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  “Ready to eat someone’s liver for breakfast. Beyond notifying the Coast Guard, the chief constable’s reaction in searching for the Macedonia has been, shall we say, minus four hundred and sixty degrees Fahrenheit.”

  “Absolute zero?”

  Giordino nodded.

  “I’m working through Europol to notify coastal towns in Romania, Turkey, and Ukraine. I’m not sure the local police can do a whole lot more.” She looked at Pitt, whose green eyes seemed afire. “I’ve never seen him so intense.”

  “He doesn’t take kindly to anyone messing with his ships—or his people. He has a lot of friends aboard the Macedonia.”

  “Loyalty means a lot to him?”

  Giordino nodded. “You better know it. He’d swim the Atlantic if it meant helping a friend. On top of that, he’s not one to take no for an answer.”

  “We better get him out of the chief’s hair before he gets himself thrown into a jail cell. I’ve got the video link with Washington set to go.” Ana poked her head into the chief’s office and retrieved Pitt.

  He shook his head. “I finally convinced him to send some investigators to the dock. Should have been done hours ago. Any word from the Coast Guard?”

  “They are organizing their resources and will be initiating search efforts shortly. The wet weather, unfortunately, will hamper an air search.”

  She led Pitt and Giordino down the corridor to a darkened room with several chairs and a computer in it. A video conference link to the computer monitor showed two men at a table with a NUMA logo on the wall behind them. Hiram Yaeger, the ponytailed head of NUMA’s computer resource center, sat next to Rudi Gunn, Pitt’s deputy director. Both had a weary look from working into the wee hours of the morning.

  “Good morning, gentlemen, and thanks for hanging in with us,” Pitt said. “What can you tell us from your end?”

  “Our satellite link with the Macedonia was severed at 12:05 a.m. local time,” Yaeger said. “I checked the regional AIS system, which tracks the position and identity of all commercial vessels via satellite. It was deactivated a few minutes later. Both systems show the ship’s last recorded position as the commercial terminal in Burgas Harbor.”

  “So the systems were disabled even before the ship left port,” Pitt said.

  “That’s what the data indicates.”

  “Someone knew a thing or two about hijacking,” Giordino said.

  “Assuming it was a hijacking, every hour counts,” Gunn said. “The Macedonia is rated at a top speed of seventeen knots. Eleven hours have elapsed, so by now she could be two hundred miles from Burgas. That could place her anywhere from Ukraine to the gates of the Dardanelles.”

  “We’ve issued alerts to all regional country Coast Guards,” Ana said. “The Bulgarian Coast Guard will be initiating sea searches out of Burgas and Varna, supplemented by an air search once the weather improves.”

  “Any evidence who may have taken the ship? Or why?” Gunn asked.

  “We can only suspect the salvage crew that wanted to sell the stolen uranium,” Pitt said. “I don’t have a good answer why they would take the Macedonia, other than payback for intercepting the HEU.”

  “We’re getting some leads on their salvage ship, the Besso,” Ana said. “She has been a familiar site in these waters and has been listed as an additional target of the Coast Guard search.”

  “Perhaps one will lead to the other,” Gunn said.

  “What other search resources do we have at our disposal?” Pitt asked.

  “I’ve got Max conducting an inventory of all available satellite imagery for the area,” Yaeger said, referring to the holographic interface he used to communicate with NUMA’s supercomputer. “These days, the reconnaissance focus is more directed toward Ukraine, so the coverage around Bulgaria may be slim.”

  “We may have better luck with the Air Force,” Gunn said. “I’ve been in touch with the U.S. commander at Bezmer Air Base, about sixty miles west of Burgas. We have joint forces stationed there with the Bulgarians, including some recon aircraft. They’ve agreed to assist with the search efforts but also cited the local wet weather as restricting their capabilities.”

  “Anything we can throw up there will help,” Pitt said.

