The Emerald Scepter

CHAPTER THREE

Hawkins got the bad news over coffee early the next morning.

It came in the form of an email on his smart phone saying that his navy contract to develop Fido had been canceled because of lack of funding. After a flurry of back-and-forth emails that shed no further light on the decision, he made a series of dead-end phone calls. Everyone in the navy department was apparently out in the field.

He finally got through to an engineer he’d worked with on an earlier project and asked what happened. The engineer said he didn’t know what he was talking about.

“What I’m talking about is cutting me loose after I’ve put a pile of my own money into this project in expectations that it would be repaid.”

The engineer said he would ask around. He called back a half hour later and confirmed the cancellation and said no one could come up with an explanation. Hawkins was stewing over the announcement when Snowy called and said the Osprey had sunk at its mooring. Minutes later, he was standing on the dock with Snowy and a dozen or so spectators who were looking at the pilot house sticking out of the pond like the conning tower of a surfacing submarine. A salvage barge and divers came in and plugged a hole in the hull. It was early evening when they pumped out the water and re-floated the boat. It was caked with mud.

The salvagers said the boat must have hit a rock. Snowy said they were crazy. The salvagers showed them the eight inch ragged hull gap they had temporarily patched. The insurance underwriter showed up and said he might have to write the boat off as a total loss.

Hawkins thanked him, then called the number Kelly had given him the night before. When his old commander answered, Hawkins said, “When did you join the mafia, commander?”

Kelly said he didn’t know what Hawkins was talking about.

When he learned about the loss of the navy contract and the Osprey, he said, “Wow. Double whammy. Don’t blame you for being pissed. Might be just a coincidence. Run of bad luck.”

“Bad luck didn’t punch a hole in my boat. Where are you?”

“At the war college.”

“Stay put, I’m on my way to Newport.”

Hawkins steamed with anger during the drive to Rhode Island, but he couldn’t contain a smile when he saw Kelly waiting at War College Gate 1. The granite-hard face was nestled in a cushion of heavy jowls, but the commander had maintained his fireplug physique and ramrod posture and he looked good in his tailored suit. Navy blue, of course.

Kelly climbed into the truck, shook Hawkins’ hand, and directed him through another security checkpoint to the two-story white stone structure that had housed Newport’s Asylum for the Poor until the navy took it over in 1884 for the war college. The building had been converted into a museum after the navy university and think tank expanded to a sprawl of multi-story buildings on Coasters Harbor Island, a couple of miles from the cliff mansions built by the Vanderbilts and Astors. Lights glowed in the first floor windows. Kelly led the way through the front entrance and along a hallway. He stopped in front of a closed door.

“I’m leaving you here. The folks inside are waiting for you.”

“Anyone I know?”

Kelly shook his head. “Like I said, I’m only the messenger. Got a call from an old higher-up who asked me to drag you here. My job is done. Good to see you. Looking great.”

Hawkins smiled at Kelly’s familiar machine gun delivery.

“Looks like life’s treating you well, too,” Hawkins said as they shook hands.

“Couldn’t be better. Terrific wife. Six beautiful grand kids. None interested in the navy. But I’m working on it.” He handed Hawkins a business card.

“Consultant on naval security?” Hawkins read off the card.

“Work with the Pentagon on foreign arms deals. Sort of a respectable arms dealer.” He jerked his thumb toward the closed door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, commander. Great to see you.”

Kelly started down the hallway, only to stop as if he had forgotten his car keys.

“Remember what I said back in the old days about friendly fire?”

“Sure,” Hawkins said. “There is never anything friendly about a bullet coming your way, no matter who fires it. What aren’t you telling me, Jack?”

Kelly smiled but there was no mirth in his slate-gray eyes. “I hear things.”

“What sort of things?”

“Never seen it like this, Matt. Real snake pit. Just watch your ass. Make sure your perimeter is secure.”

His continued down the hallway, his hollow footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. With Kelly’s warning lingering in his ears, Hawkins knocked softly, half expecting a python or a cobra to answer. He was almost disappointed when a woman opened the door and greeted him with a pleasant smile.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hawkins. My name is Anne Hilliard. We’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was polite and as neutral as a telephone service recording.

