Fire Ice

10

WASHINGTON, D.C.

WASHINGTON SWELTERED UNDER a hot sun that combined with the humidity to transform the nation's capital into a giant steam bath. The driver of the turquoise Jeep Cherokee shook his head in wonder at the brave clusters of tourists ignoring the wilting heat. Noel Coward to the contrary, he thought, mad dogs and Englishmen weren't the only ones to go out in the midday sun.

Minutes later, the Jeep pulled up to the White House gate and the man at the wheel handed over a NUMA identification card with the name and photo of Admiral James Sandecker. While one guard used a mirror on a pole to check underneath the vehicle for a bomb, the other returned the ill to the driver, a trim man with flaming red hair and a Vandyke beard.

"Good day, Admiral Sandecker," the guard said, with a broad grin. "Nice to see you again. It's been a few weeks. How are you today, sir?"

"I'm fine, Norman," said Sandecker, "You're looking well. How are Dolores and the children?"

"Thank you for asking," the guard said, beaming with pride. "She's great. Kids are doing well in school. Jamie wants to work for NUMA when she gets out of college."

"Splendid. Make sure she calls me directly. The agency is always on the lookout for bright young people."

The guard let out a hearty laugh. "It won't be for a while. She's only fourteen." He jerked his thumb toward the White House. "They're all in there waiting for you, Admiral."

"Thank you for letting me know," Sandecker replied. "Please give my regards to Dolores."

As the guard waved him through the gate, Sandecker thought how being gracious had more than its immediate rewards. By dealing warmly with guards, secretaries, receptionists and others considered low in the bureaucratic hierarchy, he had established an early-warning network all over the city. His lips compressed in a tight smile. Norman's wink and nod signaled Sandecker that his arrival had been scheduled after the others so they could confer before he arrived. He had a well-earned reputation for promptness, a habit shaped at the U.S. Naval Academy and honed by his years of flag rank. He always arrived exactly one minute before a meeting.

A tall, dark-suited man wearing the sunglasses and granite expression that marked him as a Secret Service agent checked Sandecker's ill again, directed him into a parking space and whispered into his hand radio. He led the admiral to an entrance, where a smiling young female aide met him and escorted him down the hushed corridors to a door guarded by a lantern-jawed Marine. He opened the door, and Sandecker stepped into the Cabinet Room.

Warned by the Secret Service man that Sandecker was on his way, President Dean Cooper Wallace was waiting to ambush the admiral with a handshake. The president was known as the most eager flesh-presser to occupy the White House since Lyndon Johnson.

"Great to see you, Admiral," Wallace said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice." He pumped Sandecker's hand as if he were courting votes at a church fair. Sandecker managed to detach himself from the president's grip and responded with a charm offensive of his own. He went around the table and greeted each man by his first name, asking about wife, children or golf game. He had a particularly warm greeting for his friend Erwin LeGrand, the tall, Lincolnesque director of the CIA.

NUMA's director was only a few inches over five feet, yet his presence filled the large chamber with the energy of a testosterone dynamo. The president sensed that Sandecker was overshadowing him. He snagged the admiral and guided him by the elbow to a seat at the long conference table.

"Got the place of honor reserved for you."

Sandecker slipped into his seat to the president's left. Sandecker knew his placement at the president's elbow was no accident and was meant to flatter him. Despite a folksy manner that made him sound at times like the actor Andy Griffith, Wallace was a shrewd politician. As always, Vice President Sid Sparkman was seated on the president's right.

The president sat down and grinned. "I was telling the boys here about the one that got away. Hooked a grandpappy trout as big as a whale the last time I was out west. Snapped my rod in half. Guess that ol' fellow didn't know he was dealing with the commander in chief of the USA."

The men at the table responded to the witticism with loud laughter, the loudest coming from the vice president. Sandecker chuckled dutifully. He'd had warm relations with all those who occupied the White House during his tenure at NUMA. Whatever their political persuasion, every president he dealt with respected his power in Washington and his influence with universities and corporations around the country and world. Sandecker was not universally loved, but even his adversaries admired his hard-driving honesty.

