The Silent Sea (16 page)

“I have a contact there, too,” Palmer said, “at the U.S. Antarctic Program. They’re run through the National Science Foundation.”

“Okay. I want hourly updates, and make sure someone’s watching your computer from now on. I’ll send you warm bodies if you need them.”

“I’ll get my secretary in here while I make the calls, but I’ll probably take you up on that offer later in the day.”

As bureaucracies go, the amount of time it took to get things in motion was remarkably short. By the end of the day, a Houston police officer had listened to the audio from the webcam but couldn’t determine if the sound was a gun or not. He gave it a seventy-five percent assurance that it was but wouldn’t say definitively. The tower dispatcher at McMurdo confirmed that all their planes were grounded due to weather, and no emergency was grave enough to risk a flight crew. Conditions were even worse at Palmer Station, the only other American base on the Antarctic Peninsula, so there was no chance of them checking in on Wilson/George. Feelers had gone out to other nations with research centers nearby, but the closest was an Argentine research facility, and, despite the common bonds among the scientific community, they had rebuffed the request in no uncertain terms.

By eight o’clock that evening, the news of the situation had been sent to the President’s National Security Advisor. Because Wilson/ George was so close to an Argentine base and there was inconclusive evidence of gunfire, there was the possibility they had been attacked for some reason. Ideas were discussed late into the night, and a request was sent to the National Reconnaissance Office for a satellite to be retasked in order to photograph the isolated research station.

By dawn, the pictures had been analyzed, and even their remarkable optics were defeated by the storm that was savaging half the continent.

And then, like all bureaucracies, the efficiency stopped there. No one knew what to do next. All the information that could be gathered and studied had been. A decision was needed, but no one could be found who was willing to make it. The early surge of activity came to an abrupt end, and the people involved began to take a wait-and-see attitude.

When he arrived at Langley a little past nine, Langston Overholt took a cup of coffee his secretary had ready for him and went into his private office. The view through the bulletproof window behind him caught a copse of trees in full leaf. The wind danced along the branches and made fractal shadows on the lawn below.

His office was spartan. Unlike many other senior officers at the CIA, Overholt didn’t have an ego wall—a collection of photographs of himself and various dignitaries. He had never seen the need to advertise his importance to others. But with his legendary reputation, it really wasn’t necessary. Anyone visiting him here on the seventh floor knew exactly who he was. And while many of his accomplishments remain deeply buried secrets, enough had leaked out over the years to secure his status within the Agency. There were only a few photographs on the wall, mostly portraits done during the holidays as his family grew, and one sepia-toned snapshot of him and a young Asian man. Only an expert would recognize that he was Tibet’s Dalai Lama.

“Well, maybe a little ego,” he said, glancing at the picture.

Overholt read the briefing report given to all senior staffers. It was an even more thorough version than that given to the President, who’d early in his administration made it clear that he didn’t like to bother with details.

There was the usual news from around the world—a bombing in Iraq, oil workers killed in Nigeria, North Korean military posturing along the DMZ. The incident at the Wilson/George Station rated a paragraph on the second-to-last page, just below remarks about the near capture of a Serbian war criminal. Had this taken place at any other Antarctic base, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but the report made it clear that the Argentines had a facility about thirty miles away, and their terse refusal to send out a team to investigate set Overholt’s sixth sense into high gear. He requested the raw footage from Dr. Palmer’s webcam.

He knew immediately what had to be done.

He checked in with the director of the South American section and was told that Cabrillo had reached Asunción the night before and turned over the power cell to a pair of Agency couriers and it was now on a charter flight nearing the California coast.

Overholt killed the internal call and dialed Houston to speak with Dr. Parker. After that, he placed a call to an overseas exchange.

 

 

 

A
FTER NEARLY AN HOUR IN THE SHOWER AND A BREAKFAST of eggs, toast, and herbal tea—Maurice, the ship’s steward, refused Cabrillo anything with caffeine—Juan still felt restless. He should go to bed, but his goose-down duvet looked uninviting. He knew sleep would not come easily. Dr. Huxley had recommended something to help him after performing a brief physical, but he’d declined. He wasn’t punishing himself for Jerry’s death, but somehow chemical oblivion didn’t seem fair to his friend’s memory. If thinking about the big Pole was going to keep him awake, then that was the price Cabrillo was willing to pay.

He and the others had arrived aboard the
Oregon
three hours earlier after a flight back to Brazil from the Paraguayan capital. They’d spent the first hour talking with members of the crew about what had happened and how Jerry had sacrificed himself so they could get away. Already a memorial service was in the works for that evening. The kitchen staff was making traditional Polish food, including pierogi,
Kotlet Schabowy
, and
Sernik
, a popular cheese-cake, for dessert.

Cabrillo usually led such a service, but because of their friendship Mike Trono asked if he could have the honor.

Juan left his cabin to do a slow inspection of his ship as she lay at anchor just outside the port of Santos. The tropical sun beat down on the steel decks, but the trade winds that blew through his white linen shirt kept him cool. Even to the most observant eye, the
Oregon
looked ready for the breaker’s yard. Junk littered the deck, and any areas of paint that weren’t chipped or peeling were applied so haphazardly and in such a myriad of off-putting colors that it almost looked like she wore camouflage. The central white stripe of the Iranian flag hanging over her fantail looked to be the only spot of brightness on the old freighter.

Juan approached an oil drum placed next to the ship’s rail. He fished an ear microphone from his pocket and called the op center. The
Oregon
was wired with encrypted cellular service.

