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"I think I've got the kind of ship you'd need," Sterling Lancaster said. "I admit it---this Riker seems to be on to something here. The pieces of the puzzle are intriguing, no doubt about that. But everything hinges on this legend. If the Leviathan's just a tall tale, then what are we chasing? What if it's all bullshit? We could be risking lives and resources on a wild goose chase."
Prester laughed. "You do have a way of getting to the point. I assure you, however, that the legend isn't bullshit, as you put it. As I have explained, there is too much corroborating evidence to support it."
"Could have been some kind of hoax," Lancaster suggested.
"There's no earthly reason for a hoax. Come on, Sterling, you don't even believe that yourself."
He enjoyed sparring with the billionaire. He knew him well enough to gauge whether he was interested in something. Lancaster's reaction to a proposal could be measured by the amount of profanity he directed towards it---polite, courteous inquires were a sure sign that the supplicant didn't stand a chance. Lancaster hadn't grabbed the hook yet, but he was circling the bait.
The two men eyed each other shrewdly. They were alone in Lancaster's plush office on the 29th floor of a Fifth Avenue skyscraper, and Prester, a man of simple wants and modest income, envied the rich environment without resenting it. The huge room, done in muted pastels, was luxurious but not ostentatious. Lancaster, Prester knew, had designed the decor himself.
The incongruities of Lancaster's personality fascinated Prester. He had the vocabulary of a longshoreman, yet Prester had seldom heard him swear in front of women. He boasted of never having gone beyond high school, but he could discuss literature with the erudition of a college professor. He was openly ruthless in business dealings, in direct contrast to the way he treated his employees. It was said that the only cause for dismissal from a Sterling Lancaster company was dishonesty because everyone he hired was competent to begin with. The majority of his enterprises weren't unionized; he treated people too well, with dignity and compassion, demanding in return only that they work hard, and he was rewarded by what he prized most in life; their loyalty.
Lancaster was in his middle sixties and looked ten years younger. Not quite a six-footer, he had Prester's wiry build with the slight suggestion of a paunch, kept well out of sight by the double-breasted suits he wore. Prester had never seen him in any color except brown. His sartorial tastes were influenced by intense if questionable beliefs. "Fat cats and politicians wear blue suits," he explained to Prester. "Brown's more democratic."
The suits were always neatly pressed, but Prester had the idea they had come off the peg. For a man who could buy a $125,000 Rolls-Royce as effortlessly as someone buying a pack of cigarettes, Lancaster had surprisingly plebian tastes. The first time they had met in New York to discuss the Brazil venture, Lancaster had suggested breaking for lunch. Prester's palate was tingling; he anticipated gourmet dining at a place like the Four Seasons. They wound up at a nearby McDonald's, with Lancaster extolling the culinary virtues of the Big Mac and the "best damn French fries in the world."
Prester had wangled both of them hard-to-get invitations to a National Geographic Society dinner. Lancaster looked dubious.
"Is this shindig formal?"
"Sure is. Black tie, white tie optional."
"I'm not going."
"Not going? Look, we'll rent you a dinner jacket and...."
"You can buy me a tux if you want, but that won't change my mind."
"What do you have against formal wear?"
Lancaster flushed, then snarled, "It makes me look like a goddamn penguin."
They didn't go to the National Geographic Society dinner, but Lancaster later learned from a mutual friend that Prester had already paid for the expensive tickets and wasn't able to get a refund. Not too many days later, a delivery boy brought a package to Prester's apartment. Prester opened it and found a matched set of seven Dunhill pipes, exquisitely grained, with this note741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkFu0aJyjcd
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Bertie,741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡA3xIQP1f4c
The food would have been lousy, anyway. Sorry.741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPd7RZ9yrQb
Sterling.
Prester was smoking one of those pipes right now, the fragrant smoke competing unsuccessfully with the heaviest aroma of Sterling's zeppelin-sized cigar. They were staring at one another through the pungent clouds.
Lancaster said, almost casually, "How good a researcher is Riker? Can we trust his findings?"
"He's a good investigative reporter."
"Come again?"
"I was answering your question rather obliquely, but seriously. Both involve piecing together fragments of information, questioning sources, and drawing conclusions based on evidence—whether it's for breaking news or uncovering historical mysteries."
"You pulling my leg?"
