“This is one of the crew’s berths. They hung hammocks from the columns.”
Juan added, “They were still doing it that way into the twentieth century, at least on warships.”
“This is just amazing,” Tamara breathed. Her eyes were wide with wonder.
“Now for the bad news,” Juan said. She looked at him sharply. “We have to destroy it. I brought you along so you could see it with your own eyes, but we can’t let the Chinese find her.”
“But—”
“No buts. I’m sorry. Once we convince the Argentines that it’s in their best interest to abandon their plans here, we can’t leave a window open for Beijing to fill the vacuum. They’re riding on the Argentines’ coattails because they have no claim. This gives them one. A damned big one, at that. They discovered Antarctica three hundred and eighty years before the first European laid eyes on the continent.”
“I . . .” Tamara’s brow furrowed. “I hate politics. This is one of the most significant archaeological finds in history and it has to be sacrificed so some power-hungry men can’t get their hands on a bunch of oil.”
“That’s it in a nutshell, I’m afraid,” Juan said as kindly as he could. “The stakes are too high for anything else. Our government has decided it doesn’t want to play the role of world cop, but we need to show people that there are still consequences for breaking international law. One of the ways we have to do it is to destroy that wreck.”
She didn’t look at him, or even speak, but after a second she nodded slightly.
Juan laid a hand on her shoulder for a moment, then went back to the controls. He vented some water out of the ballast tanks, and as the submersible rose toward the surface the light slowly became brighter.
When they broached, Juan climbed out of his seat and over Linda to reach the topside hatch. “Back in a second.”
He stood to the side when he spun open the locking wheel to avoid the deluge of freezing water that cascaded to the deck. He climbed up the integrated ladder, his hands going numb on the wet steel. He popped his head out of the hatch. The chill took his breath away. Needles of agony pierced his sinuses, and it felt like his eyes were being seared. Juan ignored all this and concentrated on his surroundings. A tongue of ice stood poised in the gap between two black mountains that soared at least two thousand feet into the sky. The ice formed a vertical wall between them that ran right to the water. The bottom edge had been partly eroded by waves and tides, but the rest looked like a solid massif.
“You’ll do,” he said aloud, his words torn from his mouth by the wind, and then he ducked back into the relative warmth of the submersible.
His first act when he retook his seat was to crank the heater to maximum, power-reserve requirements be damned.
TWENTY-FIVE
A TEAM LEAD BY MIKE TRONO WAS HEADING TO THE BAY where the Silent Sea lay on the bottom even before Juan and the others returned to the Oregon. Juan had radioed his instructions for them to take the larger Nomad back up north and get to work on making the wreck disappear. Mike had five others with him and almost a ton of gear crammed into the submersible.
They were in for a cold, miserable night.
After what was the longest, hottest shower of Juan’s life, and learning that the Argentine’s survey boat hadn’t spent more than an hour in the wrong location before coming back to base, he met with his department heads to go over the next phase of their operation. The meeting went quickly. In the idle hours motoring back from the wreck site, Cabrillo had developed a plan that needed little refinement. He was back in the moon pool less than two hours after returning home.
Rather than take the time to recharge the Discovery’s batteries, technicians swapped them out for fresh ones, and they changed the carbon dioxide scrubbers and refilled all her air tanks as well. For this mission, Juan chose Franklin Lincoln to accompany him. He wasn’t expecting any gunplay, but the big former SEAL moved like a wraith despite his size and had been on more covert insertions than almost the rest of the crew combined.
By the time they were ready to leave, Kevin Nixon arrived with arctic clothing his staff had modified to closer resemble the gear the Argentines wore. Once they were bundled into the jackets, pants, hoods, scarves, and goggles, they would be completely anonymous.
It took them ten minutes to enter the narrows. Even submerged, they could see the aura of lights on the far shore. With machinery on the oil platforms banging and whining, the waters sounded like a wrecking yard. The industrial clatter masked the sound of their motors, so there was no need for stealth as they started across.
“What’s that noise?” Linc asked as they were gliding along at thirty feet.
“The oil platforms?”
“No. Like a low-frequency gurgling sound. It was really strong when we first entered the bay, and, while it’s gotten quieter, I can still hear it.”
Juan concentrated, and he, too, picked up the strange tones. He chanced turning on one of the weaker floodlights. From the surface, it would look like the moon’s reflection off a wave. In its glow, he saw curtains of tiny bubbles rising up from the seafloor. And as his eyes adjusted further, he and Linc spotted the lattice of pipes laid across the ooze and how they were the source of the bubbles.
He killed the lights, and the two men shared a look.
“Any ideas?” Linc finally asked.
“That’s how they keep the bay free from ice.” He checked one of the computer displays. “Yup. That’s it. The water temperature is near sixty degrees. They must use the vent gas from the oil platform to heat air and force it through the pipes. Pretty ingenious, when you think about it.”
Moments later, they passed within a hundred yards of the big cruiser resting at anchor.
“Any thoughts about what we’re going to do about her?”
