The Charlemagne Pursuit

2:40 PM

RAMSEY WAS USHERED INTO THE LIVING ROOM OF ADMIRAL RAYMOND Dyals Jr., four stars, retired, US Navy. The ninety-four-year-old Missourian had served in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, then retired in the early 1980s. In 1971, when NR-1A was lost, Dyals had been chief of naval operations, the man who'd signed the classified order not to launch any search and rescue for the missing sub. Ramsey had then been a lieutenant, the one chosen by Dyals for the mission, afterward personally briefing the admiral about Holden's covert Antarctica visit. He'd then been quickly promoted to commander and assigned to Dyals' personal staff. From there, the moves upward had been fast and easy.

He owed this old man everything.

And he knew Dyals still carried clout.

He was the oldest living flag officer. Presidents consulted him, the current one no exception. His judgment was considered sound and meaningful. The press afforded him great courtesy, and senators routinely made pilgrimages to the room into which Ramsey now walked, before a raging fire, a wool blanket spread across the old man's spindly legs, a bushy cat nestled in Dyals' lap. He'd even acquired a label-Winterhawk-which Ramsey knew the man relished.

Crinkly eyes flashed as Dyals spotted him entering. "I always like it when you come by."

Ramsey stood respectfully before his mentor until he was invited to sit.

"I thought I might hear from you," Dyals said. "I heard this morning about Sylvian. He served on my staff once. An okay aide, but too rigid. He seems to have done all right, though. Nothing but glowing reports all day on his life."

Ramsey decided to come to the point. "I want his job."

The admiral's melancholy pupils lit with approval. "Member, Joint Chiefs of Staff. I never made it that far."

"You could have."

The old man shook his head. "Reagan and I didn't get along. He had his favorites, or at least his aides had their favorites, and I wasn't on that list. Besides, it was time for me to leave."

"What about you and Daniels? Are you on his favorites list?"

He caught something hard and unbending in Dyals' expression.

"Langford," Dyals said, "you know that the president is no friend of ours. He's been hard on the military. Budgets have been slashed, programs curtailed. He doesn't even think we need the Joint Chiefs."

"He's wrong."

"Maybe. But he's the president, and he's popular. Like Reagan was, just with a different philosophy."

"Surely there are military officers he respects. Men you know. Their support of my candidacy could make the difference."

Dyals lightly stroked the cat. "Many of them would want the job for themselves."

He said nothing.

"Don't you find this whole business unsavory?" Dyals asked. "Begging for favors. Relying on whore politicians for a career. It's one reason I opted out."

"It's the way of our world. We don't make the rules, we just play by the ones that exist."

He knew that many flag officers and a good number of those "whore politicians" could thank Ray Dyals for their jobs. Winterhawk had lots of friends, and knew how to use them.

"I've never forgotten what you did," Dyals quietly muttered. "I often think about NR-1A. Those men. Tell me, again, Langford, what was it like?"

A haunting bluish glow seeped through the surface ice, its color gradually deepening with depth, finally evolving into an indigo blackness. Ramsey wore a bulky navy dry suit with tight seals and double layers, nothing exposed except a tiny strip of skin around his lips that had burned when he'd first entered the water but was now numb. Heavy gloves made his hands seem useless. Thankfully, the water dissipated all weight, and floating in the vastness, clear as air, he felt as if he were flying rather than swimming.

The transponder signal Herbert Rowland had detected led them across the snow to a narrow inlet where freezing ocean licked icy shore, a place where seals and birds had congregated for summer. The signal's strength compelled a firsthand inspection. So he'd suited up, Sayers and Rowland helping him don his gear. His orders were clear. Only he went into the water.

He checked his depth. Forty feet.

Impossible to know how far down to the bottom but he was hoping he could at least catch sight of something, enough to confirm the sub's fate. Rowland had told him that the source lay farther inland, toward the mountains that rose from the shoreline.

He kicked through the water.

