by Steve Berry
She left the secured offices and walked toward the elevators. The building’s fifth floor accommodated the Department of Interior, along with a contingent from Health and Human Services. The Magellan Billet had been intentionally tucked away—nondescript letters announcing onlyJUSTICE DEPARTMENT, LAWYER TASK FORCE —and she
liked the anonymity.
The elevator arrived. When the doors opened, a tall, lanky man with thin gray hair and tranquil blue eyes strolled out.
Edwin Davis.
He flashed a quick smile. “Stephanie. Just the person I came to see.” Her caution flags raised. One of the president’s deputy national security advisers. In Georgia. Unannounced. Nothing about that could be good.
“And it’s refreshing not to see you in a jail cell,” Davis said.
She recalled the last time Davis had suddenly appeared.
“Were you going somewhere?” he asked.
“To the cafeteria.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Do I have a choice?”
He smiled. “It’s not that bad.”
They descended to the second floor and found a table. She sipped orange juice while Davis downed a bottled water.
Her appetite had vanished.
“You want to tell me why, five days ago, you accessed the investigatory file on the sinking of USS Blazek ?”
She concealed her surprise at his knowledge. “I wasn’t aware that act would involve the White House.”
“That file’s classified.”
“I broke no laws.”
“You sent it to Germany. To Cotton Malone. Have you any idea what you’ve started?”
Her radar went to full alert. “Your information network is good.”
“Which is how we all survive.”
“Cotton has a high security clearance.”
“Had. He’s retired.”
Now she was agitated. “Wasn’t a problem for you when you dragged him into all those problems in central Asia. Surely that was highly classified. Wasn’t a problem when the president involved him with the Order of the Golden Fleece.”
Davis’ polished face creased with concern. “You’re not aware of what happened less than an hour ago at the Zugspitze, are you?”
She shook her head.
He plunged into a full account, telling her about a man falling from a cable car, another man leaping from the same car, scampering down one of the steel trestles, and a woman found partially unconscious when the car was finally brought to the ground, one of the windows shot through.
“Which one of those men do you think is Cotton?” he asked.
“I hope the one who escaped.”
He nodded. “They found the body. It wasn’t Malone.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I had the area staked out.”
Now she was curious. “Why?”
Davis finished his bottled water. “I always found it odd the way Malone quit the Billet so abruptly. Twelve years, then just got out completely.”
“Seven people dying in Mexico City took a toll on him. And it was your boss, the president, who let him go. A favor returned, if I recall.”
Davis seemed in thought. “The currency of politics. People think money fuels the system.” He shook his head. “It’s favors. One given is one returned.”
She caught an odd tone. “I was returning a favor to Malone by giving him the file. He wants to know about his father
—”
“Not your call.”
Her agitation changed to anger. “I thought it was.”
She finished her orange juice and tried to dismiss the myriad of disturbing thoughts racing through her brain.
“It’s been thirty-eight years,” she declared.
Davis reached into his pocket and laid a flash drive on the table. “Did you read the file?”
She shook her head. “Never touched it. I had one of my agents retrieve and deliver a copy.”
He pointed at the drive. “You need to read it.”
FIVE
USS BLAZEKCOURT OFINQUIRYFINDINGS
On reconvening in December 1971, after still not locating any trace of USS Blazek, the court focused its attention on
“what if” as opposed to “what might have been.” While mindful of the lack of any physical evidence, a conscious effort was made to prevent any preconceived notions to influence the search for the most probable cause of the tragedy.
Complicating the task is the highly secretive nature of the submarine, and every effort has been made to preserve the classified nature of both the vessel and its final mission. The Court, after inquiring into all known facts and circumstances connected with the loss of the Blazek, submits the following:
Finding the Facts
1. USS Blazek is a fictitious designation. The actual submarine involved in this inquiry is NR-1A, commissioned in May 1969. The boat is one of two built as part of a classified program to develop advanced submersible capability.
Neither NR-1 nor 1A carries an official name, but in light of the tragedy and unavoidable public attention, a fictitious designation was assigned. Officially, though, the boat remains NR-1A. For purposes of public discussion, USS Blazek will be described as an advanced submersible being tested in the North Atlantic for undersea rescue operations.
2. NR-1A was rated to 3,000 feet. Service records indicate a multitude of mechanical problems during its two years of active service. None of those were deemed engineering failures, only challenges of a radical design, one that pushed the limits of submersible technology. NR-1 has experienced similar operational difficulties, which makes this inquiry all the more pressing since that vessel remains in active service and any defects must be identified and corrected.
