It took them ten minutes to enter the narrows. Even submerged, they could see the aura of lights on the far shore. With machinery on the oil platforms banging and whining, the waters sounded like a wrecking yard. The industrial clatter masked the sound of their motors, so there was no need for stealth as they started across.
What's that noise? Linc asked as they were gliding along at thirty feet.
The oil platforms?
No. Like a low-frequency gurgling sound. It was really strong when we first entered the bay, and, while it's gotten quieter, I can still hear it.
Juan concentrated, and he, too, picked up the strange tones. He chanced turning on one of the weaker floodlights. From the surface, it would look like the moon's reflection off a wave. In its glow, he saw curtains of tiny bubbles rising up from the seafloor. And as his eyes adjusted further, he and Linc spotted the lattice of pipes laid across the ooze and how they were the source of the bubbles.
He killed the lights, and the two men shared a look.
Any ideas? Linc finally asked.
That's how they keep the bay free from ice. He checked one of the computer displays. Yup. That's it. The water temperature is near sixty degrees. They must use the vent gas from the oil platform to heat air and force it through the pipes. Pretty ingenious, when you think about it.
Moments later, they passed within a hundred yards of the big cruiser resting at anchor.
Any thoughts about what we're going to do about her?
Juan could almost sense its dark presence in the inky water, like some great predatory shark. A fight between the Oregon and the cruiser would be short and brutal and would most likely end with both ships on the bottom. Hopefully, inspiration will strike tonight.
Twenty yards short of the piers, Cabrillo extended the Discovery's low-light television periscope. It was no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, and the pictures it took went to an HD display in the sub as well as aboard the Oregon. A dozen sets of eyes studied the docks as Juan panned the camera back and forth for the next few minutes. Other than the workboats tied to the pier, there was nothing to see but concrete pylons. It was simply too cold for men to stand watch for any significant period of time.
Cabrillo also suspected that, for now, the Argentines were feeling good about their accomplishment and didn't believe they were in any danger yet. Later, perhaps, there would be an armed response, but for the next few days the world would continue to reel from their audacious play.
He guided the sub under the dock and slowly brought her to the surface. Less than eight inches of her hull broached, and the coaming around her hatch was a mere five inches taller. With her hull painted a deep blue, the submersible was all but invisible. Add to that, an observer aboard the workboat would have to be on his knees and looking under the pier, so their chance of detection was virtually zero.
The two men felt like a couple of contortionists when they donned their parkas, but a few moments later Linc popped the hatch and climbed up onto the deck. There was little clearance, and he had to work stooped over as he tied off the submersible so it wouldn't move when the tide changed. Cabrillo stepped off the minisub and onto the port side of one of the workboats. Linc climbed up next to him, and, as if they didn't have a care in the word, they moved onto the dock and approached the Argentine base.
This was the first good look Juan had of the facility, and he was amazed by its size and scope. He knew from Linda's pictures that there was room around the bay to more than triple its size. Given free rein, there would be a real town here before too long.
The first order of business was to locate where the Argies were keeping the international scientists they had kidnapped and were using as human shields. It was eight o'clock at night, and, as they suspected, there were hardly any people about. They saw an occasional shape moving amid the buildings, but most people were wisely inside. When they peered through the occasional lit window, they could see men lounging around on sofas watching DVDs or playing cards in rec rooms or in their own private bedrooms reading books or writing letters home. The first area they checked seemed to be dorms for the oil workers, an unlikely candidate.
They searched several warehouses, thinking the scientists could be tucked into a back room, but found nothing but oil equipment and hundreds of drums of a drill lubricant called mud.
When they were coming out of one of the buildings, a dark figure was waiting by the door. What were you doing in there? he demanded, his voice muffled by a scarf but the accusatory tone unmistakable.
Trying to figure the place out, Juan answered in Spanish. The stranger was dressed as a civilian, so he went on the offense. If we're to defend you guys, I need to know every square inch of this place. So if you don't mind, we will get back to it.
Yeah? He was still suspicious. Then why skulk around at night?
Juan made a gesture to Linc that said, Can you believe this guy, and replied, Because I very much doubt the Americans will be sporting enough to attack during the day, and what looks like cover when it's bright may not be so good in the dark.
With that, Juan shoulder-bumped the guy as he passed, and he and Linc moved on without a backward glance. When they were out of sight behind the rounded corner of a dormitory, Juan did look back and saw their interrogator had vanished.
Linc chuckled. My Spanish may be rusty, but that sure sounded like a line of the purest bull I have ever heard.
I was just telling Max that the more outrageous the lie, the more likely it'll be believed.
Because the facility was designed to be camouflaged from satellite observation, it was not laid out in a neat, efficient grid. It wasn't until they were at the very southern edge of the base, near where Linc had earlier spotted a hidden SAM battery, that they saw a lone building on stilts shaped like an igloo lozenge. Light spilled from the window in front, but the rest were darkened.
They climbed the steps. Juan opened the outer door, and he and Linc stepped into a vestibule lined with pegs on the wall for parkas and racks for overboots. Neither man made to remove their clothing, and they just casually opened the door into the structure. Two soldiers were on their feet, both with pistols drawn. They had heard the outer door open and close and were on alert. When they saw it was two soldiers wearing Argentine gear, they relaxed. The room had all the charm and ambiance of a broken-down trailer.
What are you guys doing here? We've got duty until twenty-two hundred hours.
Sorry. We're not here to relieve you, Juan said. We were sent to look for the Major. Has he been around?
Espinoza was here checking on our prisoners about two hours ago. The guard gestured to a locked door behind him. Haven't seen him since.
Now Juan had a name to go along with the face. Okay, thanks. They turned to go.
Hold on. Who is that under there, Ram+|n?
Bold as brass he said, No, Juan Cabrillo.
Who?
Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo. I just transferred into Ninth Brigade from MI. Meaning military intelligence, meaning, I'm probably an officer so you'd better cut your questions short.
Yes, sir, the trooper said, swallowing hard. If I see Major Espinoza, I'll be sure to tell him you're looking for him.
It was difficult to put menace in his voice because he was so bundled up, but Juan managed when he said, Best if this discussion didn't take place, Private. Understood?
Sir. Yes, sir.
Linc and Cabrillo returned to the blistering-cold night, where the stars shone so brightly that the surrounding ice glowed. Bingo, Linc said.
Bingo indeed. Now we just have to rescue the hostages, close this place down, and neutralize an eight- thousand-ton cruiser without the Argentines realizing we were ever here.
The two men continued to reconnoiter for another three hours, moving freely about the base. It seemed nothing was off-limits, with the exception of the makeshift jail. Juan was acutely interested in the oil-and-gas- processing plants. They were located in huge hangar-sized buildings that were covered in insulating layers and then snow and ice. Inside each was an industrial-sized tangle of pipes and conduits that joined and diverged in a system only an engineer could understand. One of the plants was set well back from the beach. The other was partially built over the water on stilts driven into the seafloor. Not only was natural gas processed in this structure, but they
