When he finished, Juan said, So it could be this guy Dangle

Gangle, Lang corrected.

Gangle could have gone off the deep end and killed the others?

It's entirely possible, although Dr. Parker's assessment from what he'd learned from the astronaut is this Gangle kid was just a loner with a chip on his shoulder.

Lang, those are always the ones who take axes to their families or shoot sniper rifles from bell towers.

Well, yes. But still we need to keep in mind that there's an Argentine base less than thirty miles away. As you know, they've been making noise about how all of the Antarctic Peninsula is their sovereign territory. What if this is the first play in a larger operation? There are other bases down there. The Norwegians, Chileans, the Brits. They could be next.

Or it could be a deranged kid who's spent too much time on the ice, Juan said.

The problem is, we won't have a definite answer for the better part of a week, maybe longer if the weather doesn't clear. If this is an Argentine play, then by the time we figure it out it will be too late.

So you want us to head south and investigate what happened at Wilson/George.

Exactly. It should be a milk run. A quick dash down, a little look-see, and then tell old Uncle Langston that he doesn't have anything to worry about.

We'll do it, of course, but you have to know that Max and I aren't going.

You have something planned?

Cabrillo explained about discovering the Flying Dutchman and his desire to tell the families of the blimp's crew what had happened to their loved ones a half century ago.

I think that's a tremendous idea, Lang boomed. Just the thing you need to gain a little perspective. The crew won't need you two on this mission anyway. Max frets too much, and you should get out of your head for a while.

Oh, before I forget, my weapons guy said there's a chance that satellite was shot down.

Come again?

You heard me. There are a couple of dings on the power cell's outer casing. Two correspond to a pair of bullet strikes, but the third is a mystery. You need to have that thing gone over with a fine-tooth comb.

We were planning on it, but thanks for the heads-up. And I doubt your guy's right. Argentina doesn't have the technology to shoot down a rocket that late into its flight, and why would they bother? It wasn't a military launch.

I'm just telling you what he thinks. If he's wrong, fine. If not, well, that's something else altogether. Don't forget who has demonstrated they have the capability to shoot down a satellite and who, by the way, continually blocks more intense sanctions against Argentina at the UN.

That forced a long pause from Overholt. I don't like what you're implying.

Neither do I, Juan agreed. But it's food for thought. Still want us in Antarctica?

More than ever, my boy, more than ever.

The Silent Sea

Chapter ELEVEN

THE SUMMONS HAD BEEN A SINGLE WORD, COME. Despite its terseness, Major Jorge Espinoza read a great deal into the message and none of it was good. It took nearly twelve hours to arrange transport from the northern border to his father's estate in the grassy pampas a hundred miles west of Buenos Aires. He had flown the last leg himself in his Turbine Legend, a prop plane that looked like the legendary Spitfire and had nearly the same performance. Lieutenant Jimenez, his burns heavily bandaged, had ridden in the rear seat.

When his father was given command of the Ninth Brigade, he had used family money to build them a new command center and barracks at the estate. The old runway a mile from the main house had been expanded and paved to accommodate a fully loaded C-130. The apron was also expanded for helicopter landing pads, and a huge metal hangar was erected.

The camp itself was so far from the big house that even mortar practice didn't disturb the General, his new, young wife, and their two children. It had housing for the thousand men who belonged to the elite unit, with support facilities for all their needs. Next to the parade ground was an obstacle course and a state-of-the-art fitness center.

With its wide-open grassy planes, dense forests, and two separate river systems, the huge cattle estate was perfect for keeping the men in top operational preparedness.

The nearby village of Salto was growing from a sleepy little farming community to a bustling town of people more than willing to take care of the soldiers' off-duty needs.

Espinoza typically buzzed the main house when he made his approach to the airfield. His half brothers loved his aircraft and begged him for rides incessantly. But not today. He wanted to attract as little attention to himself as possible as he soared over the estate, where the spring rains were turning the grassland green and lustrous.

The debacle in the rain forest would be a career ender for any other soldier, and it still might be for him. As both son and subordinate, he had let the General down. Nine men had died under his command, and then Raul had finally stumbled into the border crossing he had reported that the four men with him in the chopper were gone and six more border guards were dead and their boats destroyed. They had also lost two expensive helicopters, with a third damaged.

But the worst of all for son and soldier was the fact that he had failed. That was the truly unpardonable sin. They had let the Americans steal back the satellite fragment from right under their noses. He recalled the bloody face of the American driving the pickup loaded with his wounded comrades. Despite the mask of gore, Espinoza knew every feature the shape of the eyes, the strength of the jaw, the almost arrogant nose. He would recognize this man no matter where they met again or how many years would elapse.

He lined up the nimble plane on the runway and dropped the gear. A four-engine C-130 was parked next to the big hangar. Its rear cargo ramp was down, and he could just make out a small forklift trundling up through the rear door. Espinoza wasn't aware of any future Ninth Brigade deployments, and he was almost certain that after his meeting with the General he would no longer be part of the elite force's future.

The plane bumped once when it hit the asphalt and then settled lightly. It was such a delight to fly that every landing was a disappointment the trip was over. He taxied to the apron where his father kept his plane, a Learjet capable of getting him anywhere in South America in just a couple of hours.

While the General came from a military family, Espinoza's late mother had been born into a clan whose wealth stretched back to the very founding of the country. There were office towers in BA and vineyards out west, five different cattle farms, an iron mine, and a virtual stranglehold on the country's cell-phone system. All this was run by his uncles and cousins.

Jorge had enjoyed the benefits of such wealth, the best schools and expensive toys like the Turbine, but he'd never been attracted to its creation. He had wanted to serve in the military as soon as he understood that the uniform his father wore to work every day was a symbol of his nation's greatness.

He had worked with single-minded determination to make his childhood dream of being a soldier a reality, and now, at thirty-seven years, he was at what he considered the peak of his career. With the next promotion would come a desk job, something he looked upon with dread. He had operational control over Argentina's most lethal commandos. At least for another few minutes. The humiliation was like an ember burning in the pit of his stomach.

A Mercedes ML500 SUV painted in a matte jungle camouflage was waiting for him and Jimenez. Inside was plush leather and burnished wood. It was his stepmother's idea of roughing it.

How is he? Espinoza asked Jes+|s, his father's longtime majordomo, who had driven down to the runway to pick up the young master.