Buried At Sea (41 page)

"I call this our war room—betraying my years. Val calls it our CPU, asserting hers." Val ignored his conspiratorial smile. Of all the moronic moments to waste time and energy showing off. . . . She was tired, her face as pale as snow, after the fourteen-hour flight home from Buenos Aires—most of it spent on the sat phone with the engineers setting up the receiver room.

"This is the nerve center for an experiment the foundation is underwriting. It amalgamates developments being worked on by a number of our grantees." The inside guard shut the steel door firmly behind them.

"The exercise this morning is to monitor shipping in the sea-lanes between Antarctica, Africa's Cape of Good Hope, Australia's Cape Leeuwin, and South America's Cape Horn. The object is to locate and track objects as small as a sailboat."

"All these wires," remarked the senator. "It looks like campaign headquarters on election night."

McVay smiled down at the senator from his great height. "Smoke defiled the Industrial Revolution; cable defaces ours. At your last fund-raiser you cited Heber's hymn to emphasize your commitment to the environment,

"Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile."

"You gave me that quote, Lloyd."

"It was on the tip of your tongue," McVay replied with wholly false modesty. "I merely reminded you."

As chairman of the subcommittee that fine-tuned tax codes for nonprofit foundations, Senator Jeff Weiner was a treasured guest at McVay headquarters. Lloyd McVay was conducting the expected prelunch tour. He pointed out the jumbo Sarnoffs that were surrounded by a dozen smaller flat-screen monitors. Spiderwebs of cable connected them to a gang of Hyper-McVay workstations, which were linked by the fiber optics to tracking antennae on the roof.

"The satellites transmit visual, heat, and radar images. In the event of conflict, the system would pinpoint up-to-the-minute targets of opportunity." He shined his laser pointer at a Sarnoff. "Such as—"

Val pressed the remote control.

Up popped a chart of the Southern Ocean—the vast sea that circled the bottom of the planet between Antarctica and the southern tips of the continents. Lloyd McVay indicated the widely scattered ship icons on the Sarnoff screen. "Such as these freighters that the system is tracking from the infrared signatures generated by their smokestacks and the radar images of wave patterns generated by propeller wash." He's putting on a show for his own amusement, Val thought grimly, displaying our power for the hell of it. Missing the point, not concentrating on the goal. Blitzing Senator Weiner with minutiae. Just like Will Spark razzle-dazzled us. Her goal list was down to one item, repeated hourly: locate.

"We are sifting data streams of visible and infrared images compiled from extremely sensitive electro-optical high-resolution sensors and radar-imaging systems, aboard both low-earth-orbit and geosynchronous platforms."

" 'Platforms' sounds cosmic, Lloyd, but I can't help wondering why the Foundation for Humane Science is tapping data streams from spy satellites." Lloyd glanced at Val. The senator was no fool, but, like other savvy politicians of their acquaintance, not half as clever as he thought he was. There were times, however, like this one, when her father wasn't that bright either.

"Some are Global Awareness specific," he told Senator Weiner, and Val watched with growing annoyance as her father failed to conceal the slyest of smiles. His red laser dot darted like a smirk from screen to screen. "DMSP, for instance: the Defense Meteorological Satellite Program. MASINT: Measurement and Signature Intelligence. IMINT; Image Intelligence.

"But in actual fact we draw as much or more data from the civilian Comprehensive Earth Monitoring and the Global Emergency Observation and Warning systems. With our defense satellite experience—don't forget, McVay Microwaves developed integrated phased-array antennae decades ago—we actively support these international humanitarian efforts to develop catastrophe prediction and manage disaster relief worldwide."

"Sounds like you're still pretty tight with the Defense Department to tap into—"

"For goodness' sake, Jeff, if the foundation can help buy two days' warning to evacuate ninety million people from low-lying lands threatened by a flood we will consider our job well done. . . . Now, in this exercise we're conducting a sea search for one particular boat. We chose these remote waters because with winter approaching there will be very few sailboats to complicate the experiment."

He pointed at a jumbo screen.

"We are storing the satellite data—downloading new data from every pass—with a view to building a model of the boat's characteristics."

"You think you can identify a fifty-foot yacht from a satellite?" Lloyd McVay indicated another monitor. "This image is enhanced from an array of electro-optical and SAR radar data we received twelve hours ago. You're a sailor, Jeff. Look familiar?"

