“I think that’s a missile battery.”
If he was right, that was another violation, she believed. She clicked off more than a dozen pictures with her camera, shooting through the night vision binoculars. They weren’t the best pictures, but they were at least proof.
Linc slithered back over the crest of the hill. “What do you think?” he asked when they were clear.
“I’d say the Argies have been busy. Did you notice the icebergs in the bay?”
“Yeah. Oil derricks.”
Linda nodded. “We’ve got to report this.”
A wind was starting to pick up. It wasn’t enough to cause a whiteout, but visibility was down dramatically, and after so much time exposed Linda felt the cold starting to seep through her clothes. Remarkably, she could still see her trail of nuts and washers.
Linc continued to scan all around them, so he was the one to spot the snowmobile. He pushed Linda to the ground hard enough to cause the air to explode from her lungs. They didn’t know if they’d been spotted, and a tense few seconds passed as the machine’s single headlamp bounced through the darkness.
Time stretched, and it looked like the driver hadn’t seen them moving, or, if he had, he though it was a trick of the wind. The sled’s motor was a piercing whine, but he continued to angle away from them. At the last second, the sentry jerked the handlebars hard over and drove straight for the prone pair.
Linc cursed, and brought his assault rifle to his shoulder.
He couldn’t see what the driver was doing because of the glare of its headlamp, but the crack of a shot carried over the engine’s beat. The shot went wild because the snowmobile was racing over rough terrain. The snowmobile was almost on them. Linc fumbled in his oversized mittens to flick off the safety, and when he realized he wouldn’t have time he lurched to his feet and swung the rifle like a baseball bat.
The gun hit the driver in the neck, and the kinetic energy of his forward motion coming against Linc’s tremendous strength ripped him off the back of the machine and sent him sprawling across the ice.
Without its driver, the snowmobile’s engine automatically cut out when the safety key, which was tethered to the man’s wrist, was ripped from the dash. It rolled onward for a few feet and came to a stop, its headlight reflecting flakes of snow drifting on the wind.
Linda ran to the downed Argentine. He lay completely still. She peeled off his helmet. The way his head flopped when she did it told her his neck had been broken by the brutal impact. She stood.
“Dead?”
“Yes.”
“Him, her, us,” Linc said with a career soldier’s fatalism.
He lifted the body and brought it closer to the snowmobile. He set the corpse gently on the ice and took hold of the handlebars. Bracing his legs, he flexed his muscles and threw the five-hundred-pound machine on its side as if it were no more than a toy. He adjusted the body to fit what would look like a tragic accident.
“Wish we could take it and ride it back to the snowcat,” Linda said, although she knew they couldn’t.
“Walk will do you good,” Franklin Lincoln grinned.
“First, I need meat on my bones, and now you say I need exercise. Which one is it?”
Linc knew that answering that was a trap, even if she was teasing, so he wisely said nothing and continued the long slog to Murph and their warm ride back to Wilson/George.
SIXTEEN
IN BREMERTON, WASHINGTON, THE ONLY REQUIREMENT Juan and Max had for their hotel was that it have an Internet connection because Cabrillo wanted to transmit the pictures he’d taken in the pit to Eddie Seng aboard the Oregon and get a translation as quickly as possible.
By the time they’d finished stuffing themselves on Wallapa Bay oysters and Dungeness crab at a nearby restaurant, Eddie had a preliminary report for them.
Seng was another former CIA agent and had been with the Corporation almost since its inception. Ironically, though they had served at the same time, he and Cabrillo had never met in the halls of Langley. Born in New York’s Chinatown, Eddie was fluent in both Cantonese and Mandarin.
He regarded the world through heavy-lidded dark eyes, and in them Juan could see Eddie had discovered something interesting. Behind the Corporation’s chief of shore operations, Juan could see the back of the op center, so he figured his image was on the main display above the helm and weapons stations.
