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TWO
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
9:10 AM
ADMIRAL LANGFORD C. RAMSEY LOVED SPEAKING TO CROWDS. He'd first realized that he enjoyed the experience while at the Naval Academy and, over a career that now spanned forty-plus years, he'd constantly sought ways to feed his desire. He was speaking today to the national gathering of Kiwanians-a bit unusual for the head of naval intelligence. His was a clandestine world of fact, rumor, and speculation, an occasional appearance before Congress the extent of his public speaking. But lately, with the blessing of his superiors, he'd made himself more available. No charge, no expenses, no press restrictions. The larger the crowd the better.
And there'd been many takers.
This was his eighth appearance in the last month.
"I came today to tell you about something I'm sure you know little about. It's been a secret for a long time. America's smallest nuclear submarine." He stared out at the attentive crowd. "Now, you're saying to yourself, Is he nuts? The head of naval intelligence is going to tell us about an ultrasecret submarine?"
He nodded.
"That's exactly what I plan to do."
"Captain, there's a problem," the helmsman said.
Ramsey was dozing in and out of a light sleep behind the planesman's chair. The sub's captain, who sat next to him, roused himself and focused on the video monitors.
Every external camera displayed mines.
"Jesus, mother of God," the captain muttered. "All stop. Don't move this thing an inch."
The pilot obeyed the command and punched a sequence of switches. Ramsey may have been only a lieutenant, but he knew explosives became ultrasensitive when immersed in salt water for long periods. They were cruising the Mediterranean Sea's floor, just off the French coast, surrounded by deadly remnants from World War II. A mere touch of the hull to one of the metallic spines and NR-1 would transform from top secret to totally forgotten.
The boat was the navy's most specialized weapon, the idea of Admiral Hyman Rickover, built in secret for a staggering one hundred million dollars. Only 145 feet long and 12 feet wide, with an eleven-man crew, the design was tiny by submarine standards, yet ingenious. Capable of diving to three thousand feet, the craft was powered by a one-of-a-kind nuclear reactor. Three viewing ports allowed external visual inspection. Exterior lighting supported television arrays. A mechanical claw could be used to recover items. A manipulator arm accommodated gripping and cutting tools. Unlike attack-class or missile boats, NR-1 was adorned with a bright orange sail, a flat superstructure deck, an awkward box keel, and numerous protuberances including two retractable Goodyear truck tires, filled with alcohol, that allowed it to drive along the seafloor.
"Downward thrusters online," the captain said.
Ramsey realized what his captain was doing. Keeping the hull firmly on the bottom. Good thing. There were too many mines on the TV screens to count.
"Prepare to blow main ballast," the captain said. "I want to rise straight up. No side-to-side."
The conn was quiet, which amplified the whine of turbines, whooshes of air, squeals of hydraulic fluid, and bleeps of electronics that, only a short while ago, had acted on him like a sedative.
"Nice and steady," the captain said. "Hold her still as we rise."
The pilot gripped the controls.
The boat had not been equipped with a steering wheel. Instead four sticks had been converted from fighter jets. Typical for NR-1. Though it was state-of the-art in power and concept, most of its equipment was Stone Age rather than Space Age. Food was prepared in a cheap imitation of an oven used on commercial planes. The manipulator arm was left over from another navy project. The navigation system, adapted from transatlantic airliners, barely worked underwater. Cramped crew quarters, a toilet that rarely did anything but clog, and only TV dinners, bought at a local supermarket before leaving port, to eat.
"We had no sonar contact on those things?" the captain asked. "Before they appeared?"
"Zero," one of the crew said. "They just materialized out of the darkness ahead of us."
Compressed air rushed into the main ballast tanks and the sub rose. The pilot kept both hands on the controls, ready to use thrusters to adjust their position.
They'd only need to rise a hundred feet or so to be clear.
"As you can see, we made it out of that minefield," Ramsey told the crowd. "That was the spring of 1971." He nodded. "That's right, a long time ago. I was one of the fortunate to have served on NR-1."
He saw the look of amazement on faces.
"Not many people know about the sub. It was built in the mid 1960s in total secrecy, hidden even from most admirals at the time. It came with a bewildering array of equipment and could dive three times deeper than any other vessel. It carried no name, no guns, no torpedoes, no official crew. Its missions were classified, and many remain so to this day. What's even more amazing, the boat is still around-now the navy's second oldest serving submersible, on active duty since 1969. Not as secret as it once was. Today it has both military and civilian uses. But when human eyes and ears are needed deep in the ocean, it's NR-1's mission to go. You remember all those stories about how America tapped into transatlantic telephone cables and listened in on the Soviets? That was NR-1. When an F-14 with an advanced Phoenix missile fell into the ocean in 1976, NR-1 recovered it before the Soviets could. After the Challenger disaster, it was NR-1 that located the solid rocket booster with the faulty O-ring."
