“What about satellites?”
Conner nodded. She’d thought about that herself. “Satellites weren’t as significant back in ‘71, but even then it was the same situation as now. Satellites are either in synchronous orbits, which means they move at the same speed as the rotation of the earth, thus staying relatively over the same spot, or they have their own orbits. As far as I know, there are none in a synchronous orbit above Antarctica — no reason for one to be. There are no weapons allowed down there, thus no military presence.
“Some satellites run the north-south route and cross the poles, but two factors work against their picking up much. First, quite simply, no one has been that interested in Antarctica, so the satellites don’t often scan that part of their orbit. Second, the weather is terrible down there and it’s rare that the sky is clear.”
Vickers leaned forward. “Have you factored the weather into our search?”
“Yes.”
Vickers seemed to wait for more, but Conner said nothing. Finally he spoke. “Well, what did you find in your computer about the weather?”
Conner sighed. “It’s usually bad. Very bad. Antarctica is the highest, driest, coldest, windiest continent. Wind gusts of a hundred and fifty miles an hour are not unusual.”
“What do you mean driest?” Vickers asked.
“It hardly ever snows or rains there. But a layer of snow covers the ice, and the snow gets blown about a lot, causing white-outs and blizzards.”
Vickers pointed at her computer. “Lallo said you have all that stuff in hard copy. Would it be possible for me to look at it?”
Conner pulled out her briefcase, retrieved the binder, and handed it over. Anything to keep him quiet. She didn’t want to talk about negative what-ifs. For the next two hours, she worked in silence until she couldn’t stand it anymore. She closed her computer and repositioned her pillow to try and catch some sleep. The last thing she saw before weariness claimed her was Vickers leaned over the binder in the darkened aircraft, slowly turning a page.
“Damn!” Sammy slammed down the pay phone in disgust. SNN had confirmed that Conner had already departed on her trip, but the woman on the other end wouldn’t divulge her sister’s itinerary. Sammy also knew that telling Conner what had just happened wouldn’t deter her in the least; on the contrary, it would whet her appetite for the story.
Sammy leaned against the wall of the Minute Mart as she considered her next move. She knew she was in East St. Louis because she could see the Gateway Arch in the distance against the setting sun. The van that had been used to kidnap her was parked nearby; using the keys taken from the dead man, she’d driven the van to the first phone booth she could find.
The thing that scared Sammy the most was not knowing who the man she had just killed was working for. That fact had kept her from immediately calling the police. Sammy knew she needed help, though, and that gave her the first positive thought of the evening. She pulled out her wallet and searched for a business card she’d been carrying for years. She dialed the home number that had been penciled in below the business number.
“Pike here.”
“It’s Sammy Pintella.”
The gruff voice mellowed. “Sammy, how the hell are you?” Colonel Pike had been her father’s team leader during his first tour in Vietnam. After her dad was reported MIA, Pike had helped the family in every way he could and had stayed in touch over the years.
He had taken a special liking to Sammy and had tried to help make her missing father a peaceful ghost. He was the one who had given her the names of the other Americans on her dad’s team, but he had had no explanation for why the two were listed as lost on separate dates.
Hearing her friend’s warm voice, tears welled up in Sammy’s eyes. She steeled herself, knowing that she couldn’t let her emotions take over. It was difficult enough to think clearly in the aftermath of the drugs she’d been given. “I need help.”
“What’s wrong?”
Sammy gave a quick synopsis of the events of the day, and Pike was quick to agree with her initial assessment. “You’re in deep shit. For all you know he could have been working for the U.S. government, so you did right not calling the police. The spooks would be hooked into them for info. Don’t go back to your apartment either. Is there a place you can wait until I get someone up there?”
“I’ve got a van I can stay in for a while.”
“All right. Go to the airport. Once you get a parking space, call me back with your location. I’ll have my man meet you in the parking lot. He should be there by midnight. Once you two make contact, we can try and figure out our next move.”
“OK.”
“I’ll talk to you soon.”
Sammy hung up the phone and headed for the van.
The ribbon charge blew in the center of the door, leaving the edges still attached at the hinges and lock. Four figures, clad in black, slipped through the seam, splitting left and right into two-man teams. The men wore black balaclavas covering their faces and were armed with M16 rifles.
“Clear left!” the lead figure yelled.
“Clear right!” the second man confirmed.
The right team moved out of the foyer and headed down the hallway, rifles pointing across each other’s front. Reaching the first door on the right, one man used a sledgehammer to break the lock; the other man kicked the door, and they entered. The second team moved up the hallway and did the same thing on the first door on the left. More men were coming in the front now, taking up the vacated positions.
“Clear!” the first team yelled as it came out of the room. The two moved to the next door. Again the lock was slammed out, and they sprinted through the door and froze.
“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” A young woman dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt ran toward them. Another figure was lurking in the shadows near a door on the far side of the room.
“Down!” yelled one of the men, but the women continued to the door. He grabbed her and shoved her behind him. “Freeze!” he screamed at the other figure in the room as he and his partner leveled their Ml6s.
The roar of automatic fire just behind them caused both men to start and turn. The woman stood there, Uzi in hand, a smile on her face. As the brass from the blanks tinkled onto the floor, she said: “Bang. Bang. You’re dead.”
“Everyone down and cuffed. Everyone!” Riley came out of the shadows, shaking his head. There was a look of frustration on his face, visible even beneath a three-day growth of beard. The two policemen lowered their weapons. Their faces were red as he walked up to them.
“Bring everyone in.” Riley slumped down in an armchair to await the gathering of the rest of the members of the Nashville Police Department HRT Team — or what the Nashville police were trying to make into a Hostage Rescue Team. As evidenced by the recent exercise, they had a long way to go.
Riley looked at the woman. “Good job, Luce.” He wearily rubbed his eyes as the ten policemen he and his partner had been training for the past week gathered together in the abandoned building they’d been using for practice.
Riley was hung-over and tired. He’d spent a late night the previous evening in the lounge of the Sheraton Hotel, his temporary home, trying to figure out consecutively better approaches to the female bartender. She’d deflected every attempt while slapping the beers on the mahogany and picking up his money. In the end she and the alcohol had won, and he’d staggered off to his room alone in the early hours of the morning. He wished he could get a drink of water now, but the building had no water.
A day that had not started well wasn’t going any better. Luce had practically kicked the door down this morning to rouse him from his deadened stupor. Then they’d been at it all day long, practicing their entry procedures until they had them down pat in the daylight. Now they were getting in a little night work.