They took a slow run over her decks. There was the ominous creak of the turbines rotating on their axles. The screen misted over with churning sand and the bathyscaphe began its ascent up the sheer face of the Titanic’s prow.
Hardas ignored the perplexed looks exchanged among his crew. He’d been asked to bring back a trifle, some small object of note to adorn the mantlepiece of the leader of the Western world. But Hardas wanted to do something more, something that might make all of his accomplishments to date pale into insignificance. This was a unique opportunity, and he was, after all, a pragmatic man.
Earlier expeditions had returned with samples from the debris field, the odd ornament prised loose from the ship’s superstructure. The greatest prize, to date, had been the recovery of the ship’s bell. Hardas had set his sights much higher. He was determined to retrieve the contents of the Titanic’s safe and let the Kaiser take his pick.
As they pulled up just below the level of the boat deck, he took a few moments to explain his scheme to the crew, who murmured their approval. The bathyscaphe hovered in the murky darkness; her targeting lights splayed against the hull of the ruin while her acetylene torches punched holes in the rusted metal.
In less than two hours they had gained C Deck. Another two hours and the ship’s safe lay secure in the mechanical grip of the bathyscaphe’s grappling arms.
Back aboard the Schlieffen, there’d been some discussion as to what to do with the safe. Open it now or wait till it was safely on German soil? Hardas gave the order to make for New Orleans while he awaited further orders from Berlin.
Six days later, they encountered the Bremen in the Gulf of Mexico. The cruiser’s captain told Hardas that both the Confederacy and Germany were exceedingly pleased with the mission’s success. However, the Kaiser remained unaware of the gift they were bearing. Rather than risk staining the sumptuous carpets of the palace, it was decided that they would open the safe aboard the Bremen. Admiral Merkur, flown out from Berlin, was present to supervise.
So much for Hardas’s golden opportunity.
Film crews were on hand to document the historic event. The Germans liked to film everything. A torch was employed to burn open the outer door. It clanged onto the Bremen’s deck, releasing a small torrent of rank seawater that sprayed the uniforms of the closely observing crew.
Hardas hung back, behind the cameramen and journalists, an unlit Texas Tea dangling from his lips. After the men had dispersed, and the contents of the safe were inventoried, he was approached by the Bremen’s captain.
“Herr Kommandant,” the man had said, “a small token of esteem from Admiral Merkur. We were unable to find Captain Smith’s logbook. He must have taken it with him to the bottom of the ocean, nicht wahr? However, we have found this journal. It is in English, and appears to be of a personal nature.” He handed the book to Hardas. “Please accept this with the admiral’s best wishes.”
And what would the captain be taking, and Merkur himself, Hardas wondered. He suspected that by the time the safe’s contents reached Berlin, the Kaiser would be lucky to find a paper clip.
He took the journal with a nod of thanks.
He doubted that the officers of the Bremen would even remember his name, much less mention it to the Kaiser. What the hell, he reasoned as he returned to the Schlieffen. He’d be back in New Orleans in no time. And from now on, he would leave the games to the politicians.
It took two more days to reach harbour. The pace was leisurely, and once they arrived Hardas decided the crew could do with a rest after a month spent in the ocean’s depths.
He started to read the journal the night before they reached New Orleans. He’d planned on skimming it briefly before handing it over to one of the senior officers at the base. It took him six hours to complete the manuscript from cover to worn cover. Much of it was damaged beyond recognition by nearly one hundred years of exposure to the icy depths. What he could decipher was clear enough. He could not give this journal to his commanding officers.
He made a few phone calls. He smoked too many cigarettes.
He was contacted by Maritime Surveillance.
Within a week he was summoned to the CBI complex in Dallas.
Kennedy was tall and smiling and looked like a publicity photo of himself. He said, “Commander, I think we need to talk.”
Maybe I did the right thing, Hardas thought, slouching outside the locked door. Ever since Red Rock, it’s too much for me to grasp. I don’t want to think about it any more.
