The Silent Sea

The Silent Sea

Chapter TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY-SIX HOURS ELAPSED BEFORE THE WEATHER WAS clear enough for the Argentine government to send down another C-130 Hercules. In that short time, Antarctica reminded the men left stranded on the peninsula why humans were merely temporary interlopers on her shores. While not quite forced into cannibalism like some Uruguayan soccer team, the men were nearly helpless without the steady supply of natural gas. They'd been forced to use portable stoves to heat food and shared body heat to keep warm. Despite her damage, which included a holed bow, the Admiral Brown took on more than two hundred of the survivors, while the rest congregated in two of the dormitory buildings, huddled miserably while the interior temperatures plummeted.

General Philippe Espinoza was the first down the ramp when the big cargo plane came to a stop on the ice runway behind the base. Raul Jimenez was waiting and threw him a smart salute. The General had aged ten years in the week since Jimenez had seen him. Thick bags the size of grapes clung to his lower eyelids, and his normally florid complexion had gone pale.

Any word of my son? he asked immediately.

I'm sorry, sir. No. They stepped up into a waiting snowcat. It is my duty to report that a group of four men were seen entering the gas-processing plant just a few minutes before the accident. Nothing of their remains has been found.

Espinoza took this news like a body blow. He knew his son would never abandon his post, so the odds were that Jorge had been one of the four. First my wife and now this, he muttered.

Your wife? Jimenez asked too quickly.

Espinoza didn't pick up on the young Lieutenant's enthusiasm, and such was his state of mind that he actually explained himself to a subaltern. She took our children and left me. Worse, she has betrayed me.

Jimenez had to fight to keep the emotion from his face. Maxine had left him, and he knew she had done it so they could be together. His heart rate went into overdrive. The news was the happiest he had ever heard, so the next words out of the General's mouth were especially painful.

I managed to get two agents to meet her plane when it landed in Paris after I was told by customs that she had left the country. She was met by two men and was taken immediately to the head-quarters of the DGSE.

He knew that was the French spy agency, their version of the CIA.

Espinoza continued. I don't know if she was their agent all along or if they turned her, but the truth is unavoidable. She is a spy.

At that instant, Jimenez understood that she had gotten as much information from him as she had the General. He recalled that last time, along the banks of the stream, when he had told her about abducting the American professor and how she was being kept in the Espinozas' Buenos Aires apartment. Maxine had relayed that information to their superiors, and they had arranged her rescue.

And now my Jorge is dead. He fought to contain his grief and finally managed to compose himself. Tell me this was the work of the Americans so that I may have my revenge.

I have been working closely with Luis Laretta, the director, and Commander Ocampo, who is the first officer aboard the Admiral Brown. Our preliminary conclusion is that the ship's anchor came loose, which allowed the vessel to drift into the gas plant and cause the explosion. Secondary fires destroyed three other buildings, including a workshop and the dormitory we were using to house the scientists we had taken from other bases.

Doesn't that strike you as too convenient? The two things the Americans want, the base reduced to ashes and the prisoners set free?

Sir, they weren't freed. They all died in the fire, their remains burned to bits of charred bone. All told, there were sixteen fatalities, not including the foreigners. Eight were on the bridge of the cruiser, four plus a sentry in the plant, two died in the fire with the prisoners, and two more were killed when men panicked and started shooting at shadows. That last piece of news was especially hard to deliver because Jimenez had been in charge, and the lack of discipline reflected on him. We have found absolutely no evidence that this was anything more than a tragic accident.

The General didn't comment. He was still grappling with the quadruple loss his wife and their two young children, his son, and, most assuredly because of this calamity, his career. He stared fixedly ahead, his body moving only when the snowcat bounced over a rough patch. They rounded the last hill, and the base was spread before them. Seen from above, the damage to the gas-processing plant looked bad. From ground level, it was far worse.

