They winched Fido and the docking platform on board and anchored a radar buoy to warn net fishermen away from the site. Minutes later, they were cruising at twenty knots north toward Cape Cod. When they were close enough to Woods Hole to see the brick buildings that housed the institution’s labs and offices, Hawkins ducked into the cuddy cabin and changed into faded jeans, a chambray work shirt and work boots. He had radioed ahead, and the Water Street drawbridge was being raised to let the boat into Eel Pond.
They tied up at the dock and used a boom to lift the submersible and docking station onto the back of a vintage fire engine red pick-up truck. Then they pulled away from the dock, hooked the anchor line onto a mooring buoy in the pond, and used a pram to get back to shore. Snowy asked Hawkins if he wanted to celebrate the tests with a beer at the venerable Captain Kidd bar that overlooked the pond.
“Maybe later,” Hawkins said. “I want to work on my report while the stuff is still rattling around in my skull.”
“Don’t be too long. People will think that you’re unsociable.”
Hawkins was aware that his colleagues admired his unrelenting approach to work, but that he was also considered a lone wolf and eccentric even by Woods Hole standards. Hawkins was wrapped in his shell as tightly as a barnacle and the hard edge behind his easy quiet-spoken manner made some people nervous.
“Hell, I already know what they think,” Hawkins said with a shrug. “They think I’m weird.”
Snowy rolled his eyes. “Weirdness isn’t exactly in short supply in these parts.”
Snowy had a point. The tiny village at the heart of one of the world’s most prestigious centers of ocean exploration and research was loaded with brilliant oddballs.
They parted company at the dock and Hawkins got into the 1978 three-quarter ton Ford he had painstakingly restored. He turned onto Water Street, the main drag that ran along the harbor, passed the old stone Candle House that was built in the village’s whaling days, and took a right near the Georgian-style building that housed the Marine Biological Laboratory.
A few blocks back from the harbor, Hawkins turned onto a crushed shell driveway and drove into the former carriage house of a two-story mansard-roofed Victorian summer place. As he got out of the truck and walked toward the house with a slight limp, a dog ran down the porch steps and slammed into his thigh so hard that Hawkins almost lost his footing. He reached down and scratched the ears of the squirming golden retriever. The dog was a female he had adopted from the Animal Rescue League. He had called her Quisset, meaning Star of the Sea in the language of Cape Cod’s Wampanoag Indians.
With Quisset glued to his leg, Hawkins went up the porch steps and opened the unlocked door. He went into the kitchen, put the whiskey in a cabinet, and gave Quisset some dog treats, which she noisily demolished.
Hawkins climbed to the study that took up the entire second floor. Afternoon light streamed in through the picture window and reflected off the rows of polished bronze and brass diving helmets lined up in display cases according to year of manufacture. The helmets ranged from an antique Sander built in 1917 to a group of Discos dating back to the 1940s.
Hawkins had collected other examples of antique dive paraphernalia as well: a weight belt patented in 1898, dive lamps, single lens masks, air pumps, Frankenstein-type boots and double hose regulators like those used by Jacques-Yves Cousteau. The wall opposite the helmets had floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books and scale models of the shipwrecks that Hawkins’ non-profit sea exploration company had discovered.
Hawkins was fascinated by the unwieldy gear both as functional art and for what it said about the earliest divers. Ever since man had crawled out of the sea humans had seemed compelled to return to their salty origins. There was no other reason a person would leave his warm, earth-bound haunts, don hundreds of pounds of encumbering equipment and descend into a hostile environment at the end of an air hose.
Hawkins flicked on a sound system. A tune by the legendary blues guitarist Mississippi John Hurt—just one entry in Hawkins’ extensive collection of blues—issued from four reproduction dive helmets that housed quadraphonic speakers.
He was carrying a laptop computer that had been monitoring Fido’s video cameras. He pushed aside a dive knife made by Siebl that he used as a letter-opener, placed the computer on a sturdy desk built of polished driftwood and settled into a chair made from the welded links of a tugboat hawser.
The dog had followed him to the study and now rested her chin on his knee.
Hawkins scratched the dog’s head and thought about Snowy’s comment. He was right about Hawkins being unsociable. His real problem was his inability to trust in his fellow humans. He preferred dealing with robots. If they failed him, he could replace a part.
Maybe he should have gone to the bar. The thought made him thirsty. He said, “Beer.”
A loud hum came from a small atmospheric dive suit in a corner of the room. The suit was a scale model used to test a full-size ADS, basically an underwater vehicle with mechanical arms and legs. Hawkins had acquired the suit at auction and installed a refrigeration unit, an electric motor to give the scale model mobility and a basic audio program to pick up his commands. He had named it Mitch after the puffy-limbed Michelin man it resembled.
Mitch moved toward Hawkins on the powered roller skates attached to the bottom of its boots and stopped near his desk. Hawkins flipped back the transparent helmet and a light went on, revealing a six-pack of beer. He reached in for a bottle and said, “Thanks.”
He lowered the helmet and the refrigerator rolled back to the wall. The wonders one can accomplish with an MIT education, he mused. He stared at the three-foot-high figure.
