Beneath the Ice (13 page)

“They’re faster on the coast. Katabatic
winds have been measured close to two hundred miles an hour.
Hurricane speed. We’ve got it easy, really.”

“Doesn’t feel easy,” Larimore said.

Perry glanced out the tear that was their
door and noticed more light. The wind had picked up shards of ice
and snow, creating a whiteout condition, but now Perry could see
more.

“Listen,” he said.

“To what?” Larimore asked.

“The wind is quieter.” He turned to Griffin.
“Is this just a lull in the storm, or should we be thinking about
heading home?”

Griffin listened. “You’re asking my
advice?”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Griffin seemed pleased. “It’s too early to
tell, but the wind can leave as quickly as it came.”

“Give us a bottom line, Dr. James. Go or
no-go.”

“I say give it another thirty minutes. If it
continues to drop, then go. I just suggest we go fast when we
do.”

“Roger that,” Larimore said with near
glee.

Perry felt thankful. The waiting was over.
It was time to do something. The question was, would someone try to
stop him?

Chapter
10

Tia sat in the
passenger seat
of the Toyota Land Cruiser as it
bounced down the road from the Carlos Ibanez de Campo International
Airport toward Punta Arenas. The flight had been long enough that
she felt fully rested despite the lateness of the hour. It had also
been long enough to make her glad to be free of the confines of the
Learjet. Two men sat in the seat behind her. Another Land Cruiser
followed a few yards behind.

“Would you like
refreshment,
Señorita?”
Oscar, the driver, asked, his accent thick. “Your
trip has been long.” The driver was younger than thirty but looked
older. Eric had told her he was a supervisor at one of the copper
mines in the country.

“We had plenty of refreshments on the plane,
Oscar,” Tia replied. Her eyes traced the dim road ahead. They had
flown far enough south that the sun barely set beyond the horizon.
The twilight was confusing, her internal clock telling her it must
be close to midnight. To her left she saw the dark blue stretch of
water called the Strait of Magellan.

“I know a place not far from here where the
beer is good.” He paused and ran a hand through dark hair that
already showed touches of gray. His features were Spanish, but some
sharp edges around the face told Tia that some Native American
blood coursed through his veins. “I think of the men—a chance to
stretch their legs before checking in at the hotel.”

Tia turned to the two
companions who rode silently in the back. One raised an eyebrow but
offered no words. They were due to check in at the hotel and spend
half of the next day touring the
copper
mine, waiting for final preparations to be made for the next leg of
their journey. She had no interest in seeing the gaping hole in the
ground, but it was necessary to keep up appearances. Covertness
came with a price.

Turning back to the road ahead, she gave it
another moment’s thought. She had no desire to sit in a hotel room.
She nodded. “Beer it is.”

Oscar grinned broadly. Tia was certain he
was thinking of more than just the men.

The cantina was off a back
street in the north part of town. They passed through an industrial
area, past a few small shops, and pulled onto a gravel parking lot,
where a lone clapboard building stood. A hand-lettered sign
identified the establishment as
Sebastian’s
. Yellow paint peeled
from the wood, and the shingle roof looked in need of repair. The
blue water behind it gave it the kind of quality landscape painters
loved to capture in oils.

“It is not much to the
eyes, but the
cerveza
is the best in all of Magallanes.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Tia
said. Her five travel companions poured out of the vehicles,
stretched, and made their way to the door which hung awkwardly on
its hinges. Tia followed and entered last, except for Oscar, who
stood to one side and waved her in with a gallant motion.

The inside of Sebastian’s was little better
than the exterior. Abused wood tables, some leaning precipitously,
dotted the dirt-caked wood floor. Tobacco smoke filled the air,
stinging Tia’s eyes and chewing at her throat.

The driver stepped to her side. “Many of the
miners come here. For many, here is better than home.”