Half of the building, which had been big enough to park two jumbo jets, was a smoking hole in the ground in the center of tons of torn and blackened pipes. The Admiral Guillermo Brown was tied to the pier, her back half appearing normal, while from her bridge forward she was a charred husk. It was a testament to her Russian builders that more men aboard her hadn't perished.

Out across the bay stood the legs of three of the production platforms. Of the rigs themselves, only the spindly arms of deck cranes poking above the waves marked their locations. Ice was already forming around them, and within another few days the bay would be a solid sheet.

Mr. Laretta says that we can still pump oil to the storage tanks from the surviving rigs, but, without any means to process the natural gas, we have no way to power the operation, Jimenez said when the silence became too much for him. But he did say that portable machines can be brought in that will give us some processing capabilities and allow us to start rebuilding.

Espinoza continued to sit like a stone.

We still need to evacuate most of the staff until we can get fuel down here and the processor is up and running. Laretta says he needs just twenty men, at first. There will be more later, to be sure, but for now there aren't enough resources to keep the rest alive. I forgot to ask, General, when are the other planes coming?

They had pulled up close to the smoldering remains of the processing plant. Espinoza threw open his door and jumped down to the ice. He didn't bother pulling up his parka hood, as if in defiance of this place. There was nothing more Antarctica could do to him. He stood mutely as the wind howled off the ocean, the air heavy with the smell of seared metal.

Jorge, he whispered.

Jimenez was actually surprised at how badly the General was taking his son's death. From stories the Major had told him over the years, and seeing the two together, he had come away with the sense that the father looked on his son as just another soldier under his command.

Jorge, Espinoza repeated softly. Then his voice firmed and became angry. You have failed and don't have the courage to face me, do you? You stupidly died to avoid answering for your mistakes. You rode my coattails for so long that when it came time to step off, you could no longer stand on your own.

He reared on Jimenez. Planes? There will be no planes. You men will live or die by your wits. You will get this facility running again or you will all freeze to death. So long as our Chinese friends back our play, you must remain here and legitimize our claim. Now, tell me of this mystery ship that beached near here.

Espinoza had gone from lamb to lion so quickly that Jimenez took a second too long to respond, so the General shouted, Lieutenant, your dereliction has already been noted, do not make it worse!

Sir! Jimenez came to attention. As soon as the weather cleared, I ordered our helicopter to conduct an aerial survey off the coast because that vessel was an unexplained anomaly that your son told me had bothered him. They failed to spot the craft, and, given its situation when it was last sighted, it is my belief that it sank during the storm.

Sank?

Yes, sir. When we boarded it several days ago, her lower levels were flooded, and when she floated off the beach, the day before the storm, she had a severe list. It is unlikely that she survived more than a few hours when the weather front hit us. A storm strong enough to snap the Admiral Brown's anchor chain would have easily had the power to capsize the old freighter.

This was another coincidence that Espinoza didn't like. However, an earlier check of the Lloyd's of London database showed that a ship named Norego that matched the description from his son's report had been reported lost with all hands nearly two years ago. It was just plausible enough that she had drifted all that time and her presence here was innocent.

He didn't know that Mark Murphy and Eric Stone had hacked the insurance giant's computer system and planted that information. They'd done the same at the International Maritime Safety Board as well, in case anyone became really nosy.

In the end, it all came down to what their Chinese allies would do. If they continued to support Argentina, then they had the protection to rebuild the base. If, however, they withdrew their support, then Espinoza would have no choice but to order a full evacuation, despite his earlier bluster.

Two hours later, Espinoza was in Luis Laretta's office, listening to the director's plans for reconstruction, when a radio report came in from the survey boat. Lee Fong and his team had left when the storm abated with plans to dive on the wreck of the Silent Sea and return with conclusive evidence, enough to convince the world that Beijing had a legitimate stake in the peninsula.

The marine transceiver was on a side table closest to the General, so he fielded the call.

No, this isn't Mr. Laretta, he explained. My name is General Philippe Espinoza. I am in his office with him.

General, it is an honor to speak with you, Lee replied. And let me extend the condolences from my government on the loss of your son. I knew him only briefly, but he seemed an excellent officer and a fine man.

