Trident Force (14 page)

“Don't even go out for food until further notice. I'm going to clear this with Alan and I'll be back to you in a few minutes. Don't turn your phone off.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” He hung up.

“They're okay, then?” asked Alex, a worried look on her face.

“At the moment. Please listen carefully to what I tell Alan. Most of it will probably be the truth.”

Mike then dialed Alan Parker's secure home number.

“Parker.”

“Mike Chambers. Are you awake, Alan?”

“Yes.” He didn't really sound it, but that didn't matter to Mike.

“Ray and Ted have picked up a little extra intel in Rio on those two shipfitters. Our guys were also attacked. Set up by somebody. I plan to extract them ASAP. I also plan to take the team to
Aurora.
”

“All of it?”

“Everybody but Vincent, the new guy. I have to leave somebody to mind the shop.”

“And what will you do?”

“Search the ship. Try to spot something.”

“I thought you said there weren't going to be any incidents.”

“Things happen.”

“How're you going to get to the ship?”

“Extract Ray and Ted then fly to Ushuaia and helo out to her.”

“That's a long flight for a helo.”

“It's doable.”

“And the weather?”

“Miserable at the moment but wait an hour.”

“You going to use a cover or just let it all hang out?”

“We're performing a random security checkup on the ship at the owner's request. It's a new service . . .”

“I never heard of it.”

“Nobody else has either. Yet.”

“It does make sense. Proactive. May even keep Homeland Security off our backs. Just as long as we don't ruffle the passengers' feathers.”

“Homeland Security?”

“They're beginning to define the American homeland as the entire world. Okay. Dress warm, buddy.”

Mike hung up and looked at Alex. “You get all that?”

“A jet to Ushuaia, via Rio. A helo to Antarctica and earmuffs for all. I suppose you want me to explain our new service to the ship's owners.”

“You're always more convincing than I am.”

“You care whose jet?”

“Try your friends.”

“And the helo?”

“Try the civilian contractors first. I don't want to spend time explaining what we're doing to some Argentine admiral.”

“Weapons?”

“Glocks, automatic rifles and Tasers for everybody . . . a riot gun and a dozen flash-bangs.”

“I'm on it, Boss.”

An hour later Mike was back on the phone to Rio: “We're scheduled to fly out of Tampa at zero four hundred in a CIA jet which should reach Jobim about eleven hundred. You wait at the hotel until it's time to check out and take a cab. When you get to the airport, go to the general aviation section, to the Aviaos Sul facility.”

“Were both ready, Captain.”

“How's Ted's arm?”

“Still bleeding. Minimally.”

“Will he be any good to us?”

“He just killed a man armed with an automatic weapon, sir.”

“I'll round up a corpsman and bring him or her along. Alex is arranging for Anglo-Swiss Re to inform Tecmar that you two seem to have gotten into the drug business a little deeper than you were prepared for so they pulled you out. They can deal with the federal police, I hope. Is there anything else anybody expects you to be doing while you're there?”

“We were supposed to meet this morning with Mr. al Hussein, the owner's representative. They say he's the moving force there.”

“One hell of an engineer, from what I read. I'd love to sit down and have a beer with him sometime. Anglo-Swiss will have to include a special apology to him in their message. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“See you in a few hours, then.”

 

At shortly after eleven fifteen in the morning a twenty-passenger executive jet marked “Liberation Airways,” landed at the Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport. After slowing and turning off the runway, it taxied promptly to the Aviaos Sul hangar, where it stopped, leaving both of its engines whooshing gently as they idled. Ray and Ted, who were standing next to the hangar, had sprinted out to the plane before the door even opened.

“Okay, you two,” shouted Mike as he lowered the ladder, “in the plane. I've got a doctor here. She'll check you both over on the way to Ushuaia. After she's looked at Ted, I'll decide whether he goes on with us or goes back with the doctor. Now find some seats and secure your seat belts.”

Before either could answer, Mike was pulling up the ladder and closing the door behind them and the jets were screaming again as the plane turned and headed back toward the runway. Fifteen minutes later, thanks to Alex's magic wand, they were airborne again.

Leaving Ted in peace for a few moments with the doctor, Mike took Ray aft to an empty row of seats. “How's your head feeling?”

“Pretty good. We both got some quality sleep.”

“Okay. Your eyes look normal but we'll let the doctor decide. Now, about your attackers. Do you think the CIA stringer was in on it?”

“I've been thinking about that, Captain. The way she broke off the contact makes me think she was both scared and surprised. I don't think she was in on it. In fact, I'm a little worried about her.”

“Is she cute?”

“That's not quite the word, Captain. She's pretty beat . . . I think she may be sick . . . But you can feel an aura, a sense of life surrounding her.”

“You let yourself get distracted too easily.

“Is there a lot of fallout?”

“Damn well bound to be, but Alex's got some of her friends busy confusing the issue so nobody can pin it on us. She's still trying to learn more about Coccoli and Rojas.”

“Was she able to come up with anything from the crew's records?”

“The majority are Latin Americans, the rest from all over. A dozen felons, maybe. Many more with unclear backgrounds, but that's how it is aboard every merchant ship if you really look closely.”

“Any seem involved in radical politics?”

“I'm sure a number are unhappy with their various governments, but none appear to be on the run. All sorts of vaguely possibles,” summed up Mike, “but nothing that sets my alarms ringing. Nothing we can focus on. And, so far, nothing has happened to pin on anybody. Alex is going over the passengers. Criminal records, radical politics and odd connections to foreign governments. Now let's see how Ted is.”

Both Ted and Ray were fully fit for duty according to the doctor, who, Mike suspected, had never issued a sick pass in her life. That's why he'd selected her.

 

“These plans are screwed up,” remarked Ted as he studied his copy of the
Aurora Australis
plans Mike had passed out. “Some of them don't match.”