3. The miniature nuclear reactor on board was built solely for the two NR-class boats. Though the reactor is
revolutionary and problematic, there is no indication of any radiation release at the sight of the sinking, which would indicate that a catastrophic reactor failure was not the cause of the mishap. Of course, such a finding does not preclude the possibility of an electrical failure. Both boats reported repeated problems with their batteries.
4. Eleven men were aboard NR-1A at the time of its sinking. Officer-in-Charge, CDR Forrest Malone; Executive
Officer, LCDR Beck Stvan; Navigation Officer, LCDR Tim Morris; Communications, ET1 Tom Flanders; Reactor
Controls, ET1 Gordon Jackson; Reactor Operations, ET1 George Turner; Ship’s Electrician, EM2 Jeff Johnson; Interior Communications, IC2 Michael Fender; Sonar and Food Service, MM1 Mikey Blount; Mechanical Division, IC2 Bill
Jenkins; Reactor Laboratory, MM2 Doug Vaught; and Field Specialist, Dietz Oberhauser.
5. Acoustic signals attributed to NR-1A were detected at stations in Argentina and South Africa. Individual acoustic signals and stations are outlined on the following pages entitled “Table of Factual Data Acoustic Events.” The acoustic event number has been determined by experts to be the result of a high-energy release, rich in low frequencies with no discernible harmonic structure. No expert has been able to state whether the event was an explosion or an implosion.
6. NR-1A was operating beneath the Antarctic ice pack. Its course and final destination were unknown to fleet command, as its mission was highly classified. For purposes of this inquiry, the Court has been advised that the last known coordinates of NR-1A were 73°S, 15°W, approximately 150 miles north of Cape Norvegia. Being in such
treacherous and relatively uncharted waters has complicated the discovery of any physical evidence. To date, no trace of the submarine has been located. In addition, the extent of underwater acoustic monitoring in the Antarctic region is minimal.
7. An examination of NR-1, performed to ascertain if any obvious engineering deficiencies could be found in the sister vessel, revealed that the negative battery plates had been impregnated with mercury to increase their life. Mercury is forbidden for use on submersibles. Why that rule was relaxed on this de
sign is unclear. But if batteries on board NR-1A caught fire, which, according to repair logs, has happened on both NR-1 and 1A, the resulting mercury vapors would have proven fatal. Of course, there’s no evidence of any fire or battery failure.
8. USS Holden, commanded by LCDR Zachary Alexander, was dispatched on November 23, 1971, to NR-1A’s last
known position. A specialized reconnaissance team reported finding no trace of NR-1A. Extensive sonar sweeps
revealed nothing. No radiation was detected. Granted, a large-scale search and rescue operation may have yielded a different result, but the crew of NR-1A signed an operational order, prior to leaving, acknowledging that in the event of a catastrophe, there would be no search and rescue. Clearance for this extraordinary action came directly from Chief of Naval Operations in a classified order, a copy of which the Court has reviewed.
Opinions
The failure to find NR-1A does not lessen the obligation to identify and correct any practice, condition, or deficiency subject to correction that may exist, given that NR-1 continues to sail. After carefully weighing the limited evidence, the Court finds there is no proof of cause or causes for NR-1A’s loss. Clearly, whatever happened was catastrophic, but the submarine’s isolated location and lack of tracking, communications, and surface support make any conclusions that the Court may make, as to what happened, purely speculative.
Recommendations
As part of continuing efforts to obtain additional information as to the cause for this tragedy, and to prevent another incident from happening with NR-1, a further mechanical examination of NR-1 shall be conducted, as and when
practicable, using the latest testing techniques. The purpose of such testing would be to determine possible damage mechanisms, to evaluate secondary effects thereof, to provide currently unavailable data for design improvements, and to possibly determine what may have happened to NR-1A.
MALONE SAT IN HIS ROOM AT THEPOSTHOTEL. THE VIEW OUT THEsecond-floor windows, past Garmisch,
framed the Wetterstein Mountains and the towering Zugspitze, but the sight of that distant peak only brought back what had happened two hours ago.
He’d read the report. Twice.
Naval regulations required that a court of inquiry be convened immediately after any maritime tragedy, staffed with flag officers, and charged with discovering the truth.
But this inquiry had been a lie.
His father had not been on a mission in the North Atlantic. USS Blazek didn’t even exist. Instead, his father had been aboard a top-secret submarine, in the Antarctic, doing God knows what.
He remembered the aftermath.
Ships had combed the North Atlantic, but no wreckage had been found. News reports indicated that Blazek, supposedly a nuclear-powered submersible being tested for deep bottom rescue, had imploded. Malone remembered what the man in uniform—not a vice admiral from the submarine force, whom he later learned would normally break the news to a boat commander’s wife, but a captain from the Pentagon—had said to his mother: “They were in the North Atlantic, twelve hundred feet down. ”
Either he’d lied or the navy had lied to him. No wonder the report remained classified.