"No, I'm not. I remember reading about this famous reporter," Prester recalled, his tone thoughtful. "He was just a college student when he uncovered evidence that solved a decades-old crime. It was a cold case involving a missing person from the 1920s. He dug through archives, interviewed witnesses, and eventually found overlooked police reports that pointed to foul play. His tenacity paid off—he proved that the person had been murdered and identified as the perpetrator."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Lancaster marveled. "I never knew that."
"That's the trouble with Americans these days," Prester scolded mildly. "They have an abysmally inadequate knowledge of their history. Even if Riker's research skills had nothing to do with it, what's remarkable about his findings is the connection between the Leviathan and the Ebon Circle. They were involved in sinister activities, manipulating global events, conducting occult rituals, and amassing power through clandestine means. The Ebon Circle's influence spanned centuries, shaping history in ways that often remained hidden from public view. I know it's risky and I know it'll take a small fortune to mount an expedition, but trust me, Sterling, the payoff will be worth it."
"You're damn right it'll be an expensive operation," Lancaster mused. "I'd say at least a million bucks----maybe more if we have to buy that sub of yours."
"The company will lease us the submarine. Seven thousand a day. Incidentally, they don't know finding the Leviathan is our mission. I gave 'em some bullshit about diving for a 17th-century British warship sunk in the West Indies."
"Seven thousand dollars?"
"Seven thousand. Travelers wants sixty-five thousand for hull insurance. I've already checked with them."
Lancaster stubbed out his cigar and wheeled his chair around so he was facing the big picture window that overlooked Manhattan. For a long minute, he seemed to be staring into space, then wheeled back toward Prester.
"Bertie, I won't say I'm not tempted, but level with me. Give me the odds on both counts: finding the ship and recovering the gold. And no phony optimism."
Prester didn't hesitate; he had anticipated the question because Sterling Lancaster always played the odds. "Finding the wreck...I'd say one chance out of three. Nobody's been able to locate it so far, but no one has tried as hard as we're going to, and if anyone can pinpoint where she lies, it's Jacques Leclair. He knows ocean currents and tides like you know the way to your bathroom. Remember, we must find her within two weeks after we commence the search. If we don't, we'll have to wait another year?"
"Why two weeks?"
"It's already late April. We won't be able to get everything organized and underway until early July. Weatherwise, that's the best time of the year for the North Atlantic. Assuming we find the Leviathan within two weeks, we'll need another two weeks for salvage operations. Those three-to-one odds apply to establishing the wreck site no later than mid-July. If we have to hang around into August, we've got trouble; the weather's too unpredictable."
Lancaster inspected him curiously. "You're giving me the impression you will be the boss of this little excursion. Am I right?"
The question startled the adventurer to the point of hesitating before he answered it. It was a logical question that reminded Prester he had automatically assumed a command role the minute Riker had revealed the ship's existence, even taken it for granted, with absolutely no discussion as far as Billy and Jacques Leclair were concerned. They had accepted his leadership as if it was preordained. Prester did that to people who were at least his peers or even his superiors. Bertie Prester exuded a "follow me" air that was as much a part of him as the clothes on his back.
His instinctive compulsion to take command of virtually any situation had won him respect but also a few enemies. His philosophy was simply: "You gave me a job to do and if you don't like the way I'm doing it, kindly get the hell outta my way."
But now he was facing a powerful man with the same kind of dominating personality, the identical urge to take control. This was as good a time as any to establish the chain of command.
"Only one man can be in charge, Sterling. I know submarines, I know deep-sea operations, and above all else, I know that you can't run anything this complicated and risky by committee. If you can't accept that, we might as well end this conversation right now."
Lancaster chuckled. "Bertie, if there's one thing in this world I respect, it's a son of a bitch who's as hard-nosed as I am. I sure as hell don't run my shop democratically. As they say, a camel is a horse engineered by a committee."
"The world's finest definition," Prester agreed. "But mind you, Sterling, there may be times when you and probably many others will challenge my authority and question my decisions. I'll welcome discussion, but the final say is mine. Got it?"
Lancaster nodded and lit another cigar. "What are we after here, and what are the odds of getting it?"
"We're after the American chestnut wood that the Leviathan is made of. The odds are at least fifty-fifty, maybe better. I'm not too hopeful about gouging our way into the interior. It's almost certain obstacles like structural integrity and internal collapse could frustrate that. We'll use the submarine to explore any accessible areas, of course, but I rather expect we'll have to go in by blasting an entry path through the hull, a hole big enough to accommodate the sub."