A wall of black volcanic rock peppered with a dazzling array of orange anemones, sponges, pink staghorns, and yellow-green mollusks rose to his left. But for the fact the water was twenty-eight degrees he could have been on a coral reef. Light dimmed overhead in the frozen ceiling, and what had just appeared as a cloudy sky, in varying shades of blue, steadily went black.

The ice above had apparently been replaced with rock.

He unclipped a light from his belt and switched it on. Little plankton floated around him. He saw no sediment. He shone his light and the beam seemed invisible, as there was nothing to backscatter the photons. They simply hung in the water, revealing themselves only when they struck something.

Like a seal, which shot past, barely flexing a muscle.

More seals appeared.

He heard their trilling call and even felt it in his body, as if he were being sonar-pinged. What an assignment. An opportunity to prove himself to men who could literally make his career. That's why he'd instantly volunteered. He'd also personally chosen Sayers and Rowland, two men he knew could be depended on. Rowland had said the signal source was maybe two hundred yards south. No more. He estimated that he'd swum at least that far. He searched the depths with light that penetrated maybe fifty feet. He was hoping to spot NR-1A's orange conning tower rising from the bottom.

He seemed to be floating in a massive underwater cavern that opened directly into the Antarctic continent, volcanic rock now encircling him.

His gaze searched. Nothing. Just water dissolving into blackness.

Yet the signal was here.

He decided to explore a hundred more yards.

Another seal rocketed past, then one more. Ahead of him, their ballet was entrancing. He watched as they glided with no effort. One of them whirled in a broad somersault, then beat a hasty retreat upward.

He followed with his light.

The animal disappeared.

A second seal flicked its fins and ascended.

It, too, broke through the surface.

How was that possible?

Only rock should be above him.

"Amazing," Dyals said. "What an adventure."

Ramsey agreed. "My lips felt like I'd been kissing frozen metal when I surfaced."

The admiral chuckled. "I would have loved to have done what you did."

"The adventure's not over, Admiral."

Dread punctuated his words and the old man now understood that the visit contained a dual purpose.

"Tell me."

He recounted the Magellan Billet's breach of NR-1A's investigative file. Cotton Malone's involvement. His successful effort to retrieve the file. And White House access into the personnel records of Zachary Alexander, Herbert Rowland, and Nick Sayers. He omitted only what Charlie Smith was handling.

"Someone's looking," he said.

"It was only a matter of time," Dyals said in a whisper. "Secrets seem so hard to keep anymore."

"I can stop it," he declared.

The old man's eyes narrowed. "Then you must."

"I've taken measures. But you ordered, long ago, that he would be left alone."

No name was needed. The he was known between them.

"So you've come to see if that order still stands?"

He nodded. "To be complete he must also be included."

"I can't order you any longer."

"You're the only man I willingly obey. When we disbanded thirty-eight years ago, you gave an order. Leave him alone."

"Is he still alive?" Dyals asked.

He nodded. "Sixty-eight years old. Lives in Tennessee. Teaches at a college."

"Still spouting the same nonsense?"

"Nothing has changed."

"And the other two lieutenants who were there with you?"

He said nothing. He didn't have to.

"You've been busy," the admiral said.

"I was taught well."

Dyals continued to stroke the cat. "We took a chance in '71. True, Malone's crew agreed to the conditions before they left, but we didn't have to hold them to it. We could have looked for them. I've always wondered if I did the right thing."

"You did."

"How can you be so sure?"

"The times were different. That sub was our most secret weapon. There's no way we could have revealed its existence, much less that it sank. How long would it have been before the Soviets found the wreckage? And there was the matter of NR-1. It was on missions then, and it's still sailing today. No question-you did the right thing."

"You believe the president is trying to learn what happened?"

"No. It's a few rungs lower on the ladder, but the man has Daniels' ear."

"And you think all this might destroy your chances at nomination?" "Without a doubt."

No need for him to add the obvious. And also destroy your reputation.

"Then I rescind the order. Do as you see fit."