Sandecker exchanged smiles with the vice president. Older than Wallace by several years, the vice president was the eminence grise at the White House, wielding his power out of sight of the public, covering his Machiavellian machinations and hard-knuckle style with jovial bonhomie. The former college football player was a self-made millionaire. Sandecker knew the vice president secretly held Wallace in the contempt that men who have achieved success on their own sometimes have for those who have inherited their wealth and connections.

"Hope you gentlemen don't mind if we get down to business," said the president, who was dressed casually in a plaid shirt, navy blazer and khaki slacks. "Air Force One is all gassed up to take me to Montana for another crack at that trout." He made a show of glancing at his watch. "I'm turning the meeting over to the secretary of state to fill you in."

A tall hawk-faced man, with his white hair so carefully coifed that it looked like a helmet, gazed around the room with piercing eyes. Nelson Tingley reminded Sandecker of what an astute observer had said about Daniel Webster, that Webster looked too good to be true. Tingley hadn't been a bad senator, but he had let his Cabinet position go to his head. The secretary saw himself playing the role of Bismarck to Wallace's Frederick the Great. In truth, he seldom got the president's ear because he had to go through Sparkman. As a consequence, he tended to grandstand when he got the chance.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he said in the sonorous voice that for years had echoed across the floor of the U.S. Senate. "I'm sure you gentlemen all know the severity of the situation in Russia. Within the next few weeks or possibly days, we can expect the fall of that country's legally elected president. Their economy is at an all-time low, and Russia is expected to default on its obligations around the world."

"Tell 'em what you said about the army," the president suggested.

"I'd be happy to, Mr. President. The Russian forces are up for grabs. The public is sick of the corruption in government and of the power of organized crime. Nationalist sentiment and antagonism toward the United States and Europe are at an all-time high. In short, Russia is a tinderbox that can be touched off at any time by the slightest of incidents." He paused to let his words sink in and glanced in Sandecker's direction. Sandecker knew the secretary was famous for his filibusters and wasn't about to subject himself to a long-winded lecture. He cut the secretary off at the oratorical pass.

"I assume you're talking about the Black Sea incident involving NUMA," Sandecker said pleasantly.

The secretary was derailed, but not discouraged. "With all due respect, Admiral, I would hardly describe an incursion into a country's air and sea space and unauthorized invasion of its sovereign territory as an incident."

"Nor would I describe it as an invasion, Mr. Secretary. As you know, I considered the encounter important enough to submit a full report immediately to the State Department, so they would not be caught by surprise in the event the Russian government complained. But let's look at the facts, shall we?" Sandecker seemed as calm as a Buddhist at repose. "An American television crew had its boat shot out from under it, and a Turkish fisherman whom they hired was killed. They had no choice but to swim to shore. They were about to be attacked by bandits when a NUMA engineer who had been looking for them went to their aid. Later he and the television people were rescued by a NUMA ship."

"All done without going through the proper channels," the secretary countered.

"I'm not unaware of the incendiary situation in Russia, but I hope we aren't blowing this out of proportion. The whole incident took less than a few hours. The television crew was remiss in venturing within national waters, but there was no harm done."

The secretary made a show of opening a folder emblazoned with the State Department emblem. "Not according to this report from your agency. In addition to the Turkish fisherman, at least one Russian national was killed and others may have been injured in this so-called incident."

"Has the Russian government delivered a protest through the 'proper channels' you mentioned?"

The national security advisor, a man named Rogers, leaned forward. "There has been no word from the Russians or the Turks to date."

"Then I suggest this is a tempest in a teapot," Sandecker said. "If the Russians complain about a breach in their national sovereignty, I will be glad to layout the facts, apologize personally to the Russian ambassador, whom I know quite well through NUMA's joint ventures with his country, and assure him it won't happen again."

Secretary Tingley addressed Sandecker, but he was looking at the president when he spoke, his words dripping with acid. "I hope you won't take this personally, Admiral, but we're not going to have a bunch of ocean groupies dictating the foreign policy of the United States."

The tart comment was meant to be funny, but no one laughed, least of all Sandecker, who didn't take kindly to having NUMA described as "a bunch of ocean groupies."