  “The Navy also has a visiting cruiser in the Black Sea,” Gunn said, “and they’ve been informed of the Macedonia’s disappearance. They’ve promised to do what they can.” Gunn could see the impatient look in Pitt’s eyes. “I’m afraid there’s not much more that can be done at the moment, boss. We’ll have to sit tight while the search resources get deployed.”

  “Thanks, Rudi, I know you’ve done all you can.”

  Gunn’s eyes focused through his thick horn-rimmed glasses. “Dirk, I hate to ask, but is there any chance they took the Macedonia offshore and sank her?”

  Pitt stared at the monitor a long moment. “No,” he said in a determined voice. “That’s a proposition I simply won’t accept.”

  24

  The armor-plated BMW X5 pulled up to an aged white apartment building on the outskirts of Kramatorsk. The building’s only distinguishing feature was a multitude of triangular concrete barricades that surrounded it like a ring of dragon’s teeth. One of the armed guards patrolling the perimeter directed the luxury SUV to a side parking lot. The driver parked beside a pockmarked armored personnel carrier and opened the rear passenger door.

  Martin Hendriks felt the chill of a damp Ukrainian morning as he approached the building’s portico. A soldier at the entrance prepared to search him but was overruled by an older armed man who had appeared at the door and greeted the businessman. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Hendriks. This way, please.”

  The guard led the Dutchman up two flights of stairs to a corner apartment that had been converted into a war room. But it was not the abode of a well-provisioned military leader. The room’s few furnishings were old and tattered. Boxes of canned food were stacked in a corner near some army cots.

  At the room’s center, a bearded man in fatigues was bent over a table, studying a map. His grizzled face warmed at the sight of Hendriks. “Martin, a surprise to see you again so soon after our visit in Kiev.” He stepped over and shook hands.

  “I had business in Bulgaria, Colonel, and thought I would stop by on my return.”

  Colonel Arseny Markovich led Hendriks to a pair of overstuffed chairs near the window. Markovich was commander of the 24th Territorial Battalion, one of several pro-government paramilitary forces established in Ukraine after the Russian annexation of Crimea in 2014. Loosely supporting the government’s Armed Forces of Ukraine, the battalion operated in the hotly contested Donetsk and Luhansk regions of eastern Ukraine.

  “Do you bring good news on your deal to acquire surface-to-surface missiles?” the commander asked.

  “Regrettably not,” Hendriks said. “Our stock-in-trade was intercepted by the authorities before we could get it to the Iranians. The deal is now dead. I’m sorry to have let you down.”

  Colonel Markovich, whose home village was controlled by Russian-supported separatist rebels, accepted the news stoically. “You have provided us a great deal of arms and equipment over the past three years. Our situation would be much worse without your support.”

  “How is the situation?”

  “Relatively calm at the moment, but it is simply a part of the seasonal cycle. A cease-fire gets brokered in the fall and things remain quiet over the winter. Then in the spring the separatists ignore the peace treaties and launch new offensives.”

  Hendriks shook his head. “Those missiles would have been a nice deterrent.”

  “They might have even turned the tide. The real problem, as you know, is the Russians. Without their stealth support of the rebels, we could collectively crush the separatist forces and restore unity to Ukraine in a matter of weeks.”

  “They are still present ever
ywhere?”

  Markovich nodded. “I have received reports that plain-uniformed Russian troops are filtering into Luhansk in great numbers. They mean to launch an offensive to the west, perhaps in an attempt to take Dnipropetrovsk. Who knows, maybe even Kiev?”

  “Can they be stopped?”

  “Not if the West continues to look the other way. We lack the resources to halt the Russians if they wish to take Ukraine. Outside military support would become critical to our survival.” He shook his head. “The European nations are too reluctant to help. Our only hope is with America. We need them to step in with weapons support. Or more.”

  “I have come to the same conclusion. The Americans are cautious, but they can be provoked into action. The natural mistrust between the U.S. and Russia presents an opportunity to be exploited.”

  “But what can we do?”

  “Simply strike a spark between the two. We may in fact draw the Americans in very soon.” Hendriks explained the planned attack on Sevastopol.