Hilliard was a well-constructed woman in her fifties. She wore a canary-yellow two-piece suit with a high military-style collar. She had short hair the color of corn-silk and her face was wide and bland. She stepped aside to allow Hawkins into a room decorated with wall paintings of naval battles. Seated at a long, rectangular table of dark wood were three men and one woman.

Hilliard directed him to a vacant seat at one end of the table and took a chair at the other end.

“I’ll start by introducing myself,” Hilliard said. “I’m an assistant to the special counsel on security to the President. My boss advises the White House on the appropriate response to threats to our country. The people in this room constitute a task force that represents various entities charged with counter-strategy.”

She turned to an apple-faced man sitting to her right. “Dr. Fletcher?”

The man gave a slight nod. “My name is Charles Fletcher, Lieutenant Hawkins. I am a retired naval officer and I am fortunate to teach naval history at this historic institution. Since age is equated with wisdom, I have been asked to moderate this discussion.”

With his shiny cheeks, twinkling eyes, white goatee, tufts of cottony hair sticking out behind his ears and his prep school pseudo-British accent, Fletcher seemed to Hawkins like a character from a Dickens story. He wore a rumpled Oxford cloth shirt and striped necktie under a buff-colored vest that had a button missing,

Seated next to Fletcher was a man in his middle thirties dressed in a European cut charcoal pinstripe suit. His face was smooth and boyish and his perfectly shaped short blond hair looked as if it were painted on his head. His name was Ian Scanlon and he was with the Mid-East desk of the State Department.

A florid, heavy-set man wearing a naval officer’s uniform with a captain’s insignia introduced himself as Mike McCormick and said he was with naval intelligence. The last person to speak was a young woman named Natalie Glassman from the Homeland Security Department.

Hilliard picked up a dossier. “We all have been given copies of your personnel file and know about your distinguished combat career with the SEALs.”

“Then you all know that my distinguished navy career ended five years ago.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s in the file.”

Hawkins glanced at the faces around him. “In that event, could someone tell me why I’m here?”

“Fair question,” Fletcher said. “If Ms. Hilliard doesn’t mind, I will answer it with a question of my own. What do you know about Prester John?”

Hawkins stared at Fletcher and tweaked his mouth up in his trademark smirk. “Is that a serious question?”

“I assure you it is of the utmost seriousness.”

Hawkins dug into his memory. “As I recall, Prester John was a mythical king who ruled over some sort of lost Shangri-La kingdom.”

“Let me offer a few corrections. Prester John was not a myth. Nor was his kingdom. Both existed.”

“Fascinating, Dr. Fletcher,” Hawkins said, warily. “But I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

“Bear with me, please.”

Hawkins nodded to be polite.

Fletcher smiled and went on. “The legend of Prester John had its origin in 12^th century Europe with rumors of a king, said to be descended from the Magi, who ruled a wealthy kingdom east of Babylon. Many expeditions tried to find him, but none were successful. Then in the 1100s, Pope Alexander III sent his physician Philip to deliver a message to the Prester asking for help fighting the infidels, who were pressing Christendom. Philip was known to have made it as far as Palestine, but was never seen again.”

“Thanks for the history lesson, but I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”

Scanlon answered the question. “We’ve recently become aware of findings that suggest Philip made it to the lost kingdom. And that Prester John gave him a fabulous treasure to take back to the Pope in Rome, but it was never delivered.”

Hawkins spread his hands apart. “And?”

The White House representative spoke.

“Your dossier said you have located a number of lost shipwrecks,” Hilliard said.

“That’s correct. I run a non-profit undersea exploration organization. Our goals are to expand knowledge and test new underwater equipment.”

“The U.S. government would like to enlist that expertise to find the treasure of Prester John,” Ms. Hilliard said.

“Since when has the U.S. government been in the treasure hunting business?”

Captain McCormick injected himself into the conversation. “Since the disposition of that treasure could have implications for national security, Hawkins.”

