The Silent Sea (Oregon Files 7)

“So that’s it?” Juan said with disgust. “We call ourselves a moral nation, but when it comes to fighting for an ideal the politicians ram their heads in the sand.”

“I would say they’ve rammed their heads in a far less hospitable place, but, yes, that’s it.”

“We are backing down from our moral and legal obligation. I’m sorry, Lang, but this decision is wrong.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, my boy,” Overholt said affably. “However, I serve at the discretion of the President, so there’s not much I can do. For the record, my boss thinks we should kick the Argentines out of Antarctica, as does the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. They also see the dangerous precedent this sets.”

“What happens now?”

“Why, nothing. We’ll craft some UN resolution that the Chinese will shoot down—and that’s about it, I’m afraid.”

Now that he had Antarctica, Paraguay and Uruguay would be next on Generalissimo Ernesto Corazón’s list. Cabrillo thought that the only thing sparing Chile was the difficulty of moving an army across the Andes. In Venezuela, Chávez had built up his military with oil-for-weapons deals with Russia, and he had been looking for an excuse to unleash it on Colombia. Iraq’s teetering democracy would fall like a house of cards if an emboldened Iran started throwing its weight around.

Juan wanted to say all of this to Overholt, but he knew it was wasted breath. The President’s advisers, he was sure, had already laid out the same scenarios and had been unable to sway the man’s opinion.

“Tell me some good news,” Juan said wearily.

“Ah, that I have as well.” Overholt’s voice perked up. “We have an asset in Argentina who says that your missing professor is being held in Buenos Aires.”

“That narrows it down to a city of twelve million.”

“Ye of little faith,” Overholt chided. “She’s in a fifth-floor penthouse apartment in the Recoleta District just off Avenue Las Heras.”

“If I remember correctly, the Recoleta District is the swanky part of town.”

“The apartment belongs to General Philippe Espinoza, the commander of the Ninth Brigade.”

“Ninth Brigade, huh?” That wasn’t welcome news.

“I’m afraid so. The General is interrogating her personally. I would guess with the help of whatever spooks the Chinese have in Buenos Aires.”

The image of Tamara Wright strapped to a chair flashed through Cabrillo’s mind, and he winced. “Download whatever intel you have on the building. We should be off the coast by sunset.”

“How are you going to get her out?”

“As soon as I come up with a plan, you’ll be the second to know.” Juan cut the connection and leaned back, absently rubbing his chin. He hadn’t been joking. He had no idea how to save the professor.

TWENTY

Foul weather dogged the Oregon as she pounded her way southward. Ship and crew took the abuse stoically, as if it were penance for Tamara’s capture. At least that’s how Cabrillo felt about it. Some of the waves reached almost the height of the bridge, and, when her stern rose high, water exploded from the pump jets in twin lances that shot nearly a hundred feet.

Juan had assembled the senior staff in the Corporation’s board-room. The space had been destroyed by a direct hit from the Libyan frigate, and in the reconstruction Juan had gone for a modern glass-and-stainless-steel look. The table was embedded with a microscopic mesh of electrical wires that, when activated, created a static charge that kept papers in place no matter the sea’s state. With winds blowing force seven outside, the table was cranked up to keep the dozens of notes and photographs from being dumped on the floor. On the head and foot walls hung large flat-screen displays running a slide show of photographs of the target house and its environs.

The beautiful apartment building looked like it had been taken apart stone by stone in France and erected on a broad avenue in South America. In fact, much of BA’s older architecture was in the French Empire style—with mansard roofs, ornate stonework, and innumerable columns. Because of the wealth in the Recoleta District, there were countless parks dominated by statues of past leaders. Many of the main streets had been built to accommodate the turning radius of eight-horse teams when wagons were the dominant mode of transportation.

Because he admittedly lacked any tactical ability, Max Hanley wasn’t part of the meeting and stood watch in the op center. With Cabrillo were Mark Murphy, Eric Stone, Linda Ross, Eddie Seng, and Franklin Lincoln, their lead gundog. While civilian attire was the preferred mode of dress aboard ship, Eddie, Linda, and Linc wore black tactical uniforms. Mark had thrown a grunge-era flannel shirt over his St. Pauli Girl Beer T-shirt.

Juan took a sip of coffee and set the cup back into a recessed swivel holder. “To recap, we’re not going to bring the ship within Argentine waters, so that leaves us with a submersible infiltration, yes?” Heads nodded. “I recommend we use the bigger ten-person Nomad 1000. We probably don’t need the room, but better too much than too little.”

“Who’s tail-ended Charlie and gets stuck babysitting it?” Linc asked.

“Don’t know until we firm up our plans. We have to assume a building like this will have a doorman. He might be our key. Not sure yet.”

Eddie raised his hand despite Juan’s repeated admonishments that he could interrupt whenever he liked. “If she’s held on the top floor, wouldn’t going through the roof make more sense?”

“It’s slate, for one thing,” Eric said. “And you can best believe that the substructure is going to be substantial. The cribbing and decking to support such a shallow pitch is going to be thick and sturdy.”

“It’s gotta be some god-awful exotic timber that’s harder than steel,” Murph added. “The building predates the use of metal girders as a support structure, so there are fundamental flaws in its design and construction. Explosives in the right place would topple an exterior wall.”