The Charlemagne Pursuit cm-4 Read online

  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.

  7. An examination of NR-1, performed to ascertain if any obvious engineering deficiencies could be found in the sister vessel, revealed that the negative battery plates had been impregnated with mercury to increase their life. Mercury is forbidden for use on submersibles. Why that rule was relaxed on this design is unclear. But if batteries on board NR-1A caught fire, which, according to repair logs, has happened on both NR-1 and 1A, the resulting mercury vapors would have proven fatal. Of course, there's no evidence of any fire or battery failure.

  8. USS Holden, commanded by LCDR Zachary Alexander, was dispatched on November 23, 1971, to NR-1A's last known position. A specialized reconnaissance team reported finding no trace of NR-1A. Extensive sonar sweeps revealed nothing. No radiation was detected. Granted, a large-scale search and rescue operation may have yielded a different result, but the crew of NR-1A signed an operational order, prior to leaving, acknowledging that in the event of a catastrophe, there would be no search and rescue. Clearance for this extraordinary action came directly from Chief of Naval Operations in a classified order, a copy of which the Court has reviewed.

  Opinions The failure to find NR-1A does not lessen the obligation to identify and correct any practice, condition, or deficiency subject to correction that may exist, given that NR-1 continues to sail. After carefully weighing the limited evidence, the Court finds there is no proof of cause or causes for NR-1A's loss. Clearly, whatever happened was catastrophic, but the submarine's isolated location and lack of tracking, communications, and surface support make any conclusions that the Court may make, as to what happened, purely speculative.

  Recommendations As part of continuing efforts to obtain additional information as to the cause for this tragedy, and to prevent another incident from happening with NR-1, a further mechanical examination of NR-1 shall be conducted, as and when practicable, using the latest testing techniques. The purpose of such testing would be to determine possible damage mechanisms, to evaluate secondary effects thereof, to provide currently unavailable data for design improvements, and to possibly determine what may have happened to NR-1A.

  MALONE SAT IN HIS ROOM AT THE POSTHOTEL. THE VIEW OUT THE second-floor windows, past Garmisch, framed the Wetterstein Mountains and the towering Zugspitze, but the sight of that distant peak only brought back what had happened two hours ago.

  He'd read the report. Twice.

  Naval regulations required that a court of inquiry be convened immediately after any maritime tragedy, staffed with flag officers, and charged with discovering the truth.

  But this inquiry had been a lie.

  His father had not been on a mission in the North Atlantic. USS Blazek didn't even exist. Instead, his father had been aboard a top-secret submarine, in the Antarctic, doing God knows what.

  He remembered the aftermath.

  Ships had combed the North Atlantic, but no wreckage had been found. News reports indicated that Blazek, supposedly a nuclear-powered submersible being tested for deep bottom rescue, had imploded. Malone remembered what the man in uniform-not a vice admiral from the submarine force, whom he later learned would normally break the news to a boat commander's wife, but a captain from the Pentagon-had said to his mother: "They were in the North Atlantic, twelve hundred feet down."

  Either he'd lied or the navy had lied to him. No wonder the report remained classified.

  American nuclear submarines rarely sank. Only three since 1945.Thresher, from faulty piping. Scorpion, because of an unexplained explosion. Blazek, cause unknown. Or more properly, NR-1A, cause unknown.

  Every one of the press accounts he'd reread with Gary over the summer had talked of the North Atlantic. The lack
of wreckage was attributed to the water's depth and canyon-like bottom features. He'd always wondered about that. Depth would have ruptured the hull and flooded the sub, so debris would have eventually floated to the surface. The navy also wired the oceans for sound. The court of inquiry noted that acoustical signals had been heard, but the sounds explained little and too few were listening in that part of the world to matter.

  Dammit.

  He'd served in the navy, joined voluntarily, took an oath, and upheld it.

  They hadn't.

  Instead, when a submarine sank somewhere in the Antarctic, no flotilla of ships had combed the area, probing the depths with sonar. No reams of testimony, charts, drawings, letters, photographs, or operational directives were accumulated as to cause. Just one lousy ship, three days of inquiry, and four pages of a nothing report.