  A smile crossed the colonel’s face. “That is striking at the heart of the matter. Maintaining their naval port at Sevastopol was certainly a key to the Russian invasion of Crimea.”

  “Truth be known, I would prefer a strike at Moscow.”

  Markovich nodded, realizing Hendriks’s hatred of the Russians matched his own. “You may incite a dangerous reaction,” he said. “The Russians will have to save face. They might retaliate by sinking an American warship, as they did the nuclear submarine Scorpion.”

  Hendriks gave him a long, cold stare. “That is what I am banking on. The Americans will be angered. It will cause them to fight any further attempts at Russian expansionism, beginning with Ukraine. It would not surprise me to see American troops on the ground here within a few weeks. Then, I trust, you will be able to exterminate the separatists once and for all.”

  “With delight,” the colonel said. “It is a bold, shrewd plan. You have given us a gift greater than missiles. You have given us hope for victory.”

  “That is what I wish.”

  “You are a true friend of Ukraine.”

  Hendriks stood and put on his overcoat, and Markovich escorted him down the stairs. At the door, the colonel turned and asked, “Are you making a visit to Hrabove?”

  “Yes.” Hendriks looked down at the ground.

  “Be careful. And don’t drive on the road after dark.”

  “I will be back to the airfield at Dnipropetrovsk well before then.”

  Hendriks returned to the BMW, where his driver waited with the engine idling. He climbed into the warm interior and stared out the window as the car headed southeast. Leaving the city, they drove across miles of rolling plains. Scattered plots of maize and beans gave way to large fields of wheat and barley.

  Thirty miles on, they neared the town of Toretsk, where they were stopped at a makeshift border crossing that divided government lands from separatist-held territory. As an unarmed businessman from the Netherlands, he was quickly allowed to pass. The BMW drove another forty miles across rural lands before approaching the dusty farm town of Hrabove.

  Hendriks, who had been dozing, suddenly grew more attentive. Making note of the local landmarks, he guided the driver out of town and down a dirt road. Gazing at a vacant field that looked like all the others, he had him stop. Hendriks climbed out and walked a few yards to a small pile of stacked rocks. Scattered about its base were the remains of some long-dead flowers. He clawed one of the dried stems from the dusty soil and stepped into the adjacent field.

  He walked to its center, stopped, and stared up at the sky. He stood for nearly an hour, lost in another place and time. A cold breeze knifed through his clothes, but it didn’t touch his already frozen soul. Standing there in the field, he felt more dead than alive.

  After a while, he patted his coat pocket, feeling the familiar metallic object, which gave him a morsel of comfort. He dropped the flower stem, reached down, and grabbed a fistful of the dark, untilled soil. Squeezing it until his hand shook, he released the earth into the sacred confines of his pocket. Words, a curse of some sort, tried to form on his lips but were lost in the wind.

  His anguish at last released, the broken man returned to the car, a lone tear dried on his cheek.

  25

  Summer Pitt shook her head as she approached the Odin’s survey shack. Even with the door closed, a heady blues riff from guitarist Joe Bonamassa could be heard blaring from the small room. Flinging open the door, Summer found her twin brother, Dirk Jr., seated in front of a sonar monitor, stomping his feet to the music.

  As she entered, he nonchalantly cranked down the volume on a tabletop speaker.

  “Really?” she said. “You’re waking the fish from here to the North Pole.”

  He stifled a yawn. “Just needed a little juice to finish my shift.” He glanced at a clock on the bulkhead and saw it was a few minutes to four in the morning.

  “I should have known you were headed down an all-consuming path when Dad loaned you his Eric Clapton collection.”

  Dirk smiled. “He knows a thing or two about the blues.”

  There was no disguising their resemblance to their father, the head of NUMA. Both carried his strong facial features and were tall, lithe, and strong. But while Dirk had the same dark hair, Summer was a redhead. They had followed in his seafaring footsteps, studying marine engineering and oceanography before joining him at the underwater research agency.

  “Anything to report on the sonar?” she asked.