American nuclear submarines rarely sank. Only three since 1945. Thresher, from faulty piping. Scorpion, because of an unexplained explosion. Blazek, cause unknown. Or more properly, NR-1A, cause unknown.
Every one of the press accounts he’d reread with Gary over the summer had talked of the North Atlantic. The lack of wreckage was attributed to the water’s depth and canyon-like bottom features. He’d always wondered about that. Depth would have ruptured the hull and flooded the sub, so debris would have eventually floated to the surface. The navy also wired the oceans for sound. The court of inquiry noted that acoustical signals had been heard, but the sounds explained little and too few were listening in that part of the world to matter.
Dammit.
He’d served in the navy, joined voluntarily, took an oath, and upheld it.
They hadn’t.
Instead, when a submarine sank somewhere in the Antarctic, no flotilla of ships had combed the area, probing the depths with sonar. No reams of testimony, charts, drawings, letters, photographs, or operational directives were accumulated as to cause. Just one lousy ship, three days of inquiry, and four pages of a nothing report.
Bells clanged in the distance.
He wanted to ram his fist through the wall. But what good would that do?
Instead he reached for his cell phone.
SIX
CAPTAINSTERLINGWILKERSON, US NAVY, STARED PAST THEfrosty plate-glass window at the Posthotel. He
was discreetly positioned across the street, inside a busy cDonald’s. People trudged back and forth outside, bundled against the cold and a steady snow.
Garmisch was an entanglement of congested strasses and pedestrian-only quarters. The whole place seemed like one of those toy towns at FAO Schwarz, with painted Alpine cottages nestled deep in cotton batting, sprinkled thick with plastic flakes. Tourists surely came for the ambience and the nearby snowy slopes. He’d come for Cotton Malone and had watched earlier as the ex–Magellan Billet agent, now a Copenhagen bookseller, killed a man then leaped from a cable car, eventually making his way to ground level and fleeing in his rental car. Wilkerson had followed, and when Malone headed straight for the Posthotel and disappeared inside, he’d assumed a position across the street, enjoying a beer while he waited.
He knew all about Cotton Malone.
Georgia native. Forty-eight years old. Former naval officer. Georgetown law school graduate. Judge Advocate
General’s Corps. Justice Department agent. Two years ago Malone had been involved in a shoot-out in Mexico City, where he’d received his fourth wound in the line of duty and apparently reached his limit, opting for an early retirement, which the president personally granted. He’d then resigned his naval commission and moved to
Copenhagen, opening an old-book shop.
All that, Wilkerson could understand.
Two things puzzled him.
First, the name Cotton. The file noted that Malone’s legal name was Harold Earl. Nowhere was the unusual nickname explained.
And second, how important was Malone’s father? Or, more accurately, his father’s memory? The man had died thirty-eight years ago.
Did that still matter?
Apparently so, since Malone had killed to protect what Stephanie Nelle had sent.
He sipped his beer.
A breeze swirled past outside and enhanced the dance of snowflakes. A colorful sleigh appeared, drawn by two
prancing steeds, its riders tucked beneath plaid blankets, the driver snatching at the bridles.
He understood a man like Cotton Malone.
He was a lot like him.
Thirty-one years he’d served the navy. Few rose to the rank of captain, even fewer beyond to the admiralty. Eleven years he’d been assigned to naval intelligence, the past six overseas, rising to Berlin bureau chief. His service record was replete with successful tours at tough assignments. True, he’d never leaped from a cable car a thousand feet in the air, but he’d faced danger.
He checked his watch. 4:20PM .
Life was good.
The divorce to wife number two last year had not been costly. She’d actually left with little fanfare. He then lost twenty pounds and added some auburn to his blond hair, which made him appear a decade short of fifty-three. His eyes were
more alive thanks to a French plastic surgeon who’d tightened the folds. Another specialist eliminated the need for glasses, while a nutritionist friend taught him how to maintain greater stamina through a vegetarian diet. His strong nose, taut cheeks, and sharp brow would all be assets when he finally rose to flag rank.
Admiral.
That was the goal.
Twice he’d been passed over. Usually that was all the chances the navy offered. But Langford Ramsey had promised a third.
His cell phone vibra
ted.
“By now Malone’s read that file,” the voice said when he answered.
“Every word, I’m sure.”
“Move him along.”
“Men like this can’t be rushed,” he said.
“But they can be directed.”
He had to say, “It’s waited twelve hundred years to be found.”
“So let’s not let it wait any longer.”
STEPHANIE SAT AT HER DESK AND FINISHED READING THE COURTof inquiry report. “This whole thing is
false?”