There was no way for Macaulay to know how many eyes aboard the helicopter were still scanning the sea. He waited in the darkness, expecting with each passing moment to hear the change in engine pitch that signaled the helicopter was turning around to come back.
Instead, it continued on along the same northerly track until nearly out of sight. Macaulay was still watching its trajectory when the search beams went out, replaced a moment later by the helicopter’s green landing lights.
As it began to descend, the landscape erupted in parallel lines of high-intensity white, yellow, and red lights. Macaulay immediately recognized them as the runway lights of an airport.
“It’s Kulusuk,” he called out as Lexy slumped over in her cockpit.
He paddled the kayak into the inlet next to the Kulusuk Four Seasons, and ran it up onto the gravelly shoreline. Easing Lexy out of the front cockpit, he cradled her in his arms and helped walk her to the hotel.
The front entrance was garishly lit with strings of multicolored Christmas lights. From inside, he could hear voices raised in laughter. Through one of the lobby windows, he saw a small crowd of drinkers at the bar, a few of them in uniform.
The first-floor windows were dark at the rear of the building. The back entrance door was unlocked and led into the hotel kitchen. In the shadowy glow of a bare lightbulb hanging over the dishwasher, Macaulay found the service stairs that led up to the guest rooms on the second floor.
Hancock had booked four rooms for the duration of the expedition, and the first one Macaulay came to was unlocked. He helped Lexy inside and onto the bed. He covered her with blankets and went to the window overlooking the airfield.
An air-sea rescue plane with Royal Air Force markings was the only aircraft parked on the apron near the hotel. He looked for the helicopter, and finally saw it at the other end of the runway. It was inside a fenced compound. A group of men was moving in and around it.
Lexy was already asleep. He decided to head downstairs to try to set up a satellite call to Anschutz headquarters in Dallas. Locking the door behind him, he began walking toward the front stairs.
“Fancy seeing a general bloke in a squalid place like this,” came a voice from behind him with a clipped British accent.
Macaulay turned to look at the man who had just come out of one of the rooms. He was wearing a one-piece flying suit with the Union Jack patch on his chest and colonel’s bars at the collar. Recognizing his imperial mustache and flaming red hair, Macaulay shook his head and gave him a weary smile.
“It’s good to see you, Harry,” he said.
“Let’s not get mawkish, General Sir,” said the Englishman. “A handshake would suffice.”
Like Macaulay, Harry Tubshawe had been an air squadron commander in Desert Storm. The two men had come to respect each other in the workup to the air battle. Tubshawe had been shot down over Baghdad and spent time in an Iraqi prison. Macaulay hadn’t seen him in twenty years.
“You’re as ugly as ever,” said Macaulay.
“I take that as a compliment from a pillicock like you,” said Tubshawe.
“That air/sea rescue crate out there yours?” asked Macaulay.
Tubshawe nodded.
“Some plonkers from the Royal Geographical Society got themselves trapped above the Arctic Circle. We pulled them out but were then forced down here two days ago with a poxy engine. Had to wait for spare parts to be flown up from Narsassuaq. You ready for a piss-up downstairs?”
“Can’t right now,” said Macaulay. “I need to make a satellite call to the States.”
Tubshawe shook his head.
“No long-distance communications here,” said Tubshawe. “Some arsehole cocked up the whole works the night we got here.”
“Any idea who those guys are at the other end of the field?” asked Macaulay.
“Haven’t a clue,” said Tubshawe. “These days, every minor potentate and oligarch sports his own cavalry. Have guns, will travel. They have at least three birds over there. . . . In and out all the time. Probably some winter training exercise.”
“Any of their guys staying over here?”
“They don’t mix with low society,” he said as they descended the stairs. “What we do have here is one sweet pukka. Laid up here for weeks . . . very accommodating . . . a Texas lass.”
Macaulay looked across the lobby into the hotel bar. One of Tubshawe’s crewmen was sitting on a pub stool, downing a pint of beer. Melissa was curled up in his lap like a big cat.
“She deserves some comfort from the Queen’s Own,” said Macaulay.
“The dog’s bollocks,” said Tubshawe.
“When are you pulling out, Harry?” he asked.
“We’re taking off for Narsassuaq in three hours, weather permitting. The RGS plonkers are eager to get back to the sunny isles.”
“Can you take two more passengers as far as Narsassuaq?” asked Macaulay.
Tubshawe looked at him closely.
“Highly irregular, old man,” he said. “Totally against regulations.”
Macaulay nodded.
“Where is your cock-up friend?” asked Tubshawe. “I thought bloody Hancock had his own air force.”
“He’s dead,” said Macaulay. “He was murdered by those people over there.”
Tubshawe saw the pain in his eyes. He didn’t ask for details.
“I have two extra flight suits . . . just in case they’re watching,” he said.
TWENTY-NINE
28 November
West Wing
White House
Washington, DC
Cold rain was spattering the windows of his office when Ira Dusenberry got back from the Redskins game in Landover. He was in a sour mood after watching them get punched out again by the Cowboys after their new quarterback threw five interceptions.