“Maybe I am as weird as people say.”
He took a couple of slugs of beer, then booted up the computer and watched the video taken by the submersible’s camera.
Hawkins had wanted to develop a robot that would be aware of its surroundings and change its environment when it had to. Fido had not only detected the barriers blocking its way through the maze but had also figured out how to remove them. By observing, analyzing and reacting, the little robot had come one step closer to putting real artificial intelligence on the bottom of the ocean.
Hawkins was deep into the intricacies of a communications link paradigm when his phone chirped a computerized rendition of B Flat blues. The caller ID said the call was from out of the area. He pushed the speaker button and said hello.
“This is Jack Kelly. Don’t hang up on me, Matt.”
Matt recognized the knife-sharp voice even though he hadn’t heard it in years.
He smiled. “Why would I hang up on my favorite former commanding officer?”
“Nice try, Matt. I saw the letter you sent to the navy. It should have been written on asbestos.”
Hawkins recalled that the letter had used the word “incompetent” more than might have been necessary to prove his point.
“Okay, the letter was a little over the top. But I’ve mellowed, Jack. I don’t hate the navy brass 24/7. Only on damp days. If I count the twinges in my left leg I can forecast a storm right down to Beaufort scale.”
“Glad I caught you on a good day, lieutenant. Got a big favor to ask. Urgent matter. Can you come to the War College today?”
The naval war college in Newport, Rhode Island was about an hour’s drive from Woods Hole.
“What’s going on, Jack? Does the navy want to make me an admiral?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’m only the messenger.”
Hawkins glanced at his computer. “I’m in the middle of a big project, Jack.”
“Be forewarned that they intend to keep bugging you. If you say no to me, they’ll go up the line of command to the Secretary of Defense.”
“Who’s they?”
“You know better than to ask me that. Consider this a personal favor to me.”
“Like to accommodate you, commander, but my dealings with the navy are strictly arm’s-length these days. The only guys I’ll talk to are the tech people and the bean counters. Unless this has to do with my robotics work, it’s nothing that will interest me. Sorry.”
“Okay. Call this number if you want to reconsider.”
Hawkins grunted a reply, hung up and stared into space. He’d always gotten along with Kelly. Not necessarily one of the good guys, but he wasn’t bad either. But it had been five years since Hawkins had pulled a paycheck as a navy SEAL. It made no sense.
He wasn’t joking when he told Kelly that the pain in his leg predicted the approach of nasty weather. The dampness in the air that presaged rain affected the metal bolts that held his bones together. He got up and went to the window.
The sky had gone from blue to tangerine.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
In mariner’s lore, a reddish-orange sky in the evening was the sign of good weather. There was only one problem. Hawkins’ leg was twanging like a bluesman plucking a guitar string, and in his experience, the sensation meant only one thing.
A storm was on its way.
CHAPTER THREE
Hawkins got the bad news over coffee early the next morning.
It came in the form of an email on his smart phone saying that his navy contract to develop Fido had been canceled because of lack of funding. After a flurry of back-and-forth emails that shed no further light on the decision, he made a series of dead-end phone calls. Everyone in the navy department was apparently out in the field.
He finally got through to an engineer he’d worked with on an earlier project and asked what happened. The engineer said he didn’t know what he was talking about.
“What I’m talking about is cutting me loose after I’ve put a pile of my own money into this project in expectations that it would be repaid.”
The engineer said he would ask around. He called back a half hour later and confirmed the cancellation and said no one could come up with an explanation. Hawkins was stewing over the announcement when Snowy called and said the Osprey had sunk at its mooring. Minutes later, he was standing on the dock with Snowy and a dozen or so spectators who were looking at the pilot house sticking out of the pond like the conning tower of a surfacing submarine. A salvage barge and divers came in and plugged a hole in the hull. It was early evening when they pumped out the water and re-floated the boat. It was caked with mud.
The salvagers said the boat must have hit a rock. Snowy said they were crazy. The salvagers showed them the eight inch ragged hull gap they had temporarily patched. The insurance underwriter showed up and said he might have to write the boat off as a total loss.
Hawkins thanked him, then called the number Kelly had given him the night before. When his old commander answered, Hawkins said, “When did you join the mafia, commander?”
Kelly said he didn’t know what Hawkins was talking about.
When he learned about the loss of the navy contract and the Osprey, he said, “Wow. Double whammy. Don’t blame you for being pissed. Might be just a coincidence. Run of bad luck.”
“Bad luck didn’t punch a hole in my boat. Where are you?”
“At the war college.”
“Stay put, I’m on my way to Newport.”
Hawkins steamed with anger during the drive to Rhode Island, but he couldn’t contain a smile when he saw Kelly waiting at War College Gate 1. The granite-hard face was nestled in a cushion of heavy jowls, but the commander had maintained his fireplug physique and ramrod posture and he looked good in his tailored suit. Navy blue, of course.
