It took him a moment to realize what had hit the camera was a clot of blood that then oozed off the lens. Parker could make out few details because of the bloody film, but there was no sign of Bill Harris, and the audio feed was picking up the unmistakable wail of a woman screaming.
A full minute elapsed before her voice was cut off abruptly. Parker kept watching, but when something passed the doorway again it was an indistinct blur. It certainly looked like the outline of a man, but it was impossible to know who.
He double-checked that his computer was automatically recording, as he did all sessions with his distant patient. Everything was safely on the hard drive. As a precaution, he e-mailed the first part of the file to himself so he had backup imagery and cc'd his boss.
Leaving his computer recording the now-silent webcam at Wilson /George base, he picked up his phone and dialed his supervisor's direct line.
Keith Deaver.
Keith, it's Tom. We've got a situation at Wilson/George. Check the e-mail I just sent. Forward through the file until the last five minutes. Call me back when you're done.
Six minutes later, Tom snatched up the handset before it had finished its first ring. What do you think?
I know for a fact there aren't any guns on that station, but I'm positive that was a gunshot.
I think so, too, Parker replied. To be sure, we need an expert to listen to it, do that stuff like you see on the cop shows. This is bad, Keith. I don't know if you overheard Bill and I talking, but McMurdo can't send in a plane for a week or more, not even to do a visual reconnaissance.
Who has lead on that place?
Penn State is monitoring it full-time, if that's what you mean.
Do you have a contact there?
Yes. Ah, I think his name's Benton. Yeah, that's it, Steve Benton. He's a climatologist or something.
Call him. See if their telemetry's still coming through. Also, see if they have other webcams up and running right now. We should get in touch with McMurdo, let them know what's happening, and see if they really can't get an aircraft to Wilson/George sooner.
I have a contact there, too, Palmer said, at the U.S. Antarctic Program. They're run through the National Science Foundation.
Okay. I want hourly updates, and make sure someone's watching your computer from now on. I'll send you warm bodies if you need them.
I'll get my secretary in here while I make the calls, but I'll probably take you up on that offer later in the day.
As bureaucracies go, the amount of time it took to get things in motion was remarkably short. By the end of the day, a Houston police officer had listened to the audio from the webcam but couldn't determine if the sound was a gun or not. He gave it a seventy-five percent assurance that it was but wouldn't say definitively. The tower dispatcher at McMurdo confirmed that all their planes were grounded due to weather, and no emergency was grave enough to risk a flight crew. Conditions were even worse at Palmer Station, the only other American base on the Antarctic Peninsula, so there was no chance of them checking in on Wilson/George. Feelers had gone out to other nations with research centers nearby, but the closest was an Argentine research facility, and, despite the common bonds among the scientific community, they had rebuffed the request in no uncertain terms.
By eight o'clock that evening, the news of the situation had been sent to the President's National Security Advisor. Because Wilson/ George was so close to an Argentine base and there was inconclusive evidence of gunfire, there was the possibility they had been attacked for some reason. Ideas were discussed late into the night, and a request was sent to the National Reconnaissance Office for a satellite to be retasked in order to photograph the isolated research station.
By dawn, the pictures had been analyzed, and even their remarkable optics were defeated by the storm that was savaging half the continent.
And then, like all bureaucracies, the efficiency stopped there. No one knew what to do next. All the information that could be gathered and studied had been. A decision was needed, but no one could be found who was willing to make it. The early surge of activity came to an abrupt end, and the people involved began to take a wait-and-see attitude.
When he arrived at Langley a little past nine, Langston Overholt took a cup of coffee his secretary had ready for him and went into his private office. The view through the bulletproof window behind him caught a copse of trees in full leaf. The wind danced along the branches and made fractal shadows on the lawn below.
His office was spartan. Unlike many other senior officers at the CIA, Overholt didn't have an ego wall a collection of photographs of himself and various dignitaries. He had never seen the need to advertise his importance to others. But with his legendary reputation, it really wasn't necessary. Anyone visiting him here on the seventh floor knew exactly who he was. And while many of his accomplishments remain deeply buried secrets, enough had leaked out over the years to secure his status within the Agency. There were only a few photographs on the wall, mostly portraits done during the holidays as his family grew, and one sepia-toned snapshot of him and a young Asian man. Only an expert would recognize that he was Tibet's Dalai Lama.
Well, maybe a little ego, he said, glancing at the picture.
Overholt read the briefing report given to all senior staffers. It was an even more thorough version than that given to the President, who'd early in his administration made it clear that he didn't like to bother with details.
There was the usual news from around the world a bombing in Iraq, oil workers killed in Nigeria, North Korean military posturing along the DMZ. The incident at the Wilson/George Station rated a paragraph on the second-to-last page, just below remarks about the near capture of a Serbian war criminal. Had this taken place at any other Antarctic base, he wouldn't have given it a second thought, but the report made it clear that the Argentines had a facility about thirty miles away, and their terse refusal to send out a team to investigate set Overholt's sixth sense into high gear. He requested the raw footage from Dr. Palmer's webcam.
He knew immediately what had to be done.
He checked in with the director of the South American section and was told that Cabrillo had reached Asunci+|n the night before and turned over the power cell to a pair of Agency couriers and it was now on a charter flight nearing the California coast.
Overholt killed the internal call and dialed Houston to speak with Dr. Parker. After that, he placed a call to an overseas exchange.
The Silent Sea
Chapter TEN
AFTER NEARLY AN HOUR IN THE SHOWER AND A BREAKFAST of eggs, toast, and herbal tea Maurice, the ship's steward, refused Cabrillo anything with caffeine Juan still felt restless. He should go to bed, but his goose-down duvet looked uninviting. He knew sleep would not come easily. Dr. Huxley had recommended something to help him after performing a brief physical, but he'd declined. He wasn't punishing himself for Jerry's death, but somehow chemical oblivion didn't seem fair to his friend's memory. If thinking about the big Pole was going to keep him awake, then that was the price Cabrillo was willing to pay.
He and the others had arrived aboard the Oregon three hours earlier after a flight back to Brazil from the Paraguayan capital. They'd spent the first hour talking with members of the crew about what had happened and how Jerry had sacrificed himself so they could get away. Already a memorial service was in the works for that evening. The kitchen staff was making traditional Polish food, including pierogi, Kotlet Schabowy, and Sernik, a popular cheese-cake, for dessert.