His eyes found Kennedy.
The major, meeting his glance, gave him a smile he couldn’t return.
III
Kennedy sat at the back of the bar nursing his third cup of coffee.
According to Shine, Japanese detectives had sealed off the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Three bodies had been recovered from the crime scene. They had yet to be identified.
And there’d been a shooting in Osakatown. Perhaps Cooper was chasing the Germans who’d gunned down his men. Perhaps he was planning on coming downtown in force. It didn’t matter. Shine was watching the perimeter.
Kennedy checked his Einstein. Two hours and they’d be gone. Dawn would find them in New Orleans. They’d make Red Rock by dusk. And Lightholler, primed by today’s induction, would see the carapace. He would believe.
But they were cutting it close.
Kennedy had known for more than a year that war was coming, had known ever since he and Hardas had taken the carapace on its first test run at Red Rock. He’d always allowed for the fact that Lightholler’s instruction might take some time. He just hadn’t counted on the world starting to fall apart in the interim. The failure of the peace talks, the Japanese offensive in Russia, the German subterfuge closer to home—all pointed to the future he’d glimpsed in Nevada.
For nearly a century the empires of Germany and Japan had spread across the surface of the planet. There was no place on Earth where the influence of one of these great powers wasn’t felt. And now they were in deadlock. Each had a vision of the future that held no place for the other.
This wouldn’t be a war of punitive expeditions into disputed territories. Men wouldn’t lie in trenches staring down the barrels of rifles into a fog of barbed wire and mud. The new weapons would change all that.
Kennedy looked up to find Hardas standing by his table.
“Has Lightholler tried to leave the room?” Kennedy asked.
Hardas shook his head.
“We’ve got an hour till we have to move.”
Hardas pulled up a chair. “I don’t like the captain’s story, Major.”
“It’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“So why are we moving ahead?”
“We don’t have any choice. And we need him.”
“We’ve got Shine,” Hardas countered.
“Shine isn’t allowed on the boat.”
Hardas lit a cigarette. His forehead creased in deliberation. “It shouldn’t have to come to that.”
“Shouldn’t doesn’t mean won’t,” Kennedy replied.
“If Lightholler’s working for the Bureau...”
“Let’s just say for the moment that he is,” Kennedy said. “Let’s say Webster was using him as bait.”
“Then he has to know what we’re up to.”
“Webster recalls me after our meeting with Lightholler, then sends Wetworks scurrying after us the very same day. That’s clumsy.”
“Or desperate,” Hardas said.
“The way I figure it, if Webster thought we had a device like the carapace, we’d be down in Houston right now, at Intel Extraction,” Kennedy said. “That, or dead. No, this is all tied up with the German thing.”
“I hope you’re right,” Hardas murmured.
“Two days from now and we’re gone,” Kennedy said.
“I hope to God you’re right.”
IV
Lightholler rose from the table as Kennedy and Hardas entered the room, “It’s a fake,” he began.
/> “It’s no fake, Captain,” Kennedy said. “We can be certain of that.”
Hardas offered Lightholler a cigarette. He lit up with trembling hands.
“But it’s absurd. I never heard of any crash at Roswell, any flying saucers,” he said. “Las Vegas is just a wide spot in the road. And as for this secret installation...”
Kennedy and Hardas remained silent. It was exasperating.
Lightholler pointed at the journal. “This guy is talking about someone starting World War Three.” His eyes were glistening. “What the hell is a world war?”
“We don’t plan on finding out,” Hardas said quietly.
“What’s the matter with you people? Why would you believe any of this... this bullshit?”
Kennedy let the question hang in the air for a moment before replying.
“We went to Nevada, Captain. We found the carapace.”
Lightholler started to laugh. “You found the carapace...” He drew back deeply on the remains of his cigarette and said, “You’re lying.”
