by Steve Berry
The man fled the sonar station and rushed to assist. The downward angle increased. Malone gripped the plotting table as everything that wasn’t attached tumbled forward in a wild avalanche.
“Emergency plane control,” he barked.
The angle increased.
“Beyond forty five degrees,” the helmsman reported. “Still on full dive. Not working.”
Malone gripped the table harder and fought to maintain his balance.
“Nine hundred feet and dropping.”
The depth indicator changed so fast the numbers blurred. The boat was rated to three thousand feet, but the bottom was coming up fast and the outside water pressure was rising—too much, too fast, and the hull would implode. But slamming into the seabed in a powered dive wasn’t a pleasant prospect, either.
Only one thing left to do.
“All back emergency. Blow all ballast tanks.”
The boat shook as machinery obeyed his command. Propellers reversed and compressed air thundered into tanks, forcing water out. The helmsman held tight. The planesman readied himself for what Malone knew was coming.
Positive buoyancy returned.
The descent slowed.
The bow angled upward, then leveled.
“Control the flow,” he ordered. “Keep us neutral. I don’t want to go up.”
The planesman responded to his command.
“How far to the bottom?”
Blount returned to his station. “Two hundred feet.”
Malone’s gaze shot to the depth indicator. Twenty-four hundred. The hull groaned from the strain, but held. His eyes locked on the OPENINGS indicators. Lights showed all valves and breaches closed. Finally, some good news.
“Set us down.”
The advantage of this sub over all others was its ability to rest on the ocean floor. It was just one of many specialized traits the design possessed—like the aggravating power and control system, of which they’d just experienced a graphic demonstration.
The sub settled on the bottom.
Everyone in the conn stared at one another. No one spoke. No one had to. Malone knew what they were thinking. That was close.
“Do we know what happened?” he asked.
“Engine room reports that when that valve was closed for repair, the normal and emergency steering and dive systems failed. That’s never happened before.”
“Could they tell me something I don’t know?”
“The valve is now reopened.”
He smiled at his engineer’s way of saying, If I knew more I’d tell you. “Okay, tell them to fix it. What about the reactor?”
They’d surely used a crapload of battery power fighting the unscheduled descent.
“Still down,” his executive officer reported.
That hour for restart was fast expiring.
“Captain,” Blount said from the sonar station. “Contact outside the hull. Solid. Multiple. We seem to be nestled in a boulder field.”
He decided to risk more power. “Cameras and outside lights on. But this will be a quick look-see.”
The video displays sprang to life in clear water speckled with glistening bits of life. Boulders surrounded the sub, lying at angles across the seabed.
“That’s odd,” one of the men said.
He noticed it, too. “They’re not boulders. They’re blocks. And large ones. Rectangles and squares. Focus in on one.”
Blount operated the controls and the camera’s focus tightened on the face of one of the stones.
“Holy crap,” his exec said.
Markings marred the rock. Not writing, or at least nothing he recognized. A cursive style, rounded and fluid. Individual letters seemed grouped together, like words, but none he could read.
“It’s on the other blocks, too,” Blount said, and Malone studied the remaining screens.
They were engulfed by ruin, the pieces of which loomed like spirits.
“Shut down the cameras,” he said. At the moment power, not curiosities, was his main concern. “Are we okay here, if we sit still?”
“We settled in a clearing,” Blount said. “We’re fine.”
An alarm sounded. He located the source. Electrical panels.
“Captain, they need you forward,” yelled his second in command over the squelch.
He scrambled from the conn and hustled toward the ladder that led up into the sail. His engineer was already standing at its base.
The alarm stopped.
He felt heat and his eyes locked on the decking. He bent down and lightly touched the metal. Hot as hell. Not good. One hundred fifty silver-zinc batteries lay beneath the decking in an aluminum well. He’d learned from bitter experience that their makeup was far more artistic than scientific. They constantly malfunctioned.
An engineer’s mate worked four screws that held the decking in place, freeing them one by one. The cover was removed, which revealed a churning storm of boiling smoke. Malone instantly knew the problem. Potassium hydroxide fluid in the batteries had overflowed.
Again.
The deck plate was slammed back into place. But that would buy them only a few minutes. The ventilation system would soon disperse the acrid fumes throughout the boat and, with no way to vent the poisonous air, they’d all be dead.
He raced back to the control room.
He didn’t want to die, but their choices were rapidly diminishing. Twenty-six years he’d served on subs—diesels and nukes. Only one in five recruits made it into naval submarine school where physical exams, psychological interviews, and reaction times tested everyone to their limits. His silver dolphins had been pinned on by his first captain, and he’d bestowed the honor to many others since.
So he knew the score.
Ball game over.
Strangely, only one thought filled his mind as he entered the conn and prepared to at least act like they had a chance. His boy. Ten years old. Who would grow up without a father.
I love you, Cotton.
ONE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 11, THE PRESENT
1:40 PM
Cotton Malone hated enclosed spaces.
