When he finished, Juan said, So it could be this guy Dangle
Gangle, Lang corrected.
Gangle could have gone off the deep end and killed the others?
It's entirely possible, although Dr. Parker's assessment from what he'd learned from the astronaut is this Gangle kid was just a loner with a chip on his shoulder.
Lang, those are always the ones who take axes to their families or shoot sniper rifles from bell towers.
Well, yes. But still we need to keep in mind that there's an Argentine base less than thirty miles away. As you know, they've been making noise about how all of the Antarctic Peninsula is their sovereign territory. What if this is the first play in a larger operation? There are other bases down there. The Norwegians, Chileans, the Brits. They could be next.
Or it could be a deranged kid who's spent too much time on the ice, Juan said.
The problem is, we won't have a definite answer for the better part of a week, maybe longer if the weather doesn't clear. If this is an Argentine play, then by the time we figure it out it will be too late.
So you want us to head south and investigate what happened at Wilson/George.
Exactly. It should be a milk run. A quick dash down, a little look-see, and then tell old Uncle Langston that he doesn't have anything to worry about.
We'll do it, of course, but you have to know that Max and I aren't going.
You have something planned?
Cabrillo explained about discovering the Flying Dutchman and his desire to tell the families of the blimp's crew what had happened to their loved ones a half century ago.
I think that's a tremendous idea, Lang boomed. Just the thing you need to gain a little perspective. The crew won't need you two on this mission anyway. Max frets too much, and you should get out of your head for a while.
Oh, before I forget, my weapons guy said there's a chance that satellite was shot down.
Come again?
You heard me. There are a couple of dings on the power cell's outer casing. Two correspond to a pair of bullet strikes, but the third is a mystery. You need to have that thing gone over with a fine-tooth comb.
We were planning on it, but thanks for the heads-up. And I doubt your guy's right. Argentina doesn't have the technology to shoot down a rocket that late into its flight, and why would they bother? It wasn't a military launch.
I'm just telling you what he thinks. If he's wrong, fine. If not, well, that's something else altogether. Don't forget who has demonstrated they have the capability to shoot down a satellite and who, by the way, continually blocks more intense sanctions against Argentina at the UN.
That forced a long pause from Overholt. I don't like what you're implying.
Neither do I, Juan agreed. But it's food for thought. Still want us in Antarctica?
More than ever, my boy, more than ever.
The Silent Sea
Chapter ELEVEN
THE SUMMONS HAD BEEN A SINGLE WORD, COME. Despite its terseness, Major Jorge Espinoza read a great deal into the message and none of it was good. It took nearly twelve hours to arrange transport from the northern border to his father's estate in the grassy pampas a hundred miles west of Buenos Aires. He had flown the last leg himself in his Turbine Legend, a prop plane that looked like the legendary Spitfire and had nearly the same performance. Lieutenant Jimenez, his burns heavily bandaged, had ridden in the rear seat.
When his father was given command of the Ninth Brigade, he had used family money to build them a new command center and barracks at the estate. The old runway a mile from the main house had been expanded and paved to accommodate a fully loaded C-130. The apron was also expanded for helicopter landing pads, and a huge metal hangar was erected.
The camp itself was so far from the big house that even mortar practice didn't disturb the General, his new, young wife, and their two children. It had housing for the thousand men who belonged to the elite unit, with support facilities for all their needs. Next to the parade ground was an obstacle course and a state-of-the-art fitness center.
With its wide-open grassy planes, dense forests, and two separate river systems, the huge cattle estate was perfect for keeping the men in top operational preparedness.
The nearby village of Salto was growing from a sleepy little farming community to a bustling town of people more than willing to take care of the soldiers' off-duty needs.
Espinoza typically buzzed the main house when he made his approach to the airfield. His half brothers loved his aircraft and begged him for rides incessantly. But not today. He wanted to attract as little attention to himself as possible as he soared over the estate, where the spring rains were turning the grassland green and lustrous.
The debacle in the rain forest would be a career ender for any other soldier, and it still might be for him. As both son and subordinate, he had let the General down. Nine men had died under his command, and then Raul had finally stumbled into the border crossing he had reported that the four men with him in the chopper were gone and six more border guards were dead and their boats destroyed. They had also lost two expensive helicopters, with a third damaged.
