'Correct,' replied Shaw. 'In the meantime, another event has fallen into our laps that will confuse the Soviets. The Navy needs your agency's cooperation to carry it out.'
'I'm listening.'
'During rescue and subsequent investigation of the air crash, the NUMA people working with us in the search accidentally stumbled on what looks like an ancient Roman shipwreck buried in ice.'
Brogan stared at Shaw skeptically. 'In Greenland?'
Shaw nodded. 'The word from experts is it's genuine.'
'What can the CIA do to help the Navy with an old shipwreck?'
'A little disinformation. We'd like the Russians to think the Polar Explorer was looking for the Roman ship all along.'
Brogan noted a flashing light on his intercom. 'A sound concept. While the Navy prepares to grab their newest sub, we scatter bread crumbs down the wrong path.'
'Something like that.'
'How will you handle the Roman wreck from your end?'
'We set up an archaeological project as a cover for an onsite base of operations. The Polar Explorer will remain on station so the crew can give a hand in the excavation.'
'Is the sub close by?'
'Less than ten miles away.'
'any idea of her condition?'
'Some structural damage from a collision with a rise on the seafloor, but otherwise intact.'
'And the Roman ship?'
'Our men on the scene claim they've found the frozen bodies of the crew in an excellent state of preservation.'
Brogan rose from his desk and walked with Shaw to the door.
'Incredible,' he said, fascinated. Then he grinned impishly. 'I wonder if any ancient state secrets will be found too?'
Shaw grinned back. 'Better a hoard of treasure.'
Under the direction of the archaeologists the crew of the Polar Explorer cut their way down to the ice-locked ship, layer by layer, until the top deck was laid bare from bow stern to sternpost.
Everyone in the fjord was drawn to the site, hypnotized by curiosity.
Only Pitt and Lily were missing. They remained on board the icebreaker to study the wax tablets.
A compelling silence gripped the crowd of seamen and archaeologists, joined by the air-crash investigating team, as they stood on the edge of the excavation. They stared down at the partially cleared vessel as though it were a hidden tomb of ancient royalty.
Hoskins and Graham measured the hull, arriving at an overall length of just under twenty meters, with a beam of seven meters. The mast had broken two meters above its step and was missing. The remains of the hemp rigging snaked over the weather deck and sides as if wadded up and dropped by a giant bird. A few shredded pieces of canvas were all that remained of the once broad, square sail.
The deck planking was tested for strength and found to be as solid as the day the ship was launched from some long-forgotten Mediterranean shipyard. The artifacts strewn about the deck were photographed, tagged and carefully lifted to the surface and carried to the Polar Explorer, where they were cleaned and catalogued. Then each object was stored in the ship's ice locker to prevent decay during the voyage to a nation that was not in existence when the old merchant vessel sailed on her final voyage.
Gronquist, Hoskins and Graham did not touch the collapsed deckhouse or enter the galley. Slowly, almort tenderly, the three of them lifted one end of the cargo hatch and propped it half-open.
Gronquist stretched out on his stomach and leaned his head and shoulders into the gap until his vision ranged beneath the deck beams.
'Are they there?' Graham asked excitedly. 'Are they as Pitt described them?'
Gronquist stared at the ghastly white faces, the frozen masklike expressions. It seemed to him that if he scraped away the ice and shook them, their eyes would b and they'd come alive.
He hesitated before answering. The bright daylight above gave him a clear view of the entire hold, and he glimpsed two forms huddled together in the extreme angle of the bow that Pitt had missed.
'They're just as Pitt described,' he said soberly, 'except for the dog and the girl.'
Pitt stood in the shelter of a deck crane and watched as Giordino jockeyed the NUMA helicopter over the stern of the Polar Explorer.
Fifteen months later the landing skids touched the painted bull's-eye on the deck, the sound of the turbine's whine fell away and the rotor blades beat to a slow stop.
The right-hand cockpit door opened and a tall man wearing a green turtleneck sweater under a brown corduroy sport jacket jumped to the deck. He looked around for a moment as though getting his bearings and then spied Pitt, who threw a wave of greeting. He walked swiftly, shoulders huddled, hands shoved deeply into pockets to shield them from the cold.
Pitt stepped forward and quickly ushered the visitor through a hatch into the warmth of the ship.
'Dr. Redfem?'
