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"I'll come to your office. Surely you feel safe there."
He did, but wondered, "What's this about?"
"A man named Charles C. Smith Jr. It's an alias, but that's what you call him."
He'd never heard anyone speak that name before. Hovey handled all payments, but they were issued to another name in a foreign bank, protected behind the National Security Act.
Yet Diane McCoy knew.
He checked the clock on his desk. 4:05 PM.
"Okay, come on over."
SEVENTY-SIX
MALONE SETTLED IN TO THE LC-130. THEY'D JUST COMPLETED A ten-hour flight from France to Cape Town, South Africa. A French military chopper had ferried them from Ossau to Cazau, Teste-de Buch, the nearest French military base, about 150 miles away. There a C-21A, the military version of a Learjet, had flown them just under Mach 1 across the Mediterranean and lengthwise down the African continent, with only two quick stops for refueling.
In Cape Town a fully fueled LC-130 Hercules, with two crews from the 109th Air Wing of the New York Air National Guard, sat waiting, engines revved. Malone realized that the ride in the Learjet was going to seem luxurious next to what he and his cohorts were about to experience on the twenty-seven hundred miles south to Antarctica, across storm-tossed ocean for all but the last seven hundred miles, which would be over solid ice.
Truly, a no-man's-land.
Their gear had been waiting on board. He knew the key word. Layers. And he knew the objective. Eliminate body moisture without it freezing. Under Armour shirts and pants, made of a fast-wicking material, went on first to keep the skin dry. Over that came a wool long john union suit, breathable, also with water-wicking properties, then a nylon jacket-and-pant set with a fleece backing. Finally, a Gore-Tex fleece-lined parka and cold-weather wind pants. Everything was in a camouflage digital pattern, courtesy of the US Army. Gore-Tex gloves and boots, along with two pairs of socks each, protected the extremities. He'd provided their sizes hours ago and noticed that the boots were the requisite size and a half too big to accommodate the thick socks. Ablack wool balaclava protected the face and neck with openings only for the eyes, which would be shielded by tinted goggles. Like going for a space walk, hemused, which wasn't far off themark. He'd heard stories of how the Antarctic cold caused fillings in teeth to contract and fall out.
Each of them had brought a rucksack with a few personal items. He noticed that a cold-weather version, thicker and better insulated, had been provided.
The Hercules lumbered toward the runway.
He turned to the others, who sat on canvas seats with web backings across from him. None of them had yet donned the wool balaclava, so their faces remained exposed. "Everybody okay?"
Christl, who sat beside him, nodded.
He noticed they all seemed uncomfortable in their thick clothing. "I assure you, this flight is not going to be warm and these clothes are about to become your best friends."
"This may be too much," Werner said.
"This is the easy part," he made clear. "But if you can't take it, you can always stay at the base. The Antarctic camps are plenty comfortable."
"I've never done this before," Dorothea said. "Quite an adventure for me."
More like the adventure of a lifetime, since supposedly no human had touched the Antarctic shore until 1820, and only a precious few made it there now. He knew there was a treaty, signed by twenty-five nations, that labeled the entire continent as a place of peace, with a free exchange of scientific information, no new territorial claims, no military activities, and no mining unless all signers of the treaty agreed. Five point four million square miles, about the size of the United States and Mexico combined, 80 percent of which was swathed in a mile-thick shroud of ice-70 percent of the world's fresh water-making the resulting ice plateau one of the highest on earth, with an average elevation of over eight thousand feet.
Life existed only at the edges, as the continent received less than two inches of rain a year. Dry as a desert. Its white surface lacked the ability to absorb light or heat, reflecting back all radiation, keeping the average temperature around seventy degrees below zero.
He also knew the politics from his two previous visits while with the Magellan Billet. Currently seven nations-Argentina, Britain, Norway, Chile, Australia, France, and New Zealand-laid claim to eight territories, defined by degrees of longitude that intersected at the South Pole. They were flying to the portion claimed by Norway, known as Dronning Maud Land, which extended from 44° 38?E to 20°W. A sizable chunk of its western portion-from 20°E to 10°W-had been claimed by Germany in 1938 as Neuschwabenland. And though the war ended that claim, the region remained one of the least known of the continent. Their destination was Halvorsen Base, operated by Australia in the Norwegian section, situated on the northern coast facing the southern tip of Africa.