But the worst of all for son and soldier was the fact that he had failed. That was the truly unpardonable sin. They had let the Americans steal back the satellite fragment from right under their noses. He recalled the bloody face of the American driving the pickup loaded with his wounded comrades. Despite the mask of gore, Espinoza knew every feature the shape of the eyes, the strength of the jaw, the almost arrogant nose. He would recognize this man no matter where they met again or how many years would elapse.
He lined up the nimble plane on the runway and dropped the gear. A four-engine C-130 was parked next to the big hangar. Its rear cargo ramp was down, and he could just make out a small forklift trundling up through the rear door. Espinoza wasn't aware of any future Ninth Brigade deployments, and he was almost certain that after his meeting with the General he would no longer be part of the elite force's future.
The plane bumped once when it hit the asphalt and then settled lightly. It was such a delight to fly that every landing was a disappointment the trip was over. He taxied to the apron where his father kept his plane, a Learjet capable of getting him anywhere in South America in just a couple of hours.
While the General came from a military family, Espinoza's late mother had been born into a clan whose wealth stretched back to the very founding of the country. There were office towers in BA and vineyards out west, five different cattle farms, an iron mine, and a virtual stranglehold on the country's cell-phone system. All this was run by his uncles and cousins.
Jorge had enjoyed the benefits of such wealth, the best schools and expensive toys like the Turbine, but he'd never been attracted to its creation. He had wanted to serve in the military as soon as he understood that the uniform his father wore to work every day was a symbol of his nation's greatness.
He had worked with single-minded determination to make his childhood dream of being a soldier a reality, and now, at thirty-seven years, he was at what he considered the peak of his career. With the next promotion would come a desk job, something he looked upon with dread. He had operational control over Argentina's most lethal commandos. At least for another few minutes. The humiliation was like an ember burning in the pit of his stomach.
A Mercedes ML500 SUV painted in a matte jungle camouflage was waiting for him and Jimenez. Inside was plush leather and burnished wood. It was his stepmother's idea of roughing it.
How is he? Espinoza asked Jes+|s, his father's longtime majordomo, who had driven down to the runway to pick up the young master.
Calm. Jes+|s said, and tapped the vehicle into gear.
Not a good sign.
The track up to the manor house was a dirt road but one so meticulously maintained that the ride was as smooth as the autobahn, and the heavy SUV kicked up just a trace of dust. Overhead a hawk spotted some prey on the ground, tucked its wings, and plummeted earthward.
Maxine Espinoza greeted Jorge at the top of the steps leading to the front door. His stepmother was from Paris, and had once been an employee of their embassy in the Cerrito section of Buenos Aires. His real mother had died three weeks after being violently tossed from a horse when Espinoza was eleven. His father had waited until he was out of military college before considering remarrying, though there had been a string of beautiful women over the years.
She was only a couple of years older than Jorge, and had the old man not met her first he would have dated her in a heartbeat. He didn't begrudge his father a young wife. He had honored Jorge's mother by waiting so long, and by the time Maxine came into their lives it was good to have a woman to blunt some of the General's rough edges, which had grown sharper over the years.
She wore riding clothes that showed bearing two more sons for the General had done no permanent damage to her figure.
You are not hurt? she asked, her Spanish laced with a French accent. He suspected the French women made their second language sexy no matter what it was. Maxine could make Urdu sound like poetry.
No, Maxie, I'm fine.
Raul approached, and she noticed his bandages. She blanched. Mon Dieu, what did those pigs do to you?
They blew up a helicopter I was in, se+|ora. Jimenez spoke to his shoes as if he wasn't comfortable around such wealth or the attention of his commander's wife.
The General is very upset, Maxine said, linking her arms though those of the young officers. The inside of the house was airy and cool, with a painting of Philippe Espinoza wearing the colonel uniform he had sported two decades earlier dominating one wall. He is like a stallion denied the mare. You will find him in the gun room.
Jorge saw three men conversing in one corner of the entry hall. One turned when they entered. He was Asian. In his fifties. He was a man Espinoza didn't recognize. Lieutenant Jimenez made to follow his Major, but Maxine would not relinquish his arm. The General wishes to see him alone.
The gun room was at the back of the house, its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the yard, with its stream and waterfall. Hunting trophies hung from the walls. The head of a giant boar had the place of honor above the fieldstone fireplace. There were three separate glass-fronted gun cabinets and one locked safe where the General kept his automatic weapons. The floor was Mexican tile covered with Andean rugs.