“What you believe at this moment isn’t a concern of mine,” Kennedy said. “What does concern me is the fact that the people who’ve been watching you are very good at what they do. There’s the risk that you’ve been working for them, the risk that you’ve been doing so without even being aware of it. And if that’s true, it makes you a serious liability.”
Lightholler tried to interrupt. Kennedy motioned him to silence.
“Two of my men are dead. I have your account of the matter, Captain, and I’m prepared to assume—for the moment—that you are entirely innocent. I also respect the fact that none of this may be your fault, but I must stress to you, right now, that this is your problem; not mine. That means that from here to Nevada you never leave my sight. That means that if I have to voice my concerns again, regarding yourself and the Bureau, it will be in the company of an associate of mine. You won’t enjoy the experience.”
“I don’t take kindly to threats, Major.”
“I don’t make threats, Captain. I outline possibilities.”
“You talk out of your arse.”
The flicker of a smile crossed Hardas’s lips. He turned to Kennedy and said, “I like this guy.”
Kennedy ignored him. “Regarding the carapace, Captain, I promise you that you’ll believe it when you see it.”
“When I see it?”
“You’re coming with us,” Kennedy said, softly now. “We need you.”
“What the hell do you need me for?” Lightholler mashed the cigarette onto the table’s stained surface. He looked from one man to the other and then back at the journal. “Shit.” It was almost a whisper. “You’ve got to be kidding.” His gaze turned towards the ceiling. He focused on a swirl of smoke that spiralled around the naked light bulb. After a moment, he spoke again.
“That’s why I was selected for the maiden voyage.” He slapped the table with an open palm. “You were training me. You actually believe you can go back in time. Back to the Titanic ... ”
“That’s right, Captain.”
Lightholler was shaking his head. “You’re out of your fucking minds.” Then another thought occurred to him. “How much pull do you guys have? A letter from the King; you’ve got the Admiralty in your pocket...” His voice trailed away.
“Things go our way every now and then,” Kennedy said.
“For all I know, you organised for the Titanic’s replica to be built.”
“A little beyond our budget.” Kennedy smiled. “We had nothing to do with the new ship’s construction, though Morgan was consulted on her design. You were, however, one of a select few that we had wanted for her captain.”
“Why me in particular?” Lightholler asked. Despite his scepticism, he found himself curious.
“I guess I’m just sentimental.”
Hardas said, “Let’s go.”
Kennedy gathered up the journal and the photographs and wedged them gently into his satchel.
Lightholler felt a gun’s muzzle nudging against the small of his back. He turned to Hardas and said, “You don’t need that.”
Hardas motioned him towards the door.
“I thought you liked me.”
Hardas smiled. “There’s like and there’s like, Captain. Let’s move.”
The place had started to fill with the early evening crowd. Lightholler was reeling. He could feel no centre of balance.
“You feel disorientated, don’t you, confused?” Hardas said.
Lightholler nodded.
“You’ll get used to it.”
Kennedy worked a path through the slack knots of drinkers that ebbed and flowed along the bar’s edge. Everyone seemed to be moving too slowly. The next time Lightholler heard country music would be too soon.
There was a small sedan parked outside. He was nudged into the back seat, between Kennedy and Hardas. Morgan was seated up front. Lightholler noted, without surprise, that their driver was the same negro who’d been attending him during his stay at the Waldorf.
“Any more details on Osakatown, Martin?” Kennedy asked as they pulled away from the kerb. They headed uptown. Lightholler peered out of the rear window into the forming dusk.
“There was a shooting. Two men. Both dead.”
“Kobe’s joint?” Kennedy asked.
“Two blocks from Kobe’s,” Shine replied.
“That’s where they were supposed to be going,” Lightholler said. “The men who kidnapped me.”
Kennedy turned to face him.
“The other men who kidnapped me.” Lightholler offered a faint smile.
“Thank you for the clarification, Captain.”
“This is getting all fucked up, Major,” Morgan said.