  “It’s been a steady diet of mud and sand.”

  They were performing a multibeam sonar survey of the northern coastal fjord region of Norway to study its former glaciers. Those glaciers were believed to have extended beyond the current fjord channels, leaving subsea scouring and debris zones when they retreated after the last Ice Age. Deploying a towed array sonar, the NUMA research ship Odin surveyed the region, allowing scientists to study the history of glacial retreats in conjunction with changes in global climate.

  “We should finish surveying the final search grid on your shift,” Dirk said.

  “It’s been a long, cold, and tiring four weeks,” Summer said. “I’ll be glad to wrap up this project.”

  “If we hang around here much longer, we’re liable to be dodging icebergs soon.”

  She motioned for Dirk to give up his seat, but he shook his head. “I’ve got two minutes left on shift.” He motioned toward the clock. “Grab yourself a cup of coffee.”

  Summer rolled her eyes and stepped to a coffeepot wedged in the corner of the cramped sonar bay. “What are you hoping to find in the last two minutes?” she asked, pouring herself a cup. “Signs of a new glacier?”

  Silence.

  She turned to her brother, who had his face glued to the monitor.

  “Not a glacier,” he said slowly, “but a shipwreck.”

  Summer rushed over to see a dark image scroll down the screen. It had a clearly defined rectangular shape with a pointed prow. A thin shadow protruded off one side.

  “A steel wreck, sitting upright,” she said. “It looks to be in pretty good shape.”

  Dirk marked the position, then consulted a nautical chart spread on the table. “Must be an unknown wreck. It’s not marked on the chart.”

  “It’s nearly one hundred and fifty meters long,” Summer said. “A pretty large vessel.”

  “Take a look at that.” Dirk pointed to a small shadow. “Might be a gun turret.”

  “If it’s a warship, there must be a record of its loss.” She waved him out of his seat. “A pretty nice score on the two-minute drill, but we still have a geological survey to complete. I’ll take it from here.”

  Dirk eased out of the chair and refilled his coffee cup.

  “Aren’t you going to bed?”

  “Heck, no. First I have to go to the ship’s library and see if
I can find out what ship that is.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I have to talk the captain into letting us dive it.”

  • • •

  FOUR HOURS LATER, Summer completed her sonar shift, concluding the final search grid without any new geological discoveries. The Odin turned around and retraced its path southward toward the site of the shipwreck. As the NUMA survey was ahead of schedule, Dirk had no problem convincing the captain to take an extra day on the journey home to investigate the wreck.

  Dirk joined Summer at the sonar station as they made several more passes over the target, gathering detailed images of the wreck while pinpointing its location. In a chilly breeze on the stern deck, they met a brawny underwater technology specialist named Jack Dahlgren, who helped retrieve the sonar towfish.

  “It’s colder than my ex on an iceberg,” Dahlgren said.

  Dirk grinned. “Feels like Amarillo in August to me.”

  “I wish. Y’all want to take a dive on the wreck now?”

  “The seas look stable enough.” Dirk gazed over the ship’s rail. “Let’s get the submersible prepped while the captain puts us on position.”

  An hour later, under darkening skies, a bulb-shaped yellow submarine was lowered over the stern. The light green waters of the Norwegian Sea washed over the vessel as Dirk flooded its ballast tanks. Summer sat beside him at the controls while Dahlgren wedged into a seat behind. They let gravity draw them to the seabed as the waters outside their viewport faded to black.

  “So, ancient Viking ship or Norwegian cruise liner?” Dahlgren asked.

  “Neither, methinks,” Dirk said. “The online records are pretty sparse for shipwreck data in this region. I couldn’t find any record of a commercial vessel lost near here, so if it’s a freighter or fishing schooner, it might be a challenge to identify.”

  Summer looked over her shoulder at Dahlgren. “But we don’t think it’s a commercial ship.”

  “That’s right. The sonar passes show what look to be gun turrets at several locations around the ship. I also found one historical reference to a warship that was presumed lost in the area.”