The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  They’d only need to rise a hundred feet or so to be clear.

  “As you can see, we made it out of that minefield,” Ramsey told the crowd. “That was the spring of 1971.” He nodded. “That’s right, a long time ago. I was one of the fortunate to have served on NR-1.”

  He saw the look of amazement on faces.

  “Not many people know about the sub. It was built in the mid 1960s in total secrecy, hidden even from most admirals at the time. It came with a bewildering array of equipment and could dive three times deeper than any other vessel. It carried no name, no guns, no torpedoes, no official crew. Its missions were classified, and many remain so to this day. What’s even more amazing, the boat is still around—now the navy’s second oldest serving submersible, on active duty since 1969. Not as secret as it once was. Today it has both military and civilian uses. But when human eyes and ears are needed deep in the ocean, it’s NR-1’s mission to go. You remember all those stories about how America tapped into transatlantic telephone cables and listened in on the Soviets? That was NR-1. When an F-14 with an advanced Phoenix missile fell into the ocean in 1976, NR-1 recovered it before the Soviets could. After the Challenger disaster, it was NR-1 that located the solid rocket booster with the faulty O-ring.”

  Nothing grabbed an audience better than a story, and he had plenty from his time on that unique submersible. Far from a technological masterpiece, NR-1 had been plagued with malfunctions and was ultimately kept afloat simply because of its crew’s ingenuity. Forget the manual—innovation was their motto. Nearly every officer who’d served aboard went on to higher command, himself included. He liked that he could now talk about NR-1, all part of the navy’s plan to up recruitment by spouting success. Veterans, like him, could tell the tales, and people, like those now listening from their breakfast tables, would repeat his every word. The press, which he’d been told would be in attendance, would ensure even greater dissemination. Admiral Langford Ramsey, head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, in a speech before the national Kiwanians, told the audience …

  He had a simple view of success.

  It beat the hell out of failure.

  He should have retired two years ago, but he was the highest-ranking man of color in the US military, and the first confirmed bachelor ever to rise to flag rank. He’d planned for so long, been so careful. He kept his face as steady as his voice, his brow untroubled, and his candid eyes soft and impassive. He’d charted his entire naval career with the precision of an undersea navigator. Nothing would be allowed to interfere, especially when his goal was in sight.

  So he gazed out at the crowd and employed a confident voice, telling them more stories.

  But one problem weighed on his mind.

  A potential bump in the road.

  Garmisch.

  THREE

  GARMISCH

  Malone stared at the gun and kept his composure. He’d been a bit tough on Jessica. Apparently his guard had been down, too. He motioned with the envelope. “You want this? Just some Save the Mountain brochures I promised my Greenpeace chapter I’d post. We get extra credit for field trips.”

  The cable car continued to drop.

  “Funny man,” she said.

  “I considered a career in stand-up comedy. Think it was a mistake?” Situations like this were precisely why he’d retired. Before taxes, an agent for the Magellan Billet made $72,300 a year. He cleared more than that as a bookseller, with none of the risks.

  Or so he thought.

  Time to think like he once had.

  And play for a fumble.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She was short and squat, her hair some unflattering combination of brown and red. Maybe early thirties. She wore a blue wool coat and gold scarf. The man wore a crimson coat and seemed obedient. She motioned with the gun and told her accomplice, “Take it.”

  Crimson Coat lurched forward and jerked the envelope away.

  The woman momentarily glanced at the rocky crags flashing past the moisture-laden windows. Malone used that instant to sweep out his left arm and, with a balled fist, pop the gun’s aim away.

  She fired.

  The report stung his ears and the bullet exploded through one of the windows.

  Frigid air rushed in.

  He slammed a fist into the man, knocking him back. He cupped the woman’s chin in his gloved hand and banged her head into a window. Glass fractured into a spiderweb.

  Her eyes closed and he shoved her to the floor.

  Crimson Coat sprang to his feet and charged. Together they pounded into the far side of the car, then dropped to the damp floor. Malone rolled in an attempt to free himself from a throat grip. He heard a murmur from the woman and realized that soon he would have two to deal with again, one of them armed. He opened both palms and slapped his hands against the man’s ears. Navy training had taught him about ears. One of the most sensitive body parts. The gloves were a problem, but on the third pop the man yelped in pain and released his grip.

  Malone propelled his attacker off him with a leg thrust and leaped to his feet. But before he could react, Crimson Coat plunged an arm over Malone’s shoulder, his throat again clamped tight, his face forced against one of the panes, freezing condensation chilling his cheek.

  “Stay still,” the man ordered.

  Malone’s right arm was wrenched at an awkward angle. He struggled to free himself but Crimson Coat was strong.

  “I said stay still.”

  He decided, for the moment, to obey.