“Someone gets shot every other day in Osakatown, Darren,” Kennedy said. “We’re fine.”
Hardas was leaning against his window. The gun remained firmly in his grip. Lightholler eyed the pistol, noting the calibre and the thick bulk of the magazine clip in front of the trigger guard. He decided not to say anything.
“Streets are quiet,” Kennedy muttered.
“What are you thinking, Major?” Hardas asked.
“I’m thinking this is a good time to be leaving New York.”
Shine drove the sedan up Mercer Street and turned onto Bleecker.
“Where are we going?” Lightholler asked.
“Central Park,” Kennedy replied.
“Oh, good,” Lightholler said wearily. “I love the park.”
They ignored him.
“We should check the radio,” Hardas said.
Lightholler sensed that something had changed since Kennedy had approached him in the hotel room, only yesterday. The dynamic seemed all wrong. It was time to stir the mix. He cleared his throat.
“When we do get hauled in, I’ll be sure to remind them to add abduction to the charges of conspiracy and treason.”
“We’ll just have to plead insanity,” Morgan replied. He left the sentence hanging, as if he expected a reply. When none was forthcoming, he turned his head to view Lightholler with a half-hearted attempt at a smile.
Lightholler shook his head. “Amateurs.”
“Of course we’re amateurs,” Kennedy said softly. “We’ll only get one chance at this, and it’s not as if there are any precedents.”
“Think of us as pioneers,” Hardas added.
They travelled in uneasy silence. The radio whined through a chorus of crackle.
“There,” Kennedy said. “Hold it.”
They listened as a reporter described the shootings in Osakatown and the Midtown Tunnel.
“Jesus,” Morgan said. “They happened round the same time.”
“Looks like someone’s cleaning house,” Hardas said.
The reporter’s voice trailed into static again. Shine adjusted the frequency. The static roared, then sputtered.
Kennedy asked, “Can you get anything else?”
“Can’t get anything at all, Major.”
&n
bsp; Hardas squinted out the window, scoping the aerial. “We got static and no reason for bad reception.”
Kennedy said, “Even if they called a curfew on account of the shootings, they wouldn’t shut down the radio stations. Check out the police and army bands.”
The static roared again, wearing at Lightholler’s frayed nerves.
“I’m getting nothing, Major,” Shine said.
Kennedy and Hardas exchanged a look.
“Maybe someone’s jamming the transmissions,” Lightholler offered.
They both looked at him.
“What do you know about this, Captain?” Hardas growled.
“I know you’re shitting yourself,” Lightholler said. “You’ll get used to it.”
“You don’t have a fucking clue,” Hardas told him. “You brought those fuckers halfway around the world and you don’t even know it.”
Lost, Lightholler fell silent.
“What do you want me to do, Major?” Shine asked.
“I’m thinking,” Kennedy replied.
“We have to avoid the shore,” Hardas said. “Head to the East Side, stay well away from the Summer Palace and the barracks at Gramercy Park.”
“What’s going on, Major?” Morgan asked worriedly.
Kennedy didn’t answer him. He said, “Take Second Avenue. Any signs of police or military and we turn right around. We’ll cross back to Lexington once we’ve passed the Hirohito Bridge.”
“How about the Holland Tunnel to Jersey? We can double back later.” A tone of exasperation crept into Shine’s voice. He had been about to turn on to Ninth, now he had to cut across town.
“Please,” Lightholler said, “no tunnels.”
Hardas glanced at him.
“And for God’s sake, point that gun elsewhere unless you plan on using it right now.”
Hardas let the gun slip into the folds of his creased overcoat. “No tunnels, Martin.” He glanced across at Kennedy with a twisted smile. “Anyway, who the hell would want to go to Jersey?”
Shine swung the sedan onto 13th Street. The last of the sun’s rays were setting behind them, but the horizon ahead glowed faintly. They drove through a confluence of shadows, the husks of tenements lining the narrow road to either side.
The Company of the Dead Page 19
