The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

“What do you mean?”

“We can placate the Chinese, but North Korea’s demanding we draw down the number of soldiers we have in the south or risk a military confrontation. And last night a small bomb went off near the Presidential Palace in Caracas. The Venezuelans are claiming it was an assassination plot perpetrated by Colombian Special Forces. They’ve vowed revenge, and a check of satellite imagery shows them moving troops to the border. Interestingly, they started a couple of days ago.”

“Which means they probably set it off themselves for a pretext.”

“That’s my read on it, too, but it doesn’t matter. China’s heavily invested in Venezuela, so you can imagine our reaction if they do invade Colombia.”

“Thumb twiddling?”

“That might be seen as too provocative,” Overholt said with gallows humor. “We’ll probably sit on our hands instead. Listen, I’ve got a full slate of meetings this morning. I’ll talk to you later about any new developments. Give my best to the Kuwaiti Emir if we don’t speak before you get there.”

“I’m sure we will,” Juan replied.

He replaced the handset and threw off his blankets. The floor was as cold as a hockey rink, and just as slippery under Juan’s woolen hunting sock. He wasn’t sure who was better at playing the game. Him for lying to Overholt or Langston for trying to manipulate him. The veteran CIA minder did think that the Oregon was heading for Cape Town, but he’d told Juan about North Korea and Venezuela to get him to turn back.

“Do the right thing,” Juan’s father had often told him. “The consequences are easier to deal with, no matter what you think.”

He dressed quickly and was in the op center with a cup of coffee from a silver urn on a back table. With the ship firmly grounded, Maurice had pulled out their finest Royal Doulton. It was the steward’s subtle way of getting back at him for his earlier crack. If Juan recalled properly, the cup in his hand had cost seventy-five dollars.

“How did Mike and his team make out?” he asked. Murph and Stoney were in their customary seats toward the front of the room.

“They got back at about four this morning,” Eric Stone replied. “He left word that it went well, but they need at least one more night. But there’s a problem.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“The workboat with the sonar gear went south this morning.”

Juan cursed. If he could find the wreck in a submersible so quickly, it was a safe assumption that the Chinese would, too. “I bet the other bay is iced over, so they’re checking on the right one.”

“What do you want to do about it?” Mark asked.

“Not sure,” Juan replied. “We can’t catch them in either of the submersibles, and if we go after them in an RHIB they might radio back to base about an unknown craft approaching them.”

Hali Kasim was sitting at his customary station. He offered, “So what if they find it today? All they’ll be able to do is take some grainy underwater pictures. It proves nothing, and by this time tomorrow the wreck will be destroyed.”

“Playing devil’s advocate,” Eric said, “if they find the wreck, who’s to say they don’t stay overnight? That’ll mess up our schedule.”

Juan felt the beginnings of a headache and rubbed his temples absently. Of course there was the other problem that he had no idea how to tackle. He’d already run his idea by Kevin Nixon, but the special-effects master said any fakes he made would be spotted in a second. It was the real deal or nothing. For their plan to work so the Argentines never suspected a thing, Cabrillo needed to find eighteen human skeletons.

The headache was morphing into a migraine.

TWENTY-SIX

Who do you love more than me?” Linda Ross asked when she strode into the op center fifteen quiet minutes later. She carried a slim manila folder and a wide grin.

“Megan Fox,” Mark said at once.

“Beyoncé,” the duty tech at damage control called out.

“Katie Holmes,” Hali said.

“I’ve always had a thing for Julia Roberts,” Eric added.

“Chairman,” Linda asked, “care to be a sexist pig, too?”

“The only woman I love more than you is my mom.”