"This Leclair, you told me he's not too happy with messing with the ship. Any chance of using divers?"
"Maybe. But I'll tell you what we will need....a demolitions expert."
Sterling chuckled. "Aren't you supposed to be savvy on explosives yourself?"
Prester smiled a little grimly. "We have to figure out what dimensions of the entry hole would be adequate for the Explorer's admission. Damage to the inner section of the hull must be kept to the absolute minimum or we'll have a debris problem. The equivalent of surgical skill will be needed, using a scalpel instead of an ax. It calls for someone who knows precise demolition techniques."
Lancaster slammed his fist on the desk. "Thaddeus Blackwood!"
Prester observed dryly, "From the note of enthusiasm you attach to his name, I take it Mr. Blackwood knows demolition."
"Hell, I'll bet he was weaned on dynamite. Got his start blowing up old buildings right here in New York. Lives over in Queens. Ended up specializing in underwater stuff, salvage, and offshore oil work. I used him a few years back when I went after a Spanish galleon in the Caribbean, one that sank in 1687. She went down with a reported fortune in gold coins and jewels."
"I assume he's a good diver."
"The best. Ornery son of a bitch, but he's a whiz with explosives."
Prester kept his face straight. He asked innocently, "How much do you think he'd charge us for something like the Leviathan?"
"Charge us? You're a slick bastard. I'm the one you're asking to toss at least a million bucks down a twelve-thousand-foot hole. I'd have to be nuts to get suckered into this deal."
"Right," the adventurer agreed. "Sterling, you are nuts. Mapinguari, the Mongolian Death Worm, live dragons.....you're a bloody pushover. That galleon you found, was there a treasure in the captain's cabin?"
"Nope," Lancaster admitted with a sigh. "Just some gold coins, pots and pans, and a surfeit of rotting wood. Which is all the Leviathan's going to turn out to be."
Prester uncoiled from his chair and leaned across the billionaire's desk, their faces only inches apart. "This time you're wrong. This time, you're going to hit the jackpot. This time, your dreams will become reality. This time you won't be fucking crazy, because this time you won't fail. The miracles of the Leviathan's wood lie in its incredible durability, rot resistance, and historical significance. I tell you, this American chestnut wood is a lost treasure that could revolutionize our understanding of ancient shipbuilding. Discovering and salvaging it will make us famous, as we'll be the ones who uncover this maritime legend! We're guaranteed a fortune because collectors, historians, and scientists will pay top dollar for it. The wood could turn out to be worth millions, possibly tens of millions, depending on its condition and the demand!"
Lancaster exhaled with a half sigh that acknowledged, even admired, Prester's intensity. "You son of a bitch. You think you've got me hooked, and you're right."
The adventurer smiled in return. "You're an easy mark, my friend. I just appealed to man's greatest weaknesses: greed and ego, both qualities that you fortunately possess in sufficient quantity to be the right man to back us."
Lancaster looked a little disappointed. "Hell, Bertie, I don't think I'm abnormally greedy or egotistical. I'm just adventuresome. I like a challenge. I like achievement. I like doing things that other people just dream about doing. If I succeed, fine, give me the rewards and acclaim that go with success. But if I fail, nobody hears me whine or complain. I have a pretty wife and a ten-year-old son who think I'm nuts, but I don't give a damn. Life's not living without some risk."
"An admirable philosophy," Prester conceded, "and I was just kidding about greed and ego. So down to real business, Sterling. I'd like to meet Thaddeus."
"I can arrange it. Word of warning, he's abrasive. Real hard-nosed type, the kinda guy who was born two hundred years late. He should've been a pirate. Makes me sound like a choirboy, and he could drink a Marine regiment under the table. You two just might hit it off."741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmimg37Sbt7
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Thaddeus Blackwood joined them for lunch the next day at Flannigan's Irish Pub, owned by a good friend of Lancaster's named Inez Dumont who hired nothing but Irish bartenders and kept discreetly in the background. Its ersatz Irish decor notwithstanding, the restaurant was an appropriate setting for Lancaster's introduction to Blackwood.
The explosives specialist was built like an inverted pyramid, a huge, bull-shouldered man with flaming red hair and an unkempt red beard to match. He said nothing until Prester finished briefing him on the projected mission, during which time he consumed five shots of straight bourbon. Then he bellowed, "I don't guys who rush headlong into things without fully considering the consequences, so if you're gonna run this show, count me out."
