The Silent Sea (2010) - Cussler Clive - Страница 41
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The night had an eerie stillness. It seemed the only sound in the world was their breathing and the crunch of their boots. It was as though they were walking on another, inhospitable planet. And in a sense they were, because without their protective suits they wouldn't last five minutes.
Linda had pocketed a bunch of nuts and washers from a storage bin in the snowcat. She dropped one every fifty or so feet. The metal looked black against the ice and was easily seen. She carried a handheld GPS, but the little trail of metal bread crumbs was her low-tech backup.
They'd gone a mile when Linc suddenly dropped flat. Linda threw herself to the ground and started scanning the horizon.
I don't see anything, she whispered.
Linc wiggled forward on his elbows. She matched him move for move and then she spotted what he'd seen. There were tracks in the ice from a snowmobile. They'd been right to be cautious. The Argentines did patrol around their base.
Makes you wonder what they're protecting, Linc said.
Let's find out.
They got to their feet again and continued onward. As a former SEAL, Franklin Lincoln was always on guard, but he moved with even more vigilance than usual. His head turned side to side as he studied the barren terrain around them, and every couple of minutes he would pull down his parka's hood to listen for the telltale buzz of an approaching snowmobile.
The back of the Argentine base was protected by low jagged hills. Here the snow and ice had been blown away in spots to reveal rocky crags as black as midnight. It wasn't a particularly difficult climb, but they moved with slow deliberation. Their thick boots weren't suited to the task, and they were on constant lookout for patrols.
They reached the top and got their low-light binoculars ready before peering over the crest.
Linda didn't know what to expect. She assumed the Argentines would have something similar to Wilson/George, but what lay below them between the hills and the sea was astonishing. It wasn't an isolated little research station as had been claimed, but rather a sprawling town so cleverly camouflaged it was impossible to tell its size. There were dozens of buildings built on what at first looked like an ice shelf but was in fact an artificial construct made to look like ice. Because nature abhors a straight line, all the buildings were constructed with curved shapes to hide their outlines from satellite observation.
Huge white tents hid even more of the base. She imagined these were made of Kevlar to withstand the elements. They had also constructed a large dock with several piers, again made to look like ice.
The natural bay the facility abutted was ice-free, except for a dozen tall iceburgs. She zoomed in on one. Something wasn't right about it. It looked real enough, but it was too tall for its base. It should have toppled over during the latest storm. They all should have. That's when she realized they were artificial, too.
Oil platforms. That's what they were small offshore oil-drilling rigs.
Now that she understood the nature of what the Argentines had built here, she recognized that three odd hills near the pier were actually giant storage tanks that had been buried under earthworks redoubts. These weren't just exploratory wells out there. They were about to go into full-scale production. The dock may not be large enough for the latest-generation supertankers, but it could certainly handle a hundred-thousand-tonner.
She knew what she was seeing flew in the face of one of the most important treaties in existence. Since the early 1960s, the Antarctic Treaty had maintained that the continent was a scientific preserve and that no nation could claim sovereignty over any part of it. The accord also stated that it was illegal for signatories to mine for raw materials or drill for oil, on land or offshore.
Linc tapped her on the shoulder and pointed farther south. She saw what he was pointing at, a separate building away from the others, but she wasn't sure what piqued his interest. She shot him an inquiring glance.
I think that's a missile battery.
If he was right, that was another violation, she believed. She clicked off more than a dozen pictures with her camera, shooting through the night vision binoculars. They weren't the best pictures, but they were at least proof.
Linc slithered back over the crest of the hill. What do you think? he asked when they were clear.
I'd say the Argies have been busy. Did you notice the icebergs in the bay?
Yeah. Oil derricks.
Linda nodded. We've got to report this.
A wind was starting to pick up. It wasn't enough to cause a whiteout, but visibility was down dramatically, and after so much time exposed Linda felt the cold starting to seep through her clothes. Remarkably, she could still see her trail of nuts and washers.
Linc continued to scan all around them, so he was the one to spot the snowmobile. He pushed Linda to the ground hard enough to cause the air to explode from her lungs. They didn't know if they'd been spotted, and a tense few seconds passed as the machine's single headlamp bounced through the darkness.
Time stretched, and it looked like the driver hadn't seen them moving, or, if he had, he though it was a trick of the wind. The sled's motor was a piercing whine, but he continued to angle away from them. At the last second, the sentry jerked the handlebars hard over and drove straight for the prone pair.
Linc cursed, and brought his assault rifle to his shoulder.
He couldn't see what the driver was doing because of the glare of its headlamp, but the crack of a shot carried over the engine's beat. The shot went wild because the snowmobile was racing over rough terrain. The snowmobile was almost on them. Linc fumbled in his oversized mittens to flick off the safety, and when he realized he wouldn't have time he lurched to his feet and swung the rifle like a baseball bat.
The gun hit the driver in the neck, and the kinetic energy of his forward motion coming against Linc's tremendous strength ripped him off the back of the machine and sent him sprawling across the ice.
Without its driver, the snowmobile's engine automatically cut out when the safety key, which was tethered to the man's wrist, was ripped from the dash. It rolled onward for a few feet and came to a stop, its headlight reflecting flakes of snow drifting on the wind.
Linda ran to the downed Argentine. He lay completely still. She peeled off his helmet. The way his head flopped when she did it told her his neck had been broken by the brutal impact. She stood.
Dead?
Yes.
Him, her, us, Linc said with a career soldier's fatalism.
He lifted the body and brought it closer to the snowmobile. He set the corpse gently on the ice and took hold of the handlebars. Bracing his legs, he flexed his muscles and threw the five-hundred-pound machine on its side as if it were no more than a toy. He adjusted the body to fit what would look like a tragic accident.
Wish we could take it and ride it back to the snowcat, Linda said, although she knew they couldn't.
Walk will do you good, Franklin Lincoln grinned.
First, I need meat on my bones, and now you say I need exercise. Which one is it?
Linc knew that answering that was a trap, even if she was teasing, so he wisely said nothing and continued the long slog to Murph and their warm ride back to Wilson/George.
The Silent Sea
Chapter SIXTEEN
IN BREMERTON, WASHINGTON, THE ONLY REQUIREMENT Juan and Max had for their hotel was that it have an Internet connection because Cabrillo wanted to transmit the pictures he'd taken in the pit to Eddie Seng aboard the Oregon and get a translation as quickly as possible.
By the time they'd finished stuffing themselves on Wallapa Bay oysters and Dungeness crab at a nearby restaurant, Eddie had a preliminary report for them.
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