Juan could almost sense its dark presence in the inky water, like some great predatory shark. A fight between the Oregon and the cruiser would be short and brutal and would most likely end with both ships on the bottom. “Hopefully, inspiration will strike tonight.”
Twenty yards short of the piers, Cabrillo extended the Discovery’s low-light television periscope. It was no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, and the pictures it took went to an HD display in the sub as well as aboard the Oregon. A dozen sets of eyes studied the docks as Juan panned the camera back and forth for the next few minutes. Other than the workboats tied to the pier, there was nothing to see but concrete pylons. It was simply too cold for men to stand watch for any significant period of time.
Cabrillo also suspected that, for now, the Argentines were feeling good about their accomplishment and didn’t believe they were in any danger yet. Later, perhaps, there would be an armed response, but for the next few days the world would continue to reel from their audacious play.
He guided the sub under the dock and slowly brought her to the surface. Less than eight inches of her hull broached, and the coaming around her hatch was a mere five inches taller. With her hull painted a deep blue, the submersible was all but invisible. Add to that, an observer aboard the workboat would have to be on his knees and looking under the pier, so their chance of detection was virtually zero.
The two men felt like a couple of contortionists when they donned their parkas, but a few moments later Linc popped the hatch and climbed up onto the deck. There was little clearance, and he had to work stooped over as he tied off the submersible so it wouldn’t move when the tide changed. Cabrillo stepped off the minisub and onto the port side of one of the workboats. Linc climbed up next to him, and, as if they didn’t have a care in the word, they moved onto the dock and approached the Argentine base.
This was the first good look Juan had of the facility, and he was amazed by its size and scope. He knew from Linda’s pictures that there was room around the bay to more than triple its size. Given free rein, there would be a real town here before too long.
The first order of business was to locate where the Argies were keeping the international
scientists they had kidnapped and were using as human shields. It was eight o’clock at night, and, as they suspected, there were hardly any people about. They saw an occasional shape moving amid the buildings, but most people were wisely inside. When they peered through the occasional lit window, they could see men lounging around on sofas watching DVDs or playing cards in rec rooms or in their own private bedrooms reading books or writing letters home. The first area they checked seemed to be dorms for the oil workers, an unlikely candidate.
They searched several warehouses, thinking the scientists could be tucked into a back room, but found nothing but oil equipment and hundreds of drums of a drill lubricant called mud.
When they were coming out of one of the buildings, a dark figure was waiting by the door. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded, his voice muffled by a scarf but the accusatory tone unmistakable.
“Trying to figure the place out,” Juan answered in Spanish. The stranger was dressed as a civilian, so he went on the offense. “If we’re to defend you guys, I need to know every square inch of this place. So if you don’t mind, we will get back to it.”
“Yeah?” He was still suspicious. “Then why skulk around at night?”
Juan made a gesture to Linc that said, Can you believe this guy, and replied, “Because I very much doubt the Americans will be sporting enough to attack during the day, and what looks like cover when it’s bright may not be so good in the dark.”
With that, Juan shoulder-bumped the guy as he passed, and he and Linc moved on without a backward glance. When they were out of sight behind the rounded corner of a dormitory, Juan did look back and saw their interrogator had vanished.
Linc chuckled. “My Spanish may be rusty, but that sure sounded like a line of the purest bull I have ever heard.”
“I was just telling Max that the more outrageous the lie, the more likely it’ll be believed.”
Because the facility was designed to be camouflaged from satellite observation, it was not laid out in a neat, efficient grid. It wasn’t until they were at the very southern edge of the base, near where Linc had earlier spotted a hidden SAM battery, that they saw a lone building on stilts shaped like an igloo lozenge. Light spilled from the window in front, but the rest were darkened.
They climbed the steps. Juan opened the outer door, and he and Linc stepped into a vestibule lined with pegs on the wall for parkas and racks for overboots. Neither man made to remove their clothing, and they just casually opened the door into the structure. Two soldiers were on their feet, both with pistols drawn. They had heard the outer door open and close and were on alert. When they saw it was two soldiers wearing Argentine gear, they relaxed. The room had all the charm and ambiance of a broken-down trailer.
“What are you guys doing here? We’ve got duty until twenty-two hundred hours.”
“Sorry. We’re not here to relieve you,” Juan said. “We were sent to look for the Major. Has he been around?”
“Espinoza was here checking on our prisoners about two hours ago.” The guard gestured to a locked door behind him. “Haven’t seen him since.”
Now Juan had a name to go along with the face. “Okay, thanks.” They turned to go.
“Hold on. Who is that under there, Ramón?”
Bold as brass he said, “No, Juan Cabrillo.”
“Who?”
“Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. I just transferred into Ninth Brigade from MI.” Meaning military intelligence, meaning, I’m probably an officer so you’d better cut your questions short.
“Yes, sir,” the trooper said, swallowing hard. “If I see Major Espinoza, I’ll be sure to tell him you’re looking for him.”
It was difficult to put menace in his voice because he was so bundled up, but Juan managed when he said, “Best if this discussion didn’t take place, Private. Understood?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
Linc and Cabrillo returned to the blistering-cold night, where the stars shone so brightly that the surrounding ice glowed. “Bingo,” Linc said.