Unlike Fletcher, the navy officer didn’t use Hawkins’ military title.

“Maybe you could tell me about those implications, McCormick.”

McCormick’s face glowed traffic light red. “That’s Captain McCormick.”

“And it’s Lieutenant Hawkins, captain.”

The two men exchanged hard stares. Fletcher’s crisp voice broke the strained silence.

“Ms. Glassman, could you please explain the situation to the lieutenant?”

The Homeland Security representative said, “For some time now we have been picking up chatter about a plot against the United States.”

“What sort of plot?” Hawkins said.

“We don’t know yet. Only that it could involve even more victims than 9/11. We’re still following up every lead possible, but we’ve determined with certainty that it is the work of a splinter terrorist group which has named the plot the Prophet’s Necklace.”

“Unusual name,” Hawkins said. “Any idea what it means?”

“It’s a parable based on an Islamic morality story,” Glassman said. “In this story, a necklace given away by the Prophet’s daughter Fatima was considered blessed because it clothed and fed a beggar, bestowed means instead of helplessness, freed a slave, and was ultimately returned to its owner.”

Fletcher said, “We think that the perpetrators, a group which calls itself the Shadows, see this plot as their Prophet’s Necklace, empowering them and freeing them from the bondage of America.”

“Where does Prester John come in?” Hawkins said.

“The Shadows want to find the treasure before activating the plot. The treasure is said to include an emerald scepter that Prester John wielded as a symbol of his power. In sending it to the Pope he was saying that he was willing to join the fight to wipe Islam off the face of the earth. We think the Shadows believe that Prester John’s mystical power will flow to them in their fight against the infidels.”

“They wave the scepter around and then strike against their enemy. Not a bad display of showmanship,” Hawkins said.

“These people think in terms of thousands of years, and they are always looking for historical precedent to justify their cause. In their mind we’re nothing but re-born Crusaders. At the very least, having the treasure would recruit more fanatics to their failing cause.”

“How did the Shadows find out about the treasure?” Hawkins said.

Scanlon, from the State Department, took over.

“We suspect they heard about research being done by a historian named Cait Everson, who teaches at Georgetown University. Dr. Everson has published books and articles in which she suggests that the Prester John legend is true.”

“Did she mention the treasure in her writing?”

“Only peripherally. She was convinced that the treasure made it as far as Afghanistan. She thought State might be interested in her findings, given our country’s deep involvement in the region. She sent us a report.”

“Did the report say where in Afghanistan?” Hawkins said.

“Dr. Everson’s original letter only suggested a general location,” Hilliard said. “More recently she sent us an addendum pin-pointing the probable site.”

Hilliard rose and dimmed the lights. Using a laptop computer, she projected onto a wall screen a satellite photo of Afghanistan with a map overlay and pointed to a section of the country in the southwest.

Hawkins said, “We kept our guys out of that neighborhood. No one was really in control last I knew.”

“A drug warlord named Amir Khan controls the area, and so far he has managed to keep out both the government and insurgent factions.”

“Could you put your pointer on the treasure site?’ Hawkins said.

“Dr. Everson thinks the treasure is in this vicinity.”

She ran the pointer in a circle around a lake shaped somewhat like a lop-sided infinity symbol. The red dot landed on the edge of the lake.

“Based on what evidence?”

“A few years ago Dr. Everson was in Afghanistan doing research on ancient trade roads. She followed a little-known route to the lake and learned that before it was flooded it was called the ‘Valley of the Dead.’ According to local lore, the valley earned its name as a place where bandits entrapped caravans.”

Hawkins was intrigued. “Go on.”

“Dr. Everson researched the history of the valley and learned of an expedition back in the 1920s financed by a mining billionaire named Kurtz. He had come into possession of a fragment of a letter, purportedly written by Prester John, which mentioned a gift of a great treasure to the Pope. There was a map on the back of the letter. This is it.”

A roughly-drawn figure eight image appeared. Next to it was a drawing of what looked vaguely like an inverted U and below it, a small circle.

“What’s the significance of these wavy lines?”

