Clive Cussler - Plague Ship

It took another jet flight to Tromsö, in the far north of the country, and a helicopter ride, to finally arrive at their destination. Cooper was kept sedated the entire time and was closely monitored by Julia Huxley.

The glacier sparkled in the bright light of a summer afternoon, glittering as though it was the finest lead crystal. Outside the valley, the temperature hovered in the mid-fifties, but on the ice it was just above freezing.

George Adams had flown them in on an MD-520N, the replacement for the little Robinson. This chopper was larger than the previous one, and required some modifications to the hangar elevator, but it was also much more powerful and faster. And because it vented engine exhaust through the tail, to counter the main rotor’s torque rather than rely on a second, smaller rotor, it was significantly more quiet.

The Oregon was positioned just off the coast, and Adams would fly them out once they were finished.

Cooper was half conscious by the time they touched down but didn’t fully comprehend where he was until another fifteen minutes had elapsed.

“Where are we? What have you done?”

“Surely you recognize where we are, Dr. Cooper,” Juan said innocently. “But, then again, maybe not.

After all, it’s been more than sixty years since you were last here.” Cooper stared blankly, so Cabrillo continued. “The one thing that kept nagging at me this entire time was how a virus discovered by the Nazis and later given to their Japanese allies ended up in your hands.

There was no record of its discovery, or of its transfer to the Philippines, nothing to give any indication of what was found here.

“Only one thing made sense to me. You discovered it yourself. There are quite detailed records of the Nazi occupation of Norway, and my team found something rather interesting. A four-engine Kondor reconnaissance plane was shot down on this very glacier on the night of April twenty-nine, 1943. Every member of the crew was killed save one, a gunner named Ernst Kessler.” Cooper winced at the mention of the name.

“What I find so fascinating is that Kessler is the German word for ‘cooper.’ Ironic, isn’t it? And the publishing house you started to get your book in print—what was it called? Raptor Press, I believe—is it coincidental that a condor is a kind of raptor? I don’t think so.” Cabrillo threw open the chopper’s door and shoved Kessler/ Cooper onto the ice. In all his dealings with Cooper, Juan had kept his tone light, almost pleasant. But his anger suddenly boiled over, and he seethed. “We also discovered that after the plane crash, Ernst Kessler was accepted into the Gestapo, and was allowed to receive medical training at a lovely spot called Auschwitz. His final orders before war’s end was a transfer to the German Embassy in Tokyo. I assume that was a cover for your going to work for Unit 731 in the Philippines.

“You should have died that night and saved the world a lot of misery, you sick freak. I have dealt with al-Qaeda assassins and Soviet torturers, and every perverted piece of slime in between, but you are the single-most-evil human being I have ever met. You could have shown the world one of the greatest discoveries of all time, perhaps the inspiration for a most beloved Bible story, but instead you only cared about reaping death.

“Well, Kessler, you have reaped what you’ve sown, and when I think about you freezing to death, tonight over dinner, I am going to smile.” Cabrillo closed the helicopter door. “Let’s go.”

“What happens now?” Julia asked as the chopper shot past the edge of the glacier and over open water.

“He dies.”

“I mean, with the ark.”

“Oh that. I’ve already contacted Kurt Austin at NUMA. He told me they are going to find a way to convince the Norwegian government to let them do a detailed survey of that glacier. With her copper bottom, they should have no problem locating the ancient wreck.”

“I wonder what they will find.”

Juan gave her a dreamy look. “Who knows, maybe all the creatures of the world loaded two by two.” MAX HANLEY SAT ON A BENCH near the Griffith Park Observatory, overlooking downtown L.A.

A shadow passed over his face, and when he looked up his son Kyle was standing over him. Max made a wordless gesture for him to sit. He could feel the anger radiating off the boy as though it were waves of heat.

Kyle was staring off into the distance, so Max studied his profile. There was a lot of the kid’s mother in him, but he saw a few of his own features. As he watched, a single tear rolled down Kyle’s cheek, and as if a floodgate had opened Kyle began to cry— deep, choking sobs that sounded like his soul was being torn apart. He clutched at his father, and Max took him in his arms.

“I am so sorry, Dad,” Kyle sobbed.

“And I forgive you.”

Because that’s what fathers do.