The Charlemagne Pursuit

NR-1A.

Holy Mother of God.

He treaded water toward the surfaced boat.

He'd served aboard NR-1, one of the reasons why he'd been chosen for this mission, so he was familiar with the sub's revolutionary design. Long and thin, the sail forward, near the front of a cigar-shaped hull. A flat fiberglass superstructure mounted atop the hull allowed the crew to walk the length of the boat. Few openings existed in the hull, so that it could dive deep with minimal risk.

He floated close and caressed the black metal. Not a sound. No movement. Nothing. Only water slapping the hull.

He was near the bow, so he drifted down the port side. A rope ladder rested against the hull-used, he knew, for ingress and egress to inflatable rafts. He wondered about its deployment.

He grabbed hold and tugged.

Firm.

He slipped off his fins and slid the straps across his left wrist. He clipped the light to his belt, gripped the ladder, and hauled himself from the water. On top, he collapsed to the decking and rested, then slipped off his weight belt and air tank. He swiped cold water from his face, braced himself, regripped his light, then used the sail fins like a ladder and hoisted himself to the top of the conning tower.

The main hatch hung open.

He shuddered. From the cold? Or from the thought of what waited below?

He climbed down.

At the ladder's bottom he saw that the flooring plates had been removed. He shone his light across where he knew the boat's batteries were stored. Everything appeared charred-which might explain what had happened. A fire would have been catastrophic. He wondered about the boat's reactor but, with everything pitch dark, apparently it had been shut down.

He moved through the forward compartment to the conn. The chairs were empty, the instruments dark. He tested a few circuits. No power. He inspected the engine room. Nothing. The reactor compartment loomed silent. He found the captain's corner-not a cabin, NR-1A was too small for such luxuries, just a bunk and a desk attached to the bulkhead. He spotted the captain's journal, which he opened, thumbing through, finding the last entry.

Ramsey remembered that entry exactly. Ice on his fingers, ice in his head, ice in his glassy stare. Oh, how right Forrest Malone had been.

Ramsey had handled that search with perfection. Anyone who could now be a problem was dead. Admiral Dyals' legacy was secure, as was his own. The navy was likewise safe. The ghosts of NR-1A would stay where they belonged.

In Antarctica.

His cell phone came alive with light, but no sound. He'd silenced it hours ago. He looked. Finally.

"Yes, Charlie, what is it?"

"I need to see you."

"Not possible."

"Make it possible. In two hours."

"Why?"

"A problem."

He realized they were on an open phone line and words needed to be chosen with care.

"Bad?"

"Enough I need to see you."

He checked his watch. "Where?"

"You know. Be there."