The senator frowned at the fuzzy top view of a sailboat. The hull was remarkably broad for its length, particularly from midships aft. "Could be a Vendee Globe racer. But the Globe isn't running right now."

"Good eyes, Senator. It's a French solo sailor attempting an around-the-world record."

"Dangerous time of year down there."

"No one ever said the French sailor wasn't bold." Val switched it off. Surprisingly, since she herself had created this system, she felt invaded. For the price he was paying to race there, the lone sailor deserved his privacy. She knew the reality that lay behind the detached and bloodless image: wintry night falling fast in the high latitudes; the ultralight racer bashing the tops of thirty-foot seas; the cold, wet, skipper constantly changing the sails for more speed, then ducking below to husband his strength where the din of the composite flat-bottom hull slamming the water was so loud he needed earplugs.

"Show me another?'

Another fuzzy yacht materialized on the screen. This purported to be a top view; two dots were centered on the hull. "That's a ketch or a schooner."

"Actually, a yawl."

"Come on, Lloyd. How can you be sure it's a yawl?" "Val can explain. Tell him, Val." If not quite civil, Val's answer was to the point. "Try to understand, Senator, you are looking at an 'impression' of a yacht 'seen' from various perspectives above the earth—a digital reconstruction of data acquired from numerous satellite passes." Her father interrupted her with a chuckle: "In this case we also know it's a yawl because we are monitoring its radios." "You can eavesdrop on them, too?" Enough, Val decided. She said, "Sonia, can you lead the senator toward a deeper understanding of what we're doing here?"

The foundation's chief applications engineer rose from her workstation with a warm smile. Red piping on her form-fitted gray jumpsuit designated her high rank, and while she was uncommonly attractive, she was also age-appropriateexhaustive investigation into Weiner's habits having bared no unseemly interest in the young. "Mind the cable, Senator."

Senator Weiner stepped under, careful not to stare at Sonia's breasts while under the patrician gaze of Lloyd McVay and his wintry daughter. In fact, the McVays had turned their attention to the Sarnoff the instant Sonia led him away.

Val clicked her remote and, while the computers churned, she said coldly, "You take more interest in the process than the goal."

"At my age you learn that process is life."

"I intend to reach my goals before I reach your age."

Up floated a computer-generated schematic of Hustle's hull, sails, and rigging. Another click and the image panned from a side view to an overhead perspective, as if a camera were floating. Another altered the silhouette to indicate various sail configurations.

"Where did you get that model?" her father asked. "Andy Nickels found the boatyard that did Will's refit." "I wasn't aware that Andy was in Hong Kong."

"I left him in Buenos Aires. He did it by phone and fax." "Why did you leave Andy in Buenos Aires?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. First, look at this."

She zoomed in on the southwestern quadrant of the South Atlantic Ocean, where a line zigzagged south from the Rio de la Plata. Up came a modified cruising hull, rigged in cutter mode with a second headsail on the jackstay.

Lloyd McVay checked that the senator was engrossed in Sonia on the other side of the room and said quietly, "It matches. That's Will Spark." In answer, Val clicked again. Data appeared in the lower-left corner. Hustle? POS: 42°

21 S, 61° 17 W. SPEED: 5.4 knots. COURSE: 190.

"South?" said her father. "He's headed south?"

"Straight at the Falkland Islands."

"But winter is setting in down there."

"He's got six hundred miles still to go, but it could be that he intends to provision in Stanley."

Val imagined the conditions on Will Spark's boat butting into the Falkland Current: a slow passage, but fairly comfortable, still many miles from the brutal Southern Ocean, and with three people to share watches so everyone gets some sleep; Will in the comfortable owner's stateroom aft; the couple bunking in a small forward cabin or crashing singly on the pilot berths, conditions not being that conducive to sex; of course gear would be breaking down after two crossings; and, unless they provisioned in Argentina, they were probably running out of food.

Her father studied the chart. "Why is he so far east? He should hug the coast to avoid the current."

"He's avoiding our ships."

The technician responsible for the military feed hurried to them with a phone. "The Pentagon, Mr. McVay. Some colonel with a poker up"—a flash of genteel fire in Lloyd McVay's eye stopped him cold—"bent out of shape."