Nothing grabbed an audience better than a story, and he had plenty from his time on that unique submersible. Far from a technological masterpiece, NR-1 had been plagued with malfunctions and was ultimately kept afloat simply because of its crew's ingenuity. Forget the manual-innovation was their motto. Nearly every officer who'd served aboard went on to higher command, himself included. He liked that he could now talk about NR-1, all part of the navy's plan to up recruitment by spouting success. Veterans, like him, could tell the tales, and people, like those now listening from their breakfast tables, would repeat his every word. The press, which he'd been told would be in attendance, would ensure even greater dissemination. Admiral Langford Ramsey, head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, in a speech before the national Kiwanians, told the audience…
He had a simple view of success.
It beat the hell out of failure.
He should have retired two years ago, but he was the highest-ranking man of color in the US military, and the first confirmed bachelor ever to rise to flag rank. He'd planned for so long, been so careful. He kept his face as steady as his voice, his brow untroubled, and his candid eyes soft and impassive. He'd charted his entire naval career with the precision of an undersea navigator. Nothing would be allowed to interfere, especially when his goal was in sight.
So he gazed out at the crowd and employed a confident voice, telling them more stories.
But one problem weighed on his mind.
A potential bump in the road.
Garmisch.
THREE
GARMISCH
MALONE STARED AT THE GUN AND KEPT HIS COMPOSURE. HE'D been a bit tough on Jessica. Apparently his guard had been down, too. He motioned with the envelope. "You want this? Just some Save the Mountain brochures I promised my Greenpeace chapter I'd post. We get extra credit for field trips."
The cable car continued to drop.
"Funny man," she said.
"I considered a career in stand-up comedy. Think it was a mistake?" Situations like this were precisely why he'd retired. Before taxes, an agent for the Magellan Billet made $72,300 a year. He cleared more than that as a bookseller, with none of the risks.
Or so he thought.
Time to think like he once had.
And play for a fumble.
"Who are you?" he asked.
She was short and squat, her hair some unflattering combination of brown and red. Maybe early thirties. She wore a blue wool coat and gold scarf. The man wore a crimson coat and seemed obedient. She motioned with
the gun and told her accomplice, "Take it."
Crimson Coat lurched forward and jerked the envelope away.
The woman momentarily glanced at the rocky crags flashing past the moisture-laden windows. Malone used that instant to sweep out his left arm and, with a balled fist, pop the gun's aim away.
She fired.
The report stung his ears and the bullet exploded through one of the windows.
Frigid air rushed in.
He slammed a fist into the man, knocking him back. He cupped the woman's chin in his gloved hand and banged her head into a window. Glass fractured into a spiderweb.
Her eyes closed and he shoved her to the floor.
Crimson Coat sprang to his feet and charged. Together they pounded into the far side of the car, then dropped to the damp floor. Malone rolled in an attempt to free himself from a throat grip. He heard a murmur from the woman and realized that soon he would have two to deal with again, one of them armed. He opened both palms and slapped his hands against the man's ears. Navy training had taught him about ears. One of the most sensitive body parts. The gloves were a problem, but on the third pop the man yelped in pain and released his grip.
Malone propelled his attacker off him with a leg thrust and leaped to his feet. But before he could react, Crimson Coat plunged an arm over Malone's shoulder, his throat again clamped tight, his face forced against one of the panes, freezing condensation chilling his cheek.
"Stay still," the man ordered.
Malone's right arm was wrenched at an awkward angle. He struggled to free himself but Crimson Coat was strong.
"I said stay still."
He decided, for the moment, to obey.
"Panya, are you all right?" Crimson Coat was apparently trying to draw the woman's attention.
Malone's face remained pressed to the glass, eyes facing ahead, toward where the car was descending.
"Panya?"
Malone spied one of the steel trestles, maybe fifty yards away, approaching fast. Then he realized that his left hand was jammed against what felt like a handle. They'd apparently ended their struggle against the door.
"Panya, answer me. Are you all right? Find the gun."
The pressure around his throat was intense, as was the lock on his arm. But Newton was right. For every action there was an opposite and equal reaction.
The spindly arms of the steel trestle were almost upon them. The car would pass close enough to reach out and touch the thing.