This was the room where punishment had been meted out when Jorge was growing up, and over the smell of leather furniture and gun oil he detected the scent of his own fear that had lingered over the decades.
General Philippe Espinoza stood just under six feet, with a shaved head and shoulders as broad as a hangman's gallows. His nose had been broken when he was a cadet and never fixed, giving his face a masculine asymmetry that made it difficult to focus on his eyes. Being able to stare down others was just one of the tools he had used to thrive during the dictatorships of the 1970s and '80s.
General Espinoza, Jorge said, coming to attention. Major Jorge Espinoza reporting as ordered.
His father was standing behind his desk, leaning over, as he studied a map. It looked like the Antarctic Peninsula, but Jorge couldn't be sure.
Do you have anything to add to the report I've read? the General asked without looking up. His voice was clipped, abrupt.
The Americans have yet to cross the border, at least not in their RHIB. Patrols have turned up no sign of it on either bank of the river. We suspect they sank it and extracted overland.
Continue.
The helicopter pilot they kidnapped says the team leader was named Juan, another called Miguel. The leader spoke Spanish with a BA accent.
But you are certain they are American?
I saw the man myself. He might speak Spanish like us, but he Espinoza paused, trying to find the right words had that American look.
The senior Espinoza finally looked up. I attended their special School of the Americas, same as Galtieri, only years later. The instructors at Fort Benning all had that look. Go on.
There was one thing I left out of my report. We discovered the wreckage of an old blimp. The Americans found it first, and it looks as though they spent time examining it.
A faraway look crossed the General's face. A blimp. You are sure?
Yes, sir. It was the pilot who recognized the type of aircraft.
I recall when I was a young boy a group of Americans flying across the jungle in a blimp. They were treasure hunters, I believe. They went missing back in the late 1940s. Your grandfather met them at a reception in Lima.
They're found now. When the thieves stole our helicopter, they landed near the crash site as if they knew of it. I think they discovered it on their way to the logging camp.
And you say they examined the wreckage?
Judging by the footprints, yes, sir.
Not something disciplined commandos would do?
No, sir. Not at all.
Jorge took it as a good sign that his father sat. The calm exterior which masked his anger was slowly giving way to something else. Your performance in this matter is beyond reprehensible. I would almost say it borders on criminal negligence.
Uh-oh.
However, there are things you aren't privy to at the moment that mitigate the situation somewhat. Plans that are known only at the highest levels of the government. Soon your unit will be sent south, and it wouldn't do to have its most popular officer in custody. And what I put the official report of the incident will depend on how well you perform in an upcoming mission.
General, may I ask where we are to be deployed?
Not yet. A week or so and you will understand.
Jorge straightened. Yes, sir.
Now, go fetch your Captain Jimenez. I think I have something for you to do in the meantime.
The Silent Sea
Chapter TWELVE
WHILE THE OREGON HEADED SOUTH UNDER THE command of Linda Ross, Cabrillo and Hanley flew north on a commercial flight to Houston, where the Corporation kept one of a dozen safe houses in port cities all over the globe. Each was loaded with just about anything a team could need. They considered this one a fairly central place for their search of the airship's crew.
By the time they reached the town-house condominium in a generic development twenty miles from the city center, Eric Stone and Mark Murphy had done the necessary legwork, or finger work, as the case may be, since the two were virtuosos when it came to Internet research.
As Murph liked to boast, I've never met a firewall I couldn't douse.
Unlike some of the other Corporation properties the penthouse in a Dubai high-rise was as opulent as any five-star hotel the Houston safe house was spartan. The furniture looked like it came from catalogs, which it had, and the d+!cor was mostly cheaply framed prints of nature scenes. The only thing that set it apart from the four hundred identical units in the neighborhood was that the walls, floor, and ceiling of one of the bedrooms were lined in inch-thick steel. The door, though it looked normal, was as impenetrable as a bank vault's.
Upon entering, Max made certain that the room hadn't been breached in the three months since it had last been checked. He added batteries to an anti-eavesdropping device kept in storage and swept the entire condo while Juan opened a bottle of tequila and added ice from the bag of sundries they'd picked up at a convenience store on the drive in from the airport. Only when they were assured the place was clean did he connect his laptop to the Internet and place it on the coffee table in the living room.