Clive Cussler - Treasure

An astute man who always looked over the next hill and planned accordingly, he left very little to chance. He blew a smoke ring from the cigar with a degree of elation. He couldn't be leading a better team if he'd picked the medal winners of a military Olympics. They were the elite of the elite for fighting low-intensity conflicts. The eighty men of his team, who called themselves the Demon Stalkers, were selected for the Lady Flamborough rescue because they actually had engaged in assault exercises against mock terrorists who had held a ship and crew hostages off the coast of Norway. Forty were "shooters" while the other half acted as logistical and support fighters.

His second in command, Major John Dillenger, rapped on the door and stuck his head in. "You busy, Mort?" he asked in a decided Texas twang.

Hollis waved a casual hand. "My office is your office," he assured Dillenger jovially. "Squeeze in and sit yourself in my new French leather designer couch."

Dillenger, a lean, stringy man with a pinched face, but hard as an anvil, stared dubiously at the canvas seat bolted to the floor and sat down. Forever kidded about being saddled with the same name as the famous bank robber, he was a master of the art of tactical planning and the penetration of almost impossible defenses.

"Covering the bases?" he asked Hollis.

"Going over meteorological forecasts, ice and terrain conditions. "

"See any jazz in your crystal ball?"

"Too early." Hollis raised an eyebrow. "What plans are forming in your perverted mind?"

"I can recite and draw pictures of six different ways to board a ship by stealth. I've already familiarized myself with the design and deck layout of the Lady Flamborough, but until we learn whether we're coming in by parachute, by scuba, or by foot from hard beach or ice, I can only plot an outline."

Hollis nodded solemnly. "Over a hundred innocent people are on that ship. Two Presidents and the SecretaryGeneral of the United Nations.

God help us if one steps in our line of fire."

"We can't go in with blanks," Dillenger said caustically.

"No, and we can't drop from noisy helicopters with all weapons blasting.

We've got to infiltrate before the hijackers know we're there. Complete surprise is crucial."

"Then we hit 'em by 'stealth parachute' at night."

"Could be," Hollis acknowledged tersely.

Dillenger shifted uncomfortably in the canvas seat. "A night landing is dangerous enough, but dropping blindly on a darkened ship can mean slaughter. You know it, and I know it, Mort. Out of forty men, fifteen will miss the target and fall in the sea. Twenty will sustain injuries impacting on hard, protruding surfaces of the ship. I'll be lucky to have five men in fighting trim."

"We can't rule it out."

"Let's wait until more info comes in," suggested Dillenger. "Everything hinges on where the ship is found. Whether she's moored or sailing across the sea makes all the difference in the world. As soon as we receive word on her final status, I'll formulate a tight assault plan and lay it in your hands for final approval. "

"Fair enough," said Hollis agreeably. "How are the men?"

"Doing their homework. By the time we land at Punta Arenas, they'll have memorized the Lady Flamborough well enough to run around her decks blindfolded."

"A lot is riding on them this time out."

"They'll do the job. The trick is to get them on board in one piece.

"There is one thing," Hollis said, a deep apprehension on his face. "The latest estimate from intelligence sources on the strength of the hijackers . . . it just came in from the Pentagon. "

"How many are we talking about, five, ten, maybe twelve?"

Hollis hesitated. "Assuming the crew of the Mexican ore camer that boarded the cruise ship are also armed . . . we could be looking at a total of forty."

Dillenger gaped. "Oh, my gawd. We're going up against an equal number of terrorists?"

"Looks that way." Hollis nodded grimly.

Dillenger shook his head in shocked disapproval and drew a hand across his forehead. Then his eyes burned into Hollis's.

"Some people," he said disgustedly, "are going to get their butts stomped before this caper is over."

Deep in a concrete bunker tunneled into a hill outside Washington, D.C., Lieutenant Samuel T. Jones came rushing into a large office, panting as though he'd just run a two-hundredmeter dash, which indeed he had-only two steps shy of the exact distance from the communications room to the photoanalysis office.

His face was flushed with excitement, and he held a huge photograph spread between his upraised hands.

Jones had often rushed along the corridors during crisis exercise drills, but he, and the other three hundred men and women who worked in the Special Operations Forces Readiness Command, hadn't really put their hearts into it until now. Practice did not make the adrenaline pump like the real thing. After waiting like hibernating groundhogs, they had erupted into life when the alert on the Lady Flamborough hijacking came in from the Pentagon.

Major General Frank Dodge headed up the SOF He and several members of his staff were tensely awaiting the arrival of the latest satellite image depicting the waters south of Tierra del Fuego when Jones burst into the room.

"Got it!"

Dodge gave the young officer a stern look for unmilitary enthusiasm. "Should have been here eight minutes ago," he grunted.

"My fault, General. I took the liberty of trimming the outer perimeters and enlarging the immediate search area before having it computer-enhanced."

Dodge's stern expression softened and he nodded approvingly.

"Good thinking, Lieutenant."

Jones gave a short sigh and quickly clipped the newest satellite image on a long wallboard under a row of hooded spotlights. An earlier image hung nearby, showing the Lady Flamborough's last known position circled in red, her previous course marked in green, and predicted course in orange.

Jones stepped back as General Dodge and his officers crowded around the image, peering anxiously for the tiny dot indicating the cruise ship.

"The last satellite sighting put the ship about one hundred kilometers south of Cape Horn," said a major, tracing the course from the previous chart. "She should be well out into Drake's Passage by now, approaching the islands off the Antarctic peninsula."

After nearly a full minute of appraisal, General Dodge turned to Jones.

"Did you study the photo, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. I didn't take the time. I rushed it over as quickly as possible."

"You're certain this is the latest transmission?"

Jones looked puzzled. "Yes, sir."

"No mistake?"

"None," Jones replied unhesitatingly. "The NUMA Seasat satellite recorded the area with digital electronic impulses that were sent to ground stations instantaneously. You're seeing an image no more than six minutes old."

"When will the next photo come in?"

"The Landsat should orbit the region in forty minutes."

"And the Casper?"

Jones glanced at his watch. "If she returns on schedule, we should be looking at film in four hours."

"Get it to me the instant it arrives."

"Yes, sir. "

Dodge turned to his subordinates. "Well, gentlemen, the White House ain't going to like this."

He went over and picked up a phone. "Put me through to Alan Merger."

The National Security Adviser's voice came over the line within twenty seconds. "I hope you've got some good news, Frarik.

"Sorry, no," Dodge answered flatly. "It appears the cruise ship-"

"She sank?" Mercier cut him off.

"We can't say with any certainty."

"What are you saying?"

Dodge took a breath. "Please inform the President the Lady Flamborough has vanished again."

By the early 1990s equipment for sending photographs or graphics around the world by nucrowave via satellite or across town by fiber optics became as common in business and government offices as copy machines.