The rocky tables, worn booths, and long,
scarred bar were filled with men. Dirt clung to their clothing and
sweat to their skin. Outside, the air was cold. Punta Arenas’s
average temperature was a mere forty-four degrees, much colder when
winter arrived. Two hundred inches of precipitation fell every
year, mostly snow. Inside, the bodies of patrons and an overworked
heater had raised the temperature beyond the level of comfort.

When Tia first entered, the bar was
reverberating with Spanish rock music and the cacophonous hum of
forty simultaneous conversations. The sight of seven men entering
dulled the roar—and Tia’s presence quenched it.

Most of the patrons were male, but a few
provocatively dressed women were scattered around the room. Tia was
sure their trade had nothing to do with mining, manufacturing, or
anything similar.

Tia stood out. Her height and waist-length
black hair made her irresistible to the eyes of many men. She had
grown used to it. Men had been undressing her with their eyes since
high school. It had ceased to bother her. The five men with her and
the two drivers moved to the battered bar, and Oscar ordered beer
for everyone in his charge.

Tia stood next to Oscar at the bar. “You
come here often?” she asked and wondered why anyone would.

“On
Sábado,”
he said. “Saturday nights.
It is the only day I can leave the work at the mine.”

It was Saturday; apparently Oscar did not
want to waste his one free night. The bartender, a pudgy man with
dark skin, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin, and a shiny bald
head, set a chipped glass of beer before Tia. She eyed it then took
the mug in hand.

A man sidled up to her and said something in
Spanish. Tia set down her beer and turned. “Excuse me?”

“Americano?”
the man asked. He tapped the small glass in his
right hand on the marred bar top. The bartender pulled a bottle of
tequila from beneath the bar and filled the man’s glass. She judged
him to be in his early twenties, and he stood as tall as she.
Muscles bulged beneath his worn beige shirt. She was certain they
were formed by hard work and not membership in a gym. His breath
was sour from bad gums and alcohol. Tia decided she didn’t like the
man.

“I’m from America,” Tia said. “What of
it?”

“Please,
amigo,”
Oscar said,
“this is a private party.”

“Too good for us?” the man asked.

“No—” Oscar began.

“Yes,” Tia interjected and turned her back
on the man. She caught sight of her crew, each one smiling but not
making eye contact.

“That’s a pretty tattoo,” the interloper
said. “It is some kind of dragon, no?”

“Yes. Now go away.”

“I go where I wish to go,
pretty
Americano.”
He raised his voice. “Eh,
amigos?”
The others in the bar
cheered in agreement.

Tia looked at Oscar, whose
face had gone white and his eyes doubled in size. She knew what he
was thinking, that he had led his employer’s representative into a
dangerous situation.
“Amigo,”
he said, “please let us drink our beer in peace.
We don’t want trouble.”

“I don’t want no trouble, either,” the
thick-armed man said. He leaned forward and sniffed Tia’s neck. “I
want something else.”

“Please,” Oscar said, his voice shaking. “Do
not do this. You do not understand.”

“I understand enough.” He reached forward
and gently stroked the dragon tattoo on Tia’s hand. “Such a pretty
tattoo for such a pretty lady.”

“Do you use that hand?” Tia asked.

“For many things,” he cooed. He sniffed her
neck again. Two of her crew pushed away from the bar, but she shook
her head. They returned to their previous position, their eyes
fixed on the drunk man. “Would you like to see what I can do with
this pretty hand?”

Tia’s movement was so
swift the man could not have respond
ed if
he had been sober. She grabbed the man’s fingers and squeezed like
a vise. Before he could release a cry of pain, she slammed his hand
to the bar, raised her mug, and then brought it down like a mallet,
its edge digging into the man’s flesh. She heard the bones in his
hand snap.

Then came the scream of pain. Spanish began
to flow from his lips in what Tia assumed were curses, but she
didn’t try to translate. Instead, she spun, her arm outstretched,
the glass mug still in her hand. It struck the man hard on the
cheekbone. The cursing stopped, and he dropped to the floor. He
shuddered and shook as blood ran from his nose and the gash on the
side of his head.

