The Charlemagne Pursuit

by Steve Berry

  “You have to be thrilled,” the woman said. She’d covered the military for several years and had interviewed him before. Not all that bright, but she clearly thought herself so.

  “It’s a good post in which to end my career with the navy.” He laughed. “Let’s face it, that’s always been the last billet for anyone chosen. Not many places to go higher.”

  “The White House.”

  He wondered if she was knowledgeable or simply baiting him. Surely the latter. So he decided to have some fun with it.

  “True, I could retire out and make a run for the presidency. Seems like a plan.”

  She smiled. “Twelve military men made it that far.”

  He held up a hand in surrender. “I assure you, I have no plans for that. None at all.”

  “Several people I spoke with today mentioned that you’d be an excellent political candidate. Your career has been exemplary. Not a hint of scandal. Your political philosophies are unknown, which means they could be molded however you choose. No party affiliation, which gives you choices. And the American people always love a man in uniform.”

  Exactly his reasoning. He firmly believed that an opinion poll would reveal an overall approval of him, both as a person and a leader. Though his name was not that well known, his career spoke for itself. He’d dedicated his life to military service, been stationed around the globe, serving in every conceivable trouble spot. He’d received twenty-three commendations. His political friends were numerous. Some he’d cultivated himself, like Winterhawk Dyals and

  Senator Kane, but others gravitated toward him simply because he represented a high-ranking officer in a sensitive position who could be of help whenever they might need it.

  “Tell you what, I’ll leave that honor to some other military person. I’m simply looking forward to serving on the Joint Chiefs. Going to be a terrific challenge.”

  “I’ve heard Aatos Kane is your champion. Any truth to that?”

  This woman was far more informed than he’d assumed. “If the senator spoke for me, then I’m grateful. With

  confirmation looming, it’s always nice to have friends on the Senate floor.”

  “You think confirmation will be a problem?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t presume anything. I simply hope the senators think me worthy. If not, I’ll be pleased to finish my career right where I am.”

  “You sound like it doesn’t matter whether you get the job or not.”

  One piece of advice many a nominee had failed to heed was simple and clear. Don’t ever appear anxious or entitled.

  “That’s not what I said, and you know it. What’s the problem here?No story beyond the appointment itself, so you’re trying to make one?”

  She seemed not to enjoy his reprimand, however tacit. “Let’s face it, Admiral. Yours was not the name most people would have associated with this appointment. Rose at the Pentagon, Blackwood at NATO—those two would have been naturals. But Ramsey? You came out of nowhere. That fascinates me.”

  “Perhaps the two you mentioned weren’t interested?”

  “They were, I checked. But the White House came straight to you, and my sources say it was thanks to Aatos Kane.”

  “You need to ask Kane that question.”

  “I did. His office said they’d get back to me with a comment. That was three hours ago.”

  Time to placate her. “I’m afraid there’s nothing sinister here. At least not on my part. Just an old navy man grateful for a few more years to serve.”

  STEPHANIE FOLLOWEDCOLONELGROSS INTO THE WAREHOUSE. He’d gained entrance through a numeric

  code and digital thumb scanner.

  “I personally supervise maintenance of all these warehouses,” Gross said. “My coming here will raise no suspicions.”

  Which, Stephanie thought, was precisely why Daniels had enlisted his aid.

  “You understand the secrecy of this visit?” Davis asked.

  “My CO explained, as did the president.”

  They stepped into a small anteroom. The rest of the dimly lit storage facility loomed ahead through a plate-glass window that revealed row after row of metal shelving.

  “I’m supposed to give you the history,” Gross said. “This building has been on lease to the navy since October 1971.”

  “That’s before NR-1A sailed,” Davis said.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Gross made clear. “But I do know that the navy has maintained this building ever since. It’s equipped with a separate refrigerated chamber—” He pointed through the window. “—beyond the last row of shelves, which is still operational.”

  “What’s in it?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “I think you need to see that for yourself.”

  “Is that why we’re here?”

  He shrugged. “No idea. But Fort Lee has made sure this warehouse stayed in tip-top shape for the past thirty-eight years. I’ve been on the job for six of those. No one other than Admiral Ramsey himself enters this building, without me by their side. I stay with any cleaning or repair crew at all times. My predecessors did the same. The scanners and electronic locks were installed five years ago. A computer record is maintained of all who enter and is provided daily to the Office of Naval Intelligence, which has direct managerial oversight of the lease. Whatever anyone sees in here is classified, and all personnel understand what that means.”

  “How many times has Ramsey visited?” Davis asked.

  “Only once in the past five years—that the computer record shows. Two days ago. He also entered the refrigerated compartment. It has a separate recorded lock.”

  She was anxious. “Take us.”

  RAMSEY SHOWED THE POST REPORTER FROM HIS OFFICE.HOVEYhad already told him about three more

  interviews. Two for television, one for radio, and they would happen downstairs, in a briefing room, where crews were setting up. He was beginning to like this. Much different from living in the shadows. He was going to make a great Joint Chief of Staff and, if all went according to plan, an even better vice president.

  He’d never understood why the number two constitutional office couldn’t be more active. Dick Cheney had

  demonstrated the possibilities, becoming a quiet molder of policy without the attention the presidency continually attracted. As vice president, he could involve himself in what he wanted, when he wanted. And just as quickly un-involve himself, since—as John Nance Garner, FDR’s first vice president, had so wisely noted—most believed the office wasn’t worth a “warm bucket of spit,” though legend says reporters changed the spelling of the last word for print.

  He smiled.

  Vice President Langford Ramsey.

  He liked that.

  His cell phone alerted him with a barely audible chime. He lifted the unit from his desk and noted the caller. Diane McCoy.

  “I need to speak with you,” she said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No tricks, Langford. You name the place.”

  “I haven’t the time.”

  “Make it, or there won’t be any appointment.”

  “Why do you persist in threatening me?”

  “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. 4:05PM .

  “Okay, come on over.”

  SEVENTY-SIX

  MALONE SETTLED IN TO THELC-130. THEY’D JUST COMPLETED Aten-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 mili
tary 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 ASCOLONELGROSS RELEASED THE ELECTRONIClock 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.

  “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.”