“You were right, it is Mandarin, but an older form. It reminded me of having to read Shakespeare back in high school.”
“So what is it?”
“Are you familiar with Admiral Zheng He?”
“Some kind of Chinese explorer in the 1400s. He sailed as far west as Africa and as far south as Australia.”
“New Zealand, actually. He went on seven voyages between 1405 and 1433 in what would be the largest ships built until the eighteenth century. He had over two hundred of them in what they called the Treasure Fleet, and twenty-eight thousand men.”
“Are you saying that the Chinese discovered America seventy years before Columbus?”
“No. Zheng didn’t place that writing in the pit. But the Admiral who did had been inspired by Zheng and embarked on a remarkable voyage of his own. There were three ships, and they left China in 1495 headed east. In command was Tsai Song. Admiral Tsai had been commissioned by the Emperor to trade as far and wide as he could. And because Zheng had found a continent to the west, Africa, he was convinced the earth had symmetry and there would be another to the east.”
“So they reached North America, but it was already a couple of years after Columbus did,” Max said, relieved that they wouldn’t have to rewrite the history books.
“Actually, from what I can tell, they landed in South America first. But there was a problem. As Tsai writes, one of the ships was cursed while they were in a ‘hellishly cold cove.’ I assume Tierra del Fuego.”
“What happened?”
“The crew was overcome by evil. That’s what Tsai writes. An evil so powerful that he felt it necessary to order the vessel destroyed and the stricken crew left to die. They sank it with an explosive charge placed against the hull.”
Hanley asked, “How big were these ships?”
“Over three hundred feet, with a crew of four hundred.”
Max gave a low whistle, impressed with medieval Chinese naval architecture.
“Does he say the nature of this evil?”
“No. The whole purpose of the pit, though, was to give a clue as to the ship’s location. He wrote that the evil surrounding it should never be approached, but he was also a pragmatist. There were untold riches aboard her, treasure they had planned to barter with any natives they came across.
“Tsai left two markers, one honoring the gods of the underworld—the one in the pit—and another to honor the gods in heaven.”
“Something underground and something above,” Juan mused aloud. “What is the second marker?”
“Tsai only writes that it can be seen from the heavens. And that they left it two hundred days from the Treasure Pit.”
“Two hundred days?” Max groused. “What the hell is that?”
“I assume,” Eddie said evenly, ignoring Max’s sarcasm, “that it means two hundred days’ sailing south of Pine Island. Obviously, the Ronish brothers thought it was around the twenty-fifth parallel.”
“Hold on a second,” Juan said. “If they were looking for a marker left by a Chinese Admiral, what were they doing so far inland? Whatever the marker was, surely it would be near the coast.”
“I don’t know.”
“We need to work on those papers you found at the crash site,” Max suggested. “The answer could be in their log.”
“We need to learn more about this Admiral Tsai.” This came from Eric Stone, who had been sitting at the helm station but had walked around the op center so that he stood behind Eddie. “And what was aboard his ship. This could be a significant archaeological find.”
“Actually,” Max said, “we ne
ed to ask ourselves if this is worth pursuing further. What’s this to us, anyway?”
“I think the answer is pretty clear,” Stone replied. “This is something of interest to the Argentine government, a regime currently at odds with the United States. Whatever their agenda, it can’t be good.”
“I agree,” the Chairman said. “The Generalissimos have an interest in this thing, and until we know their angle we should keep at it. What about the drawing of that cove or inlet?”
“That is the outline of the area where their ship was sunk, and, before you ask, I’ve already got Eric here running a computer match of South America’s coastline, including all couple hundred islands that make up Tierra del Fuego. It’s going to take some time.”
“Okay. What’s the latest on Linda and her team?”
“They’re still in the snowcat. You’re not going to believe what they found. What was supposed to be a small Argentine research station turns out to be a full-blown oil field.”
“A what?”
“You heard me. They’re drilling for oil off the Antarctic Peninsula.”