Another man sprang from a nearby table and
charged Tia, but she saw him coming. A quick side step, and her
extended foot sent the would-be assailant to the ground. Tia
shattered the mug on the back of his head. The man did not
move.

Hearing a sound behind her, she spun to see
the bartender pull a baseball bat from somewhere beneath the
counter. He took one step, then his direction changed. One of her
team had seized the barkeep by the front of his shirt and dragged
him over the counter. One punch later, he became the third man on
the floor.

The men in the bar shot to their feet as if
choreographed but stopped before they could take a step, their eyes
fixed on Tia’s five-member crew. All five had pulled identical
nine-millimeter pistols from beneath their coats. Five guns were
pointed at the heads of various patrons. Only the rock-and-roll
song could be heard.

Tia looked down at her hand, which still
held the handle of the shattered mug. “A waste of beer if you ask
me.” She tossed the glass handle and walked to the unconscious
bartender. She studied him for a moment then reached into the back
pocket of her jeans and removed a thin billfold. She extracted an
American hundred-dollar bill and tucked it into the bartender’s
shirt. “Perhaps we should call it a night, gentlemen.”

She walked to the door, patrons parting
before her like water before the prow of a ship.

The wind had settled some, but it was unwilling to
release its grip on the flat expanse of ice. Perry leaned forward
over the steering bars of the snowmobile, trying to lower the
profile of his body and present less surface for the wind to press
against. Perry could feel Griffin mimicking the position behind
him. A glance at the other snowmobile showed Jack and Larimore
doing the same thing.

The cold was bitter and angry. The moist air
left Perry’s lungs and froze against the stubble on his face.
Breathing was difficult as the wind slapped around his parka’s
hood. His jaw hurt from chattering, and his body protested the odd
position, but Perry pushed on. He had no choice.

The realization that one of the remaining
eight could be a saboteur gave him a different kind of chill. He
corrected himself. Not eight. He could vouch for Jack, Gleason, Dr.
Curtis, and, of course, himself. That reduced the number of
suspects to four: Larimore, Griffin, Gwen, and Sarah. Not one was a
likely candidate. Larimore had lost six of his own men. Griffin
might have some hidden motivation, but the scientist didn’t seem
the kind to resort to mass murder. Gwen and Sarah seemed even less
likely. Perhaps he was showing his male chauvinism. A woman could
make a bomb as easily as a man. He strained his memory to recall
any news story about a female bomber. While he may have seen one,
none came to his mind.

Perhaps it had been a suicide bombing. Such
things were no longer rare. The Middle East, Europe, and other
countries had their share. And who could forget the airliners
crashing into the Trade Towers on September 11 just a handful of
years before?

Maybe it had been an accident. After all,
they were ill equipped to judge what caused the explosion. Perry
certainly wasn’t skilled in evaluating aircraft accidents. Perhaps
something on board had exploded because of some unfortunate
circumstance. He hoped that was the case. He doubted it was.

The thoughts boiled in
Perry’s brain. If one of the remaining eight were a saboteur, then
he was facing the most dangerous situation in his life. There were
no police to call, no security detail to ease his mind. He and the
others would be sleeping with a terrorist. An icicle ran through
Perry’s mind.
Or terrorists.
The deed could just as easily have been done by
more than one person.

Perry consulted the GPS monitor mounted on
the snowmobile. Fifteen miles to go, a short distance in most
circumstances. Today, it seemed half a world away.

Perry wondered what he would find when, Lord
willing, they pulled up at the Dome.

Chapter
11

The snowmobile’s motor
sputtered
to a stop in the equipment bay
where Perry had found it the day before. The bay seemed warm, but
Perry knew it was just the absence of the chilling wind, a wind he
had been facing for too long. He was breathing hard, his joints
ached, and his muscles burned.