The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

“Then you should have stayed in your bunk. Move it!”

Linc was the first to step onto the dock. The guard unconsciously backed off a pace when he saw the size of one of his prisoners. Linc was almost a full head taller, and looked like a polar bear under his thick arctic clothing.

Juan came up next to him, but before the guard could issue any more orders the Chairman lunged forward and pushed on the Heckler and Koch to ease off any pressure the Argentine had on the trigger and at the same time he swung his right fist into the man’s face. His hand hit the sentry’s goggles, which crushed into his nose, drawing equal measures of blood and tears.

Linc moved in, stripping away the weapon and crashing a boot into the man’s knee. The man went down, with Cabrillo staying on top of him to smother his cries. Juan didn’t hesitate. The stakes were too high. He got his hand over the guard’s nose and mouth and held them closed as the man struggled to free himself. It lasted less than a minute.

“Damn. I didn’t want to have to do that,” he panted, and stood. His hands were bloody.

“What do we do with him? If we take him with us, it might look suspicious. This isn’t the kind of place you desert from.”

Juan pulled back the guard’s parka hood and stripped off a woolen balaclava. He then smeared the man’s blood on a nearby bollard and positioned the body so it looked as though he had tripped, knocking himself unconscious and loosening his head protection. Ten minutes in such an exposed position was all it would take for the cold temperature to kill.

“Problem solved. Let’s go home.”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING Cabrillo was awakened by the sound of a telephone. The mound of blankets over his bed weighed a ton, and he’d slept in sweats. Still, he felt cold. It reminded him of those frosty Kazak mornings when he had infiltrated the Baikonur Cosmodrome back in his CIA days. He snaked a hand out from under the covers and grabbed the headset from his bedside table.

“Hello.” It was a quarter past eight. He’d overslept.

“Where are you?” It was Overholt at Langley.

“In bed, actually.”

“Are you anywhere near Antarctica?” The tone was sharp, accusatory. Whatever pressure Langston was under, he was making sure Juan felt it, too.

“We’re halfway to Cape Town for the Emir of Kuwait’s visit,” Cabrillo said so smoothly he half believed it himself.

“You sure?”

“Lang, I’ve got a couple million dollars’ worth of navigational gear crammed into the Oregon. I think I know where we are. Mind telling me what has your tighty-whities in a twist?”

“You know that sub the Chinese sent down to protect the Argentines?”

“I recall you mentioning they were headed that way.”

“The People’s Liberation Army Navy has lost contact with her after she was ordered to investigate a ship wandering into their exclusionary zone. That was thirty-six hours ago.”

“I promise you, we were east of the Falklands by then, halfway to St. Helena Island.”

“Thank God.”

Juan had never heard his friend so despondent. “What’s going on?”

“Since losing that sub, the Chinese have been on a tear. They claim we sank it, but they have no proof. They say that any overt act against the Argentines, no matter who does it, will be seen as an attack by the United States. If something does happen down there, they will recall all outstanding American debt. That’s three-quarters of a trillion dollars. We’ll be ruined completely because everyone else holding treasuries and bonds will call them, too. It’ll be like the bank runs at the start of the Depression.

“Through diplomatic channels, we got word to them that if they did call the debt we would slap them with tariffs so no one here would buy their goods. In essence, they dared us. They don’t care if their people are out of work and starving. When it comes to economic attrition, they can bury us. We’ve outsourced and borrowed ourselves into a corner and now we’re going to pay the price.”

“They said ‘overt act’?”

“Overt. Covert. It doesn’t matter. They have us over a barrel. End of story. The President has ordered any U.S. warships in the Atlantic to stay above the equator, and he’s recalling all our fast-attack submarines to show the Chinese that we won’t interfere with what they and the Argentines have done. As of today, the United States has ceded its superpower status to the Chinese.”

Coming from a man who had played a significant role in ending the Soviet Union’s bid for world domination, those last words were especially painful to hear. Juan didn’t know what to say, and as of this moment wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

The right thing was to keep with his plan and let the chips fall where they may. However, he had to consider what would happen to the people back home. What Overholt described would make the Great Depression sound like a boom time—sixty or seventy percent unemployment, hunger and the violence it inevitably spawned, the breakdown of the rule of law. In essence, it would be the end of the United States.

He finally found his voice. “Well, you don’t have to worry about us. Like I told you, we’re on our way to South Africa.”

“I guess I’m glad to hear it,” Langston said wearily. “You know, Juan, we still might not get out of this so easily.”