The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“Does he say if he could reach the topside outlet?” Linda asked.

“No. He said he didn’t go that far. But it can’t be too tough to find.”

“I think,” Mark said, “that the bunkers that weren’t turned into museums and tourist attractions were permanently sealed by the French. Just so you know.”

“We can cut our way in with Hypertherm,” Max rebutted confidently. “Like how we cut apart that tanker. What was her name?”

“The Gulf of Sidra,” Juan answered with a shudder. He’d still been aboard when the steel-cutting explosive had burned through the hull like a wire garrote through cheese. He got back to the topic at hand. “This is our back door into the mine in case we need it.”

What followed in the legal pad were hand-drawn plans of each of the mine’s twenty-eight levels. They showed how the salt was excavated in huge rooms where massive pillars had been left in place to support the weight of the rock above. Mercer included information about ventilation shafts and water-removal conduits.

“The level of detail is beyond belief,” he said as he flipped though the pages.

“He has a photographic memory,” Soleil said. “We talked about his work, and he told me he remembers the layout of all the mines he’s ever entered.”

“This information’s a gold mine.” Cabrillo turned to Mark and Eric, who sat next to each other across from Max and Linda. “You guys think Bahar will put the computer on the lowest level?”

“Close, but that mine’s been inactive for years. More than likely the bottom levels have flooded due to groundwater seepage.” Mark cocked his head as he ran some esoteric numbers through his brain. He looked at Soleil. “How long ago did your father buy the mine?”

“Six years.”

“The bottom four levels and half of the fifth are inundated. He’ll put it on level 23.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” Linda accused.

“Au contraire. As you can see, the area of each level is clearly labeled, as is the height. That gives me their volume. It’s then a simple calculation of time versus the water permeability of the upper strata.”

“Which you happen to know?”

“Which I happened to research,” he said with a smug grin, and stole a piece of blue Stilton from Linda’s plate. “Boo-ya!”

Eddie Seng sat at a nearby table with the gundogs. Juan fluttered the legal pad to get his attention and then tossed it over. “Take a look at this. We’ll meet in the conference room at noon. Gomez should be back with his pictures by then. We go one day later.”

“This from that guy?”

“Yeah, and it’s a godsend.”

“I’ll make copies and give them to the rest of these apes. Sorry, boys, you all have homework tonight.”

“Damned Yankees,” MacD drawled. “It’s pronounced ‘y’all.’ ”

25

THE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS ABOARD THE OREGON were spent in feverish preparation while a stunned world awaited the plight of the citizens of Las Vegas. They had water reserves for another two days, under the tightest rationing in the city’s history. If the utility authorities couldn’t reactivate the complicated system of pipes and pumps that drew water across the desert from Lake Mead, evacuations would most likely be ordered. A state of emergency was declared soon after the pumps inexplicably stopped working, and National Guard troops had already been called up.

In the White House, the president of the United States watched the television coverage in mute horror, knowing he could end it but terrified of the price his nation would pay. This was an Abraham Lincoln going-to-war type of decision. This was Truman deciding to drop the A-bomb. This was a decision he feared he hadn’t the courage to make.

There was no such hesitation in Juan Cabrillo’s mind. He knew his choice. Agree or disagree, whenever the American people went to war, he felt they did so to protect the idea of individual liberty, be it their own or another nation’s. This was no different.

Every member of the crew was involved in preparations, once the plan had been approved. Weapons were drawn from the arsenal and additional gear was gotten from stores. A truck to move all the equipment and personnel was rented from an agency in nearby Nice, and under the cover of darkness Gomez choppered in everything they couldn’t declare through customs and stashed it in an abandoned farmhouse.

This was the Corporation’s forte—coming up with a strategy and executing it quickly and flawlessly.

The assault team was in position fifteen minutes inside Cabrillo’s one-day schedule. Not knowing the number of guards Bahar had, he brought a force that was large by their standards and consisted of himself, Linda, Eddie, Linc, MacD, and Max, plus two other gundogs, Mike Trono and Jim O’Neill. Max wouldn’t join in the fray unless absolutely necessary.

Mike and Jim plus Linc, the team’s best sniper, were to act as a diversionary force. They had seen from the aerial shots Adams took that Bahar had constructed a concrete bunker over the mine’s entrance that looked like it could withstand the full load of a B-52’s bomb bay. Knowing Bahar would feel secure inside it, they were sure that once the diversion started he would take cover rather than flee. What he didn’t know was that the Corporation had a back entrance to his fortified bunker.

The three men were dropped off about a mile from where the mine’s access road connected with the main highway. They would have to hike through the woods to get into position, and each man carried nearly fifty pounds’ worth of ammunition for the .22 cali