Sandecker flashed a barracuda smile, but an icy coldness crept into his authoritative blue eyes as he prepared to rip Tingley to shreds.

The vice president saw what was coming and rapped his knuckles on the table. "It seems you gentlemen have stated your case with the usual conviction. We don't want to take up any more of the president's valuable time. I'm sure the admiral considers the secretary's points well taken and that Secretary Tingley accepts NUMA's explanation and assurances."

Tingley opened his mouth to reply, but Sandecker deftly took advantage of the exit door Sparkman had opened. "I'm glad the secretary and I were able to settle our differences amicably," he interjected.

The president, who was known to dislike confrontation, had been listening with a pained expression on his face. He smiled and said, "Thank you, gentlemen. Now that that's settled, I've got a more important matter I'd like to bring up."

"The disappearance of the NR-1 submarine?" Sandecker said.

The president stared at Sandecker in disbelief, then burst into laughter. "I've always heard you've got eyes in the back of your head, Admiral. How'd you hear about that? I was told the matter was top secret." He glanced around reprovingly at his staff. "Real graveyard stuff."

"Nothing mysterious about it, Mr. President. Many of our people are in daily close contact with the navy, which owns the NR-1, and some of the men on board have worked with NUMA. Captain Logan's father is a friend and former colleague of mine. Family members who were concerned for the safety of their loved ones contacted me to ask what was being done. They assumed I was aware of the sub's project."

"We owe you an apology," the president said. "We were trying to keep this matter contained until we made some progress."

"Of course," Sandecker said. "Did the submersible sink?"

"We've conducted a thorough search. The sub didn't sink."

"I don't understand. What happened to it?"

The president glanced at the CIA director. “The people over at Langley think the NR-1 was hijacked."

"Has anyone contacted you to verify that theory? A request for ransom, perhaps."

"No. No one."

“Then why hasn't news of the sub's disappearance been made public? It might help in tracking down its whereabouts. I'm sure I don't have to remind anyone in this room that there was a crew on that sub. To say nothing of the millions spent to develop her."

The vice president took over. "We don't think it's in the best interests of the crew to go public now," Sparkman declared.

"It seems to me that broadcasting a worldwide alert would be in their best interests."

"Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But this is pretty complicated, Admiral," the president said. "We think it will jeopardize their welfare."

"Perhaps," Sandecker said, without conviction. He pinioned Wallace with an unwavering gaze. "I assume you have a plan."

The president shifted uneasily in his chair. "Sid, you got an answer for the admiral?"

"We're trying to be optimistic, but it is possible that all the crew are dead," Sparkman said.

"You have evidence to support that conclusion?"

"None, but it's a strong possibility."

"I can't accept 'possibility' as a reason for sitting on our hands."

The secretary of state had been simmering like a pot on a hot stove. At the presumed insult, he boiled over.

"We are not 'sitting on our hands,' Admiral. The Russian government has requested that we stay out of this for the time being. They have the contacts to chase this down. We'd stir things up, especially with nationalism riding so high. Isn't that right, Mr. President?"

"Don't tell me you think the Russians took the sub?" Sandecker said, ignoring the secretary and directing his question at the president.

Wallace again turned to his vice president. "Sid, you've been on top of this since day one. Can you explain to the admiral?"

"Of course, Mr. President. I'd be happy to. It relates to our earlier topic, Admiral. Shortly after the NR-1 disappeared, we were contacted by sources within the Russian government who said they might be able to retrieve the sub and its crew. They believe its disappearance ties in with the turmoil in their country. Beyond that, I can't say for now. I can only ask your forbearance and patience."

"I fail to follow that line of logic," Sandecker said, boring in. "Are you saying we should rely upon a government that could fall at any moment to protect our people? It seems to me that the Russian top brass are going to be concentrating more on saving their butts than looking for an American research submarine."

The vice president nodded in agreement. "Nonetheless, we have agreed to hold off. Even with their problems, the Russians are in the best position to handle something that's happened in their backyard."

CIA Director LeGrand had been silent up to now. "I'm afraid he's got a point, James."

