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“So he’s not in a big hurry.” Like the Oregon, the Portland could easily double that velocity. Juan traced the path. “That puts him on course for either the Falkland Islands or Cape Horn.” He did the math in his head. “At our current speed, we won’t catch up to him until we get to Tierra del Fuego.”
“If he doesn’t change course,” Max said. “This tracking method is not very precise, so it might take time for me to see if he turned.”
“It’s far better than anything we’ve had up until now. We finally have an advantage over Tate.” Juan had a sudden thought. “If we can track him, then he can track us, can’t he?”
Max shook his head slowly and cocked it at Juan. “That’s very unlikely. Because you’re forgetting one thing, my good man.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not on the Portland.”
51
PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE
Even though it was summer, Rashonda Jefferson wore a ski cap over her tight ebony curls and a peacoat to ward off the brisk wind that swept across the Strait of Magellan, the narrow channel of water between mainland South America and the island of Tierra del Fuego that served as the main shipping route between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Although she was originally from Atlanta, Jefferson had spent most of her adult life at sea, first with the Navy and now with NUMA. She preferred missions in tropical waters, not at the frigid ends of the earth. Not that she’d ever let her crew know that. As the master of her ship, the Deepwater, she had to be willing to endure any conditions they did without complaint.
Still, she was eager to get back inside after spending the entire day overseeing the loading of supplies for the upcoming mission. At three hundred twenty feet long, the aqua blue NUMA ship was small enough to maneuver close to shore while big enough to provide amenities to her crew of fifty-three that made life on board comfortable. Jefferson impatiently leaned on the deck railing and drummed her fingers, looking out over the busy port that served the city of over one hundred thousand, and wondered where her navigation pilot was.
The scientific equipment needed for their mission had arrived a day early, so they were ahead of schedule. But because the waters in the area were so unpredictable and the quarters so tight, Chile required all ships traversing the strait to carry a local pilot knowledgeable about the region.
This time of year, there was high demand for pilots, so she supposed she was lucky she got one at all. She counted a cruise liner, two icebreakers, and four Antarctic supply vessels among the ships in the harbor. And that didn’t account for the ships in transit through the strait. Of course, freighters and cruise ships could go around Cape Horn without a pilot, but the sea was so treacherous outside the protection of the islands that most of them took the calmer path through the strait.
A Land Rover drove up and screeched to a stop beside the ship. A young woman hopped out and pulled a duffel bag from the backseat. She hustled up the gangway, a long, dark ponytail swinging behind her. Even from this distance, Jefferson could see that she was fit and pretty, which was sure to be noticed by the mostly male crew.
Jefferson met her at the top of the gangway and stuck out her hand. “Rashonda Jefferson. Welcome to the Deepwater.”
The woman took her hand in a strong grip. “Amelia Vargas. Nice to meet you, Captain. Sorry I’m late.” Her Spanish accent was noticeable, but her English seemed fluent.
“I’m just glad you made it,” Jefferson said. “I’m hoping to get out of port today. We’ll go to the bridge first to brief you on the route I’d like to take, and then I’ll have my executive officer show you to your quarters.”
“I would be happy to do that.” They began walking to the superstructure perched near the bow of the ship, right behind the helicopter pad that extended over the prow. The arrangement left plenty of room at the stern of the ship for cranes, sensor equipment, and the tender used for shore excursions in the remote locations they’d be accessing.
“You have a fine ship,” Vargas said.
The pilot looked even younger close up, like she was barely out of her teens.
“Thanks,” Jefferson replied. “I didn’t get much information about you when you were assigned to us. How long have you been a pilot?”
Vargas smiled. “I know, I look very young. But I’ve been a pilot for four years now, and that was after three years with the Coast Guard.”
“So you know the area well?”
/> “Very. I was born and raised in Punta Arenas. My father owned a fishing boat and took me with him all summer long since I was little. I think I’ve seen every inlet from here to Valparaiso. You are in good hands.”
“I hope so,” Jefferson said, impressed by the woman’s confidence. “We’re going to be traveling into some very tricky waters.”
“I like a challenge,” Vargas said.
They entered the bridge, and Jefferson introduced Vargas to the crew. She pulled up the map of the vast archipelago that stretched hundreds of miles to the north and west along the Chilean coast.
“Do you know anything about this research mission?” Jefferson asked.
“You’re tracking whale migration patterns in the Alacalufes National Reserve, I believe.”
“Right. Primarily humpback and blue whales. We’ll be placing passive sonobuoys along many of the channels between the islands to trace their movements. We’re also going to be installing webcams at penguin rookeries at seven locations.” The spots were lit up in red. “Each will have a satellite linkup and will be solar-powered. The camera will be uploading video in real time, and we’ll be recording it to count the penguin population in those areas. We’ll have to anchor at each location and send our boat to shore.”
“I hope you have a long anchor chain,” Vargas said. “The water can be over three hundred meters deep in places.” She leaned down and ran her finger from point to point, then shook her head.