“The hump shown here is an odd-shaped rock outcropping that Dr. Everson saw on her visit.” She pointed to the circle. “She thinks this represents a cave where the treasure could be.”

“It’s under water, in other words.”

“That’s right. Which is why Dr. Everson became even more excited when she learned that the Kurtz expedition had called for dive equipment and a diver.”

“Dr. Everson is a good detective. I’d like to talk to her,” Hawkins said.

“So would we. Dr. Everson vanished without a trace about a week ago.”

“Looks like someone dropped the ball at State by not getting back to her right away,” Hawkins observed.

“Wish I could say you’re wrong,” Scanlon said in a rueful tone. “The State Department doesn’t ordinarily deal with treasure hunts, but an intelligence analyst called her report to our attention and we tried to reach her. The university said she left a message that she was taking a leave of absence. No explanation.”

“No one has heard from her since?”

“We put out a trace. She flew to Zurich, but that’s as far as we were able to track her.”

“So you think her disappearance suggests that there is more to the story than legend.”

Natalie Glassman nodded.

“Dr. Everson had complained to Georgetown’s campus police about being stalked. The night before she disappeared there was an incident in Arlington, Virginia. She told the investigating officers that there had been an attempt to kidnap her.”

“And you think there’s some connection to the treasure and the Necklace plot?”

Heads nodded around the table.

Hawkins sat back in his chair and looked around the table, thinking he now knew how Alice must have felt at the March Hare’s tea party.

“Let’s see if I have this straight. You believe that if the crazies find the treasure they will pull the trigger on the necklace plot.”

“That’s essentially correct, lieutenant. We need to prevent that from happening.”

“So you want me to go into a remote part of Afghanistan that is controlled by a warlord and surrounded by insurgents and dive into a lake to find a treasure that may or may not exist.” Hearing no disagreement, Hawkins said, “No offense folks, but that is bat shit crazy.”

“Not at all,” Fletcher said. “We’ve considered your background as a SEAL, particularly your cave combat experience in Afghanistan, and the work of your non-profit group locating wrecks. Your submersible research at Woods Hole is well-documented.”

“It’s been a long time since I rappelled down a line from a helicopter.”

“Evidently, you’ve kept in shape,” Fletcher said. “You’ve run a number of half-marathons, right?”

Damn. Is there anything that’s not in that file? Hawkins thought.

“True, but I haven’t won any.”

“You came in near the top, though. A significant feat considering your injury, so physical incapacity is no excuse. We believe you’re the perfect man for the job.”

“The job you’re talking about is a suicide mission.”

“That’s not a given,” Hilliard said. “You would have all the resources of the government at your disposal. We would give you men and weapons.”

“Let’s talk about those resources,” Hawkins said. “We have the greatest military and intelligence-gathering forces in the world, but the task of preventing a horrendous attack on the United States of America would fall on the unworthy shoulders of a forty-something ex-SEAL.”

“I wouldn’t exactly put it that way,” Fletcher said.

“But I would. You all have my personnel file so you know I was kicked out of the navy with a psychiatric discharge. The navy said I was crazy. Good luck finding someone who’s even crazier to carry out this mission.”

He started to rise from his chair.

Captain McCormick snickered and looked around at the others.

“I told you this was the wrong guy for the job. Mr. Hawkins here doesn’t like anyone telling him what to do.”

“You’ve got me all wrong, captain. I don’t like being told what to do by navy guys with a puffed-up view of themselves.”

Fletcher made a palm-down gesture with his hands.

“Please hold on, gentlemen. Your comments are out of line, captain.”

McCormick glared at Hawkins. “Just saying out loud what was in the record. If you’ll excuse me. I need a smoke.”

Hawkins watched the officer storm out of the room. He turned to Fletcher. “And I think I need some air.”

Fletcher raised his hand to stay Hawkins and said to the others, “Would you allow us a few minutes? Lieutenant Hawkins and I need to have a serious talk.”

Hawkins shrugged as the room cleared out. He figured that with the Osprey out of commission and his navy contract in question he had nothing else to do.

“Talk away, Dr. Fletcher.”