The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

“I’m looking for the velvet touch here,” Juan said, “not a sledgehammer. We have to remember that Argentina is a police state, and, as such, there will be cops on every corner with the authority to arrest anyone at any time. And every third pedestrian’s a snitch. I don’t want to have any reason for anybody to give us the hairy eyeball. We need to be subtle.”

“There’s always the sewers,” Linda suggested. “And if that’s how we do this, let me go on record and volunteer to stay with the minisub.”

“That’s taking one for the team,” Eddie teased.

“It’ll be a sacrifice,” Linda said with as straight a face as she could muster. “But you know me. I’ll do anything to help.”

Ideas were floated, analyzed, and dissected for the next two hours. The five of them had planned countless missions together, and in the end they could come up with nothing better than a slight variation on Mark Murphy’s sledgehammerish suggestion. There were too many variables—like the number of men guarding Tamara—to try anything with more finesse.

THE SPACE WHERE THEY could launch either of the two mini-subs they carried buzzed with activity when Juan entered through a watertight hatch. The massive keel doors, as large as those on a barn, were still closed, and the moon pool was empty, but the air was heavy with the smell of the ocean.

Technicians swarmed over the sleek Nomad 1000. The mini looked like a scaled-down version of a nuclear submarine, only its nose was a convex piece of transparent acrylic capable of withstanding depths of more than a thousand feet, and robotic arms hung under its chin like the claws of some enormous sea monster. The conning tower was only two feet tall, and lashed behind it was a large black rubber boat. They wouldn’t be going very deep on their run to shore, so the Zodiac had been filled with air already. All their gear was stored internally and would be transferred to the inflatable when they were closer to shore.

The extraction team consisted of Cabrillo, Linc, Linda, and Mark Murphy. Juan wouldn’t have minded another gunner along, but he wanted to keep the group as small as he could. Mike Trono would drive the sub and stay with her when the others motored to the coast.

Kevin Nixon waved him over. The former Hollywood special-effects guru ran what the crew called the Magic Shop. He was responsible for creating any disguises the shore operators would need, as well as providing documentation. Though he himself wasn’t a master forger, he had two in his division.

“These should pass, no problem,” the tall, bearded Nixon said. He handed Cabrillo a folder.

Juan thumbed through the papers. There were Argentine IDs for the four of them, plus travel and work permits. All the documents looked authentic and properly aged. The thick sheaf of cash was real.

“First-rate, as usual,” Cabrillo said. “Let’s just hope we never need to use any of this stuff.”

“Batteries are fully charged, nav and sonar check out, and life support is set,” Trono reported when Juan approached. “Wish I was coming all the way with you.”

“We don’t know what condition Dr. Wright’s going to be in, so I need Linc in case we have to carry her back to the Zodiac.”

“I know, but, well . . . You know what I mean.”

Juan laid a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I understand.”

Max Hanley arrived. “Seas aren’t going to get any calmer, so you might as well launch.”

Cabrillo raised an eyebrow. “Here to see us off?”

“No, just to make sure you bring her back. I wasn’t kidding about wanting to take Tamara out on a date. She’s dynamite.”

“The future of your love life is in capable hands. Were you serious about the weather?”

“’Fraid so. Rain’s coming down in buckets and won’t let up until tomorrow night. Do you want to delay?”

Launching and recovering one of the submersibles was tricky enough in calm weather, but Juan wasn’t tempted. Every second counted. “No. Not this time.”

“Good luck,” Max said, and turned to head back to the op center.

Cabril

lo was neither superstitious nor a fatalist, yet somehow Hanley’s wish made him uneasy. Wishing luck to someone going into danger was just bad luck. He roused himself. “Okay, people, let’s saddle up.”

He was the last one through the Nomad’s hatch and he spun it closed, tightening the seal until an indicator light in the cramped conning tower flicked to green. Mike would see the same indicator in the high-tech cockpit. A second later the technician on launch control used the heavy machinery to lift the submersible off its rack while at the same time opening the controls that flooded the moon pool.

The lighting in the space switched from fluorescent tubes to red bulbs to help the crew adjust to the coming darkness. When the artificial basin was full, hydraulic rams opened the keel doors. Water in the moon pool sloshed dangerously, washing across the deck and dousing one technician with spray. The submersible held steady in its cradle.

It was slowly lowered into the water, waves splashing against the acrylic dome. It was too rough to risk divers in the moon pool, so a worker leapt across to the top of the sub and detached the cables while she was still floating inside the ship. Mike immediately dumped air, and the minisub dropped clear of the ship.

The water was pitch-black, and at this shallow depth they could feel the powerful South Atlantic surging above them. Until they were about fifty feet down, the Nomad dipped and swayed in a nauseating random ballet.

“Everyone okay back there?” Trono called over his shoulder after setting a westerly heading.