The Citadel

CHAPTER 5

Oahu

"This could all be a setup," Tai said as the plane lifted off the runway.

Vaughn had his eyes closed. "At least if it is, we're going first-class."

"Why should we believe anything Royce tells us?" Tai asked.

"Why shouldn't we?" Vaughn asked in turn. He opened his eyes. "I don't know what the truth is about anything. But even when I was in the real Army, I wasn't too sure about the truth either. Were you?"

Tai sighed. "I believed in what I was doing."

"I believed in my team," Vaughn said. "But it got shot up doing a mission on orders that I wonder about now. My brother-in-law was killed. Men who trusted me, trusted my orders, died. And now I can say 'I was just following orders.'"

"Oh, bullshit," Tai said. "Now you're getting into where the ultimate truth is. What it is. A bunch of crap."

"Then what are we doing on this plane?" Vaughn asked. "Why are you here?"

Now it was Tai's turn to close her eyes. "I want to find out who is behind all this. I want to find out who got your brother-in-law killed, and my sister too. And I want to make them pay."

Surprisingly, Vaughn laughed. "That, I can understand. Revenge. But you think we're going to make the slightest bit of difference?"

"We did in Hawaii."

"All right." Vaughn nodded. "We did. And we will here. Or freeze to death trying."

Tokyo , Japan

The head of the Far East Table stared out the window and pondered recent developments. Bad news comes in three, and he had just received the third part.

Kaito being killed in Hong Kong.

Being summoned to Geneva to discuss the I-401 and someplace called the Citadel.

And now Nishin disappearing in the Philippines on a simple assassination mission to avenge Kaito's death.

He looked down at his desk and the flimsy report on I-401. It had indeed been commandeered by the Far East Table near the end of World War II to be sent on a covert mission for the Organization.

And that was all the report said.

He picked up the secure phone and punched in number two on the speed dial. The call was bounced through satellites to the United States, specifically the Nevada desert.

The call was answered on the third ring. "Yes?"

"Have you received a summons to Geneva?"

"Yes. I will be departing shortly."

"Regarding the Citadel?"

"Yes."

The head of the Far East Table reined in his irritation. "And what do you know of it?"

"It's in Antarctica. It was initially established in 1947, the same year the place I am right now was established. But somehow information about it was compartmentalized even from the Table to a large extent. One of our agents, who you know-David Lansale-was the one who did this. And he raised the issue by sending information about it to the Abu Sayif."

"I tried to have Fatima killed, but my agent has disappeared."

The voice on the other end took on a gloating edge. "I have a man in the Philippines who has just captured her. He will terminate her after interrogation."

"We must do more than that," the head of the Far East Table said. "When we go to Geneva, we must present them with a plan to completely wipe this issue out."

"What do you propose?"

"We alert resources to be prepared to intercede in Antarctica as needed. I will do what I can on my end, but you have more available to operate in that part of the world."

There was a short silence. "All right. I will do that. I will see you in Geneva."

Manila

Fatima had been coming awake for brief interludes over the past hour, but every time she approached lucidity a large wave of blackness again engulfed her. This time, though, as she opened her eyes, she could actually think. There were vague memories flitting about her brain, trying to tell her something had happened over the past hour that she needed to recall, but try as she might, no concrete memory could form. There were disturbing visions of what seemed like very bad dreams, but as she took in her surroundings, the present nightmare banished thoughts of worrying about the immediate past.

With slow sweeps of her eyes, she checked out the situation. She was lying on the floor in a filth-strewn room-the walls an eclectic splatter of spray paint and punctured Sheetrock. A single lightbulb burned in the ceiling, casting long shadows through the room. A wooden door beckoned to the world outside. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her, the steel cutting into her skin uncomfortably.

She was considering sliding her hands down her back and pushing her feet through, to at least get her hands in front of her body, when the door opened and the man from the van walked in.

Fatima was truly worried now because the man made no attempt to disguise his identity. That meant he was not concerned about her identifying him in the future, which meant she did not have a future. He had hair cut tight against his skull, his bright blue eyes emanating both intelligence and malice. The fact he was not Filipino was of concern also.

After staring at her for a few minutes, he finally broke the silence and spoke in an Australian accent: "Good day, Miss Fatima. You don't have to worry. I've already gotten what I needed from you." At Fatima 's confused look, he smiled. "It's part of the miracle of modern medicine. The first shot I gave you caused unconsciousness. The second one made you talk." He squatted down and gazed into her eyes. "You don't remember talking and giving me the coordinates, do you?"