His current unease was amplified by a packed cable car. Most of the passengers were on vacation, dressed in colorful garb, shouldering poles and skis. He sensed a variety of nationalities. Some Italians, a few Swiss, a handful of French, but mainly Germans. He’d been one of the first to climb aboard and, to relieve his discomfort, he’d made his way close to one of the frosty windows. Ten thousand feet above and closing, the Zugspitze stood silhouetted against a steel-blue sky, the imposing gray summit draped in a late-autumn snow.
Not smart, agreeing to this location.
The car continued its giddy ascent, passing one of several steel trestles that rose from the rocky crags.
He was unnerved, and not simply from the crowded surroundings. Ghosts awaited him atop Germany’s highest peak. He’d avoided this rendezvous for nearly four decades. People like him, who buried their past so determinedly, should not help it from the grave so easily.
Yet here he was, doing exactly that.
Vibrations slowed as the car entered, then stopped at the summit station.
Skiers flooded off toward another lift that would take them down to a high-altitude corrie, where a chalet and slopes waited. He didn’t ski, never had, never wanted to.
He made his way through the visitor center, identified by a yellow placard as Müncher Haus. A restaurant dominated one half of the building, the rest housed a theater, a snack bar, an observatory, souvenir shops, and a weather station.
He pushed through thick glass doors and stepped out onto a railed terrace. Bracing Alpine air stung his lips. According to Stephanie Nelle his contact should be waiting on the observation deck. One thing was obvious. Ten thousand feet in the high Alps certainly added a heightened measure of privacy to their meeting.
The Zugspitze lay on the border. A succession of snowy crags rose south toward Austria. To the no
rth spanned a soup-bowl valley ringed by rock-ribbed peaks. A gauze of frosty mist shielded the German village of Garmisch and its companion, Partenkirchen. Both were sports meccas, and the region catered not only to skiing but also bobsledding, skating, and curling.
More sports he’d avoided.
The observation deck was deserted save for an elderly couple and a few skiers who’d apparently paused to enjoy the view. He’d come to solve a mystery, one that had preyed on his mind ever since that day when the men in uniforms came to tell his mother that her husband was dead.
“Contact was lost with the submarine forty-eight hours ago. We dispatched search and rescue ships to the North Atlantic, which have combed the last known position. Wreckage was found six hours ago. We waited to tell the families until we were sure there was no chance of survivors.”
His mother had never cried. Not her way. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t devastated. Years passed before questions formed in his teenage mind. The government offered little explanation beyond official releases. When he’d first joined the navy he’d tried to access the court of inquiry’s investigative report on the sub’s sinking, but learned it was classified. He’d tried again after becoming a Justice Department agent, possessed of a high security clearance. No luck. When Gary, his fifteen-year-old, visited over the summer, he’d faced new questions. Gary had never known his grandfather, but the boy had wanted to know more about him and, especially, how he died. The press had covered the sinking of the USS Blazek in November 1971, so they’d read many of the old accounts on the Internet. Their talk had rekindled his own doubts—enough that he’d finally done something about them.
He plunged balled fists into his parka and wandered the terrace.
Telescopes dotted the railing. At one stood a woman, her dark hair tied in an unflattering bun. She was dressed in a bright outfit, skis and poles propped beside her, studying the valley below.
He casually walked over. One rule he’d learned long ago. Never hurry. It only bred trouble.
“Quite a scene,” he said.
She turned. “Certainly is.”
Her face was the color of cinnamon which, combined with what he regarded as Egyptian features in her mouth, nose, and eyes signaled some Middle Eastern ancestry.
“I’m Cotton Malone.”
“How did you know I was the one who came to meet you?”
He motioned at the brown envelope lying at the base of the telescope. “Apparently this is not a high-pressure mission.” He smiled. “Just running an errand?”
“Something like that. I was coming to ski. A week off, finally. Always wanted to do it. Stephanie asked if I could bring”—she motioned at the envelope—“that along.” She went back to her viewing. “You mind if I finish this? It cost a euro and I want to see what’s down there.”
She revolved the telescope, studying the German valley that stretched for miles below.
“You have a name?” he asked.
“Jessica,” she said, her eyes still to the eyepiece.
He reached for the envelope.
Her boot blocked the way. “Not yet. Stephanie said to make sure you understand that the two of you are even.”
Last year he’d helped out his old boss in France. She’d told him then that she owed him a favor and that he should use it wisely.
And he had.
“Agreed. Debt paid.”
She turned from the telescope. Wind reddened her cheeks. “I’ve heard about you at the Magellan Billet. A bit of a legend. One of the original twelve agents.”
“I didn’t realize I was so popular.”
“Stephanie said you were modest, too.”
He wasn’t in the mood for compliments. The past awaited him. “Could I have the file?”
Her eyes sparked. “Sure.”
He retrieved the envelope. The first thought that flashed through his mind was how something so thin might answer so many questions.
“That must be important,” she said.
Another lesson. Ignore what you don’t want to answer. “You been with the Billet long?”
“Couple of years.” She stepped from the telescope mount. “Don’t like it, though. I’m thinking about getting out. I hear you got out early, too.”
