Free The Silent Sea by Clive with Jack Du Brul Cussler Page B

But in his private moments, Major Jorge Espinoza admitted to himself that there were orders he preferred over others. He’d enjoyed slaughtering villagers a lot more than spending a week chest-deep in a leech-filled swamp.
    His was a military family that had served Argentina for four generations. His father had been a Colonel in Intelligence during the glory days when the Generals ran the country. He had regaled his sons with stories about what they did to enemies of the state, of helicopter flights laden with bound dissidents over the icy South Atlantic. They made a game of heaving them though the open door from a thousand feet. The object was to throw the second man onto the frothing splash of the first, and so on with the rest of the prisoners.
    It was the psychopath’s version of ring toss, but Jorge never saw it that way.
    He had been too young to see action when the British retook the Islas Malvinas, but had been trained by combat veterans and had been an exemplary soldier ever since. When the Ninth Brigade was formed after General Corazón led the charge against the weak former President, Jorge Espinoza had been one of the first to volunteer. His training was no easier than that of the younger enlisted men he now commanded, and for that he had forever gained their loyalty.
    He was now the deputy commander of the entire brigade under General Philippe Espinoza, his father, who had come out of retirement for the position. Any rumors of nepotism were silenced by the sheer ruthlessness and efficiency with which the younger Espinoza carried out his duties.
    And he was a commander who liked to lead from the front. Which was why he was here, deep in the Amazonian region of his country, talking to lumberjacks about something they had seen crash near their work site. The wreckage they had shown him certainly looked like part of the American rocket. It was made of lightweight aluminum, carefully riveted so not the slightest imperfection showed on its surface. The edges were torn as if by an explosion, and there were score marks on the white paint.
    The junta saw the recovery of any piece of the rocket as potential to embarrass the United States. They didn’t know what the payload had been. NASA claimed a weather satellite, but the Generals in charge couldn’t ignore the chance that its purpose was espionage.
    “We think another piece landed on the far side of the mountain,” the lumber foreman said, pointing to the half-denuded hill behind them. He was nervous around so many maroon berets but had felt it his duty to call in the military. “It is past where you see those men logging on the hill. Some of them wanted to go find it, but I pay them to cut timber, not explore. It was bad enough they wasted an hour digging this one out of the mud.”
    Espinoza glanced at his aide, Lieutenant Raul Jimenez. Unlike the Major, who had light brown hair and blue eyes from his paternal grandmother, Jimenez maintained the Gypsy dark looks of his Basque ancestors. The two men had worked and trained together for nearly their entire careers. The difference in rank wasn’t because of differing abilities but because Jimenez refused to leave his friend’s side for a command of his own.
    They needn’t exchange a word to know what the other was thinking.
    “Round up as many men as you can in fifteen minutes,” Jimenez commanded. He had a drill instructor’s voice that demanded action. “We will form a skirmish line and make our way up the mountain until we find what the Yanquis lost in the jungle.”
    The only sign that the logging company foreman was upset by the order was that he scratched under his filthy hard hat before nodding. “Anything for the Ninth Brigade.”
    The civilians moved off to roust their men, leaving Espinoza alone with his adjutant. Both men lit cigarillos, sharing a single wind-resistant match. “What do you think, Jefe ?” Jimenez asked, exhaling a cloud of smoke that mingled with the pall already hanging over