Fatima didn't answer. She curled up in a tight ball, her knees to her chest. The man poked her in the shoulder. "There's no need for you to play stupid with me. It was foolish of you to go to the North Koreans. Don't you think that shop is watched all the time? I know quite a bit about you. Part of the perks of the job. You told me everything I asked. You told me some quite interesting personal information about yourself."

Fatima closed her eyes and starting rocking back and forth. He slapped her on the face. "Don't tune out on me." He smiled, but it was only a moving of muscles in his face that didn't touch the coldness of his eyes. "It's kind of like looking into someone's soul when they're under. Imagine being able to ask someone any question you want and get an honest answer?"

His eyes were flashes of blue, catching the light from the flickering bulb above him. He pulled a pistol with a suppressor on the muzzle out of a shoulder holster. He put the muzzle against her temple and stared deep into her eyes. They remained like that for almost a minute, a lifetime for Fatima, who had stopped breathing, every nerve in her body screaming.

Suddenly he pulled the pistol back. "Most people consider you a terrorist. If it didn't violate my orders, I could turn you over to the Americans, dead or alive, and get a nice bounty. But then I would be dead also. Still, it is tempting."

Fatima muttered something under her breath.

"What was that?" the man demanded.

She whispered to herself again. The man knelt next to her and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to her knees. "Talk louder."

Fatima leaned forward, pressing her chest against his.

"That's not going to work," the man said, but he didn't pull back.

Fatima moved her body up and down slightly. She could feel him beginning to grow hard. "Not in the head," she said in a low voice.

"What?"

"Please don't shoot me in the head."

The man laughed. "Why not?"

"Please. I'll make it worth your while not to."

The man pushed her back roughly and stood up. He moved a few feet away and stared at her, his eyes flashing. Fatima forced herself awkwardly back to her knees and shuffled toward him. He backed up until he was against the wall. She felt the skin on her knees tear as she moved, but tried to keep a lustful look on her face.

She pressed her head into the man's crotch.

"I asked you about this," he said. "I know what you like."

Fatima gave what she hoped was a good approximation of a sexual moan. With her teeth, she unzipped his pants, not an easy maneuver. He reached down and grabbed her head as he entered her mouth.

Fatima bit down with every ounce of energy she had. The man screamed and doubled over. She whipped her head out of his grasp and rolled away from him. As she did so, she brought her knees to her chest and slipped her hands over her feet to put them in front of her body. She jumped to her feet and ran at him then, swinging her hands like a club as she did. The blow knocked him sideways, still doubled over. She leapt on his back, looped her manacled hands over his head and pulled back tight on his neck.

He gasped for breath and tried to shake her off. He twisted the hand with the gun and pulled the trigger, the round ripping through Fatima 's shirt but not hitting her. He fired again as she kept the pressure up. Then he straightened and threw himself backward against the wall, slamming her into it, but she didn't let go.

He dropped to his knees, finally letting go of the gun. Fatima kept the pressure tight. He fell forward, taking her with him, but still she didn't let go. It was too quick. Sure enough, after a couple seconds of playing dead, he suddenly rolled, pinning her beneath him. But she sensed his strength weakening.

Then he was still.

Fatima counted sixty to herself as she kept the chokehold with the cuffs. Slowly she let go. Awkwardly, with her bound hands, she searched his pockets until she found the key for the cuffs and maneuvered it out. Then, holding it in her teeth, she unlocked herself. Hands free now, she searched his pockets and found a United States diplomatic passport, which she kept. His name meant nothing to her. The fact that it was a diplomatic passport confirmed what she had suspected: once more the long hand of the United States was after her. It was a good thing she was leaving the Philippines for a while.

Without a backward glance she left the room and headed out of the abandoned warehouse.

Washington , D.C.

The Intelligence Support Agency was a branch of the Pentagon that tried to coordinate the massive flow of data that poured in from all the various intelligence subdivisions of the military. Hundreds of analysts sat in cubicles scrolling through data on their computers, trying to separate intelligence from information. The former was usable data, the latter not. They also handled intelligence requests from the various parts of the military trying to coordinate with the rest of the military-industrial complex so that the right hand could at least have a clue what the left hand was doing.