The news rocked Cabrillo, and he blurted stupidly, “But that’s illegal.”
“Well, yeah. Apparently they don’t care.”
“Have you reported this to Overholt?”
“Not yet. Linda said she snapped some pictures. She wants to include them with her report.”
“This is getting weirder and weirder,” Max said. “They’re taking a hell of a risk pulling a stunt like that.”
“Not really,” Eric Stone countered. “They’re already an international pariah, so what’s a little more bad will?”
“Bad will, my butt. The U.S. is going to send an armada down there. It’ll be like the Falklands War all over again.”
“Are you sure?” Stone asked, one eyebrow arched.
Hanley opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it because he wasn’t sure. With the U.S. military spread thin around the world and the current occupant of the White House more focused on domestic issues, it was possible that the government’s response would be weak protests and another round of UN sanctions.
“Now we have to ask ourselves if a six-hundred-year-old Chinese ship has anything to do with current global events,” Eric said.
“If things hold true to form,” Juan replied, “we can count on it.”
Eddie asked, “What do you want us to do once Linda returns? Should we stay down here or start heading north?”
Cabrillo considered the options and came to a quick decision. “Get the ship out of there. We have no idea what the Argentines are planning in Antarctica, but if the balloon goes up and war breaks out I want the Oregon clear. Also, we need to get into position for the Kuwaiti Emir’s visit to South Africa. He’s hired us as additional security, and that’s one lucrative contract.”
“You got it,” Eddie said. “They should be back in a couple of hours and then we’ll head northward again.”
“Call me when they’re back. I want to hear Linda’s full r eport.”
Juan killed the connection and brought up his electronic Rolodex. There were more than a thousand names listed, from the direct lines of heads of state to some of the most shadowy characters in the world. He thought it ironic that when listed alphabetically, Langston Overholt’s entry was next to a French pimp who also trafficked in information.
It was three hours earlier on the East Coast, so he wasn’t worried about the time difference. A deep baritone answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Mr. Perlmutter, this is Juan Cabrillo.”
“The infamous Chairman. How are you?”
Though the two had never met and had spoken on the phone only once, each was well aware of the other’s reputation. St. Julian Perlmutter was a living encyclopedia of all things maritime and owned the largest private collection of books, manuscripts, and folios about the history of ships and shipping. His Georgetown home was quite literally packed to the rafters with his well-thumbed trove.
It had been one of Perlmutter’s research projects a few months back that eventually sent the crew of the Oregon to Libya and led to the rescue of the Secretary of State, Fiona Katamora.
“Fine, sir. Yourself?”
“A bit peckish, as the Brits might say. Dinner’s still in the oven, and the aroma is mouthwatering.” Perlmutter’s second-greatest love was food, and to meet him one could see he dined with gusto. “Tell me you’re here in the States, and I can finally get a tour of your ship.”
“Max Hanley and I are here, as a matter of fact, but the Oregon’s at sea.” There was no reason not to tell Perlmutter where the ship was other than that Juan didn’t know if the other man’s phones were clean. “I was wondering if I could pick your brain.”
“Good God, man, you’re starting to sound like Dirk. All he ever calls for is information. At least his kids have the decency to bring me a little something when they come to pump their old uncle St. Julian for his knowledge.”
“Max and I are in Washington State, we’ll send you some of their famous apples.”
“Make it Dungeness crab instead, and you have a deal. What do you need to know?”
“The Chinese Treasure Fleet.”
“Ah, Admiral Zheng. What about it?”
“Actually, I’m talking about Admiral Tsai Song.”
“I’m afraid that’s a myth,” Perlmutter started, and then stopped speaking for a moment. “Did you find evidence that he really existed? He’s real?”
“Are you familiar with the Pine Island Treasure Pit?”
“Yes, of course,” Perlmutter’s voice suddenly shot up a couple of octaves. “My God. That was Tsai?”
