She recalled last April and their conversation at The Hague. "I thought you told me that you didn't know beans about science."
"I don't. But that doesn't mean I don't read and pay attention."
She smiled. "You're quite a contradiction."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Daniels pointed at the table. "Does the translation program work?"
"Seems to. And you're right. This is a record of a lost civilization. One that's been around a long time and apparently interacted with people all over the globe, including, according to Malone, Europeans in the ninth century."
Daniels stood from his chair. "We think ourselves so smart. So sophisticated. We're the first at everything. Bullshit. There's a crapload out there we don't know."
"From what we've translated so far," she said, "there's apparently some technical knowledge here. Strange things. It's going to take time to understand. And some fieldwork."
"Malone may regret that he went down there," Daniels muttered.
She needed to know, "Why?"
The president's dark eyes studied her. "NR-1A used uranium for fuel, but there were several thousand gallons of oil on board for lubrication. Not a drop was ever found." Daniels went silent. "Subs leak when they sink. Then there's the logbook, like you learned from Rowland. Dry. Not a smudge. That means the sub was intact when Ramsey found it. And from what Rowland said, they were on the continent when Ramsey went into the water. Near the coast. Malone's following Dietz Oberhauser's trail, just like NR-1A did. What if the paths intersect?"
"That sub can't still exist," she said.
"Why not? It's the Antarctic." Daniels paused. "I was told half an hour ago that Malone and his entourage are now at Halvorsen Base."
She saw that Daniels genuinely cared about what was happening, both here and to the south.
"Okay, here it is," Daniels said. "From what I've learned, Ramsey employed a hired killer who goes by the name Charles C. Smith Jr."
Davis sat still in his chair.
"I had CIA check Ramsey thoroughly and they identified this Smith character. Don't ask me how, but they did it. He apparently uses a lot of names and Ramsey has doled out a ton of money to him. He's probably the one who killed Sylvian, Alexander, and Scofield, and he thinks he killed Herbert Rowland-"
"And Millicent," Davis said.
Daniels nodded.
"You found Smith?" she asked, recalling what Daniels had originally said.
"In a manner of speaking." The president hesitated. "I came to see all this. I truly wanted to know. But I also came to tell you exactly how I think we can end this circus."
MALONE STARED OUT THE HELICOPTER'S WINDOW, THE CHURN OF the rotors pulsating in his ears. They were flying west. Brilliant sunshine streamed in through the tinted goggles that shielded his eyes. They girdled the shore, seals lounging on the ice like giant slugs, killer whales breaking the water, patrolling the ice edges for unwary prey. Rising from the coast, mountains poked upward like tombstones over an endless white cemetery, their darkness in stark contrast with the bright snow.
The aircraft veered south.
"We're entering the restricted area," Taperell said through the flight helmets.
The Aussie sat in the chopper's forward right seat while a Norwegian piloted. Everyone else was huddled in an unheated rear compartment. They'd been delayed three hours by mechanical problems with the Huey. No one had stayed behind. They all seemed eager to know what was out there. Even Dorothea and Christl had calmed, though they sat as far away from each other as possible. Christl now wore a different-colored parka, her bloodied one from the plane replaced at the base.
They found the frozen horseshoe-shaped bay from the map, a fence of icebergs guarding its entrance. Blinding light reflected off the bergs' blue ice.
The chopper crossed a mountain ridge with peaks too sheer for snow to cling to. Visibility was excellent and winds were weak, only a few wispy cirrus clouds loafing around in a bright blue sky.
Ahead he spotted something different.
Little surface snow. Instead, the ground and rock walls were colored with irregular lashings of black dolerite, gray granite, brown shale, and white limestone. Granite boulders littered the landscape in all shapes and sizes.
"A dry valley," Taperell said. "No rain for two million years. Back then mountains rose faster than glaciers could cut their way through, so the ice was trapped on the other side. Winds sweep down off the plateau from the south and keep the ground nearly ice-and snow-free. Lots of these in the southern portion of the continent. Not as many up this way."
"Has this one been explored?" Malone asked.
"We have fossil hunters who visit. The place is a treasure trove of them. Meteorites, too. But the visits are limited by the treaty."
The cabin appeared, a strange apparition lying at the base of a forbidding, trackless peak.
The chopper swept over the pristine rocky terrain, then wheeled back over a landing site and descended onto gravelly sand.
Everyone clambered out, Malone last, the sleds with equipment handed to him. Taperell gave him a wink as he passed Malone his pack, signaling that he'd done as requested. Noisy rotors and blasts of freezing air assaulted him.
Two radios were included in the bundles. Malone had already arranged for a check-in six hours from now. Taperell had told them that the cabin would offer shelter, if need be. But the weather looked good for the next ten to twelve hours. Daylight wasn't a problem since the sun wouldn't set again until March.
Malone gave a thumbs-up and the chopper lifted away. The rhythmic thwack of rotor blades receded as it disappeared over the ridgeline.
Silence engulfed them.
Each of his breaths cracked and pinged, the air as dry as a Sahara wind. But no sense of peace mixed with the tranquility.
The cabin stood fifty yards away.
"What do we do now?" Dorothea asked.
He started off. "I say we begin with the obvious."
EIGHTY-FIVE
MALONE APPROACHED THE CABIN. TAPERELL HAD BEEN RIGHT. Seventy years old, yet its white-brown walls looked as if they'd just been delivered from the sawmill. Not a speck of rust on a single nailhead. A coil of rope hanging near the door looked new. Shutters shielded two windows. He estimated the building was maybe twenty feet square with overhanging eaves and a pitched tin roof pierced by a pipe stack chimney. A gutted seal lay against one wall, gray-black, its glassy eyes and whiskers still there, lying as if merely sleeping rather than frozen.
The door possessed no latch so he pushed it inward and raised his tinted goggles. Sides of the seal meat and sledges hung from ironbraced ceiling rafters. The same shelves from the pictures, fashioned from crates, stacked against one brown-stained wall with the same bottled and canned food, the labels still legible. Two bunks with fur sleeping bags, table, chairs, iron stove, and radio were all there. Even the magazines from the photo remained. It seemed as if the occupants had left yesterday and could return at any moment.
"This is disturbing," Christl said.
He agreed.
Since no dust mites or insects existed to break down any organic debris, he realized the Germans' sweat still lay frozen on the floor, along with flakes of their skin and bodily excrescences-and that Nazi presence hung heavy in the hut's silent air.