  Bells clanged in the distance.

  He wanted to ram his fist through the wall. But what good would that do?

  Instead he reached for his cell phone.

  SIX

  CAPTAIN STERLING WILKERSON, US NAVY, STARED PAST THE frosty plate-glass window at the Posthotel. He was discreetly positioned across the street, inside a busy cDonald's. People trudged back and forth outside, bundled against the cold and a steady snow.

  Garmisch was an entanglement of congested strasses and pedestrian-only quarters. The whole place seemed like one of those toy towns at FAO Schwarz, with painted Alpine cottages nestled deep in cotton batting, sprinkled thick with plastic flakes. Tourists surely came for the ambience and the nearby snowy slopes. He'd come for Cotton Malone and had watched earlier as the ex-Magellan Billet agent, now a Copenhagen bookseller, killed a man then leaped from a cable car, eventually making his way to ground level and fleeing in his rental car. Wilkerson had followed, and when Malone headed straight for the Posthotel and disappeared inside, he'd assumed a position across the street, enjoying a beer while he waited.

  He knew all about Cotton Malone.

  Georgia native. Forty-eight years old. Former naval officer. Georgetown law school graduate. Judge Advocate General's Corps. Justice Department agent. Two years ago Malone had been involved in a shoot-out in Mexico City, where he'd received his fourth wound in the line of duty and apparently reached his limit, opting for an early retirement, which the president personally granted. He'd then resigned his naval commission and moved to Copenhagen, opening an old-book shop.

  All that, Wilkerson could understand.

  Two things puzzled him.

  First, the name Cotton. The file noted that Malone's legal name was Harold Earl. Nowhere was the unusual nickname explained.

  And second, how important was Malone's father? Or, more accurately, his father's memory? The man had died thirty-eight years ago.

  Did that still matter?

  Apparently so, since Malone had killed to protect what Stephanie Nelle had sent.

  He sipped his beer.

  A breeze swirled past outside and enhanced the dance of snowflakes. A colorful sleigh appeared, drawn by two prancing steeds, its riders tucked beneath plaid blankets, the driver snatching at the bridles.

  He understood a man like Cotton Malone.

  He was a lot like him.

  Thirty-one years he'd served the navy. Few rose to the rank of captain, even fewer beyond to the admiralty. Eleven years he'd been assigned to naval intelligence, the past six overseas, rising to Berlin bureau chief. His service record was replete with successful tours at tough assignments. True, he'd never leaped from a cable car a thousand feet in the air, but he'd faced danger.

  He checked his watch. 4:20 PM.

  Life was good.

  The divorce to wife number two last year had not been costly. She'd actually left with little fanfare. He then lost twenty pounds and added some auburn to his blond hair, which made him appear a decade short of fifty-three. His eyes were more alive thanks to a French plastic surgeon who'd tightened the folds. Another specialist eliminated the need for glasses, while a nutritionist friend taught him how to maintain greater stamina through a vegetarian diet. His strong nose, taut cheeks, and sharp brow would all be assets when he finally rose to flag rank.

  Admiral.

  That was the goal.

  Twice he'd been passed over. Usually that was all the chances the navy offered. But Langford Ramsey had promised a third.

  His cell phone vibrated.

  "By now Malone's read that file," the voice said when he answered.

  "Every word, I'm sure."

  "Move him along."

  "Men like this can't be rushed," he said.

  "But they can be directed."

  He had to say, "It's waited twelve hundred years to be found."

  "So let's not let it wait any longer."

  STEPHANIE SAT AT HER DESK AND FINISHED READING THE COURT of inquiry report. "This whole thing is false?"

  Davis nodded. "That sub was nowhere near the North Atlantic."

  "What was the point?"

  "Rickover built two NR boats. They were his babies. He allocated a fortune to them during the height of the Cold War, and no one gave a second thought to spending two hundred million dollars to one-up the Soviets. But he cut corners. Safety was not the primary concern, results were what mattered. Hell, hardly anybody knew the subs existed. But the sinking of NR-1A raised problems on many levels. The sub itself. The mission. Lots of embarrassing questions. So the navy hid behind national security and concocted a cover story."

