Final Option (Oregon Files 14)

“Yes, I can.”

“I’m tired of this,” Juan said. “Where’s Overholt?”

“As promised, he’s under the water not far from you. I just texted you the coordinates and a link to a live feed.”

Juan entered the coordinates into his phone’s mapping app and saw that the diving bell was a mile away from the Portland. He had to assume the location was correct. He believed Tate couldn’t bear the thought of having to cheat to beat his nemesis.

Then Juan clicked on the link. It brought up a video feed showing Overholt sitting in a tiny diving bell, sipping from a bottle of water. He seemed in good health. In the corner of the screen was an air pressure gauge. Given how much was left in the tanks, Juan estimated Overholt had less than thirty minutes before it ran out.

“This might be prerecorded,” Juan said. “How do I know he’s still alive?”

“Tell me something you’d like to see him do,” Tate said.

Juan thought for a second and said, “Have him give the hand signal he uses when he finishes a race.”

“I get it,” Tate said. “You want him to know it’s you asking.”

There was a short pause before Juan saw Overholt look at the camera. Then he gave two thumbs-up, his traditional sign whenever he completed a 10K.

“Happy?” Tate asked.

“No,” Juan answered. “But I believe he’s alive.”

“For now. Better get going. I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as Tate was off the line, Juan called Tiny Gunderson.

“I’ve got the location. Are you ready to go?”

“Engine is idling,” came back Tiny’s deep baritone. “Ready for takeoff.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Juan got into his rental car and headed north of downtown toward Aeroparque Jorge Newbery just a couple of miles away. The airport abutted Buenos Aires Harbor, not far from where Overholt was being held captive. When Juan got there, he bypassed the exit for the airline terminal and drove to the general aviation tarmac on the other side of the runway.

He drove up to a white plane with its propeller spinning. It looked different from all of the other airplanes because it was sitting on two pontoons that had landing gear extending from them. This particular Pilatus Porter was an amphibious floatplane. Once the gear was raised, it could land on the water.

Tiny waved from the pilot’s seat. His nickname was given to him ironically since the blond Swede was actually six foot five and built like a rugby player. He pulled the headset aside and leaned out the window.

“We’ve got clearance to take off anytime.”

“Good. Let’s get in the air.”

Juan climbed the pontoon to get in and closed the door behind him. As soon as the plane was sealed, Tiny revved the engine, and the Porter began to taxi.

Tiny called over his shoulder. “What’s our destination?”

Juan read off the coordinates.

Tiny shook his head. “That’s pretty close to the airport’s glide path. I might have to get a bit creative in my approach.”

“Good,” Juan replied. “Then it’s less likely that Tate will expect our plan.”

He called up Eric Stone, who was currently piloting the Nomad submersible through Buenos Aires Harbor.

“Did you get the coordinates I sent you?” Juan asked, testing out his molar mic. He’d texted the position of the diving bell to Eric on the way to the airport.

“Affirmative, Chairman,” Eric answered. “We’re motoring our way there now.”