Bob Festoon was a third of the way through his in-box when he came upon an encrypted request from Majestic-12 Area 51. It caught his interest because rarely did anything from Majestic come through here. So rare were its communiqués and so little was known about the organization that there were some who said it didn't really exist-that it was just a cover-up for something else.

Festoon had even tried accessing data on both Majestic and Area 51 and discovered little even in the ISA's highly classified database. Area 51 was a place whose real purpose was unknown and whose existence was officially denied, yet there had been shows on A &E about it. Majestic-12 was shrouded in even more secrecy.

There were many theories, and Festoon was familiar with most of them. There were those who claimed the government had contact with aliens at the site and they were trading for information and technology. The more radical theorists stated that the items of barter from the human side were allowing the aliens to conduct mutilations on cattle and other livestock and also to abduct humans for various experiments. There were some who even claimed that the aliens were interbreeding with the humans.

Another theory was that Area 51 was the place the government was testing its own latest supersecret aircraft. Festoon knew for a fact that the F-117 Stealth Fighter had been test-flown out there for years before being revealed to the public. The latest "secret" plane that was being tested was called Aurora, and estimates had the plane flying anywhere from Mach 4 to Mach 20 and capable of going high enough to place satellites into orbit. Festoon had seen three references to Aurora in official top secret message traffic, so he was confident that it existed. However, the official government line still was that Majestic-12 and the Area 51 complex didn't exist.

Festoon finished decoding the message and then stared at it for a few seconds before turning to his computer:

Request all information on Antarctic Base, code-named Citadel.

Established 1949 by military during Operation High Jump.

ASAP

He accessed military records and quickly searched the database. After twenty minutes of fruitless effort he was convinced of one thing: there was no record in the ISA's classified database of the Citadel.

Which made it likely, Festoon thought, that this Citadel didn't exist. The Intelligence Support Agency was lavishly funded by the Pentagon's multi-billion-dollar black budget and accountable to no one but the National Security Council, its tentacles reaching into every domestic and foreign source of information. The ISA was more than a gathering agency, though. It also acted on the information it received, implementing numerous covert actions in the name of national security both in the United States and overseas.

The ISA had numerous contacts throughout the business world, men and women in critical places that the ISA worked with, also forwarding the interests of the military and, concurrently, the massive industrial complex that supported the military. It was the covert arm of the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower had so feared, and its power was far greater than even those briefed on its existence dared believe.

Festoon encoded the information given by the computer and its conclusion that the Citadel didn't exist and electronically dispatched it to Majestic-12. He also filed a routine report on the request and put it in the massive pipeline of such reports that circulated throughout the ISA. He picked up the next piece of paper in his in-box and went to work on that.

Oahu, Hawaii

Royce listened to the satellite phone ring and ring and knew that things had gone wrong in the Philippines. The initial call from his agent after capturing Fatima had been succinct, and the news about her going to the North Koreans was startling and troubling. The fact that she also knew about the bombs was just as bad.

He hit the End button and dialed another number of a contact in the Philippines. He ordered the man who answered to check the warehouse where the first agent had been interrogating Fatima.

Then he sat back in the chair and considered the situation. He was in the observation post of a rather unique bunker complex built on Fort Shafter on the outskirts of Honolulu. Built during World War II, when the fear of Japanese invasion of the island was very real, it had housed an air defense coordination center, tunneled deep in a lava ridge line. Now it housed the WestCom Sim-Center, which stood for Western Command, Simulation Center. It was the place where the major commands of the United States military in the Pacific theater played their war games using sophisticated computer simulations. It was currently empty, as no war games were being conducted, the military being more occupied with the real wars going on in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Royce typed on his laptop keyboard, which he had linked by Firewire into the Sim-Center's mainframe. On the large video display in the war room below him, a map of Antarctica was displayed. For the first time, Royce felt irritation with his friend David Lansale. What the hell had David done down there? And why was Lansale, even after death, playing him off against Fatima and the Abu Sayif about the Citadel?

He typed in another command and the map shifted, showing the Korean peninsula. One of the most critical military spots in the world that had the potential to go hot very quickly.

Royce sighed. He knew that Vaughn and Tai would be landing in New Zealand soon, but this was growing much faster and much more dangerous than he had anticipated. His desire for knowledge about the Organization had to be balanced against external threats, and now those threats were growing larger.

Royce cleared the front screen. Then he began typing in a message to his contact in North America.