Kelly climbed into the truck, shook Hawkins’ hand, and directed him through another security checkpoint to the two-story white stone structure that had housed Newport’s Asylum for the Poor until the navy took it over in 1884 for the war college. The building had been converted into a museum after the navy university and think tank expanded to a sprawl of multi-story buildings on Coasters Harbor Island, a couple of miles from the cliff mansions built by the Vanderbilts and Astors. Lights glowed in the first floor windows. Kelly led the way through the front entrance and along a hallway. He stopped in front of a closed door.
“I’m leaving you here. The folks inside are waiting for you.”
“Anyone I know?”
Kelly shook his head. “Like I said, I’m only the messenger. Got a call from an old higher-up who asked me to drag you here. My job is done. Good to see you. Looking great.”
Hawkins smiled at Kelly’s familiar machine gun delivery.
“Looks like life’s treating you well, too,” Hawkins said as they shook hands.
“Couldn’t be better. Terrific wife. Six beautiful grand kids. None interested in the navy. But I’m working on it.” He handed Hawkins a business card.
“Consultant on naval security?” Hawkins read off the card.
“Work with the Pentagon on foreign arms deals. Sort of a respectable arms dealer.” He jerked his thumb toward the closed door. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, commander. Great to see you.”
Kelly started down the hallway, only to stop as if he had forgotten his car keys.
“Remember what I said back in the old days about friendly fire?”
“Sure,” Hawkins said. “There is never anything friendly about a bullet coming your way, no matter who fires it. What aren’t you telling me, Jack?”
Kelly smiled but there was no mirth in his slate-gray eyes. “I hear things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Never seen it like this, Matt. Real snake pit. Just watch your ass. Make sure your perimeter is secure.”
His continued down the hallway, his hollow footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. With Kelly’s warning lingering in his ears, Hawkins knocked softly, half expecting a python or a cobra to answer. He was almost disappointed when a woman opened the door and greeted him with a pleasant smile.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hawkins. My name is Anne Hilliard. We’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was polite and as neutral as a telephone service recording.
Hilliard was a well-constructed woman in her fifties. She wore a canary-yellow two-piece suit with a high military-style collar. She had short hair the color of corn-silk and her face was wide and bland. She stepped aside to allow Hawkins into a room decorated with wall paintings of naval battles. Seated at a long, rectangular table of dark wood were three men and one woman.
Hilliard directed him to a vacant seat at one end of the table and took a chair at the other end.
“I’ll start by introducing myself,” Hilliard said. “I’m an assistant to the special counsel on security to the President. My boss advises the White House on the appropriate response to threats to our country. The people in this room constitute a task force that represents various entities charged with counter-strategy.”
She turned to an apple-faced man sitting to her right. “Dr. Fletcher?”
The man gave a slight nod. “My name is Charles Fletcher, Lieutenant Hawkins. I am a retired naval officer and I am fortunate to teach naval history at this historic institution. Since age is equated with wisdom, I have been asked to moderate this discussion.”
With his shiny cheeks, twinkling eyes, white goatee, tufts of cottony hair sticking out behind his ears and his prep school pseudo-British accent, Fletcher seemed to Hawkins like a character from a Dickens story. He wore a rumpled Oxford cloth shirt and striped necktie under a buff-colored vest that had a button missing,
Seated next to Fletcher was a man in his middle thirties dressed in a European cut charcoal pinstripe suit. His face was smooth and boyish and his perfectly shaped short blond hair looked as if it were painted on his head. His name was Ian Scanlon and he was with the Mid-East desk of the State Department.
A florid, heavy-set man wearing a naval officer’s uniform
with a captain’s insignia introduced himself as Mike McCormick and said he was with naval intelligence. The last person to speak was a young woman named Natalie Glassman from the Homeland Security Department.
Hilliard picked up a dossier. “We all have been given copies of your personnel file and know about your distinguished combat career with the SEALs.”
“Then you all know that my distinguished navy career ended five years ago.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s in the file.”
Hawkins glanced at the faces around him. “In that event, could someone tell me why I’m here?”
“Fair question,” Fletcher said. “If Ms. Hilliard doesn’t mind, I will answer it with a question of my own. What do you know about Prester John?”
Hawkins stared at Fletcher and tweaked his mouth up in his trademark smirk. “Is that a serious question?”
“I assure you it is of the utmost seriousness.”
Hawkins dug into his memory. “As I recall, Prester John was a mythical king who ruled over some sort of lost Shangri-La kingdom.”
“Let me offer a few corrections. Prester John was not a myth. Nor was his kingdom. Both existed.”
“Fascinating, Dr. Fletcher,” Hawkins said, warily. “But I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“Bear with me, please.”
Hawkins nodded to be polite.
Fletcher smiled and went on. “The legend of Prester John had its origin in 12th century Europe with rumors of a king, said to be descended from the Magi, who ruled a wealthy kingdom east of Babylon. Many expeditions tried to find him, but none were successful. Then in the 1100s, Pope Alexander III sent his physician Philip to deliver a message to the Prester asking for help fighting the infidels, who were pressing Christendom. Philip was known to have made it as far as Palestine, but was never seen again.”
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