They'd been given foam earplugs-which he noticed everyone had inserted-but the noise was still there. The pungent smell of engine fuel swirled around his head, but he knew, from past flights, that the odor would soon go unnoticed. They sat forward, near the flight deck, accessible via a five-step ladder. For the long flight, two crews had been provided. He'd once sat on the flight deck while landing on Antarctic snow. Quite an experience. Now here he was again.
Ulrich Henn had said nothing on the flight from France and sat impassive in his seat beside Werner Lindauer. Malone knew this man was trouble, but couldn't determine whether he or some of the others were the object of Henn's interest. No matter, Henn carried the information they needed once on the ground, and a deal was a deal.
Christl tapped him on the arm and mouthed Thank you.
He nodded in gratitude.
The Hercules turboprops revved to full throttle, and they accelerated down the runway. First slow, then faster, then airborne, climbing out over open ocean.
It was nearly midnight.
And they were on their way to who knew what.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
FORT LEE, VIRGINIA
STEPHANIE WATCHED AS COLONEL GROSS RELEASED THE ELECTRONIC lock and opened the refrigerated compartment's steel door. Cold air rushed out in a chilling fog. Gross waited a few seconds until the air cleared, then motioned inside.
"After you."
She entered first. Davis followed. The compartment was about eight feet square, two of the walls bare metal, the third lined from floor to ceiling with a rack of shelving upon which stood books. Five rows. One after another. She estimated maybe two hundred.
"They've been here since 1971," Gross said. "Before that, I have no idea where they were kept. But it had to be cold since, as you can see, they're in great shape."
"Where'd they come from?" Davis asked.
Gross shrugged. "I don't know. But the rocks outside are all from Operation Highjump in 1947 and Windmill in '48. So, it's reasonable to assume that these came from then, too."
She approached the shelves and studied the volumes. They were small, maybe six by eight inches, wood-bound, held together by tight cords, the pages coarse and thick.
"Can I see one?" she asked Gross.
"I was told to let you do whatever you want."
Carefully, she removed a frozen sample. Gross was right. It was perfectly preserved. A thermometer near the door indicated a temperature of ten degrees Fahrenheit. She'd read an account once of Amundsen and Scott's dual expeditions to the South Pole-how decades later, when their food stores had been found, the cheese and vegetables were still edible. The biscuits retained their crispiness. Salt, mustard, and spices remained in perfect condition. Even the pages of magazines appeared as the day they were printed. Antarctica was a natural freezer. No rot, rust, fermentation, mold, or disease. No moisture, dust, or insects. Nothing to break down any organic debris.
Like books with wooden covers.
&nb
sp; "I read a proposal once," Davis said. "Somebody suggested that Antarctica would be the perfect repository for a world library. The climate wouldn't affect a single page. I thought the idea ludicrous."
"Maybe not."
She laid the book on the shelf. Embossed into the pale beige cover was an unrecognizable symbol.
Carefully, she examined the stiff pages, each covered with writing from top to bottom. Curlicues, swirls, circles. A strange cursive script-tight and compact. Drawings, too. Plants, people, devices. Every succeeding folio was the same-all in crisp clear brown ink, not a smudge anywhere.
Before Gross had opened the refrigerated compartment he'd shown them the warehouse shelves, which contained a multitude of stone fragments with similar writing etched into them.
"A library of some sort?" Davis asked her.
She shrugged.
"Ma'am," Gross said.
She turned. The colonel reached up to the top shelf and retrieved a leather-bound journal wrapped with a cloth strap. "The president said to give this to you. It's Admiral Byrd's private diary."
She instantly recalled what Herbert Rowland had said about seeing it.
"It's been classified since 1948," Gross said. "Here since '71."
She noticed several strips of paper marking spots.
"The relevant parts are flagged."
"By who?" Davis asked.
Gross smiled. "The president said you'd ask that."
"So what's the answer?"
"I took this to the White House earlier and waited while the president read it. He said to tell you that, contrary to what you and other staffers may think, he learned to read a long time ago."
Returned to dry valley, Spot 1345. Set up camp. Weather clear. Sky cloudless. Little wind. Located previous German settlement. Magazines, food stores, equipment all indicate 1938 exploration. Wooden shed erected then still standing. Sparsely furnished with table, chairs, stove, radio. Nothing significant at site. Moved fourteen miles east, Spot 1356, another dry valley. Located carved stones at mountain base. Most too large to transport, so we gathered smaller ones. Helicopters called. I examined the stones and made a tracing.