Auckland, New Zealand

Vaughn threw their bags into the back of the pickup truck, while Tai handed them to him. It was hard to believe their seemingly never-ending flight from Hawaii was finally over.

Vaughn didn't know what to make of Logan. About six-foot-two, tanned, with blond hair that Vaughn was sure the man spent quite a few dollars getting worked on, he had those rugged good looks that would have made him perfect for one of those beer commercials kayaking down white-water rapids while several beautiful women awaited him at the other end. Vaughn didn't like him in the slightest. There was a curious intensity about him that was offset by a very congenial, perfect smile that he shined on Tai as often as he could.

He did have to give Royce credit for one thing: he got them around customs and their gear into the back of the pickup without being checked. And he noted the hard cases already under a tarp in the back that held the weapons and other illegal equipment he had requested.

Tai slid in to sit in the middle, and Vaughn sat on the passenger side as Logan took the wheel. He drove them around the perimeter of the airfield until they came to an old, weather-beaten hangar.

"This is it," Logan said as he pulled up to the hangar. He glanced across Tai at Vaughn. "Mind opening it up?"

Vaughn got out of the truck and slid the large doors open, wide enough for Logan to drive through, then he stepped inside and slid them shut again. As Logan parked the truck, Vaughn looked around. Two planes were parked inside, and a man dressed in greasy overalls was working on one of them. Logan and Tai got out of the pickup.

"This is our aircraft," Logan announced, standing in front of the sleek two-engine plane the man was working on. Vaughn noted the skis bolted on over the wheels of the plane and extra fuel tanks hung under each wing. The man stopped working on the engine and looked at them.

"This is our pilot, Mike Brothers," Logan said.

Brothers acknowledged them with a grimy wave and went back to work, intent on whatever he was doing. Vaughn had no desire to interrupt a man working on an engine he was going to be counting on. Brothers looked like he had done more than his fair share of hard living, with his weather-beaten skin and pure white, thinning hair. Vaughn hoped he knew what he was doing.

"Brothers spent a couple of decades flying the bush in Australia," Logan said. "He's spent the last three years doing runs to Antarctica. The pay is better."

A man with simple motivations, Vaughn thought, reflecting back on the conversation he'd had with Tai on the plane.

"Over here," Logan said, leading them to a plywood board screwed to the hangar wall, which had maps tacked up on it.

Vaughn and Tai sat in the metal folding chairs in front of the maps while Logan stood next to the board.

"We're taking off first thing in the morning tomorrow," Logan announced.

"How long a flight?" Tai asked.

"Eight hours," Logan answered. "Earth First's base, which is where I've always gone before, is located here on Ross Island, about fifteen miles from McMurdo, so we use the runway there and then tractor over. There are eleven people down there right now, but seven are out on the ice shelf doing core tappings, so we'll be able to squeeze in with no problem."

Logan picked up a manila envelope and slid out several photos. "I got the copies of the pictures you sent me. I've tried to figure out where this Citadel can be using them. The Citadel appears to be set in a sort of basin, surrounded on three sides by mountains. Based on the flying time from High Jump Station-now McMurdo-and aircraft type, the JRM Mars, I've estimated it to be between five and six hundred miles from McMurdo straight-line distance. I'm assuming they flew straight because you do not want to dick around in the air down there. The weather can change on you in a heartbeat."

Logan turned to the map. "Combing that with the mountains in the background, that places it in one of three spots: to the south, here at the edge of the Ross Ice Shelf in the Transarctic Mountains; to the east, at the edge of Marie Byrd Land, where King Edward the VII Land juts out into the Ross Sea; or to the north west, here along the Adelie Coast.

"The order I just gave you is also the order in which I think we should look. Let me explain. Six hundred miles from McMurdo along the Adelie Coast puts you almost right smack on top of the French station, Dumont d'Urville. I doubt very much that the Citadel is in this area for several reasons. First, I think the French would have come across something if it was there. The Russians also established a base there in '71 farther east along that coastline, here-Leningradskaya. And they haven't come across anything.

"Additionally, I, and many of my colleagues from Earth First, have been in this area several times conducting protests over the airstrip the French have been trying to build there the last four years. We have made numerous overflights of the area and spotted nothing. I know that the Russians have done extensive electromagnetic sensing missions around that area, trying to determine if there are any mineral deposits. I assume a lot of metal was used in the construction of the Citadel, so I think they would have uncovered it."