Sandecker smiled. LeGrand must have been brought in as the "good cop" to playoff "bad cop" Tingley. The admiral could play games, too. He furrowed his brow as if he were making a tough decision. "It appears my good friend Erwin i concurs with your caution. Very well, then, I won't press the point further."

There was heavy silence in the Cabinet Room, as if no one could believe Sandecker would give in after only a skirmish.

"Thank you, James," President Wallace said. "We had a chance to chat before you arrived. We know there's a big temptation, especially with your personal interest in this, to bring NUMA in."

"You're asking me to keep NUMA at arm's length from the sub's disappearance, then."

"For now, Admiral."

"I can assure you that NUMA will not search for the NR-1. However, please let me know if and when we can be of help."

"Of course we will, Admiral." The president thanked everyone for coming and rose from his chair. Sandecker wished him good fishing and left the room, allowing the others to hash over the meeting, as he knew they would. An aide was waiting to escort him to a side door. As he drove through the gate a few moments later, the guard grinned. "Hot enough for you today, sir?"

"It must be my imagination, Norman," Sandecker said, with a grin. "The temperature always seems to be a few degrees warmer in this part of Washington." He gave a jaunty wave and drove out into the traffic.

ON THE WAY back to NUMA headquarters, Sandecker punched out a number on his cell phone. "Rudi, please meet me in my office in ten minutes." Sandecker drove into the garage under the thirty-story tubular building that served as the nerve center for NUMA's worldwide operations and took the elevator to his top-floor office. He was behind the immense desk made from the hatch cover of a Confederate blockade runner when Rudi Gunn arrived carrying a briefcase.

Sandecker waved his second-in-command to a chair. Gunn, a short thin man with narrow shoulders, thinning hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses, listened intently while Sandecker described his White House meeting.

"Then we're pulling out of the search?" Gunn said.

Sandecker's eyes blazed. "Hell, no! The fact that they put a shot across my bow doesn't mean I'm going to heave to and run up the white flag. What have you learned?"

"I went right to work on the premise we had discussed. That the only thing with the ability to hijack the NR-1 from under the nose of its support ship would be a bigger sub. Any number of countries have submarines large enough to carry off the NR-1," Gunn said. "I asked Yaeger to run some profiles." Hiram Yaeger was NUMA's computer whiz and head of its vast data network. "We concentrated on the USSR because of their preference for building monster boats. My first thought was something like the Typhoon."

Sandecker sat back in his chair and cradled his chin in one hand. "With a length of more than five hundred feet, a Typhoon could easily piggyback our missing minisub."

"I agree. They were designed to fire missiles from the Arctic Circle. The flat missile deck could have been converted for carrying cargo. But there was a problem when I checked further. All six Typhoons were accounted for."

"All right. But I've never known you to give up easily, Rudi. What else do you have?"

Gunn reached into his briefcase and pulled out a folder. He handed a picture from the folder to Sandecker.

"This shows a Soviet India-class sub photographed on its way to the Pacific from the Northern Fleet." He passed over several sheets of paper. "These are schematic diagrams. She's a diesel-electric, nearly three hundred fifty feet long, and was designed supposedly for underwater rescue. That semirecessed area abaft the sail was fitted out to carry a couple of deep-diving minisubs. In wartime they could be used for clandestine ops with Spetsnaz special forces brigades. Only two India-class subs were built. They were to have been broken up after the end of the Cold War. We've been able to verify that one was indeed scrapped. We don't know the fate of the other. I think it was used to hijack the NR-1."

"You sound quite sure of this, Rudi. Remember, our premise is still only a theory."

Gunn smiled. "May I borrow your VCR?"

"Be my guest."

Gunn dug into his case again and pulled out a videocassette, went over to the paneled wall, opened a door to a cabinet and popped the cassette into the VCR.

"As you know, the NR-1 had the capability to broadcast a television picture from the ocean floor," Gunn said.

"I approved the NUMA funds myself. Great educational program. The pictures bounce off a satellite and into classrooms around the world. Teaches youngsters that the ocean is a lot more interesting than MTV. I understand the program has worked out well."