“I've noticed that too,” remarked Chambers. “She's old and she's been overhauled and altered a number of times. It's more than likely some of the details on these plans are wrong. The good news is that Alex has also managed to come up with a set of the job orders from the overhaul. In some cases they even indicate who worked on the job or at least signed it off.”

Ted screwed up a smile. “At least that's a starting point. Any mention of Coccoli or Rojas?”

“About a dozen, but we all know that there were undoubtedly some little projects the captain or the chief engineer finagled that didn't make it into the records. Still, this data should be very useful.”

“Sir,” said the plane's copilot as she stepped through the cockpit door and headed toward Mike, “this message just came in for you.”

“Thanks,” said Mike, taking the message and reading it. He then handed it to Alex.

“Interesting,” said Alex as she pulled her laptop out of its case and started to open it.

“According to this message,” explained Mike to the rest of the team, “an engineman named Sven Hensen is missing aboard
Aurora.
They're searching the ship and have also turned around to search their track. It may be nothing, of course, or maybe not. If he's gone overboard, then we might not ever know more.”

“Boss,” interjected Alex as she looked up from her laptop, “Sven Hensen had a possession of a controlled substance conviction about four years ago.”

“I'm afraid, sir,” remarked Ray, “that twenty percent of the American electorate would have one of those if they'd only gotten caught.”

“I'm not sure how much this really helps us.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” mused Alex. “There is a correlation between his sort of record and violent acts, especially if it's violence for hire.”

 

The Southern Ocean is a fickle place. It's known for having, during the austral summer, the most gentle, although far from warm, weather. It is also known for having the most awful. Weather so terrible that few who haven't experienced it can even imagine it. Finally, it is known for the blinding speed with which its weather changes. It is a speed that neither the North Atlantic nor the North Pacific can possibly match even on their nimblest, most unpredictable days.

The Southern Ocean also has a queen city—Ushuaia. Tacked on to the southernmost tip of Argentina, Ushuaia is a city of about fifty thousand, a small, low-profile place at the very end of the world. It is surrounded by snowy mountains and the blue-gray waters of the Beagle Channel, fields more often brown than green and an abundant crop of rocks and lichen. While beaten and abused continuously by the weather, the city is far from humble. Its architecture is clean and varied, its people sturdy, and its traffic jams equal to any in the world. Ushuaia even has its own yacht club, a fact which should not be surprising since, thanks to its winds, it is the best possible location for those hard-core sailors who want to really sail.

Ironically, despite its lack of glamour, the city's air terminal was undergoing a modest expansion—in order to better serve the growing numbers of affluent tourists who seemed to yearn for just such ends of the world.

“Beautiful weather,” remarked Anderson as he climbed out of the jet into the dark, wind-maddened sleet.

“Isn't it,” agreed Fuentes, rubbing the bruise on his temple as he did.

“Listen up,” barked Mike Chambers, “our next ride is that helo over there.” As he spoke, he pointed at a big, twin-rotor civilian supply helicopter parked in the same dimly lit corner of the airport where the jet was. “So grab the gear and let's get to it!”

Shouldering their large and very heavy duffel bags—which were filled with clothing, weapons and a variety of sensors—the Tridents hurried quickly through the slush, leaving the doctor and the jet crew gratefully contemplating the first-class meal and warm beds they would soon be enjoying in Ushuaia's glitzy new tourist hotel. “Whoever the hell they are,” remarked the doctor, “I'm damn glad I'm not one of them.”

“Welcome aboard.” The middle-aged Argentine pilot grinned as, one after another, the team climbed up and into the helo.

“How often do you fly in this shit?” asked Jerry.

“Hell, this is summer. We service some of the Argentine research stations down south—we have half a dozen, you know—and now we even fly in the winter. You should see that.”

“Going to be like this all the way?”

“No. It's a little clearer to the south, but the wind's beginning to work itself up.”

“If you're not worried, we're not,” said Ray Fuentes.

“I worry all the time,” replied the pilot, “but don't let that worry you. We figured you'd be hungry, so we've got something for you. We considered sandwiches but then decided to give you a cultural experience, so we're serving tapas tonight. Who knows, some day we may be a real airline.” With that he opened a large insulated box filled with about fifty smallish plastic containers, each of which contained a snack-sized portion of food—a couple brazed beef ribs in sauce; artichokes stuffed with chicken salad; cooked chicken livers wrapped in bacon. The selection seemed endless, and three or four portions made a good meal.

“Estupendo!”
murmured Ray. The food on the beat-up helo looked better than what the CIA had served on its snappy jet.

“Here's some bread,” continued the pilot, “and those thermoses contain coffee, tea and cocoa. Sorry, no wine on this flight. So choose a seat, strap yourself in tight, put on the headphones, sit back and enjoy the flight.

“Whoever the hell you are,” he added under his breath as he banged twice on the side of the cabin and headed forward to the cockpit.

Even before he reached the door, there was a short whine then a growing shriek as the copilot lit off the forward rotor.

No rest for the weary, thought Ray as he tried to make himself comfortable in the icy, pounding space. Just then a blast of torchlike air erupted from the heating vent, making him wonder if frying was preferable to freezing.

10

The Drake Passage

“Where the hell's Hensen?” demanded Mr. Acosta, the second engineer.

“Don't know, sir,” replied his assistant. “But he's not here.”

The officer looked out the window of the relatively quiet Main Control into the booming, thudding, shaking mad-house that existed in the Main Engine Room. That was where Hensen was supposed to be. But he wasn't. He couldn't see him, and none of the men out there could see him. “This isn't the first time that fucker's been late. A month or so ago he didn't even show up at all. Claimed he was sick. I still don't know where the hell they found him.”