Steve Berry - The Charlemagne Pursuit

"I'm supposed to give you the history," Gross said. "This building has been on lease to the navy since October 1971."

"That's before NR-1A sailed," Davis said.

"I don't know anything about that," Gross made clear. "But I do know that the navy has maintained this building ever since. It's equipped with a separate refrigerated chamber-" He pointed through the window. "-beyond the last row of shelves, which is still operational."

"What's in it?" she asked.

He hesitated. "I think you need to see that for yourself."

"Is that why we're here?"

He shrugged. "No idea. But Fort Lee has made sure this warehouse stayed in tip-top shape for the past thirty-eight years. I've been on the job for six of those. No one other than Admiral Ramsey himself enters this building, without me by their side. I stay with any cleaning or repair crew at all times. My predecessors did the same. The scanners and electronic locks were installed five years ago. A computer record is maintained of all who enter and is provided daily to the Office of Naval Intelligence, which has direct managerial oversight of the lease. Whatever anyone sees in here is classified, and all personnel understand what that means."

"How many times has Ramsey visited?" Davis asked.

"Only once in the past five years-that the computer record shows. Two days ago. He also entered the refrigerated compartment. It has a separate recorded lock."

She was anxious. "Take us."

RAMSEY SHOWED THE POST REPORTER FROM HIS OFFICE. HOVEY had already told him about three more interviews. Two for television, one for radio, and they would happen downstairs, in a briefing room, where crews were setting up. He was beginning to like this. Much different from living in the shadows. He was going to make a great Joint Chief of Staff and, if all went according to plan, an even better vice president.

He'd never understood why the number two constitutional office couldn't be more active. Dick Cheney had demonstrated the possibilities, becoming a quiet molder of policy without the attention the presidency continually attracted. As vice president, he could involve himself in what he wanted, when he wanted. And just as quickly un-involve himself, since-as John Nance Garner, FDR's first vice president, had so wisely noted-most believed the office wasn't worth a "warm bucket of spit," though legend says reporters changed the spelling of the last word for print.

He smiled.

Vice President Langford Ramsey.

He liked that.

His cell phone alerted him with a barely audible chime. He lifted the unit from his desk and noted the caller. Diane McCoy.

"I need to speak with you," she said.

"I don't think so."

"No tricks, Langford. You name the place."

"I haven't the time."

"Make it, or there won't be any appointment."

"Why do you persist in threatening me?"

"I'll come to your office. Surely you feel safe there."

He did, but wondered, "What's this about?"

"A man named Charles C. Smith Jr. It's an alias, but that's what you call him."

He'd never heard anyone speak that name before. Hovey handled all payments, but they were issued to another name in a foreign bank, protected behind the National Security Act.

Yet Diane McCoy knew.

He checked the clock on his desk. 4:05 PM.

"Okay, come on over."

MALONE SETTLED IN TO THE LC-130. THEY'D JUST COMPLETED A ten-hour flight from France to Cape Town, South Africa. A French military chopper had ferried them from Ossau to Cazau, Teste-de Buch, the nearest French military base, about 150 miles away. There a C-21A, the military version of a Learjet, had flown them just under Mach 1 across the Mediterranean and lengthwise down the African continent, with only two quick stops for refueling.

In Cape Town a fully fueled LC-130 Hercules, with two crews from the 109th Air Wing of the New York Air National Guard, sat waiting, engines revved. Malone realized that the ride in the Learjet was going to seem luxurious next to what he and his cohorts were about to experience on the twenty-seven hundred miles south to Antarctica, across storm-tossed ocean for all but the last seven hundred miles, which would be over solid ice.

Truly, a no-man's-land.

Their gear had been waiting on board. He knew the key word. Layers. And he knew the objective. Eliminate body moisture without it freezing. Under Armour shirts and pants, made of a fast-wicking material, went on first to keep the skin dry. Over that came a wool long john union suit, breathable, also with water-wicking properties, then a nylon jacket-and-pant set with a fleece backing. Finally, a Gore-Tex fleece-lined parka and cold-weather wind pants. Everything was in a camouflage digital pattern, courtesy of the US Army. Gore-Tex gloves and boots, along with two pairs of socks each, protected the extremities. He'd provided their sizes hours ago and noticed that the boots were the requisite size and a half too big to accommodate the thick socks. Ablack wool balaclava protected the face and neck with openings only for the eyes, which would be shielded by tinted goggles. Like going for a space walk, hemused, which wasn't far off themark. He'd heard stories of how the Antarctic cold caused fillings in teeth to contract and fall out.

Each of them had brought a rucksack with a few personal items. He noticed that a cold-weather version, thicker and better insulated, had been provided.

The Hercules lumbered toward the runway.

He turned to the others, who sat on canvas seats with web backings across from him. None of them had yet donned the wool balaclava, so their faces remained exposed. "Everybody okay?"

Christl, who sat beside him, nodded.

He noticed they all seemed uncomfortable in their thick clothing. "I assure you, this flight is not going to be warm and these clothes are about to become your best friends."

"This may be too much," Werner said.

"This is the easy part," he made clear. "But if you can't take it, you can always stay at the base. The Antarctic camps are plenty comfortable."

"I've never done this before," Dorothea said. "Quite an adventure for me."

More like the adventure of a lifetime, since supposedly no human had touched the Antarctic shore until 1820, and only a precious few made it there now. He knew there was a treaty, signed by twenty-five nations, that labeled the entire continent as a place of peace, with a free exchange of scientific information, no new territorial claims, no military activities, and no mining unless all signers of the treaty agreed. Five point four million square miles, about the size of the United States and Mexico combined, 80 percent of which was swathed in a mile-thick shroud of ice-70 percent of the world's fresh water-making the resulting ice plateau one of the highest on earth, with an average elevation of over eight thousand feet.

Life existed only at the edges, as the continent received less than two inches of rain a year. Dry as a desert. Its white surface lacked the ability to absorb light or heat, reflecting back all radiation, keeping the average temperature around seventy degrees below zero.

He also knew the politics from his two previous visits while with the Magellan Billet. Currently seven nations-Argentina, Britain, Norway, Chile, Australia, France, and New Zealand-laid claim to eight territories, defined by degrees of longitude that intersected at the South Pole. They were flying to the portion claimed by Norway, known as Dronning Maud Land, which extended from 44° 38?E to 20°W. A sizable chunk of its western portion-from 20°E to 10°W-had been claimed by Germany in 1938 as Neuschwabenland. And though the war ended that claim, the region remained one of the least known of the continent. Their destination was Halvorsen Base, operated by Australia in the Norwegian section, situated on the northern coast facing the southern tip of Africa.