Removing his wet loafers and socks, the deputy assistant national security adviser to the president rubbed his frigid toes into the deep-pile carpet and loosened his pants to help relieve his bloated stomach.
In spite of his vow to maintain a healthier diet, he had assuaged his frustrations at the game by devouring three Italian sausage subs with peppers and onions, and washing them down with a half dozen beers.
There was a loud knock on his door. It swung open to reveal Addison Kingship, his Bogart-styled trench coat saturated with rain.
“This had better be important,” he growled.
Taking off his trench coat, Kingship hung it on the rack behind the door and sat down in one of the leather club chairs. Through the windows behind Dusenberry’s desk, the needle of the Washington Monument was bathed in floodlights.
Jessica Birdwell arrived a few moments later, somehow looking impervious to the rain. Cool and imperturbable as always, she was wearing an ivory cocktail dress cut just above the knees.
“Did you see the goddamn Skins game?” Dusenberry asked as Jessica took the other club chair.
“I couldn’t care less, Ira,” growled Kingship, a former tailback at Princeton. “Just tell us what’s going on.”
Dusenberry furtively lowered his left hand behind his massive desk and began massaging his aching stomach.
“I need to bring you up to speed on the John Lee Hancock situation,” he said. “On my way back from Landover, I received another call from Mark Devlin, the head of security at Anschutz in Dallas. He had just gotten off the phone with Steven Macaulay, who was Hancock’s number two at the company and a member of the Greenland expedition. Macaulay told him that Hancock had been murdered along with most of the other members by some kind of elite military unit equipped with attack helicopters.”
“Where was he calling from?” asked Kingship.
“Right now he’s at a former U.S. air base in southern Greenland at Narsassuaq,” said Dusenberry. “Macaulay claims that Hancock discovered something on the ice cap th
at set off the massacre of his team. The only other survivor is an archaeologist they brought up there to document the findings. Macaulay asked to have the FBI or Homeland Security waiting for him when he lands in Bangor.”
“We should call off the special mission unit we’ve deployed to Halifax from Joint Special Operations Command,” said Jess. “They’ve been on immediate standby.”
“Agreed,” said Dusenberry.
“What is this discovery?’ asked Kingship.
Dusenberry shook his head wearily.
“Don’t laugh,” he said. “It’s something involving ancient Vikings.”
Jess looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Yesterday it was an Arab commando team,” said Kingship. “Today it’s the goddamn Vikings. This whole thing sounds like a hoax, with Hancock looking for his fifteen minutes.”
“That’s not his style,” said Dusenberry, “and we have to treat it as a legitimate threat. Whatever happened up there, it has apparently cost a lot of people their lives, and the president will want to know why.”
“How is Macaulay getting to Bangor?” asked Kingship.
“One of the small jets in Hancock’s air fleet was left in Narsassuaq to bring out the expedition team. Macaulay is a retired air force brigadier. He’ll be flying it to Bangor as soon as the weather clears. According to Devlin, he and the archaeologist have no papers or passports. Everything they had was lost. He wants federal protection for himself and the archaeologist as soon as they arrive.”
“How do we know Macaulay didn’t go rogue?” asked Jess. “It’s happened before.”
“I have no idea,” said Dusenberry.
“We have an FBI satellite office in Portland,” said the still-skeptical Kingship.
“If any of Macaulay’s claims are true, I think we need more horsepower than regional field staff,” said Jess.
“I agree,” said Dusenberry.
“What about a senior agent from our new domestic antiterrorism task force?” suggested Jess. “Maybe Jim Langdon.”
“I had him in my shop for two years,” said Kingship. “Top-notch.”
The task force had recently been put together to synchronize the counterterrorsim activities of nine different federal agencies, including the FBI, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and Homeland Security. Langdon was a former combat infantry officer who had joined the FBI under Kingship and had later gone on to Homeland Security.
“That’s fine,” said Dusenberry. “And, Ad, you’ll probably want to give a heads-up to the satellite office in Portland. They can provide backup.”
THIRTY
28 November
FBI Regional Office
West Tower
Portland, Maine
Special Agent Eamon Gallagher, Jr., surveyed the Portland skyline through the picture window of the bureau conference room, and felt the first pure jolt of excitement he had ever experienced in his four-year FBI career.
Eamon was the only special agent left in the office that day, which was why he was given the high-priority classified dispatch just received from FBI headquarters in Washington.
The dispatch confirmed that James Langdon, a member of the president’s domestic antiterrorism task force, would be arriving at the Portland airport in less than an hour and required backup assistance from the regional FBI office to conduct an interview with two Americans arriving from Greenland who had uncovered a possible terrorist plot.
Eamon quickly downloaded Langdon’s background credentials from the Home Security personnel database. Langdon was a West Point graduate and had retired from the army as a major after serving three tours of duty in Iraq. He had been awarded two Silver Stars.
