We are.
What's the official White House position?
Events are unfolding too fast. They haven't said much, beyond the usual condemnation.
What does your gut tell you?
I honestly don't know. China currently holds the lion's share of our national debt, so they have us over a barrel in that respect. Also, logically, are we willing to go to war over a part of the world only a handful of people care about?
This is about principles, Juan pointed out. Do we stick to our ideals and risk lives for a bunch of penguins and a forty-year-old treaty or do we let them get away with it?
That's it in a nutshell, and I don't know what the President will do. Hell, I don't know how I feel. Part of me says to kick the bastards back to Beijing and Buenos Aires, but what's the point? Let them have the oil and the penguins. It's not worth putting our military personnel in harm's way.
Dicey call, Juan agreed, though in his mind the decision was a no-brainer. Argentina broke a binding international treaty by invading neighboring territory that didn't belong to them. They deserved the full wrath of the United States, and any other signatory to the Antarctic Treaty. He suddenly remembered something. Has NASA had a chance to analyze the power cell we recovered from their downed satellite?
Yes, and it is possible it was shot down, like your guy suggested, though they hedged and said the cause was indeterminate.
Why would they risk it? Cabrillo mused. Why, with everything at stake, would they take the chance and intentionally shoot down one of our birds?
If you want a real head-scratcher, it wasn't a spy satellite and was never rumored to be one. It was designed to monitor carbon dioxide emissions and was going to be used to make sure countries stay within their targets when and if a new treaty is implemented to replace the Kyoto Protocol.
Juan remained quiet for a moment, thinking. Of course, he said. They can hide the thermal signature of their Antarctic activities using sea water, but oil-and-gas exploration would produce a dense plume of carbon dioxide in a place that shouldn't have any. Once that satellite went active, we'd have known exactly what they were up to.
If they were going to annex the peninsula only a week after shooting down the satellite, why bother? Overholt asked.
You haven't been paying attention, Lang. The deal with China was only cemented in the last couple of days. Without that alliance, Argentina would need to keep their activities secret for months, maybe a year. China might have helped them shoot it down as a good-faith gesture or to guarantee they get the bulk of the crude that's pumped from those new wells. Either way, it shows they've been in bed together for a while.
I should have thought of that.
I've spent the last eighteen hours under police interrogation and I saw it, so, yeah, you should have. Juan was teasing, which at a time like this was an indication of the depths of his exhaustion.
What are your plans now?
I've got to make contact with the Oregon before I know where we're heading, but I'll keep you updated. Please do the same.
Talk to you soon.
Max had listened to Juan's end of the conversation. You don't know where we're going?
Juan pulled the microphone from his ear. Do you honestly think I'm going to trust the locals to find Tamara Wright? We got her into this mess and we're damned sure going to get her back out. I've rented the plane with the greatest endurance they have here, so we're going to get her no matter where she is.
That's why I love you. You'll spare no expense trying to get me a date.
Cabrillo grinned at Max's shamelessness and replaced the Bluetooth headset to call the Oregon. He asked Hali Kasim, their communications specialist, to patch him through to Eric Stone.
Why did you pull us off our search for the mystery bay? Eric asked.
Because you've already found it.
I have?
It's within snowcat distance of Wilson/George, maybe closer.
How could you know that?
Because I'm the Chairman. Juan really was exhausted. Do me a favor, I want you to check the logs of Jackson-Evers field for any private jets that flew out of here between, say, midnight and noon today.
In the pre-9/11 days, he probably could have charmed that information out of the pretty receptionist at the general-aviation counter, but not anymore.
Give me a second. Over the connection, he could hear Stone's fingers flying over his keyboard.
Juan was playing a hunch, one he felt reasonably certain about.
One last firewall, Eric said absently, then a triumphant, Got it. Okay, there were two. One was an Atlantic Aviation charter to New York City that left at nine o'clock this morning. The other was a private jet that filed a flight plan for Mexico City that took off at one-thirty this morning.
What can you tell me about that plane?
Hold on. That's another database. It took him less than a minute. The plane's owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands.
A dummy front?
No doubt. It's going to take some time to . . . hold on a second. I'm checking its past flights. It arrived in the United States at Seattle-Tacoma International three days ago from Mexico City.
Then flew here yesterday, Juan finished for him. That was their plane, and if they were heading to Mexico City it was only to refuel. Thanks, Eric.
Juan turned to Max. They're taking her to Argentina.
The Silent Sea
Chapter NINETEEN
THE HORSE WAS A BIG ARABIAN STALLION WITH SUCH taut muscles that veins showed in relief under its glossy skin. It was streaked in sweat and blew heavily, and yet was game to keep charging across the Argentine landscape, its hoofs pounding the ground in a thundering drumbeat. Its rider barely moved in her saddle, her slouch hat hanging off her throat by a strap.
Maxine Espinoza was a superb horsewoman, and raced for the stream five miles from the mansion as though she was gunning for the Triple Crown. She wore tan riding breeches and a man's white oxford unbuttoned enough so that wind caressed her skin. Her boots had a worn look that bespoke of countless hours riding and an almost equal amount of time being lovingly polished.
It was that perfect moment of late afternoon, when the sun dappled the ground under the occasional tree and slanted so the grass looked like burnished gold.
Movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned quick enough to see a hawk lift off from the ground with its dinner clutched in its razor-sharp talons.
Ha, Concorde, she cried, and firmed her grip on the reins.
The horse seemed to love these wild rides as much as his mistress, and he lengthened his stride. They were of one mind, and existed almost as a Centaur rather than two separate beings.
Only when they neared the band of forest that lined both sides of a stream did they slow. Maxine entered the glen at an easy walk, the big stallion beneath her heaving great lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils.
She could hear the stream gurgling over rocks and songbirds in the limbs of trees. She ducked under a branch and weaved Concorde deeper into the woods. This was her sanctuary, her special place, on the sprawling estate. The clear waters of the stream would sate her horse's thirst, and along the bank was a bed of grass where she'd slept during countless siestas.
She legged over Concorde's back and lowered herself to the ground. She needn't worry about him wandering off or drinking too much. He was better mannered than that. From her saddlebag she pulled a blanket of the finest Egyptian cotton. She was just moving to spread it on the grass when a figure emerged from behind a tree.
Excuse me, se+|ora.