Lloyd McVay took the phone. "Yes, Colonel, may I suggest you patch me through to General Huchthausen. . . . I mean right now, Colonel. He's at his farm, we spoke not thirty minutes ago. . . . Peter! . . . Yes, yes, I heard, security. Peter, when you think about it, how am I to stay on top of your problems if the best you can send me are interrupted data streams? . . . Frankly, this has cost us time and money, and if it were up to me, that colonel would retire on half pay to a Florida trailer park . ." An MBA hurried up with an open dossier. "Give my regards to Samantha. Still hoping she'll send that book proposal. . . . Not to worry about the 'writing.' We have a man who takes care of that." He passed the phone to the MBA, checked again that Senator Weiner was distracted, and said to Val, "Who do you think is on the boat?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who is on the boat?"

"Will Spark. And I presume that Jim and Shannon joined up with him."

"But you don't know for sure."

"Andy was told that a sailboat outran a fishing boat, which had gone out for the reward?'

"So Andy told me on the sat phone. Did they actually see the old man?"

"I believe that the fishing boat sank in the pampem." "Andy told me that, too. Though he didn't explain how Spark's sailboat survived."

"It was more up to the job... . Dad, I made a command decision—wait, we're about to receive the next live images."

Val began clicking. Nothing changed on the monitors. "Standing by for the new data stream."

Her father crossed his arms and waited. The computer continued mindlessly panning the model, giving the false illusion that old information was new. Images of images, Val reminded herself. She tapped some more. "Clouds. Dammit. We lost half the day's stream except for the radar and it's not enough on its own."

"Twelve hours since anything new?"

Val gestured at the bleak stats on the weather monitor. The low-orbit infrared scanners that measured the temperature of cloud tops showed thickening overcast that stretched from the fortieth parallel south to the Falklands.

Her father said, "Twelve hours. They could have sunk to the bottom of the sea, for goodness' sake. Where are you going?"

"Tierra del Fuego."

"What for?" Her father loped after her, clearly caught off balance, a rare and deeply satisfying sight.

"The Argentine air force has granted permission to land

the Hawker at their Rio Grande base. Andy and his men are picking me up in a boat I bought in Buenos Aires." "Don't be ridiculous."

Val McVay fixed her father with a cold eye and then, in a move more mocking than tender, straightened his bow tie. "What is ridiculous about tracking Will Spark by satellite and recapturing Sentinel with a faster boat?"

"Well, look here, Val. I mean, for goodness' sake, the Tierra del Fuego Rio Grande base is a thousand miles from Buenos Aires. You'd best stay here until we positively ID Spark'

s yacht."

"It's all set up, Dad. Sonia will handle the tech side. All you have to do is relay their position."

"Dammit, it will take Andy a week to sail there." "I bought a rocket ship. They tied up an hour ago."

SLOW BOAT TO china," Jim said to Shannon.

The knot meter read eight, a respectable speed close-hauled in the southwest wind. But the GPS told a different story. Over the bottom, they were barely making five knots against the powerful Falkland Current.

"Peaceful boat to China." Stretched out on the cockpit bench, her head on Jim's lap, Shannon was watching an albatross. Most of those she had seen soared in enormous slow circles around the boat—five or ten minutes to a pass. But this huge bird was floating over the boat on motionless wings, a few feet above the mast. Only its head moved as it occasionally surveyed its domain. Otherwise it held itself so utterly still that it appeared to be suspended from the low, dark nimbostratus clouds that had blown in from the west at noon and now extended from horizon to horizon like a broad-brimmed hat.

Peaceful it was. With Shannon to share watches, Jim had finally caught up with his sleep, napping in Will's hammock by the companionway. The weather fax showed no big depressions for a while. They had crossed the forty-third parallel. And Shannon was taking to the boat like she was born on

it, poking into every nook and cranny, reading the manuals, and happily looting Will's winter wardrobe.

"No stars tonight, Captain?"

"Rain. Mucho rain." He could see it marching ponderously out of the west. It would reach them around dark, and by the look of the low, uniform cloud, it would probably pour all night. Fine with him. Steady rain beat by a long shot the squalls that had knocked them around the first two days out of Rio de la Plata.