Thank you, Espinoza choked out, his voice a mix of shame and grief.

General, it is not my wish to add to your burden, however, I have to report that the Silent Sea is no longer here.

What?!

There is a glacier overlooking the bay where she sank, and a large part of it broke off during the storm. One of my men believes the concussion of the explosion might have done it, but the reasons are not important. What is important is that the wave it created when it hit the water swept the wreck away from her resting spot. We have searched her most likely track and have found no evidence of the ship.

You will keep looking. It was more question than statement.

There was an apologetic pause before the Chinese surveyor replied. I am sorry, but no. I have contacted my superiors and apprised them of the situation. They have ordered me to call off the search and evacuate my team as soon as possible. With the loss of our submarine, the base so heavily damaged, and no solid evidence that my nation was the first to explore this region, they are unwilling to risk further international condemnation.

Surely you can find the Silent Sea in a day or two. You know she's out there.

We do, but the seafloor drops away just outside the bay to more than five thousand feet. It could take a month or longer, and we still might not find her. My government is not willing to risk our searching for that long.

That was the final nail in the coffin. At dawn the next morning, the Hercules took off again for Argentina, carrying the first wave of men off the peninsula. Unlike Caesar, they had crossed the Rubicon only to be beaten back by what they thought was fate but in truth were Juan Cabrillo and the Corporation.

A DARK PALL HUNG OVER the Oregon as she cruised northwest on her way to South Africa. They would be a couple of days late to provide security for the Kuwaiti Emir's state visit, but a quick renegotiation on their fee had settled the matter.

The ship was like a zombie now. She could function, but she had no soul. Juan's presence was everywhere aboard her, therefore so was his absence. Four days had passed since his death, and the crew were no further along in their grieving than the first instant when they realized he wasn't coming back.

Without Juan to lead it, there was talk of dissolving the Corporation altogether, talk that Max Hanley was doing nothing to quell.

Mark Murphy was seated at his desk in his cabin, playing mindless games of Internet backgammon. It was well past midnight, but the thought of sleep was impossible. More than anyone, he feared for the future. His IQ had kept him socially isolated his entire life, and it wasn't until he'd joined the Corporation that he found a place where he not only fit in but flourished. He didn't want to lose this. He didn't want to return to a world where people thought he was a freak or used him as a walking computer, like when he'd worked in the defense industry.

The people on the Oregon were his family. They embraced his idiosyncrasies, or at least tolerated them, and to Murph that was enough. If they cashed out, he had enough money socked away and would never need to work again, but he knew that the sense of isolation that had plagued him his entire life would come roaring back.

He polished off another player, his eleventh in a row, and was about to start a new game when he saw his e-mail icon blinking. Hoping for a more interesting distraction than another round of 'gammon, he toggled to his e-mail page. Three messages. Their mainframe did a good job of filtering spam for the rest of the crew, but, for whatever reason, Mark allowed a lot through to his computer. Junk messages were better than none.

One was spam. One was a move in a long-running series of chess matches he was playing against a retired Israeli professor. He'd have the man in mate in another four moves, and the old physicist didn't yet see it coming. He dashed off his reply, and glanced at the address for the final message.

He didn't know anybody at Penn State, but the subject line looked intriguing. It read Lonely. Probably some lame college dating service, he thought, but he opened it anyway.

Hi there. Remember me? Until recently, I was the chairman of a major corporation. Now I'm the king of a penguin colony here at the Wilson/George Research Station. My friends had to leave me behind. They didn't know I'd gotten clear of the gas plant and escaped in the confusion after it blew. I guess I shouldn't have broken my radio in a fight. I have spent the past four days hiking through the snow to reach this place, surviving on nothing but the protein bars I'd loaded into my smuggler's leg, the one with the hollowed-out calf. I've got the generator going and have plenty of food, so my main problem is loneliness. Any suggestions?

Cabrillo had signed it, Abandoned in the Antarctic.