At five feet six, the twenty-nine-year-old Eamon struck no heroic figure, at least to himself. Nevertheless, he yearned to be a hero. It was why he had joined the FBI. On September 11, 2001, he had been working as an accountant for a tax preparer when the World Trade Center was attacked. His father had been one of the first responders who disappeared into the red dust. The loss changed Eamon’s life. After considering what he could do to honor his father’s memory, he found his future on the FBI Web site.
Become a special agent, the Internet banner read. It is challenging. It is exciting. It is rewarding. And every day you have a chance to serve your country.
“Eamon, we need you in accounting,” the placement coordinator told him after he graduated near the top of his class at the FBI Academy.
For the next three years, he sat in Washington, reviewing expense files. Every time he applied for an operational assignment, his supervisor took him aside to say he was accomplishing far more with his spreadsheets. He had finally been transferred to the Portland regional office.
Eamon checked the pistol in his hip holster. With his small hands, he had never been comfortable with the full-sized Glock 21. Instead, he carried the baby Glock 26 subcompact 9 mm. He had fired it only on the shooting range.
At the Portland airport, Eamon presented his FBI credentials to the guard at the charter terminal. He was walking toward the flight desk when a voice called out, “Special Agent Gaskins?”
Eamon recognized him from the photo in the personnel database.
“Don was called away on another assignment,” he said, reaching up to shake the man’s hand. “I’m Eamon Gallagher.”
“Jim Langdon,” said the big man.
He looked like a combat soldier, rugged and deeply tanned, with a full head of prematurely gray hair.
“We got an early start out of Andrews,” said Langdon. “I wanted to make sure we have security in place at Bangor when General Macaulay arrives.”
“We’ll give you our full cooperation and support,” said Eamon as they walked to the plane.
“I assume you know why I’m here,” said Langdon.
“I read the briefing memo,” said Eamon.
“It’s pretty muddled,” said Langdon. “One report suggests that an Arab terrorist group unleashed an attack on John Lee Hancock’s Greenland expedition, and another indicates there is some sort of Viking connection. We’re here to learn what happened.”
During the short hop from Portland up to Bangor, Eamon found it hard to contain his excitement. At one point, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing calmly. When he opened them again, Langdon was staring at him. Eamon kept wondering what he had done to earn the Silver Stars, but he didn’t want to ask him directly.
“What was Iraq like?” he said instead.
A full minute passed.
“Betrayal,” said Langdon.
A fleeting image of Jake Nash’s ruined face stampeded through Langdon’s brain as it had every day since the moment he had caught up to the caravan of abandoned vehicles in his Humvee and shined his flashlight into the backseat.
Langdon had been a company commander when the request came in from the governor general of their province to provide protection for a Shiite religious celebration. He and Jake Nash were sent down in a rotating combat team to provide the security presence. Their headquarters, inside an Iraqi police complex next to the governor’s office, was protected by an electronic security cordon.
Langdon had just handed off command to Jake and left the headquarters, when a convoy of eight SUVs filled with men wearing American uniforms was waved through the gates by Iraqi police. The intruders exited the SUVs, firing automatic weapons. Five Americans were killed. Four more, including Jake, were taken away alive as the Iraqi police stood by.
A frantic chase ensued as the vehicles headed north into the night. It ended an hour later on a deserted road. Jake and two of the other soldiers were already dead, their hands tied behind their backs. Langdon hoped the fourth man would die quickly. Like the others, his eyes had been gouged out with knives. The attackers had cut off the men’s balls and stuffed their penises in their mouths.
In the following da
ys, the battalion’s S2 staff built a case that the governor general had been complicit in the attack. One of the vehicles was registered to his wife and forensic evidence placed one of his bodyguards in the vehicle Jake had died in.
Langdon asked when the killers would be arrested.
“My hands are tied, Jim,” said the battalion commander. “The governor is part of the prime minister’s inner circle. I had to apologize to him for disrupting the religious celebration. Forget about it and do your job.”
After the last American military unit left Iraq in 2011, Langdon had returned to Baghdad as a member of the president’s new antiterrorism task force. The visit was designed to provide him with an update on the continued presence of Al Qaeda operatives in the region. He spent four days in the country.
On the day of his return to Washington, Langdon picked up the daily CIA briefing summary. It reported that the former governor general had been found dead early that morning on a deserted road north of the city, his body showing signs of horrific torture before he was killed.
Langdon looked out the window of the passenger jet and saw it was snowing as they descended toward Bangor. He said a silent prayer for both forgiveness and deliverance.
THIRTY-ONE
29 November
Bangor International Airport
Bangor, Maine
Flying on instruments, Macaulay dropped through a dense snow ceiling until the de Havilland finally broke into the clear at five hundred feet. Sitting next to him in the copilot’s seat, Lexy awoke from a deep sleep and watched the curtain of wet snow lashing the windshield as they came in to land.
“Are we back in Greenland?” she asked.
“We’re almost back in the good old USA,” said Macaulay wearily.
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