Lancaster gulped. Prester merely smiled affably and took a sip of his scotch and water. Somehow it reminded Lancaster of a freighter taking on fuel.
"And I don't like cowards, Mr. Blackwood," Preseter said in a tone coated with steel slivers. "For that matter, I don't like guys who shy away from the unknown. Quite frankly, I don't give a damn what you like, because I am going to run this show with or without you. And right now, I think it'll be without you."
Blackwood stared at him, then turned to Lancaster. "You know what, Sterling? I like this guy. He's just like me when I was younger."
Prester chuckled. "That explains it."
"Mind if I have another drink," Blackwood asked.
"Be my guest," Lancaster said, and in the next breath, Blackwood and Prester were discussing demolition problems as if they had known each other for years.
"....access to a powerful explosive called Thunderstrike, but it's way too powerful to use on the Leviathan."
Prester nodded. "I agree. It would obliterate the ship, leaving us with nothing but splinters. We need a controlled, low-impact explosive like C-4, something that can precisely target and break apart sections without causing extensive damage to the Leviathan's structure. How about dynamite, small charges strategically placed?"
Blackwood stroked his beard thoughtfully, and while he pondered the suggestion, Prester found himself studying the strong contours of the man's face. Blackwood's granite features, Prester decided, wouldn't look out of place as the fifth head on Mount Rushmore. His eyes also impressed the adventurer; after all those drinks, they were still clear, a dark brown, and curiously gentle. A good man to have around in a pinch, Prester decided.
Prester finally said, "I wouldn't trust dynamite at that depth. It's too tricky, and we'd be attaching it with those robot arms you mentioned. You can't get diddlysquat worth of precision using the remote control. When it comes to dynamite, I'd rather work with my hands." He held up those hands, the size of ham hocks and the knuckles bristling with red hair, like the hands of a skilled surgeon.
"I'm open to suggestions," Prester said.
"Ever heard of Drakonite?"
"Can't say that I have. Is it like plastic explosives?"
"Yeah. Brand new, too. Best goddamn stuff around for offshore jobs. I never seen it used on anything as big as a ship's hull, but I'll give you odds I could cut a hole in the Leviathan and you'd think I'd done it with a can opener."
Prester glanced at Lancaster. "Sterling, it's looking better and better."
"Just a moment," Blackwood growled. "Nobody's told me how we get to where she went down. You keep talkin' about a submarine and big steel platforms and sonar to find the son of a bitch, but what the hell about basic transportation. Sounds like you'll need a battleship to haul all the equipment."
Lancaster said, "Matter of fact, Thad, I did advise Bertie I've got a ship in mind, one that I already own, and I'll tell you what I told him. It's a converted frigate, about eighteen hundred tons."
"Converted into what?!" Blackwood snarled the question. "Hell, that trawler we used down in the Caribbean woulda been fine."
"Right now, the Anasazi is more or less my treasure-hunting yacht. Bought her for a song seven years ago, partly to please my wife, she thinks holding cocktail parties on a salvage ship is the ultimate in entertaining. We put in staterooms and dolled up her quarters real fancy; you'd never guess she was once a minelayer, not from her interior, anyway."
Prester asked, 'Why the hell didn't you go out and buy yourself a regular yacht? I'll bet it would have cost less than what you spent converting her."
"Yeah, but that wouldn't have been any fun. I got myself a good marine architect and believe me, we had a ball turning her into a working pleasure boat. Christ, every time I take her out, I feel like I'm an admiral."
Blackwood's laugh was more of a rumble. "Lancaster, you don't know a fuckin' thing about conning a ship. I remember you on that trawler. You couldn't steer a rowboat across a pond without gettin' lost."
"I said I felt like an admiral," Lancaster explained mildly. "I didn't say I sailed like one. Anyway, I've got me an admiral---an ex-frigate skipper, incidentally---Alex Night. I may own the Anasazi, but he commands it."
Blackwood rasped. "So now you gotta convert her some more. This ain't no pleasure cruise we're goin' on. You'll need winches to lower the sub and the platform Prester mentioned. A hell of a lot of communications equipment, too."
Lancaster said calmly. "We'll buy all the needed communications gear, including a good bottom-scanning sonar unit. She's already got radar for navigation."
"Where's she docked?" Blackwood asked.
