicide pact."

  "What now?"

  "Beyond requesting instructions from Readiness Command, I see little else I can do."

  "Shall we abort the misssion?" asked Dillenger.

  "Not unless we're ordered to turn back."

  "So we keep going."

  Hollis nodded dejectedly. "We fly south until ordered otherwise."

  The last to know was Pitt. He was sleeping like the dead when Rudi Gunn entered his cabin and shook him awake.

  "Come alive," said Gunn briskly. "We've got a big problem."

  Pitt popped his eyes open and checked the dial of his watch. "Did we get a speeding ticket coming into Punta Arenas?"

  Gunn looked at Pitt in weary despair. Anyone who awoke from a sound sleep in a cheerful mood and instantly made bad jokes had to have come from a broken branch of evolution.

  "The ship won't enter the harbor for another hour yet."

  "Good, I can doze a while longer."

  "Get serious!" Gunn said bluntly. "The latest satellite photo just rolled out of the ship's receiver. The Lady Flamborough has gone missing for the second time."

  "She's really dropped out?"

  "Enhanced magnification can't find a sign of her. I've just talked. to Admiral Sandecker. The White House and Pentagon are spitting out orders like slot machines gone mad. A Special Operations Force rescue team is on the way, steamed and primed for action, but with no place to go.

  They're also sending a spy plane to produce some decent aerial pictures."

  "Ask the Admiral if he can arrange a meeting between the SOF team leader and me as soon as they land."

  "Why don't you tell him?"

  "Because I'm going back to sleep," Pitt replied with a loud yawn.

  Gunn was at a loss. "Your father's on that boat. Don't you give a damn?"

  "Yes," said Pitt, his eyes flashing a caution light, "I give a damn. But I don't see what I can do about it at the moment."

  Gunn backed off. "Anything else the Admiral should know?"

  Pitt pulled the blanket under his armpits, rolled over and faced the bulkhead. "Yes, as a matter of fact. You can tell him I know how the Lady Flamborough vanished. And I can make a pretty good guess as to where she hides."

  If any other man had spoken those words, Gunn would have called him a liar. But Pitt he didn't doubt for a second.

  "Mind giving me a clue?"

  Pitt half-turned. "You're an art collector of sorts, aren't you, Rudy?"

  "My small collection of abstracts won't match the New York Museum of Modern Art, but it's respectable." He looked at Pitt in uncomprehending curiosity. "What has this got to do with anything?"

  "If I'm right, we may be getting into art in a big way."

  "Are we on the same frequency?"

  "Christo," said Pitt as he turned and refaced the bulkhead.

  "We're about to review a Christo-inspired sculpture."

  A light snow had turned to a miserable, wind-driven sleet over the southernmost large city in the world. Punta Arenas had flourished as a port of call before the Panama Canal was built, and died afterward. The
city gradually returned as a sheepraising center and was now booming after productive oil fields were discovered close by.

  Hollis and Dillenger stood on a harbor pier, waiting anxiously to board the Sounder. The temperature had dropped several degrees below freezing; it was a damp, harsh cold that bit at their exposed faces.

  They felt like cornels in the Arctic. Through the cooperation of Chilean authorities, they had gone undercover and exchanged their battle dress for the uniforms of immigration officials.

  As scheduled, their aircraft had landed at a nearby military airport while it was still dark. The storm came as an added bonus, holding visibility to a few hundred meters and keeping their arrival unobserved.

  The Chilean military command was most generous in their hospitality and provided hangar space for Hollis's small flight of C-140s and Ospreys to park out of sight.

  They moved from the shelter of a warehouse as the research ship's mooring lines were dropped over the dock bollards and the gangway lowered. Both men flinched as the full force of the icy wind struck them.

  A tall man with a craggy face and a friendly grin, wearing a ski jacket, appeared on the bridge wing. He cupped his hands around his mouth.

  "Senor L6pez?" he shouted through the sleet.

  "Si!" Hollis yelled back.

  "Who's your friend?"

  "Mi amigo es Sefior Jones," Hollis answered, nodding at Dillenger.

  "I've heard better Spanish in a Chinese restaurant," Dillenger muttered.

  "Please come on board. After you'reach the main deck, take the ladder to your right and come up to the bridge."

  "Gracias.

  The two leaders of America's elite fighting force dutifully walked up the slanted gangway and climbed the ladder as directed. Hollis's curiosity was eating him up. An hour before reaching Punta Arenas, he'd received an urgent coded communication from General Dodge ordering him to covertly meet the Sounder when she docked in port. No explanation, no further instructions. He knew only from a hurried briefing in Virginia that the survey ship and its crew were responsible for discovering the deception between the Mexican container ship and the Lady Flamborough. Nothing else. He was most interested in learning why she suddenly appeared in Punta Arenas at almost the same time as his SOF