Logan tapped the map. "It's possible the base is here along the coast to the east, but I like the location in the Transarctic Mountains. I prefer it because if the purpose was to hide this base, putting it there would locate it much farther south than all bases established afterward, except for Amundsen-Scott Base, which sits right on top of the geographic South Pole itself. Also, this area is along the original route explorers used to reach the South Pole. Both Amundsen and Scott traversed the Ross Ice Shelf and traveled up glaciers into that mountain range. Nowadays, though, expeditions bypass the mountains, going around, either to the east or west. The area has not been extensively explored. Therefore it is my recommendation that we look first in this region."

He paused and looked at Tai, then Vaughn. When neither of them said anything, he continued. "What I've done is make a montage of the silhouettes of the mountains around the Citadel, along with the azimuths the pictures were taken at-I was fortunate that I was able to use the sun and shadows to judge that by. Then as we fly along the mountains, we try to match the outlines."

Vaughn was beginning to change his initial negative opinion of Logan. The man was obviously not stupid.

Logan held up a piece of paper with an outline of three jagged peaks poking above a sea of ice. "This is the view we should see along a due north azimuth. Mountains, whose peaks manage to make it above the ice, are called nunatuks down there. As you can see in this picture, we have these three very distinctive nunatuks, two large pointed ones on the flanks of this rounded one. This three mountain setup is what we should be looking for."

"How common are nunatuks?" Tai asked.

"Not as common as this map would make you believe with all these mountain ranges drawn on it," Logan replied. "The Antarctic ice sheet on the average is over twenty-five hundred meters thick. That's over eight-thousand feet. So a mountain has to be very high to clear the ice sheet.

"If we can find these three-and they are rather unique-and line them up exactly on azimuth, then we will be along the line that the Citadel lies on."

"This may be a stupid question," Vaughn said, "but wouldn't this place be totally covered up by now? After all these years, it would seem like there'd be quite a bit of snow on top."

"Good question." Logan rubbed his chin. "I think even the entrance and any air vents for the Citadel are most likely totally covered over by now, but not from snowfall. There isn't much accumulation down there, but the wind would pile ice and snow up against any exposed structure. However, I do have a plan for that.

"As I explained, we can get pretty close to its location if we find these mountains. Once we do that, we land and use sonar through the ice to try and find the base. It's similar to the way fishermen look for schools of fish. Earth First has two backpack sonar sets at the base that they use for research on the ice cap. The core tapping team didn't take them, so we can use those as we ski along the azimuth to shoot down into the ice. The metal and lack of density of the base ought to show up clearly. According to the information you sent, the Citadel covers a large area underground, so that should help quite a bit."

Vaughn wondered what contingency the builders had designed to find the place if it was covered up. He doubted very much that they had overlooked that major problem when they'd built it.

"What's the weather like?" Tai asked.

Logan walked over to a table and switched on a radio set. "Let's find out. We have high frequency contact with our base, and just last month we finally got the people over at McMurdo to give our station the most current weather reports. Before that we were on our own."

Vaughn thought it was interesting that McMurdo hadn't been giving the weather to the Earth First people. Typical government mentality. Earth First represented a potential threat, so the party line was probably to ignore them at least, or more likely, to make their life as miserable as possible. It was stupid, but who said governments were smart? On the other hand, he imagined that the Earth First people weren't exactly trying to ingratiate themselves with the various government personnel down there, and the resulting attitude was probably, "Why feed the dog that bites your hand?"

Logan fiddled with the dials and then picked up the microphone. "Earth First South, this is Auckland. Over." He clicked off and looked at them.

There was no answer, and he repeated the message. Finally the radio crackled with a woman's voice. "Auckland, this is Earth First Base. Over."

"What's the weather look like? Over."

"The latest from McMurdo at 1900 Greenwich mean, present readings: temperature minus twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. Winds north-northwest at twenty-three knots. Barometric pressure 29.4 rising. Ceiling 1,200 feet, overcast. Visibility four miles with some blowing snow.

"Forecast is for the temperature to rise to minus twenty-one degrees Fahrenheit and the winds to continue at the same. Ceiling is expected to go up to around 1,500 feet with continued broken clouds. Visibility to extend to almost five miles. Over."

Logan replied. "Great. We'll give you a call once we're in the air and tell you when to expect us. Over."