"Long Island Sound, near my home. Bertie and I are going out to inspect her tomorrow. You're invited, too."
"I'll pass. Have to take your word for it that she's seaworthy."
Prester wondered who the Anasazi was named for and asked Lancaster.
"That was her original navy name. Anasazi is some kind of lost Indian tribe in Arizona; the Navy uses Indian names for some of its fighting ships. I was gonna call her the Suzette after my wife, but she didn't go for it."
"I think we might consider changing it," Prester said.
"To what?"
"The Phineas Cartwright.
"Who?!" Blackwood demanded.
"Phineas Cartwright was the enigmatic captain of the Leviathan; nobody knows if he truly existed any more than the giant ship he supposedly commanded. Naming our treasure hunter after him honors his legacy and connects us to the ship we're trying to uncover."
Lancaster declared, "Goddamn, I love it!"
"I never heard of the son of a bitch," Blackwood complained.
Prester gave him a mischievous grin. "Too bad," he said. "It wouldn't surprise me if you're a direct descendant."
"No, no, I'm going along with it," Blackwood scowled.
"Why?" Prester asked.
" 'Cause it's bad luck to change a ship's name. Any sailor'll tell ya that."
Lancaster scoffed. "That's an old wives' tale, Thad. Superstitious crap."
"Not to me it ain't. I've seen some funny things happen to ships sailing under names they didn't start with."
Prester said, "The opposite can be true, Blackwood. In World War II, the Germans had a pocket battleship christened the Deutschland when she was launched. She spent more time in drydock than at sea. So they finally rechristened her the Lutzow. She didn't exactly distinguish herself, but at least she stayed afloat almost the entire war."
"Lucky exception," Blackwood growled. "I'm still not going along with it, Lancaster, but she's your ship. I hope I don't have to say I told you so."741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjX1VJ4zrOD
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When Prester returned to his hotel that evening, he found a message to phone Jacques Leclair. He immediately placed the call, figuring that the oceanographer might've regressed to his original pessimism. Leclair sounded----for him, anyway---positively bubbling, however.
How are things going, Bertie?"
"First-rate. I believe we've got our salvage ship, and damned if Lancaster himself doesn't own her." Prester was about to mention Blackwood's recruitment but wisely decided against it. Jacques may have joined the parade, but he was a bit out of sync in the marching. Revealing that a demolitions expert had already been brought into the picture could well alienate the scientist, and Prester wanted to avoid friction if at all possible. There'd be the inevitable confrontation later, he supposed if they had to cut through the hull, but by then Prester would have the tantalizing access to the wood in his favor.
He continued, teasingly, "I don't think you called just to ask how things were going. Is there something on your mind?"
"Sure is," Leclair said. "Bertie, is there any chance you could fly out to the Scripps Institute of Oceanography?"
"That's in California!"
"San Diego, to be precise." When Prester hesitated, Leclair knew he was calculating cost, and the oceanographer added hastily, "I know it's a costly imposition, but there's someone at Scripps I think you should talk to in person. Someone who'd make an excellent addition to our ranks."
"In that case, I'll go. What's his name?"
"Well, uh, ah....well, the person I have in mind is a woman."
Prester laughed. "Don't be so defensive, you old fart. Gimme her name and background, which must be considerable if you're recommending her."
"A very qualified background," Leclair said enthusiastically. "Her name is Sonia White. She worked with me some years ago as a graduate student. Since then, she's earned herself a reputation in our field. She's among the top five oceanographers in the U.S. A truly brilliant woman, Berite. Truly brilliant, believe me. She's a specialist in both electronics and hydrography and is exceptionally knowledgeable about the Leviathan legend, as well as having done quite a bit of deep-sea diving. In my view, she's the one we need for the location phase."
"I'll take your word for it," Prester assured him.
"Call me after you talk to her, will you? I'd like to have your reaction. Meanwhile, I shall cable her and tell her to expect you."
"Right. Anything else?"
The soft voice was back to normal. "Well, I assume Lancaster's going to back us?"
"It looks that way. I'll know for sure tomorrow after I inspect the ship."741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnAeYjW1BFP
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Riding back from Long Island to Manhattan in Lancaster's Mercedes the next day, Prester almost forgot the California trip, so enthused was he about the Phineas Cartwright. The ex-frigate wasn't much to look at and still needed a lot of work---for one thing, heavier winches than the ones on her stern would be needed. He was impressed with her beam, unusually broad for a ship of this type. His practiced eye told him she could accommodate not just the heavy deck gear but the two subs as well. And she was plenty long enough---well over two hundred feet, he guessed.