“Hello,” answered the high-pitched voice of Linda Ross, who had the conn.

“Hello yourself,” Cabrillo said. “Do me a favor and activate the number five deck gun.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No. Just giving the old girl a once-over.” Juan was well aware his crew knew he inspected the ship whenever he was troubled.

“You got it, Juan. Coming up now.”

The oil drum’s lid lifted silently on an armature until it was completely folded over the side. An M-60 medium machine gun rose barrel first and rotated down so it was pointed out to sea. He examined the ammunition belt. The brass showed no trace of corrosion, while the weapon itself was well coated in gun oil.

“Looks good to me,” Cabrillo said, and asked Linda to stow it once again.

Next, he ambled down to the engine room, the heart of his creation. It was as clean as an operating theater. The ship’s revolutionary power plant used supercooled magnets to strip free electrons from seawater in a system called magnetohydrodynamics. Currently, the technology was still so experimental that no other ship in the world utilized it. The room was dominated by the cryopumps used to keep the magnets cooled to three hundred degrees below zero. The main drive tubes ran the
Oregon
’s length and were as big around as railroad tanker cars. Inside were variable-geometry impellers that, had they not been locked away in the guts of an old tramp freighter, would have served as the focal point of any modern-art museum. When water was being run through them, the whole space thrummed with unimaginable power.

The
Oregon
could reach speeds unheard of in a ship her size and stop as quickly as a sports car. With her powerful athwartship thrusters and directional drive outlets, she could also turn on a dime.

He continued on, ambling about the vessel with no direction in mind.

The hallways and work spaces were usually filled with lively conversation and banter. Not today. Downcast eyes had replaced ready laughter. The men and women of the Corporation performed their duties with the knowledge that one of their own was no longer with them. Juan could sense no blame from the crew, and that was what started easing the burden he carried. There was no blame because they all felt a measure of responsibility. They were a team, and, as such, they shared the victories and defeats in equal measure.

Cabrillo spent five minutes staring at a small Degas hanging in a corridor near where most of the crew’s cabins were located. The discreetly lit painting showed a ballerina lacing a slipper up her ankle. In his opinion, the artist captured light, innocence, and beauty better than any painter before or since. That he could appreciate one of Degas’s masterworks and the ugly functionality of a machine gun in the same tour was an irony lost on the Chairman. Aesthetics came in all forms.

In the forward hold he watched crewmen preparing to pull their spare RHIB from storage. When they were at sea and away from prying eyes, a deck crane would lift the RHIB from the hold, set it in the water off the starboard side, and it would be winched into the boat garage located at the waterline.

He checked in on the ship’s swimming pool. It was usually his favorite form of exercise, and the reason he maintained his broad shoulders and lean waist, but after so much time in the water over the past two days he would probably use the nearby weight room for a while.

At the very bottom of the ship was one of her best-kept secrets. It was a cavernous room directly above the keel from which they could launch a pair of submersibles. Massive doors split open along the bottom of a moon pool, and the minis could be launched and recovered even when the ship was under way, though it was preferable that the
Oregon
remain stationary. The engineering needed to create such a space and maintain the hull’s integrity had been Juan’s single greatest challenge when he’d converted her from an old lumber carrier.

The hangar under the aftmost of the ship’s five holds was deserted. The black MD-520N sat on her struts with her main blades folded back. Unlike a traditional chopper, this model didn’t have a tail rotor. Instead, the jet engine exhaust was ducted through the tail to counter the torque of the overhead rotor. It made her quieter than most helicopters, and Gomez Adams said it made him look cooler.

The space had a cramped feel because of modifications they’d been forced to make when upgrading from the small Robinson R44 helicopter they’d once used.

In the infirmary he found Julia Huxley, their Navy-trained doctor, bandaging one of the engineer’s hands. The man had sliced it while working in the machine shop and had needed a couple of stitches. Julia wore her trademark lab coat and ponytail fashioned with a rubber band.

“Lay off the rum rations until after your shift, Sam,” Hux joked after finishing taping down gauze pads.

“I promise. No more drilling under the influence.”

“You okay?” Juan asked him.

“Yeah. Stupid, though. My father taught me the first day in our garage never to take your eyes off your tools. So what do I do? I look away while I’m milling a piece of steel and the damned thing slips and, wham, it looks like I was slaughtering a pig down there.”

Juan’s headset chirped. “Yes, Linda.”

“It’s Max. Sorry to bother you, but Langston Overholt’s on the line, and he says he’ll only discuss something with you.”

Cabrillo thought for a second and nodded to himself as if he’d made a decision. “I was done anyway. Thanks. Tell him to give me a second while I head back to my cabin.”

“HELLO?”

“Juan, sorry to call so soon after a mission but I’m afraid something rather peculiar has come up,” Lang said in his usual understatement.

“Have you heard?” Cabrillo asked.

“I had to talk with Max before he relented and put the call through. He told me about your man. I’m sorry. I know what you’re feeling. For what it’s worth,” Overholt continued, “you did a magnificent job. The Argentines will complain to the UN and accuse us of everything under the sun, but, bottom line, we have the power cell back and they’ve got nothing.”

“I have a hard time believing it was worth a man’s life,” Juan muttered.

“In the great scheme of things it probably wasn’t, but your guy knew the price going in. You all do.”

Juan wasn’t in the mood for a philosophical discussion with his former case officer, so he asked, “What’s this delicate situation you mentioned?”