"Roger. See you then. Out."

Tai frowned. "That sounds like pretty bad weather to me."

Logan smiled. "Actually that's good weather for Antarctica. The forecast is for eight hours, plus two on the far side for a safety margin. That report is a combination of inputs from d'Urville, the Soviets at Minsk Station, the Aussies at Wilkes, and several others. McMurdo collates them and then broadcasts every thirty minutes. Four hours out from McMurdo is our point of no return. That's when we get the latest weather relayed from Aurora Glacier and the pilot makes our decision whether to continue on or turn around and head back based on weather and fuel."

Vaughn turned as someone came up behind them. Brothers stood there with two other men. One was an overweight man with a balding head, and the other an obvious weightlifter with muscles bulging under his overalls. His head was shaved, his black skin reflecting the overhead lights.

"Who is this?" Vaughn asked.

"Burke and Smithers," Logan said. "They're going with us as support."

"We don't need support," Vaughn said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Logan wasn't one, apparently, to accept that. "We aren't going onto the ice with only four people. We can't carry enough gear to survive. We have a standing policy-hell, everyone in Antarctica has a standing policy-of a minimum of five people in any surface party. And I assume sooner or later we're going to put boots down on the ice, right? And I vouch for them. They've done work for me when I've been contracted by Royce before."

Vaughn glanced at Tai, and she shook her head ever so slightly. He knew Logan was right-it helped to have extra bodies on hand-but for this mission he didn't trust anybody.

Brothers took the silence as a chance to step forward. He spoke with a strong Australian accent as he wiped off his hands with a grimy towel. "We're topped off, and I've got all your gear loaded. We'll be ready to roll at first light as long as the weather holds." He walked to the front of the room. "I've got extra fuel tanks on the wings and two bladders in the back all hooked up. We should have enough petrol to make it there."

"'Should have?'" Tai echoed.

Brothers smiled. "Just a phrase. It's a good airplane-a Cessna 411, if that means anything to you-but Antarctica is a bit out of its normal range so we have to pack on all that extra fuel. I assume Logan has told you about the point of no return. It's not only there because of weather, but also because of the fuel situation. Once we go past it, we've got to make it to Earth First South Station because we won't have enough fuel to turn around and come back." The burly man shrugged and dismissed the fuel situation.

"All right. Here's your safety briefing. If we run into trouble, you do what I say without asking any questions. We go down in the ocean, the raft is under the copilot's seat. That's the one up front that I'm not sitting in. You'd better hope we stay afloat long enough to get the raft inflated and out the window because if you get dunked, the cold water will kill you in less than a minute.

"We go down on land and I don't make it to give you advice, then my advice now is stay with the plane. It's got an emergency transponder on board, and even if that gets busted, the plane is going to be the biggest thing rescuers could find. You go wandering around on the ice, you'll last a little longer than if you had hit the water, but not by much. The end result will be the same.

"There are first aid and emergency kits on board the plane. They're marked in red, and you can't miss 'em." Brothers smiled. "Any questions?" The other five people just stared at him. "All right then. See you in the morning."

Logan pointed at some boxes lined up against the wall. "I've got some cold weather gear here. Let's get your equipment squared away before I show you where you'll spend the night."

Area 51

Dyson, the head of the North American Table, was pressed back in his seat as the Gulfstream Jet roared down the runway that cut across the dry bed of Groom Lake. The plane needed only a fraction of the seven-mile-long concrete to get airborne.

He looked once more at the negative reply from the ISA concerning information about the Citadel, then put it down on the table in front of him. The potential embarrassment if the place did exist, and held four MK-17 thermonuclear weapons, was great. The fact that it was causing him problems with Geneva was also very bad.

The secure computer link buzzed, and words began scrolling across the screen. The message was brief and to the point: his agent in the Philippines had been found. Dead. And there was no sign of Fatima. Which meant she was free with the information Lansale had sent her. And he had no doubt where her destination would be: the Citadel.

If the Abu Sayif got its hands on the four Mark-17s-well, he didn't want to dwell on that.

But the information was even worse than that as the message continued: Fatima had met with a North Korean agent prior to being picked up by Royce's agent. Which meant the scant information he had about The Citadel and the bombs was probably en route to Pyongyang.

Dyson checked his contacts and began making calls to begin maneuvering resources south toward Antarctica in preparation for possible intervention.