The Silent Sea

The Silent Sea

Chapter EIGHTEEN

IN TOTAL, THEY LOST EIGHTEEN PRECIOUS HOURS. MAX spent most of these under guard at the River Region Medical Center, where his head was scanned and stitched up. Juan was the guest of the Warren County Sheriff's Department. They kept him up all night in a windowless interrogation room, where detectives and uniformed cops grilled him relentlessly.

It took them two hours to determine that his identification was bogus. Had Cabrillo expected any kind of background check, he could have brought papers that would prove legit no matter how hard the authorities studied them. But he hadn't expected this kind of trouble, so his identity was breachable. Once they learned he wasn't William Duffy of Englewood, California the name on his second set of papers the questions came harder and faster.

And while his story about a woman being abducted off the Natchez Belle had been confirmed by other passengers and the crew, the police seemed more interested in the hows and whys of his and Max's presence to try to thwart the attack.

There was nothing Juan could say to convince them that he wasn't part of the plot. And when the rushed ballistic report came back proving that the dead John Doe wearing a ski mask who'd been fished from the river had been killed by the gun the crew took from him, murder-one charges were threatened. They delighted in pointing out that Mississippi was a death-penalty state.

The FBI arrived at around nine the following morning, and for an hour, while jurisdiction was established, Cabrillo was left alone. Just for the fun of it, he pretended to pass out. Four cops, who'd been watching through the two-way mirror, rushed in. The last thing they wanted was for their prisoner to escape justice by dying on them.

It was around two-thirty, by his estimate his watch had been taken upon his arrest when two gray men in matching gray suits showed up. The cops and FBI agents, who were arrayed against Cabrillo like a pack of dogs slobbering over a fresh bone, looked nervous. They were told by the gray men that this was a matter for the Department of Homeland Security.

The salivating looks evaporated. Their bone was being taken by an even bigger dog.

Juan's cuffs were removed and replaced by a pair the Homeland agents had brought. Then he was given his belongings, including his suitcase from the Belle, and escorted outside. The bright sunlight felt wonderful after so many hours under the nauseating glow of fluorescent lights. They led him wordlessly to a black Crown Victoria that screamed government vehicle. One of them opened the rear door. Max was sitting in the back bench seat, half his head swaddled in bandages and tape.

How's the noggin?

Hurts like hell, but the concussion's mild.

Good thing they shot you in the head, otherwise they could have hit something important.

You're all heart.

As soon as Cabrillo was settled next to Max, the car pulled away from the sheriff 's office. The agent in the passenger's seat turned and held up a key. Juan wasn't sure what he wanted until he recognized it as the key to his cuffs. He held up his hands and they were freed.

Thanks. We won't give you any trouble. Where are you taking us?

Airport.

And then?

That's up to you, sir. Though my orders were to recommend you leave the country.

Max and Juan exchanged knowing smirks. Langston Overholt had done it. God only knew how, but he'd gotten them out of that quagmire. Juan wanted to call him right away, but his cell phone had finally died from its soak in the river, and Max's hadn't been returned to him.

The agents dumped them at the curb in front of the Jackson-Evers terminal. Juan hailed a taxi as soon as they'd pulled out of sight.

I take it we're not going to follow their advice? Max asked.

We are, but I don't want to hear you grumble about flying commercial. There's a charter service here.

Now we're talking.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the general-aviation terminal waiting for their plane to be fueled. Juan was using his laptop to act as a telephone. His first call was to Overholt.

I take it you're out? the old CIA agent asked.

Charter jet's fueling as we speak. Max and I both owe you one. How'd you do it?

Suffice it to say, it's done, and leave it at that. How could you possibly know about Argentina and China?

Juan wanted to tell him about Tamara Wright's abduction, but for now even someone as powerful as Overholt couldn't do anything more than was already being done by local law enforcement and the FBI.

He explained what Linda Ross and her team had discovered when they checked into the Argentine research station. He also told him about the gruesome find at Wilson/George.

Okay, so I understand your thinking that Argentina's going to make a play for the peninsula; they've been rattling sabers over it for years, even before the current junta. But China? That caught the CIA, State Department, and the White House completely by surprise.

Here's the thing. When I spoke to you last night, Max and I were with a woman named Tamara Wright

The one they kidnapped?

You've read the police report?

Just bits and pieces. They're taking it seriously, but there are no leads. The speedboat was discovered in Natchez, where a van was stolen from a plumber's house. The APB is out, but so far no hits.

I figured it would be something like that. They're smart. I bet that van will be found wherever they stole the cigarette boat. They'll have their own set of wheels back and could be just about anywhere.

Agreed. China? Overholt prompted.

Dr. Wright told us about a Chinese expedition in the late 1400s that sent a fleet of three ships to South America. Juan paused, expecting Overholt to question the validity of such a claim, but the wily case officer knew when to keep quiet. One of the ships was afflicted by a disease that drove the crewmen insane. Sound familiar?

The guy at Wilson/George, Langston breathed.

They ate tainted food provided by island natives. I think it was human flesh, most likely brain, and they got a dose of prions. The ship was scuttled with the crew aboard, and the remaining two ships ventured northward and eventually back to China.

Five hundred years later, along comes Andrew Gangle, who finds a mummy someplace near their base. It's carrying gold and jade. Somehow, he gets infected, most likely he accidentally stabbed himself on a shard of bone. Now he's got a prion disease rotting away his mind until he snaps and goes berserk.