Although the billionaire had repainted the former Anasazi a dazzling white, the cosmetic job failed to hide her utilitarian military ancestry. It was her interior that impressed Prester; the staterooms were big and luxurious, and what had been a starkly prosaic ship's mess had been turned into a dining room that would have done justice to a fine restaurant. A section of the mess hall was partitioned off to form a small cocktail lounge. Aside from the excellent accommodations, Prester also noted with interest the ship's new Bendex radar. He wanted to ask the captain about her diesel engines, but Night was away on a brief vacation. "They're old but in good shape," Lancaster told him.
Lancaster interrupted his reveries. "You going home soon?"
Prester replied, "Now that you mention it, no. I'm heading for California tomorrow to interview some female oceanographer Leclair has most heartily urged upon us."
"A woman? She'd be the only one on the ship. Your pal's lost his mind, Bertie. Tell him no."
Prester said firmly, "I've already promised him I'd at least speak to her. She's top-notch according to Jacques, and if she's as good as he says, we're going to need her."
Lancaster grunted unhappily but said nothing. He was driving the sleek gray Mercedes himself, even though he could have afforded a twenty-four-hour shift of chauffeurs. He claimed he could think better when he drove, a statement Prester accepted as an unfortunate fact because Lancaster did more thinking than driving. The adventurer was an expert motorist himself and considered Lancaster an accident going someplace to happen.
He wasn't doing too badly today, having run only one red light so far. Now he was wearing his absentminded look, however, obviously pondering the news that a woman might be invited to join the expedition. The deeper his thoughts, the worse he drove---taking his right hand off the while to stroke his chin meditatively while the Mercedes wandered all over the road, and it took a poor driver for a Mercedes to wander at all. Prester felt relieved when the conversation resumed, Lancaster using both hands again to drive.
"Where in California are you supposed to meet this dame?"
"San Diego, at the Scripps Institute. I'll make an appointment as soon as you drop me off at my hotel. What's the time difference between New York and the West Coast---3 hours?"
"Yup." The right hand left the wheel, moved to the chin, then returned.
Lancaster dutifully, if not convincingly, protested. "Damn polite of you, but it's not necessary."
"The hell it's not. We're going to be partners, Sterling. You supply the expertise and I'll supply the cash. For Christ's sake, a first-class round-trip transcontinental ticket would eat up your whole pension for a month or two."
"I was planning to fly coach," Lancaster admitted.
"That's what I thought. Came over in the back of the airplane, too, didn't you? Well, I don't let my partners travel in steerage; you're going first class. Wonder what she's like."
"You mean the woman." Lancaster smiled. "Well, I always draw a mental picture of someone I'm going to meet for the first time. I'll bet this Kim Barnes's as flat as a board, very tall and rather horse-faced, with stringy black hair that hasn't seen a good cut for a decade. She wears flat-heeled shoes and tailored suits that would look more natural on a man. Extremely intelligent, so much so that she can be patronizing to those she considers beneath her, which probably includes not only the majority of her colleagues but ninety-nine percent of California's population. She eats nothing but green salads, non-drinker, non-smoker, and looks down her nose at anyone who does. In short, Bertie, I expect our Kim will have the brain of Einstein and the aesthetic appeal of a twig."
"Thank God." Prester sighed. "She'd be safe on the Phineas Cartwright."
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Kim Barnes was two inches over five feet, with exquisitely coiffured hair whose shade hovered between platinum blond and a soft white. Lancaster could not decide whether her pretty, porcelain-complexioned face was elfin or patrician; it was a curious blend of both, perfectly symmetrical and not horsey. The nicely shaped nose fell just short of being pert; the lips were full without being broad. She was wearing a short black skirt and a spankingly pressed white blouse of Sea Island cotton.
It was her figure that jolted him. She was a relatively tiny woman from the waist down, but full-busted, with athletic-looking shoulders and arms. She talked in low, businesslike tones, but when she laughed, it was almost a tinkling sound that reminded Lancaster of tiny Christmas bells. Her obvious intelligence was the only thing he had gotten right in his predictions, and even that forecast was flawed. She didn't flaunt it, and when she showed him around the Scripps Institute, she answered his many questions without a trace of condescension. Lancaster also noted how popular she was with her coworkers; the tour was nothing but a steady succession of "Hi, Kim's," and friendly waves even when they weren't close enough to talk to anybody.
