The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

Juan yelled up the shaft. It didn’t feel like he had the lung capacity to throw his voice that far upward. He struggled out of his gear and let the tanks sink into the pit. The dry suit flipped him so he was floating on his back. He shouted again and again. The thought occurred to him that if Hanley had failed, he was calling the Argentines right to him. Not that they wouldn’t have figured it out anyway. The fact that he hadn’t been sprayed with rifle fire from above boded well that Max had taken care of them.

“Hello,” a distant voice shouted back.

“Max?”

“No. I am the Argentine Major.”

It was Max. “Get me out of here!” Juan demanded.

“One second.”

It took a few minutes to lower the cable and a further couple to haul the Chairman out of the Treasure Pit, but it was one of the best rides of his life. When he reached the surface, Max was there to give him a hand as he clambered out of the shaft. He quickly killed the winch so it wouldn’t drag Cabrillo across the rocks.

“Well, this sure has been an interesting afternoon,” Hanley said with nonchalance.

“What happened?”

“They tried to land near the beach, but their pilot got cold feet when I fired off a few clips at him. I got one of them, too. Care to tell me where the hell you’ve been?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I did.”

“Try me.

Cabrillo explained what he had found while they were packing up their gear and driving back to the beach. The last big item in the Ford’s cargo area was an inflatable raft and an outboard. While Hanley got it ready for the crossing back to the mainland, Juan used his dive knife to spear the SUV’s gas tank. The vehicle had been rented using an untraceable false ID, but there was forensic evidence on the truck so it would have to burn.

They waited on the beach to make sure nothing remained of the Explorer but a charred husk. It took less time to motor to shore and reach the native village of La Push than it did to find a ride back to a good-sized town. They ended up bumming a ride in the cab of a semi transporting a load of timber, which made Juan remember his recent adventure in the Argentine jungle with a nearly identical rig.

THE ROAR OF A BIG diesel engine outside signaled that the Argentines had fired up their snowcat and were leaving Wilson/George Station. Fifteen minutes had passed since Linda had taken refuge in the ceiling crawl space. Now that she felt confident they had gone, she broke out a chemical heat pad and applied it to her face. She’d managed to keep her toes and fingers from going numb by curling them repetitively in her boots and gloves. However, the apples of her cheeks and her nose were moments away from frost-bite. The pain when sensation started rushing back was excruciating but welcome because it meant there had been no permanent damage.

And since she’d heard no more gunfire, she knew the rest of her team had remained safely hidden.

Linda climbed stiffly from her perch and remained silent until she made her way to the station’s main door to verify the snowcat was gone. Linc and Mark appeared by the time she returned to the rec room.

“I heard shooting,” Linc said, concern corrugating his broad forehead. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “It was a close call, but yeah. Where’d you guys hide?”

“I just laid down next to one of the bodies,” Mark said. “The guy checking the room didn’t give me a second look.”

“I was in the back of a closet under a pile of clothes. I think they were pretty spooked by what they saw. Their search was cursory.”

“I know how they feel,” Linda agreed, trying not to think about the grisly tableau around her. “Linc, you said you found something in the vehicle shed?”

“Yeah, but you’ll need to see it for yourself.”

With their masks back in place, the three of them trooped along the staked trail to the arch-roofed building. The door still flapped in the wind, a metronomic rattle that was the base’s only sign of life. The power was out, and the garage was so heavily shadowed that the back wall was lost in the gloom. Their flashlights cast brilliant beams that cut the murk like lasers. The two snowcats looked like a hybrid cross between tanks and passenger vans. The tops of the studded Caterpillar tracks came up to Linda’s thigh. Bright orange paint covered the bodywork so they could be easily spotted out in the snowfields behind the station.

“Over here.” Linc led them to a workbench along the side of the garage.

Amid the usual clutter—tools, oil cans, and frozen rags—was a trunk measuring three feet in length. Linc opened the lid.

It took Linda a moment to understand what she was seeing. There was another body in the trunk, but, unlike the others, it had clearly been dead and exposed to the elements for some time. It was more mummy than corpse, and much of the face had been eaten away by scavengers before the body became too frozen to eat. Its clothing was unfamiliar. It wasn’t dressed in contemporary arctic gear but rather a padded jacket of brown wool and pants too thin for the environment. The hat perched atop frozen black hair looked odd. It had two peaks and a short brim.

“I’d say this guy’s been down here for a hundred years or more,” Mark said as he examined the body.

Linda said, “Maybe a whaler who got lost over the side of his ship?”

“Could be.” Mark looked at Linc. “Did you go through his pockets?”