"My fault, General. I took the liberty of trimming the outer perimeters and enlarging the immediate search area before having it computer-enhanced."
Dodge's stern expression softened and he nodded approvingly.
"Good thinking, Lieutenant."
Jones gave a short sigh and quickly clipped the newest satellite image on a long wallboard under a row of hooded spotlights. An earlier image hung nearby, showing the Lady Flamborough's last known position circled in red, her previous course marked in green, and predicted course in orange.
Jones stepped back as General Dodge and his officers crowded around the image, peering anxiously for the tiny dot indicating the cruise ship.
"The last satellite sighting put the ship about one hundred kilometers south of Cape Horn," said a major, tracing the course from the previous chart. "She should be well out into Drake's Passage by now, approaching the islands off the Antarctic peninsula."
After nearly a full minute of appraisal, General Dodge turned to Jones.
"Did you study the photo, Lieutenant?"
"No, sir. I didn't take the time. I rushed it over as quickly as possible."
"You're certain this is the latest transmission?"
Jones looked puzzled. "Yes, sir."
"No mistake?"
"None," Jones replied unhesitatingly. "The NUMA Seasat satellite recorded the area with digital electronic impulses that were sent to ground stations instantaneously. You're seeing an image no more than six minutes old."
"When will the next photo come in?"
"The Landsat should orbit the region in forty minutes."
"And the Casper?"
Jones glanced at his watch. "If she returns on schedule, we should be looking at film in four hours."
"Get it to me the instant it arrives."
"Yes, sir. "
Dodge turned to his subordinates. "Well, gentlemen, the White House ain't going to like this."
He went over and picked up a phone. "Put me through to Alan Merger."
The National Security Adviser's voice came over the line within twenty seconds. "I hope you've got some good news, Frarik.
"Sorry, no," Dodge answered flatly. "It appears the cruise ship-"
"She sank?" Mercier cut him off.
"We can't say with any certainty."
"What are you saying?"
Dodge took a breath. "Please inform the President the Lady Flamborough has vanished again."
By the early 1990s equipment for sending photographs or graphics around the world by nucrowave via satellite or across town by fiber optics became as common in business and government offices as copy machines.
Scanned by laser and then transmitted to a laser receiver, the image could be reproduced almost instantly in living color with extraordinary detail.
So it was that within ten minutes of General Dodge's call, the President and Dale Nichols were hunched over the desk in the Oval Office scrutinizing the Seasat image of waters off the tip of South America.
"She may really be on the bottom this time," said Nichols. He felt tired and confused.
"I don't believe it," the President said, his face a mask of repressed fury. "The hijackers had their chance to destroy the ship off Punta del Este and make a clean getaway on the General Bravo. Why sink her now?"
"Escape by submarine is a possibility."
The President seemed not to hear. "Our inability to deal with this crisis is frightening. Our whole response seems mired in inertia."
"We were caught unprepared and unequipped," Nichols offered lamely.
"An event that occurs too frequently around here," the President muttered. He looked up, fire in his eyes. "I refuse to write those people off. I owe George Pitt. Without his support, I wouldn't be sitting in the Oval Office." He paused for effect. "We're not going to snap at a red herring again."
Sid Green was scrutinizing the satellite images too. A photo-intelligence specialist with the National Security Agency at its headquarters in Fort Meyer, he had projected the last two satellite pictures on one screen. Intrigued, he ignored the most recent photo, the one that failed to reveal the ship, and concentrated on the earlier one. He zoomed in on the tiny blip that represented the Lady Flamborough with a computerized lens.
The outline was fuzzy, too indistinct to make out little more than the ship's profile. He turned to the computer at his left and entered a series of instructions. A few details that were hidden to his eye became apparent now. He could discern the funnel and shape of the superstructure and blurred sections of the upper decks.
He played with the computer keyboard, trying to sharpen the cruise ship's features. He spent nearly an hour at it before he finally sat back, put his arms behind his head and rested his eyes.
The door to the darkened room opened and Green's supervisor, Vic Patton, entered. He stood behind Green for a moment looking at the projections.
"It's like trying to read a newspaper on the street from the roof of the World Trade Center," he observed.
Green spoke without turning. "A 70-by-130 kilometer swath doesn't offer us much resolution, even after enlarged enhancement."
"any sign of the ship on the last linage?"
"Not a hint."
"Too bad we can't drop our KH spy birds that low."
"A KH-15 might get a picture."
"The situation in the Middle East is heating up again. I can't pull one out of orbit until the dust settles."
"Then send in a Casper."
"One is on the way," said Patton. "You should be reading the color of the hijackers' eyes by lunch."
Green motioned at the computer lens. "Take a look and tell me if something looks out of place."
Patton pressed his face against the rubber eyepiece and peered at the speck that was the Lady Flamborough. "Too damned blurred to discern incidentals. What am I missing?"
"Check the bow section."
"How can you tell the back from the front?"
"By the wake behind the stern," Green answered patiently.
Okay, I've got it. The deck behind the bow looks obscured, almost as if it was covered."
"You will first prize at the fair," said Green.
"What are they up to?" Patton mused.
"We'll know when the film from the Casper comes in."
On board the C-140, now cruising over Bolivia, there was an atmosphere of bitter disappointment. The photo minus the cruise ship came over the aircraft's laser receiver and caused as much agitation inside the cramped command center as in Washington's power circles.
"Where in hell did it go?" Hollis demanded.
Dillenger could only mutter blankly, "She can't be gone."
"Well, she sure is. See for yourself."
"I did. I can't spot her any more than you can."
"This makes three times in a row we've been shut out at the gate by bad information, lousy weather or equipment breakdown. Now our target ups and plays hide-and-seek."
"She must have sunk," munfoled Dillenger. "I don't see any other explanation."
"I can't see forty hijackers all agreeing on a suicide pact."
"What now?"
"Beyond requesting instructions from Readiness Command, I see little else I can do."
"Shall we abort the misssion?" asked Dillenger.
"Not unless we're ordered to turn back."
"So we keep going."
Hollis nodded dejectedly. "We fly south until ordered otherwise."
The last to know was Pitt. He was sleeping like the dead when Rudi Gunn entered his cabin and shook him awake.
"Come alive," said Gunn briskly. "We've got a big problem."
Pitt popped his eyes open and checked the dial of his watch. "Did we get a speeding ticket coming into Punta Arenas?"
Gunn looked at Pitt in weary despair. Anyone who awoke from a sound sleep in a cheerful mood and instantly made bad jokes had to have come from a broken branch of evolution.
"The ship won't enter the harbor for another hour yet."
"Good, I can doze a while longer."
"Get serious!" Gunn said bluntly. "The latest satellite photo just rolled out of the ship's receiver. The Lady Flamborough has gone missing for the second time."