As carelessly as she handled herself, quitting seemed like a good career move. During his twelve years he’d taken only three vacations, during which he’d stayed on constant guard. Paranoia was one of many occupational hazards that came with being an agent, and two years of voluntary retirement had yet to cure the malady.
“Enjoy the skiing,” he said to her.
Tomorrow he’d fly back to Copenhagen. Today he was going to make a few stops at the rare-book shops in the area—an occupational hazard of his new profession. Bookseller.
She threw him a glare as she grabbed her skis and poles. “I plan to.”
They left the terrace and walked back through the nearly deserted visitor center. Jessica headed for the lift that would take her down to the corrie. He headed for the cable car that would drop him ten thousand feet back to ground level.
He stepped into the empty car, holding the envelope. He liked the fact that no one was aboard. But just before the doors closed, a man and woman rushed on, hand in hand. The attendant slammed the doors shut from the outside and the car eased from the station.
He stared out the forward windows.
Enclosed spaces were one thing. Cramped, enclosed spaces were another. He wasn’t claustrophobic. More a sense of freedom denied. He’d tolerated it in the past—having found himself underground on more than one occasion—but his discomfort was one reason why, years ago, when he joined the navy, unlike his father, he hadn’t opted for submarines.
“Mr. Malone.”
He turned.
The woman stood, holding a gun.
“I’ll take that envelope.”
TWO
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
9:10 AM
Admiral Langford C. Ramsey loved speaking to crowds. He’d first realized that he enjoyed the experience while at the Naval Academy and, over a career that now spanned forty-plus years, he’d constantly sought ways to feed his desire. He was speaking today to the national gathering of Kiwanians—a bit unusual for the head of naval intelligence. His was a clandestine world of fact, rumor, and speculation, an occasional appearance before Congress the extent of his public speaking. But lately, with the blessing of his superiors, he’d made himself more available. No charge, no expenses, no press restrictions. The larger the crowd the better.
And there’d been many takers.
This was his eighth appearance in the last month.
“I came today to tell you about something I’m sure you know little about. It’s been a secret for a long time. America’s smallest nuclear submarine.” He stared out at the attentive crowd. “Now, you’re saying to yourself, Is he nuts? The head of naval intelligence is going to tell us about an ultrasecret submarine?”
He nodded.
“That’s exactly what I plan to do.”
“Captain, there’s a problem,” the helmsman said.
Ramsey was dozing in and out of a light sleep behind the planesman’s chair. The sub’s captain, who sat next to him, roused himself and focused on the video monitors.
Every external camera displayed mines.
“Jesus, mother of God,” the captain muttered. “All stop. Don’t move this thing an inch.”
The pilot obeyed the command and punched a sequence of switches. Ramsey may have been only a lieutenant, but he knew explosives became ultrasensitive when immersed in salt water for long periods. They were cruising the Mediterranean Sea’s floor, just off the French coast, surrounded by deadly remnants from World War II. A mere touch of the hull to one of the metallic spines and NR-1 would transform from top secret to totally forgotten.
The boat was the navy’s most specialized weapon, the idea of Admiral Hyman Rickover, built in secret for a staggering one hundred million dollars. Only 145 feet l
ong and 12 feet wide, with an eleven-man crew, the design was tiny by submarine standards, yet ingenious. Capable of diving to three thousand feet, the craft was powered by a one-of-a-kind nuclear reactor. Three viewing ports allowed external visual inspection. Exterior lighting supported television arrays. A mechanical claw could be used to recover items. A manipulator arm accommodated gripping and cutting tools. Unlike attack-class or missile boats, NR-1 was adorned with a bright orange sail, a flat superstructure deck, an awkward box keel, and numerous protuberances including two retractable Goodyear truck tires, filled with alcohol, that allowed it to drive along the seafloor.
“Downward thrusters online,” the captain said.
Ramsey realized what his captain was doing. Keeping the hull firmly on the bottom. Good thing. There were too many mines on the TV screens to count.
“Prepare to blow main ballast,” the captain said. “I want to rise straight up. No side-to-side.”
The conn was quiet, which amplified the whine of turbines, whooshes of air, squeals of hydraulic fluid, and bleeps of electronics that, only a short while ago, had acted on him like a sedative.
“Nice and steady,” the captain said. “Hold her still as we rise.”
The pilot gripped the controls.
The boat had not been equipped with a steering wheel. Instead four sticks had been converted from fighter jets. Typical for NR-1. Though it was state-of the-art in power and concept, most of its equipment was Stone Age rather than Space Age. Food was prepared in a cheap imitation of an oven used on commercial planes. The manipulator arm was left over from another navy project. The navigation system, adapted from transatlantic airliners, barely worked underwater. Cramped crew quarters, a toilet that rarely did anything but clog, and only TV dinners, bought at a local supermarket before leaving port, to eat.
“We had no sonar contact on those things?” the captain asked. “Before they appeared?”
“Zero,” one of the crew said. “They just materialized out of the darkness ahead of us.”
Compressed air rushed into the main ballast tanks and the sub rose. The pilot kept both hands on the controls, ready to use thrusters to adjust their position.