Sterling certainly had been right about her intelligence and her knowledge of the Leviathan legend; she was almost as learned as Riker, who was a walking encyclopedia on the subject. While he was flying across the country in the unaccustomed luxury of American Airlines's first-class service, he had decided not to mention the sunken ship in any shape, form, or size. He would merely get an idea of Barnes's competence, and judge whether she'd make a compatible addition to the expedition, and let either Jacques or Bertie decide whether to invite her.
He hadn't counted on liking her instantly, and this was prompted more by her personality than by her surprising attractiveness. Kim Barnes had a ready smile, and when she met his flight at San Diego's Lindbergh Field, she made him forget right away that he was six thousand miles from home, confronting a total stranger.
Somehow, she had instinctively singled him out amid the crowd of deplaning passengers. Her handshake was firm.
"Sterling Lancaster?"
He nodded, surprised at both her recognition and appearance.
"Hi, I'm Kim Barnes. Welcome to San Diego, and let's get a quick drink while the bags are being unloaded. Besides, I need a cigarette."
So much for my teetotaler, nonsmoking theory, he had thought ruefully, and followed her to the cocktail lounge, still laughing to himself on how wrong he'd been.
"May I call you Kimmy?"
"Kim will do nicely, thank you. Technically, it's Mrs. Barnes, but I've been divorced for the past seven years."
"How the hell did you recognize me so fast? I gave you no clue as to what I looked like and..."
"The cut of your clothes," she interrupted. "Very New Yorker. I'll bet nobody else on that plane was wearing cavalry twills."
It had been merely small talk over the drinks, but later, after the Institute tour and accepting his dinner invitation, Lancaster tossed his cautious game plan aside. In the restaurant she had chosen, he brought up the topic he was supposed to have skirted.
"Kim, when I arranged this meeting, I said I was doing some research on oceanography from the layman's standpoint and that your old mentor Jacques Leclair had suggested I talk to you. Only the latter is true---about Jacques, that is. I honestly care very little about oceanography. My chief motive in this visit involves a certain ship."
"The Leviathan."
"How the hell did you know?"
"Because there are damn few oceanographers here or anywhere else who wouldn't give up the last five years of their lives to prove that ship exists, and I took a guess. So you might as well tell me. Are you going after her?"
"Yes."
"Where do I fit in?"
He hesitated, tempted to flatly issue an invitation he already had decided Leclair should be making, never expecting to be so impressed on such short notice. He hedged his answer.
"Jacques tells me you are an exceptionally well-qualified oceanographer, and I think this is something you should be discussing with him. I do know, however, that nobody could find that ship without the help of capable oceanographers, just as one needs a good detective to solve a crime. So an obvious question is: What do you know about her?"
"I think I've read just about every book and every article ever printed on the Leviathan legend. I started with Margaret Stevenson's The Phantom Fleet when it was published back in 1955. For starters, I have a theory as to where she supposedly disappeared. I say supposedly because I have a hunch she's not where some people assume she is."
"An assumption based on what?"
"A combination of historical records, eyewitness accounts, and oceanographic surveys that have all pointed to a specific area in the Atlantic Ocean. These sources suggest that the Leviathan sank after encountering severe weather and treacherous waters. This location has been narrowed down based on reported sightings of the ship during its final voyage, the last known positions recorded by various contemporary ships, and anomalous sonar readings that suggest a massive structure resting on the ocean floor. I believe the historical narratives might have been distorted over time, and the sonar anomalies can be misinterpreted."
Lancaster furrowed his brow and leaned forward. "Then how do you explain the sonar readings I took on my submersible? They suggested a massive structure resting on the Atlantic floor. What else could those anomalies be if not the Leviathan?"
Kim met Lancaster's gaze calmly. "I understand the significance of your sonar readings, but we can't rule out the possibility of natural underwater formations causing those anomalies. My theory is that the Leviathan, given its size and the powerful currents of the Atlantic, might have drifted much farther than we previously thought. It could be resting in a completely different part of the Atlantic."
Lancaster tried to keep his tone measured. He respected Kim's expertise but knew his sonar readings were not just anomalies. Expanding the search area without more evidence, as she suggested, could waste valuable time and resources. "The structure I saw was massive, far too large to be a natural formation. Jacques and I accounted for ocean currents and drift patterns based on historical data. The most likely location for the Leviathan is where I found those readings---the Bermuda Triangle."
