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The transponder signal Herbert Rowland had detected led them across the snow to a narrow inlet where freezing ocean licked icy shore, a place where seals and birds had congregated for summer. The signal's strength compelled a firsthand inspection. So he'd suited up, Sayers and Rowland helping him don his gear. His orders were clear. Only he went into the water.
He checked his depth. Forty feet.
Impossible to know how far down to the bottom but he was hoping he could at least catch sight of something, enough to confirm the sub's fate. Rowland had told him that the source lay farther inland, toward the mountains that rose from the shoreline.
He kicked through the water.
A wall of black volcanic rock peppered with a dazzling array of orange anemones, sponges, pink staghorns, and yellow-green mollusks rose to his left. But for the fact the water was twenty-eight degrees he could have been on a coral reef. Light dimmed overhead in the frozen ceiling, and what had just appeared as a cloudy sky, in varying shades of blue, steadily went black.
The ice above had apparently been replaced with rock.
He unclipped a light from his belt and switched it on. Little plankton floated around him. He saw no sediment. He shone his light and the beam seemed invisible, as there was nothing to backscatter the photons. They simply hung in the water, revealing themselves only when they struck something.
Like a seal, which shot past, barely flexing a muscle.
More seals appeared.
He heard their trilling call and even felt it in his body, as if he were being sonar-pinged. What an assignment. An opportunity to prove himself to men who could literally make his career. That's why he'd instantly volunteered. He'd also personally chosen Sayers and Rowland, two men he knew could be depended on. Rowland had said the signal source was maybe two hundred yards south. No more. He estimated that he'd swum at least that far. He searched the depths with light that penetrated maybe fifty feet. He was hoping to spot NR-1A's orange conning tower rising from the bottom.
He seemed to be floating in a massive underwater cavern that opened directly into the Antarctic continent, volcanic rock now encircling him.
His gaze searched. Nothing. Just water dissolving into blackness.
Yet the signal was here.
He decided to explore a hundred more yards.
Another seal rocketed past, then one more. Ahead of him, their ballet was entrancing. He watched as they glided with no effort. One of them whirled in a broad somersault, then beat a hasty retreat upward.
He followed with his light.
The animal disappeared.
A second seal flicked its fins and ascended.
It, too, broke through the surface.
How was that possible?
Only rock should be above him.
"Amazing," Dyals said. "What an adventure."
Ramsey agreed. "My lips felt like I'd been kissing frozen metal when I surfaced."
The admiral chuckled. "I would have loved to have done what you did."
"The adventure's not over, Admiral."
Dread punctuated his words and the old man now understood that the visit contained a dual purpose.
"Tell me."
He recounted the Magellan Billet's breach of NR-1A's investigative file. Cotton Malone's involvement. His successful effort to retrieve the file. And White House access into the personnel records of Zachary Alexander, Herbert Rowland, and Nick Sayers. He omitted only what Charlie Smith was handling.
"Someone's looking," he said.
"It was only a matter of time," Dyals said in a whisper. "Secrets seem so hard to keep anymore."
"I can stop it," he declared.
The old man's eyes narrowed. "Then you must."
"I've taken measures. But you ordered, long ago, that he would be left alone."
No name was needed. The he was known between them.
"So you've come to see if that order still stands?"
He nodded. "To be complete he must also be included."
"I can't order you any longer."
"You're the only man I willingly obey. When we disbanded thirty-eight years ago, you gave an order. Leave him alone."
"Is he still alive?" Dyals asked.
He nodded. "Sixty-eight years old. Lives in Tennessee. Teaches at a college."
"Still spouting the same nonsense?"
"Nothing has changed."
"And the other two lieutenants who were there with you?"
He said nothing. He didn't have to.
"You've been busy," the admiral said.
"I was taught well."
Dyals continued to stroke the cat. "We took a chance in '71. True, Malone's crew agreed to the conditions before they left, but we didn't have to hold them to it. We could have looked for them. I've always wondered if I did the right thing."
"You did."
"How can you be so sure?"
"The times were different. That sub was our most secret weapon. There's no way we could have revealed its existence, much less that it sank. How long would it have been before the Soviets found the wreckage? And there was the matter of NR-1. It was on missions then, and it's still sailing today. No question-you did the right thing."
"You believe the president is trying to learn what happened?"
"No. It's a few rungs lower on the ladder, but the man has Daniels' ear."
"And you think all this might destroy your chances at nomination?" "Without a doubt."
No need for him to add the obvious. And also destroy your reputation.
"Then I rescind the order. Do as you see fit."
FORTY-ONE
AACHEN, 9:50 PM
MALONE SAT ON THE FLOOR IN A TIGHT EMPTY ROOM THAT opened off the upper gallery. He and Christl had taken refuge inside after avoiding the tour group. He'd watched through a one-inch space beneath the door as lights inside the chapel were dimmed and doors banged shut for the night. That had been over two hours ago and there'd been no sounds since, except the hushed murmur of the Christmas market leaking in through the room's solitary window and a faint whistle of the wind that ravaged the exterior walls.
"It's strange in here," Christl whispered. "So quiet."
"We need time to study this place without interruptions." He was also hoping that their disappearance would confuse Hatchet Face.
"How long do we wait?" she asked.
"Things need to settle down outside. You never know, there still could be visitors inside before the night is finished." He decided to take advantage of their solitude. "I need to know some things."
In the greenish light from the exterior floodlights he saw her face brighten. "I was wondering when you'd ask."
"The Holy Ones. What makes you think they're real?"
She seemed surprised by his inquiry, as if she'd expected something else. More personal. But she kept her composure and said, "Have you ever heard of the Piri Reis map?"