“Bingo indeed. Now we just have to rescue the hostages, close this place down, and neutralize an eight-thousand-ton cruiser without the Argentines realizing we were ever here.”
The two men continued to reconnoiter for another three hours, moving freely about the base. It seemed nothing was off-limits, with the exception of the makeshift jail. Juan was acutely interested in the oil-and-gas-processing plants. They were located in huge hangar-sized buildings that were covered in insulating layers and then snow and ice. Inside each was an industrial-sized tangle of pipes and conduits that joined and diverged in a system only an engineer could understand. One of the plants was set well back from the beach. The other was partially built over the water on stilts driven into the seafloor. Not only was natural gas processed in this structure, but they discovered the massive furnace used to keep superheated air flowing though the pipes under the bay. Everything appeared fully automated, but such importance was placed on this key system that a workman sat watch in an enclosed office a short distance away. He nodded to what he thought were two soldiers when he spotted Linc and Cabrillo. They waved back, and the worker returned to his anatomy magazine.
By the time they returned to the dock, it was past eleven. Both men were exhausted and chilled to the core. They jumped for the workboat, and Juan was just ducking under the pier to get onto the submersible when a guard shouted, “Stop right there! What are you doing out after curfew?”
Juan straightened. “I forgot my iPod this afternoon when I went out with the Chinese surveyors.”
“I don’t care what you forgot. No one is allowed outside after curfew. Get up out of there. You’re coming with me.” He brought up his machine pistol.
“Easy, pal,” Juan said calmly, thinking it was just rotten luck they were found by the most dedicated soldier in the Argentine Army. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“Then you should have stayed in your bunk. Move it!”
Linc was the first to step onto the dock. The guard unconsciously backed off a pace when he saw the size of one of his prisoners. Linc was almost a full head taller, and looked like a polar bear under his thick arctic clothing.
Juan came up next to him, but before the guard could issue any more orders the Chairman lunged forward and pushed on the Heckler and Koch to ease off any pressure the Argentine had on the trigger and at the same time he swung his right fist into the man’s face. His hand hit the sentry’s goggles, which crushed into his nose, drawing equal measures of blood and tears.
Linc moved in, stripping away the weapon and crashing a boot into the man’s knee. The man went down, with Cabrillo staying on top of him to smother his cries. Juan didn’t hesitate. The stakes were too high. He got his hand over the guard’s nose and mouth and held them closed as the man struggled to free himself. It lasted less than a minute.
“Damn. I didn’t want to have to do that,” he panted, and stood. His hands were bloody.
“What do we do with him? If we take him with us, it might look suspicious. This isn’t the kind of place you desert from.”
Juan pulled back the guard’s parka hood and stripped off a woolen balaclava. He then smeared the man’s blood on a nearby bollard and positioned the body so it looked as though he had tripped, knocking himself unconscious and loosening his head protection. Ten minutes in such an exposed position was all it would take for the cold temperature to kill.
“Problem solved. Let’s go home.”
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Cabrillo was awakened by the sound of a telephone. The mound of blankets over his bed weighed a ton, and he’d slept in sweats. Still, he felt cold. It reminded him of those frosty Kazak mornings when he had infiltrated the Baikonur Cosmodrome back in his CIA days. He snaked a hand out from under the covers and grabbed the headset from his bedside table.
“Hello.” It was a quarter past eight. He’d overslept.
“Where are you?” It was Overholt at Langley.
“In bed, actually.”
r /> “Are you anywhere near Antarctica?” The tone was sharp, accusatory. Whatever pressure Langston was under, he was making sure Juan felt it, too.
“We’re halfway to Cape Town for the Emir of Kuwait’s visit,” Cabrillo said so smoothly he half believed it himself.
“You sure?”
“Lang, I’ve got a couple million dollars’ worth of navigational gear crammed into the Oregon. I think I know where we are. Mind telling me what has your tighty-whities in a twist?”
“You know that sub the Chinese sent down to protect the Argentines?”
“I recall you mentioning they were headed that way.”
“The People’s Liberation Army Navy has lost contact with her after she was ordered to investigate a ship wandering into their exclusionary zone. That was thirty-six hours ago.”
“I promise you, we were east of the Falklands by then, halfway to St. Helena Island.”
“Thank God.”
Juan had never heard his friend so despondent. “What’s going on?”
“Since losing that sub, the Chinese have been on a tear. They claim we sank it, but they have no proof. They say that any overt act against the Argentines, no matter who does it, will be seen as an attack by the United States. If something does happen down there, they will recall all outstanding American debt. That’s three-quarters of a trillion dollars. We’ll be ruined completely because everyone else holding treasuries and bonds will call them, too. It’ll be like the bank runs at the start of the Depression.
“Through diplomatic channels, we got word to them that if they did call the debt we would slap them with tariffs so no one here would buy their goods. In essence, they dared us. They don’t care if their people are out of work and starving. When it comes to economic attrition, they can bury us. We’ve outsourced and borrowed ourselves into a corner and now we’re going to pay the price.”