“There’s a secret chamber off the main shaft. He left a plaque there, giving a hint to where they abandoned one of their other ships.”
“So it wasn’t pirate loot at all. I never believed it was, but this is fantastic. Tsai Song’s voyage was thought to be nothing more than a story, most likely invented in the eighteenth century as a way of claiming national pride when China was in the throes of unrest due to British meddling.”
“Kind of ‘Look at us, we once had an empire bigger than yours.’ ”
“Exactly. Listen, Captain Cabrillo—”
“Juan, please.”
“Juan, I’m not really the person you need to be speaking with. All I know is that there was a claim that Tsai sailed to America and back sometime around the end of the 1400s. I am going to put you in touch with Tamara Wright. She’s a Chinese history scholar who wrote an excellent book about Admiral Zheng’s voyage to India and Africa and has pieced together a history of the Admiral Tsai legend. Can I call you in ten minutes?”
“Sure.” Juan gave him his cell number and glanced at Max. “You just witnessed history, my friend. Dirk Pitt told me that in all the years he’s known Perlmutter, he’s never been able to stump the man.”
Not knowing St. Julian, Hanley was underwhelmed. “I’ll mention it next time I’m at NUMA.”
Juan’s phone trilled a few minutes later. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Tamara’s on vacation and won’t be back to her office at Dartmouth until next Monday.”
“For reasons I can’t discuss,” Juan said, “time might be of the essence. We only need a couple of minutes of her time.”
“That’s just it. She’s unavailable. The grad student who answered at her office said Tamara left her cell phone behind.”
“Do you know where she’s vacationing? Maybe there’s a way we can track her down.”
“Is it really that important?” Perlmutter asked, and then spoke again before Juan could reply, “Of course it is or you wouldn’t have asked. She’s on a Mississippi River jazz cruise aboard the Natchez Belle. I have no idea where they are right now, but you can probably get that information from the cruise line.”
“I’m already logging on to their website,” Cabrillo said. “Thank you, Mr. Perlmutter.”
“You can forget my crab and send me a translation of that plaque, and
we’ll call it even.”
“Done and done.”
“So?” Max asked.
Juan spun the laptop so Hanley could see. The image on the screen was a beautiful white paddle wheeler with smoke coming from her two skinny stacks and people waving from her three wedding-cake-like decks. In the background was the famous St. Louis Arch, one of her usual ports of call.
“Up for a little riverboat gambling?”
“I left my derringer at the safe house.” Max shot his cuffs. “But I should be able to find a few spare aces. Where is she now?”
“We can catch her in Vicksburg and get back off again in Natchez, Mississippi,” Juan said, taking back the computer to book them on the overnight trip and make the flight arrangements to get them there. “After that, we’ll hook up with the Oregon again in Rio and either head to the assignment in South Africa or see where the Fates blow us.”
“You’re having fun, aren’t you?” Max was pleased.
“Apart from getting shot at and left at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot pit for a while, yeah, I am.”
Hanley chuckled. “You liked those parts, too.”
Juan just grinned.
SEVENTEEN
THE CLOSEST LARGE AIRPORT TO VICKSBURG WAS IN Jackson, Mississippi, fifty miles to the east. The wall of humidity Cabrillo walked into when he stepped out of the terminal made him think he was back in the Amazon. The air shimmered with heat, and he couldn’t seem to fill his lungs. Beads of sweat popped up on the dome of Max’s balding head, and he had to mop his brow with a bandanna.
“My God,” he said. “What is this place, like, ten miles from the sun?”
“Eighteen,” Juan replied. “I read that in the airline magazine.”
What made it worse is that both men had donned jackets after retrieving their pistols from the checked baggage.
Rather than bother with the formalities of renting another car, they opted to take a cab instead. Once they found a driver and agreed on a price, the bags went into the trunk and the men settled in the arctic comfort of the taxi’s air-conditioning.