“I've been better.”
“Your friend fell and injured his head,” Nurse Gomez said.
“He's still a little confused,” Santos added. “We recommend that he have x-rays as soon as we arrive in San Carlos Bay.”
“Of course,” Candice said.
“Nurse Gomez will be glad to give you the name of a clinic on shore if you like.” The phone rang and Santos answered. He listened for a moment then hung up. “I think I can put your mind to rest, Mr. Skyler. Since midnight, we have come in contact with five vessels. The Puerto Vallarta to San Lucas ferry, another cruise ship, an oil tanker, what appeared to be a private ocean-going yacht, and a freighter who identified itself as Iberian registry. Of the five, the tanker was the closest — six-point-two kilometers.”
“That's it?” Skyler sat up and swung his legs over the side of the examination table.
“Yes.” Santos smiled broadly. “Now, I'm sure that answers all your questions. Please let Nurse Gomez know if there is anything else we can do for you.”
Skyler started to say something but thought better of it.
Candice took his arm and they walked out of the infirmary. “What was that all about?”
“Something strange is going on, Candy.” Still a little woozy, he leaned on her for support.
“They said you slipped and fell.”
“I didn't slip. I saw something I shouldn't have and somebody knocked me out. Captain Santos knows what’s going on. He's covering up the whole event. Besides, you can't miss a full-blown nuclear missile submarine.”
“Missile submarine? What in the world are you talking about?”
“Not here.” His words brought stares from a group heading to morning brunch. Back in their stateroom, he sat on the bed, rubbing his head. “It just doesn't make any sense.”
“You've got to admit, Matt, a submarine is a little hard to believe.”
“I know a Yankee-class when I see one.”
“Then we have to report it.”
“I did. You heard what the captain said.”
“What if he's right?”
“Candy!”
“Okay, okay. It's just that you did hit your head.”
“No, somebody hit my head.”
“Calm down, honey, I believe you. But there is a chance that—”
“That I imagined it all? I didn't imagine anything and I didn't have too much to drink.”
“How about all the margaritas?”
“I wasn't drunk. Either Santos is blind or he knows everything I've said is true. There's tons of electronic gear on this ship. No way could they miss that sub. What I need is some proof.”
“Matt, relax. This is our vacation. You've told them everything. When we go ashore at the next port, you can make a full report to the authorities if you want. Until then, can't you just let it go?”
“I can't relax, I can't let it go. I've got to find out what was in those suitcases.”
PEGASUS
“Where are you hiding, Mr. Bormann?” Mickey Gates asked himself as he propped his feet up on the edge of the video control console. He leaned back and rubbed his tired eyes — the stiffness in his neck didn't go away when he tilted his head from side to side. He glanced over his shoulder. Through the porthole he saw the moon rising above the slate-flat ocean.
Taking a sip of Red Stripe, Gates turned back to the high-definition video monitor. Like a doctor examining an x-ray, he scrutinized the wireframe, 3D-image profile of the ocean bottom. Somewhere down there was U-396. It had caught fire and sank on its way to South America in May 1945. Newly uncovered Allied documents contained evidence that Martin Bormann, private secretary and chief adviser to Adolf Hitler, had been on board fleeing Germany with a fortune in Nazi gold. After weeks of scanning hundreds of square miles of ocean bottom, the computer had yet to make a match to the U-boat's distinctive profile.
Enough for one night, Gates thought. He pressed stop on the digital video recorder. With beer in hand, he left the Pegasus' Video Analysis Center and stepped out onto the deck. The converted Coast Guard cutter lay at anchor on a calm ocean 70 kilometers off the east coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. Crammed with electronic gear, it was owned by OceanQuest, the undersea exploration company specializing in military salvage.
Gates strolled along the deck watching a school of kings break the surface thirty yards away. He was slightly less than six feet and solid as a load of concrete, his muscles fought to escape his pullover and shorts. He had a crop of dark shaggy hair, a chiseled square jaw, and moved with the confidence of a man who once competed on the U.S. Olympic wrestling team. His diving credits ranged from the gold-bearing rivers of the western United States to expeditions under both polar ice sheets. Reaching the door to the bridge, he stuck his head in and spotted Peter Jorg, the tall blond captain of the Pegasus. Jorg leaned over a table as he studied charts and entered coordinates into a computer. In his early thirties, Jorg had joined the OceanQuest team after finishing five years as an officer in the Swedish Navy. He wore a T-shirt that said, “OceanQuest divers do it deeper”, a pair of denim cut-offs, and some well-worn boat shoes. “Mick,” he said. “Burning the midnight oil?”
“Just going through the videos one more time.” Gates walked over and looked at the computer screen. “Anything promising for tomorrow?”
“I wish I could say yes, but we've covered the same area so many times, I'm on a first name basis with most of the fish.”
Gates glanced up at the white board. The last known location of U-396—20 degrees north, 87 degrees west — was written in large red letters. The Allies decoded the final flash message from the German High Command but it was buried in the mountain of post war documents for over fifty years. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, old KGB files were released and the last know position of U-396 along with its infamous passenger was discovered.
“Not that it'll probably matter,” Gates said, “but just for grins, let's reverse the search pattern. Who knows, the scanning program might like looking at things from the opposite angle for a change.”
“You're the boss.” Jorg continued entering data. The phone on the bridge instrument panel chirped. Jorg walked over and answered. He looked up, smiled at Gates and held out the receiver. “It's Skyler.”
Gates took it. “Sky, how’s the margaritas?”
“They're fine, but nothing else is.”
Gates heard the edginess on his best friend's voice. He knew Matt Skyler better than anyone. Outwardly, the former U.S. Navy Commander was adventurous and easygoing, somewhat conservative and unassuming. But Gates also knew the inner Skyler. If someone was unlucky enough to confront this part of him, they usually came up short. Cool and meticulous, Skyler rarely miscalculated when he set his mind to a task. He could also be moody and sometimes would withdraw to a place where even Gates could not reach him.
The two met in high school while racing dune buggies across the Arizona desert. Later, they both attended the University of Southern California and vowed one day to be in business together. OceanQuest was the result — two state-of-the-art research and exploration vessels funded by government contracts and in constant use around the world.
“You guys okay?” Gates asked.
“Yeah. Listen, Mick. I need you to check on a few things for me. Got a pencil and pad?”
Gates grabbed what he needed. “Shoot.”
“Get into the COMNET database and see what you can find out about Aztec Cruise Lines. I want a full background check — who owns it, financial status, complete history of the company.”
“Got it. What else?”
“Call Dick Miller at the Pentagon. Remind him he owes me for saving his ass from being thrown in jail after that New Year’s party in Washington. Then tell him I need to know the status of all Yankee-class boomers.”