  "They sent only one ship to look for survivors?"

  He nodded. "I agree with you, Stephanie. Malone is cleared to read that. The question is, should he?"

  Her answer was never in doubt. "Absolutely." She recalled her own pain at the unresolved questions over her husband's suicide and her son's death. Malone had helped resolve both of those agonies, which was the precise reason why she'd owed him.

  Her desk phone buzzed, and one of the staff told her that Cotton Malone was on the line demanding to speak with her.

  She and Davis exchanged puzzled glances.

  "Don't look at me," Davis said. "I didn't give him that file."

  She answered with the handset. Davis pointed to a speaker box. She didn't like it, but she activated the unit so he could hear.

  "Stephanie, let me just say that, at the moment, I'm not in the mood for bullshit."

  "And hello to you, too."

  "Did you read that file before you sent it to me?"

  "No." Which was the truth.

  "We've been friends a long time. I appreciate you doing this. But I need something else and I don't need any questions asked."

  "I thought we were even," she tried.

  "Put this on my bill."

  She already knew what he wanted.

  "A naval ship," he said, "Holden. In November 1971 it was dispatched to the Antarctic. I want to know if its captain is still alive-a man named Zachary Alexander. If so, where is he? If he's not breathing, are any of his officers still around?"

  "I don't suppose you're going to tell me why."

  "Have you now read the file?" he asked.

  "Why do you ask?"

  "I can hear it in your voice. So you know why I want to know."

  "I was told a short while ago about the Zugspitze. That's when I decided to read the file."

  "Did you have people there? On the ground?"

  "Not mine."

  "If you read that report, then you know the SOBs lied. They left that sub out there. My father and those other ten men could have been sitting on the bottom waiting for people to save them. People who never came. I want to know why the navy did that."

  He was clearly angry. So was she.

  "I want to talk to one or more of those officers from Holden," he said. "Find them for me."

  "You coming here?"

  "As soon as you find them."

  Davis nodded, signaling his assent.

  "All right. I'll locate them."

  She was tiring of this charade. Edwin Davis was here for a reason. Ma
lone had obviously been played. She had been, too, for that matter.

  "Another thing," he said, "since you know about the cable car. The woman who was there-I popped her hard in the head, but I need to find her. Did they take her into custody? Let her go? What?"

  Davis mouthed, You'll get back to him.

  Enough. Malone was her friend. He'd stood by her when she really needed it, so it was time to tell him what was happening-Edwin Davis be damned.

  "Never mind," Malone suddenly said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I just found her."

  SEVEN

  GARMISCH

  MALONE STOOD AT THE SECOND-STORY WINDOW AND GAZED down across the busy street. The woman from the cable car, Panya, calmly walked toward a snowy parking lot that fronted a McDonald's. The restaurant was tucked into a Bavarian-style building, only a discreet sign with the golden arches and a few window decorations announcing its presence.

  He released his hold on the lace curtains. What was she doing here? Maybe she'd fled? Or had the police simply let her go?

  He grabbed his leather jacket and his gloves and stuffed the gun he'd taken from her into one of the pockets. He left the hotel room and descended to ground level, careful in his movements but casual in his gait.

  Outside, the air was like the inside of a chest freezer. His rental car was parked a few feet from the door. Across the street he saw the dark Peugeot the woman had walked toward, preparing to exit the lot, its right blinker flashing.

  He hopped into his car and followed.

  WILKERSON DOWNED THE REST OF HIS BEER. HE'D SEEN CURTAINS in the second-floor window part as the woman from the cable car strolled before the restaurant.

  Timing truly was everything.

  He'd thought Malone could not be steered.

  But he'd been wrong.

  STEPHANIE WAS PISSED. "I'M NOT GOING TO BE PARTY TO THIS," she told Edwin Davis. "I'm calling Cotton back. Fire me, I don't give a damn."