Clive Cussler - Treasure

Scanned by laser and then transmitted to a laser receiver, the image could be reproduced almost instantly in living color with extraordinary detail.

So it was that within ten minutes of General Dodge's call, the President and Dale Nichols were hunched over the desk in the Oval Office scrutinizing the Seasat image of waters off the tip of South America.

"She may really be on the bottom this time," said Nichols. He felt tired and confused.

"I don't believe it," the President said, his face a mask of repressed fury. "The hijackers had their chance to destroy the ship off Punta del Este and make a clean getaway on the General Bravo. Why sink her now?"

"Escape by submarine is a possibility."

The President seemed not to hear. "Our inability to deal with this crisis is frightening. Our whole response seems mired in inertia."

"We were caught unprepared and unequipped," Nichols offered lamely.

"An event that occurs too frequently around here," the President muttered. He looked up, fire in his eyes. "I refuse to write those people off. I owe George Pitt. Without his support, I wouldn't be sitting in the Oval Office." He paused for effect. "We're not going to snap at a red herring again."

Sid Green was scrutinizing the satellite images too. A photo-intelligence specialist with the National Security Agency at its headquarters in Fort Meyer, he had projected the last two satellite pictures on one screen. Intrigued, he ignored the most recent photo, the one that failed to reveal the ship, and concentrated on the earlier one. He zoomed in on the tiny blip that represented the Lady Flamborough with a computerized lens.

The outline was fuzzy, too indistinct to make out little more than the ship's profile. He turned to the computer at his left and entered a series of instructions. A few details that were hidden to his eye became apparent now. He could discern the funnel and shape of the superstructure and blurred sections of the upper decks.

He played with the computer keyboard, trying to sharpen the cruise ship's features. He spent nearly an hour at it before he finally sat back, put his arms behind his head and rested his eyes.

The door to the darkened room opened and Green's supervisor, Vic Patton, entered. He stood behind Green for a moment looking at the projections.

"It's like trying to read a newspaper on the street from the roof of the World Trade Center," he observed.

Green spoke without turning. "A 70-by-130 kilometer swath doesn't offer us much resolution, even after enlarged enhancement."

"any sign of the ship on the last linage?"

"Not a hint."

"Too bad we can't drop our KH spy birds that low."

"A KH-15 might get a picture."

"The situation in the Middle East is heating up again. I can't pull one out of orbit until the dust settles."

"Then send in a Casper."

"One is on the way," said Patton. "You should be reading the color of the hijackers' eyes by lunch."

Green motioned at the computer lens. "Take a look and tell me if something looks out of place."

Patton pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece and peered at the speck that was the Lady Flamborough. "Too damned blurred to discern incidentals. What am I missing?"

"Check the bow section."

"How can you tell the back from the front?"

"By the wake behind the stern," Green answered patiently.

Okay, I've got it. The deck behind the bow looks obscured, almost as if it was covered."

"You will first prize at the fair," said Green.

"What are they up to?" Patton mused.

"We'll know when the film from the Casper comes in."

On board the C-140, now cruising over Bolivia, there was an atmosphere of bitter disappointment. The photo minus the cruise ship came over the aircraft's laser receiver and caused as much agitation inside the cramped command center as in Washington's power circles.

"Where in hell did it go?" Hollis demanded.

Dillenger could only mutter blankly, "She can't be gone."

"Well, she sure is. See for yourself."

"I did. I can't spot her any more than you can."

"This makes three times in a row we've been shut out at the gate by bad information, lousy weather or equipment breakdown. Now our target ups and plays hide-and-seek."

"She must have sunk," munfoled Dillenger. "I don't see any other explanation."

"I can't see forty hijackers all agreeing on a suicide pact."

"What now?"

"Beyond requesting instructions from Readiness Command, I see little else I can do."

"Shall we abort the misssion?" asked Dillenger.

"Not unless we're ordered to turn back."

"So we keep going."

Hollis nodded dejectedly. "We fly south until ordered otherwise."

The last to know was Pitt. He was sleeping like the dead when Rudi Gunn entered his cabin and shook him awake.

"Come alive," said Gunn briskly. "We've got a big problem."

Pitt popped his eyes open and checked the dial of his watch. "Did we get a speeding ticket coming into Punta Arenas?"

Gunn looked at Pitt in weary despair. Anyone who awoke from a sound sleep in a cheerful mood and instantly made bad jokes had to have come from a broken branch of evolution.

"The ship won't enter the harbor for another hour yet."

"Good, I can doze a while longer."

"Get serious!" Gunn said bluntly. "The latest satellite photo just rolled out of the ship's receiver. The Lady Flamborough has gone missing for the second time."

"She's really dropped out?"

"Enhanced magnification can't find a sign of her. I've just talked. to Admiral Sandecker. The White House and Pentagon are spitting out orders like slot machines gone mad. A Special Operations Force rescue team is on the way, steamed and primed for action, but with no place to go.

They're also sending a spy plane to produce some decent aerial pictures."

"Ask the Admiral if he can arrange a meeting between the SOF team leader and me as soon as they land."

"Why don't you tell him?"

"Because I'm going back to sleep," Pitt replied with a loud yawn.

Gunn was at a loss. "Your father's on that boat. Don't you give a damn?"

"Yes," said Pitt, his eyes flashing a caution light, "I give a damn. But I don't see what I can do about it at the moment."

Gunn backed off. "Anything else the Admiral should know?"

Pitt pulled the blanket under his armpits, rolled over and faced the bulkhead. "Yes, as a matter of fact. You can tell him I know how the Lady Flamborough vanished. And I can make a pretty good guess as to where she hides."

If any other man had spoken those words, Gunn would have called him a liar. But Pitt he didn't doubt for a second.

"Mind giving me a clue?"

Pitt half-turned. "You're an art collector of sorts, aren't you, Rudy?"

"My small collection of abstracts won't match the New York Museum of Modern Art, but it's respectable." He looked at Pitt in uncomprehending curiosity. "What has this got to do with anything?"

"If I'm right, we may be getting into art in a big way."

"Are we on the same frequency?"

"Christo," said Pitt as he turned and refaced the bulkhead.

"We're about to review a Christo-inspired sculpture."

A light snow had turned to a miserable, wind-driven sleet over the southernmost large city in the world. Punta Arenas had flourished as a port of call before the Panama Canal was built, and died afterward. The city gradually returned as a sheepraising center and was now booming after productive oil fields were discovered close by.

Hollis and Dillenger stood on a harbor pier, waiting anxiously to board the Sounder. The temperature had dropped several degrees below freezing; it was a damp, harsh cold that bit at their exposed faces.

They felt like cornels in the Arctic. Through the cooperation of Chilean authorities, they had gone undercover and exchanged their battle dress for the uniforms of immigration officials.