Evans said, "So these numbers are latitude and longitude in a different form?"
"Correct. A military form." Kenner ran his finger down the page. "It appears to be several alternate sets of four locations. But in every instance the first and last locations are the same. For whatever reason..." He frowned, and stared off into space.
"Is that bad?" Sarah said.
"I'm not sure," Kenner said. "But it might be, yes." He looked at Sanjong.
Sanjong nodded gravely. "What is today?" he said.
"Tuesday."
"Then...time is very short."
Kenner said, "Sarah, we're going to need George's plane. How many pilots does he have?"
"Two, usually."
"We'll need at least four. How soon can you get them?"
"I don't know. Where do you want to go?" she said.
"Chile."
"Chile! And leave when?"
"As soon as possible. Not later than midnight."
"It'll take me some time to arrange--"
"Then get started now," Kenner said. "Time is short, Sarah. Very short."
Evans watched Sarah go out of the room. He turned back to Kenner. "Okay," he said. "I give up. What's in Chile?"
"A suitable airfield, I presume. With adequate jet fuel." Kenner snapped his fingers. "Good point, Peter. Sarah," he called into the next room, "what kind of a plane is it?"
"G-five!" she called back.
Kenner turned to Sanjong Thapa, who had taken out a small handheld computer and was tapping away at it. "Are you connected to Akamai?"
"Yes."
"Was I right?"
"I've only checked the first location so far," Sanjong said. "But yes. We need to go to Chile."
"Then Terror is Terror?" Kenner said.
"I think so, yes."
Evans looked from one man to the other. "Terror is Terror?" he said, puzzled.
"That's right," Kenner said.
Sanjong said, "You know, Peter's got a point."
Evans said, "Are you guys ever going to tell me what's going on?"
"Yes," Kenner said. "But first, you have your passport?"
"I always carry it."
"Good man." Kenner turned back to Sanjong. "What point?"
"It's UTM, Professor. It's a six-degree grid."
"Of course!" Kenner said, snapping his fingers again. "What's the matter with me?"
"I give up," Evans said. "What's the matter with you?"
But Kenner didn't answer; he now seemed almost hyperactive, his fingers twitching nervously as he picked up the remote control from the table beside Peter and peered at it closely, turning it in the light. Finally, he spoke.
"A six-degree grid," Kenner said, "means that these locations are only accurate to a thousand meters. Roughly half a mile. That's simply not good enough."
"Why? How accurate should it be?"
"Three meters," Sanjong said. "About ten feet."
"Assuming they are using PPS," Kenner said, still squinting at the remote control. "In which case...Ah. I thought so. It's the oldest trick in the book."
He pulled the entire back of the remote off, exposing the circuit board. He lifted that away to reveal a second folded sheet of paper. It was thin, hardly more than tissue paper. It contained rows of numbers and symbols.
-2147483640,8,0*xdeg%AgKA__^O#_QA__cA
-2147483640,8,0%hdeg a#KA_O,__@BA__cA
-2147483640,8,0a'>>^$PNA_N__exFA__cA!aaaaaU?___yyy__A
-2147483640,8,0oW>>1/4_OA odegq_lMA__cA
-2147483640,8,0%0ae/N_LAoo_8_OPA__cA
-2147483640,8,0*xdeg%AgKA__^O#_QA__cA
-2147483640,8,0%hdeg a#KA_O,__@BA__cA
-2147483640,8,0oW>>1/4_OA odegq_lMA__cA
-2147483640,8,0e{>>l_'OAadegdeg"d,LA__cA!aaaaaU?___yy
-2147483640,8,0%0ae/N_LAoo_8_OPA__cA
-2147483640,8,0*xdeg%AgKA__^O#_QA__cA
-2147483640,8,0%hdeg a#KA_O,__@BA__cA
-2147483640,8,0oW>>1/4_OA odegq_lMA__cA
-2147483640,8,0e{>>l_'OAadegdeg"d,LA__cA!aaaaaU?___yyy
-2147483640,8,0%0ae/N_LAoo_8_OPA__cA
"All right," Kenner said. "This is more like it."
"And these are?" Evans said.
"True coordinates. Presumably for the same locations."
"Terror is Terror?" Evans said. He was starting to feel foolish.
Kenner said, "Yes. We're talking about Mount Terror, Peter. An inactive volcano. You have heard of it?"
"No."
"Well, we're going there."
"Where is it?"
"I thought you'd have guessed that by now," Kenner said. "It's in Antarctica, Peter."
II
TERROR
TO PUNTA ARENAS
TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5
9:44 P. M.
Van Nuys Airport sank beneath them. The jet turned south, crossing the flat, glowing expanse of the Los Angeles Basin. The flight attendant brought Evans coffee. On the little screen, it said 6,204 miles to destination. Flying time was nearly twelve hours.
The flight attendant asked them if they wanted dinner, and went off to prepare it.
"All right," Evans said. "Three hours ago, I'm coming to help Sarah deal with a robbery. Now I'm flying to Antarctica. Isn't it time somebody told me what this is about?"
Kenner nodded. "Have you heard of the Environmental Liberation Front? ELF?"
"No," Evans said, shaking his head.