"Extremely well, in this case. This picture was sent from the NR-1 the day she disappeared."

Gunn pressed the Play button on the remote control. The screen went fuzzy, then turned seawater green. Bright floodlights illuminated a slender black hull. There was no sound. The time and date showed in the corner.

Sandecker was sitting on the edge of his desk, arms folded. "Looks like the bow view from the sail cam," he said.

"That's right. Keep on watching. Right about now…"

A sharklike shadow loomed below the hull. Something much bigger than the NR-1 had come up from below. After a few minutes, the sub began to move forward at great speed until it was obscured by bubbles. The screen went fuzzy again.

"This picture was sent from the sub via satellite at exactly the time of her disappearance. It only ran a short while, as you can see, before it was shut down."

"Fascinating," Sandecker said. "Run it again, please."

Gunn replayed the tape.

"Does the White House have a copy of this video?" Sandecker said.

"The transmission came directly to NUMA. My guess is they haven't seen it."

"Good work, Rudi," the admiral said. "There's an important piece of the puzzle missing, however." He reached into the desk humidor and pulled out two cigars – he had them personally selected and rolled for him by the owner of a Dominican Republic plantation – and held one cigar above the other. "Assume the bottom stogie is much larger than the one on top. It comes up under the smaller boat. Then what?" He moved the top cigar away. "You see what I'm getting at. There might be a problem getting the smaller sub to play piggyback."

"It wouldn't be easy unless – "

"Unless the NR-1 were cooperating. Which Captain Logan wouldn't do unless he were forced to."

"Exactly my thoughts." Sandecker tossed Gunn a cigar and clamped the other in his teeth. They lit up and sat in the cloud of fragrant smoke.

"I understand there was a guest scientist aboard the NR-1," Sandecker said, after a moment's thought.

"That's right. I have the whole roster."

"Go over their backgrounds with a fine-tooth comb, especially the scientist's. In the meantime, let's try to find the India-class submarine. The navy keeps track of all operational Russian submarines, but I don't want to alert anyone to the fact that NUMA is still in this."

"I'll see if Yaeger can tap into the navy computer system."

"Why, Rudi," Sandecker said, studying the glowing ash on his cigar, "what a surprising thing to hear from a navy man. First in his class at the academy, too."

Gunn tried without success to look angelic. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. Austin called me from Istanbul. He's assembling the Special Assignments Team to take another look at that abandoned submarine base."

"Does he think it has a connection with the NR-1?"

"He didn't know about the missing sub until I told him. No, apparently he's been in contact with someone, an old Russian friend, who indicated that the base may have something to do with a supposed threat against the U.S."

"Terrorist activity?"

"I asked Kurt the same question. He only knows what the Russian told him, that the U.S. is in danger. A mining magnate named Razov seems to be involved, and the old base may hold the key to what is going on. Kurt's instincts are usually sound. This threat of his is all the more reason for NUMA to get involved."

"We can take a look at the area by satellite."

"We still need eyes on the ground."

"What about your promise to the president?"

"I only promised not to look for the NR-1. I never said anything about a Soviet sub base. Besides," Sandecker said, with a twinkle in his eye, "Austin is probably out of reach by now."

"I've heard that sunspot activity has been interrupting communications."

"We'll keep trying to establish contact, of course. The president is going fly-fishing in Montana, but I expect he'll return in a hurry if the Russian government falls."

Gunn looked worried. "If there really is a threat, don't you think we should tell the president?"

Sandecker walked over to the window and looked out over the Potomac. Afer a moment, he turned and said, "Do you know how Sid Sparkman made his fortune?"

"Sure, he made millions in mining."

"Correct. As did Razov."

"Coincidence?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. There's often a worldwide good ol' boy network in certain areas of industry. It's not out of the question that they know each other. Unless we learn that the threat is imminent – I suggest we keep this conversation to ourselves for now."

"Are you suggesting that – "

"There's a connection? I'm not prepared to go that far. Yet."

Gunn pursed his lips, a grave look in his eyes. "I hope Kurt and his team aren't getting in over their heads."

Sandecker smiled grimly, his eyes as hard as topaz. "It wouldn't be the first time."