As carelessly as she handled herself, quitting seemed like a good career move. During his twelve years he'd taken only three vacations, during which he'd stayed on constant guard. Paranoia was one of many occupational hazards that came with being an agent, and two years of voluntary retirement had yet to cure the malady.
"Enjoy the skiing," he said to her.
Tomorrow he'd fly back to Copenhagen. Today he was going to make a few stops at the rare-book shops in the area-an occupational hazard of his new profession. Bookseller.
She threw him a glare as she grabbed her skis and poles. "I plan to."
They left the terrace and walked back through the nearly deserted visitor center. Jessica headed for the lift that would take her down to the corrie. He headed for the cable car that would drop him ten thousand feet back to ground level.
He stepped into the empty car, holding the envelope. He liked the fact that no one was aboard. But just before the doors closed, a man and woman rushed on, hand in hand. The attendant slammed the doors shut from the outside and the car eased from the station.
He stared out the forward windows.
Enclosed spaces were one thing. Cramped, enclosed spaces were another. He wasn't claustrophobic. More a sense of freedom denied. He'd tolerated it in the past-having found himself underground on more than one occasion-but his discomfort was one reason why, years ago, when he joined the navy, unlike his father, he hadn't opted for submarines.
"Mr. Malone."
He turned.
The woman stood, holding a gun.
"I'll take that envelope."
TWO
ADMIRAL LANGFORD C. RAMSEY LOVED SPEAKING TO CROWDS. He'd first realized that he enjoyed the experience while at the Naval Academy and, over a career that now spanned forty-plus years, he'd constantly sought ways to feed his desire. He was speaking today to the national gathering of Kiwanians-a bit unusual for the head of naval intelligence. His was a clandestine world of fact, rumor, and speculation, an occasional appearance before Congress the extent of his public speaking. But lately, with the blessing of his superiors, he'd made himself more available. No charge, no expenses, no press restrictions. The larger the crowd the better.
And there'd been many takers.
This was his eighth appearance in the last month.
"I came today to tell you about something I'm sure you know little about. It's been a secret for a long time. America's smallest nuclear submarine." He stared out at the attentive crowd. "Now, you're saying to yourself, Is he nuts? The head of naval intelligence is going to tell us about an ultrasecret submarine?"
He nodded.
"That's exactly what I plan to do."
"Captain, there's a problem," the helmsman said.
Ramsey was dozing in and out of a light sleep behind the planesman's chair. The sub's captain, who sat next to him, roused himself and focused on the video monitors.
Every external camera displayed mines.
"Jesus, mother of God," the captain muttered. "All stop. Don't move this thing an inch."
The pilot obeyed the command and punched a sequence of switches. Ramsey may have been only a lieutenant, but he knew explosives became ultrasensitive when immersed in salt water for long periods. They were cruising the Mediterranean Sea's floor, just off the French coast, surrounded by deadly remnants from World War II. A mere touch of the hull to one of the metallic spines and NR-1 would transform from top secret to totally forgotten.
The boat was the navy's most specialized weapon, the idea of Admiral Hyman Rickover, built in secret for a staggering one hundred million dollars. Only 145 feet long and 12 feet wide, with an eleven-man crew, the design was tiny by submarine standards, yet ingenious. Capable of diving to three thousand feet, the craft was powered by a one-of-a-kind nuclear reactor. Three viewing ports allowed external visual inspection. Exterior lighting supported television arrays. A mechanical claw could be used to recover items. A manipulator arm accommodated gripping and cutting tools. Unlike attack-class or missile boats, NR-1 was adorned with a bright orange sail, a flat superstructure deck, an awkward box keel, and numerous protuberances including two retractable Goodyear truck tires, filled with alcohol, that allowed it to drive along the seafloor.
"Downward thrusters online," the captain said.
Ramsey realized what his captain was doing. Keeping the hull firmly on the bottom. Good thing. There were too many mines on the TV screens to count.
"Prepare to blow main ballast," the captain said. "I want to rise straight up. No side-to-side."
The conn was quiet, which amplified the whine of turbines, whooshes of air, squeals of hydraulic fluid, and bleeps of electronics that, only a short while ago, had acted on him like a sedative.
"Nice and steady," the captain said. "Hold her still as we rise."
The pilot gripped the controls.
The boat had not been equipped with a steering wheel. Instead four sticks had been converted from fighter jets. Typical for NR-1. Though it was state-of the-art in power and concept, most of its equipment was Stone Age rather than Space Age. Food was prepared in a cheap imitation of an oven used on commercial planes. The manipulator arm was left over from another navy project. The navigation system, adapted from transatlantic airliners, barely worked underwater. Cramped crew quarters, a toilet that rarely did anything but clog, and only TV dinners, bought at a local supermarket before leaving port, to eat.
"We had no sonar contact on those things?" the captain asked. "Before they appeared?"
"Zero," one of the crew said. "They just materialized out of the darkness ahead of us."
Compressed air rushed into the main ballast tanks and the sub rose. The pilot kept both hands on the controls, ready to use thrusters to adjust their position.
They'd only need to rise a hundred feet or so to be clear.
"As you can see, we made it out of that minefield," Ramsey told the crowd. "That was the spring of 1971." He nodded. "That's right, a long time ago. I was one of the fortunate to have served on NR-1."
He saw the look of amazement on faces.
"Not many people know about the sub. It was built in the mid 1960s in total secrecy, hidden even from most admirals at the time. It came with a bewildering array of equipment and could dive three times deeper than any other vessel. It carried no name, no guns, no torpedoes, no official crew. Its missions were classified, and many remain so to this day. What's even more amazing, the boat is still around-now the navy's second oldest serving submersible, on active duty since 1969. Not as secret as it once was. Today it has both military and civilian uses. But when human eyes and ears are needed deep in the ocean, it's NR-1's mission to go. You remember all those stories about how America tapped into transatlantic telephone cables and listened in on the Soviets? That was NR-1. When an F-14 with an advanced Phoenix missile fell into the ocean in 1976, NR-1 recovered it before the Soviets could. After the Challenger disaster, it was NR-1 that located the solid rocket booster with the faulty O-ring."
Nothing grabbed an audience better than a story, and he had plenty from his time on that unique submersible. Far from a technological masterpiece, NR-1 had been plagued with malfunctions and was ultimately kept afloat simply because of its crew's ingenuity. Forget the manual-innovation was their motto. Nearly every officer who'd served aboard went on to higher command, himself included. He liked that he could now talk about NR-1, all part of the navy's plan to up recruitment by spouting success. Veterans, like him, could tell the tales, and people, like those now listening from their breakfast tables, would repeat his every word. The press, which he'd been told would be in attendance, would ensure even greater dissemination. Admiral Langford Ramsey, head of the Office of Naval Intelligence, in a speech before the national Kiwanians, told the audience…