  “Panya, are you all right?” Crimson Coat was apparently trying to draw the woman’s attention.

  Malone’s face remained pressed to the glass, eyes facing ahead, toward where the car was descending.

  “Panya?”

  Malone spied one of the steel trestles, maybe fifty yards away, approaching fast. Then he realized that his left hand was jammed against what felt like a handle. They’d apparently ended their struggle against the door.

  “Panya, answer me. Are you all right? Find the gun.”

  The pressure around his throat was intense, as was the lock on his arm. But Newton was right. For every action there was an opposite and equal reaction.

  The spindly arms of the steel trestle were almost upon them. The car would pass close enough to reach out and touch the thing.

  So he wrenched the door handle up and slid the panel open, simultaneously swinging himself out into the frozen air.

  Crimson Coat, caught off guard, was thrown from the car, his body smacking the trestle’s leading edge. Malone gripped the door handle in a stranglehold. His assailant fell away, crushed between the car and the trestle.

  A scream quickly faded.

  He maneuvered himself back inside. A cloudy plume erupted with each breath. His throat went bone-dry.

  The woman struggled to her feet.

  He kicked her in the jaw and returned her to the floor.

  He staggered forward and stared toward the ground.

  Two men in dark overcoats stood where the cable car would stop. Reinforcements? He was still a thousand feet high. Below him spread a dense forest that ambled up the mountain’s lower slopes, evergreen branches thick with snow. He noticed a control panel. Three lights flashed green, two red. He stared out the windows and saw another of the towering trestles coming closer. He reached for the switch labeled ANHALTEN and flipped the toggle down.

  The cable car lurched, then slowed, but did not fully stop. More Isaac Newton. Friction would eventually end forward momentum.

  He grabbed the envelope from the beside the woman and stuffed it under his coat. He found the gun and slid it into his pocket. He then stepped to the door and waited for the trestle to draw close. The car was creeping but, even so, the leap would be dicey. He estimated speed and distance, led himself, then plunged toward one of the crossbeams, gloved hands searching for steel.

  He thudded into the grid and used his leather coat for cushion.

  Snow crunched between his fi
ngers and the beam.

  He clamped tight.

  The car continued its descent, stopping about a hundred feet farther down the cable. He stole a few breaths, then wiggled himself toward a ladder rising on the support beam. Dry snow fluttered away, like talcum, as he continued a hand-over-hand trek. At the ladder, he planted his rubber soles onto a snowy rung. Below, he saw the two men in dark coats race from the station. Trouble, as he’d suspected.

  He descended the ladder and leaped to the ground.

  He was five hundred feet up the wooded slope.

  He trudged his way through the trees, finding an asphalt road that paralleled the mountain’s base. Ahead stood a brown-shingled building hemmed by snow-covered bushes. A work post of some sort. Beyond was more black asphalt, cleared of snow. He trotted to the gate leading to the fenced enclosure. A padlock barred entrance. He heard an engine groaning up the inclined road. He retreated behind a parked tractor and watched as a dark Peugeot rounded a curve and slowed, inspecting the enclosure.

  Gun in hand, he readied himself for a fight.

  But the car sped away and continued upward.

  He spotted another narrow path of black asphalt that led through the trees, down to ground level and the station.

  He trotted toward it.

  High above, the cable car remained stopped. Inside lay an unconscious woman in a blue coat. A dead man wearing a crimson coat waited somewhere in the snow.

  Neither was his concern.

  His problem?

  Who knew his and Stephanie Nelle’s business?

  FOUR

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  7:45 AM

  Stephanie Nelle glanced at her watch. She’d been working in her office since a little before seven am, reviewing field reports. Of her twelve lawyer-agents, eight were currently on assignment. Two were in Belgium, part of an international team tasked with convicting war criminals. Two others had just arrived in Saudi Arabia on a mission that could become dicey. The remaining four were scattered around Europe and Asia.

  One, though, was on vacation.

  In Germany.

  By design, the Magellan Billet was sparsely staffed. Besides her dozen lawyers, the unit employed five administrative assistants and three aides. She’d insisted that the regiment be small. Fewer eyes and ears meant fewer leaks, and over the fourteen years of the Billet’s existence, to her knowledge, never had its security been compromised.

  She turned from the computer and pushed back her chair.

  Her office was plain and compact. Nothing fancy—that wouldn’t fit her style. She was hungry, having skipped breakfast at home when she awoke, two hours ago. Meals seemed to be something she worried about less and less. Part of living alone—part of hating to cook. She decided to grab a bite in the cafeteria. Institutional cuisine, for sure, but her growling stomach needed something. Maybe she’d treat herself to a midday meal out of the office—broiled seafood or something similar.

  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 only JUSTICE 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 BLAZEK COURT OF INQUIRY FINDINGS

  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.