That scuttled ship is off the coast of Antarctica? Dear God, Overholt exclaimed as he made the intuitive leap that Cabrillo had had the night before. If they can prove that Chinese explorers discovered Antarctica a couple hundred years before the first European, they . . .

Exactly, Juan said. They'll lay claim over it, or at least the peninsula. But with Argentina already so well entrenched, the smart move for them is to partner up and share the spoils. I believe this has been in the works for some time, long before we got involved. I think the Argentines were courting the Chinese because they would need the protection of a superpower and the patronage of someone in the UN. It was the chance discovery of that blimp and the subsequent events, like getting their hands on tangible proof that the Chinese had visited South America, that cemented the deal.

Do the Argentines or Chinese know the location of the third ship?

Not yet, but they'll be able to figure it out with enough research. Admiral Tsai's drawing was pretty specific. A good computer program and Google Earth should do it. But here's the thing: even if they don't find it, they can still claim the ship visited Antarctica. Who's to stop them?

We are.

What's the official White House position?

Events are unfolding too fast. They haven't said much, beyond the usual condemnation.

What does your gut tell you?

I honestly don't know. China currently holds the lion's share of our national debt, so they have us over a barrel in that respect. Also, logically, are we willing to go to war over a part of the world only a handful of people care about?

This is about principles, Juan pointed out. Do we stick to our ideals and risk lives for a bunch of penguins and a forty-year-old treaty or do we let them get away with it?

That's it in a nutshell, and I don't know what the President will do. Hell, I don't know how I feel. Part of me says to kick the bastards back to Beijing and Buenos Aires, but what's the point? Let them have the oil and the penguins. It's not worth putting our military personnel in harm's way.

Dicey call, Juan agreed, though in his mind the decision was a no-brainer. Argentina broke a binding international treaty by invading neighboring territory that didn't belong to them. They deserved the full wrath of the United States, and any other signatory to the Antarctic Treaty. He suddenly remembered something. Has NASA had a chance to analyze the power cell we recovered from their downed satellite?

Yes, and it is possible it was shot down, like your guy suggested, though they hedged and said the cause was indeterminate.

Why would they risk it? Cabrillo mused. Why, with everything at stake, would they take the chance and intentionally shoot down one of our birds?

If you want a real head-scratcher, it wasn't a spy satellite and was never rumored to be one. It was designed to monitor carbon dioxide emissions and was going to be used to make sure countries stay within their targets when and if a new treaty is implemented to replace the Kyoto Protocol.

Juan remained quiet for a moment, thinking. Of course, he said. They can hide the thermal signature of their Antarctic activities using sea water, but oil-and-gas exploration would produce a dense plume of carbon dioxide in a place that shouldn't have any. Once that satellite went active, we'd have known exactly what they were up to.

If they were going to annex the peninsula only a week after shooting down the satellite, why bother? Overholt asked.

You haven't been paying attention, Lang. The deal with China was only cemented in the last couple of days. Without that alliance, Argentina would need to keep their activities secret for months, maybe a year. China might have helped them shoot it down as a good-faith gesture or to guarantee they get the bulk of the crude that's pumped from those new wells. Either way, it shows they've been in bed together for a while.

I should have thought of that.

I've spent the last eighteen hours under police interrogation and I saw it, so, yeah, you should have. Juan was teasing, which at a time like this was an indication of the depths of his exhaustion.

What are your plans now?

I've got to make contact with the Oregon before I know where we're heading, but I'll keep you updated. Please do the same.

Talk to you soon.

Max had listened to Juan's end of the conversation. You don't know where we're going?

Juan pulled the microphone from his ear. Do you honestly think I'm going to trust the locals to find Tamara Wright? We got her into this mess and we're damned sure going to get her back out. I've rented the plane with the greatest endurance they have here, so we're going to get her no matter where she is.

That's why I love you. You'll spare no expense trying to get me a date.

Cabrillo grinned at Max's shamelessness and replaced the Bluetooth headset to call the Oregon. He asked Hali Kasim, their communications specialist, to patch him through to Eric Stone.

Why did you pull us off our search for the mystery bay? Eric asked.

Because you've already found it.

I have?

It's within snowcat distance of Wilson/George, maybe closer.

How could you know that?

Because I'm the Chairman. Juan really was exhausted. Do me a favor, I want you to check the logs of Jackson-Evers field for any private jets that flew out of here between, say, midnight and noon today.

In the pre-9/11 days, he probably could have charmed that information out of the pretty receptionist at the general-aviation counter, but not anymore.

Give me a second. Over the connection, he could hear Stone's fingers flying over his keyboard.

Juan was playing a hunch, one he felt reasonably certain about.

One last firewall, Eric said absently, then a triumphant, Got it. Okay, there were two. One was an Atlantic Aviation charter to New York City that left at nine o'clock this morning. The other was a private jet that filed a flight plan for Mexico City that took off at one-thirty this morning.

What can you tell me about that plane?

Hold on. That's another database. It took him less than a minute. The plane's owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands.

A dummy front?

No doubt. It's going to take some time to . . . hold on a second. I'm checking its past flights. It arrived in the United States at Seattle-Tacoma International three days ago from Mexico City.

Then flew here yesterday, Juan finished for him. That was their plane, and if they were heading to Mexico City it was only to refuel. Thanks, Eric.

Juan turned to Max. They're taking her to Argentina.