Barnes shook her head, maintaining her calm demeanor. "I'm not dismissing your findings outright. However, the ocean is vast and unpredictable. We've seen countless instances where wrecks were found miles from their presumed locations due to unforeseen factors. We need to consider that the Leviathan might have been carried farther than we anticipated."
Lancaster's frustration was evident, but he held back. "And what about your credentials, Kim? What makes you so certain that our current search area is insufficient? Do you have data that contradicts the sonar readings we've relied on?"
Kim met Lancaster's gaze steadily. "My credentials? I've spent over two decades studying deep-sea currents and wreck drift patterns, with numerous expeditions under my belt. I was part of the team that located the SS City of Rio de Janeiro, which had drifted miles from its last reported position. My data on deep-sea currents and the unpredictable nature of oceanic drift is well-documented. The sonar readings you're relying on could indeed indicate a large structure, but without considering the broader range of possibilities, we risk overlooking the true resting place of the Leviathan. My theory isn't just a hunch; it's based on extensive research and historical precedents."
Lancaster decided to change the subject, feeling it best to leave the decision about Barnes's recommendation up to Leclair. "Alright, Kim," he said, leaning back slightly. "Let's set aside the sonar anomalies for a moment. What do you think might have happened to the Leviathan?"
Kim took a moment to collect her thoughts. "Given the ship's immense size and unique design, it's likely that it faced significant challenges from the start. If the Leviathan encountered a major storm or structural failure, it could have been driven far off its intended course. Additionally, if there were any onboard explosions, as some legends suggest, the ship could have been left adrift, subject to the whims of the ocean currents. It's also possible that the crew, facing insurmountable difficulties, abandoned the ship, leaving it to drift until it ultimately sank. The exact circumstances remain unclear, but it's plausible that a combination of these factors led to the Leviathan's mysterious disappearance."
Lancaster, striving for a more collaborative approach, leaned forward. "Alright, Dr. Barnes," he said, "I have the latitude and longitude coordinates where I took my anomalous readings in the Bermuda Triangle." He handed her a small notepad with the details. "Take a look at these and then give me your coordinates based on your theory. If we can find a consensus, that will be our search area."
Kim studied the coordinates for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, let's see," she said, pulling out her notes. After a few moments of cross-referencing, she looked up. "Based on my theory that the Leviathan might have drifted farther than previously thought, I propose these coordinates." She jotted down a set of numbers on the notepad and handed it back to Lancaster.
He reviewed the coordinates, nodding slowly. "Alright then," he said. "If Leclair agrees, we'll make this our search area. Let's see what we can find."
"Is that all you came out here for? To get my estimate of the wreck site? Or is this a formal invitation to join the hunt?"
He hesitated again---this had gone faster and farther than he had intended. He studied her face for a moment and made his choice---one based on an instinct that he could trust this woman.
"You're invited, as assistant oceanographer. Your first and primary assignment will be to help Jacques locate the wreck."
"And when do you plan to start looking?"
"We hope to be underway about the second week in July."
"Great! I'll ask Scripps for a few months' leave of absence, which I'm sure they'll grant when they hear why I need one. I can just hear what they'll...."
Lancaster halted her enthusiasm in midair. "You may ask for your leave of absence, of course, but you will not say one word about why. If you do, I promise you the invitation will be withdrawn instantly."
"For God's sake, why such a hush-hush operation? Discovering the Leviathan would be one of the greatest events in the history of oceanography. Why should I keep it a secret."
"I'll give you one." His voice, like his eyes, had suddenly turned cold, and she almost shuddered at the change. "The Leviathan is made of American chestnut, a wood believed to be extinct. If the botanists are correct about its amazing properties—strength, resistance to rot, and fine grain—the value of this wood would be astronomical. We're not just after a shipwreck; we're after a treasure trove of a resource that no longer exists. That's why we're going after it. If you have any doubts about joining something more of a treasure hunt than a scientific expedition, tell me now, and no hard feelings. Provided, of course, that you keep all I've said to yourself."
She stared at him, her eyes wide and her mouth half-open. He was trying to judge the expression on her pretty face---either horror on an excitement that was nearly sexual, he couldn't tell which. He got his answer when she finally spoke.
"Count me in," said Kim Barnes.
741Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxHoKpoEKOh
