Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (7 page)

Suddenly
a click had him sitting upright.

“Steve,
Greg here, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi
Greg, I hate to bother you with this, and if you’re not the right person, just
let me know, but, well, we were going through my grandfather’s basement and
came across a painting that, well…” His voice trailed off as he looked at the
painting, the woman looking off to the side, as if unconcerned she were nude in
what might be a private garden.

“Well?”

“This is
going to sound crazy.”

“You’d
be surprised at what I’ve heard over the years.”

“I doubt
you’ve heard anything as crazy as this.”

“Just
tell him!” urged Judy.

“Okay,
Greg, here’s the thing. We think the painting might have been taken from the
Titanic.”

There
was a pause on the other end of the line and Steve began to wonder if their
connection had been lost.

“Do you
mean recovered as part of one of the exped—”

“No,”
interrupted Steve. “Taken the night of the sinking.”

“I see.”
There was another pause. “Can you bring the painting in?”

“Absolutely.
When?”

“How
soon can you get here?”

“We can
be there in an hour.”

“Good.
I’ll clear my schedule and have our expert meet you.”

“Oh,
you’re not the expert?”

Milton
laughed. “Ah, no. I’ve got someone on staff here who’s perfect for this type of
thing. And I can assure you, he’s seen a lot of strange things in his time, so
he won’t be quick to dismiss your story.”

“Sounds
like the right man for the job. Who?”

“You met
him and his fiancée, now wife, at the fundraiser last year.”

“Oh, the
archeology professor.” Steve searched his memory. “Sorry, I can’t remember his
name.”

“Professor
James Acton.”

North Atlantic Ocean
Aboard the RMS Titanic
April 15
^th
, 1912

Captain Smith listened to the reports coming in from across the
ship, his insides churning with the horror of what was to come, his outward
appearance stoic, confident. Flooding had already begun, the water rapidly
rising, and the naval architect Thomas Andrews, on board for the maiden voyage,
had already informed him of the fatal flaw.

The watertight
bulkheads weren’t high enough.

The
water would fill section after section, pouring over the bulkhead walls until
the ship would finally sink.

It was
inevitable.

“The
nearest ship is almost three hours away. The Carpathia.”

“That’s
not enough time!” cried First Officer Will Murdoch.

“Calm
yourself, Mr. Murdoch. We must not panic the junior officers or the
passengers.”

Murdoch squared
his shoulders. “Yes, Captain, of course. I apologize.”

Smith smiled
gently. “You’re a good man, Will. Remember your training and you’ll get through
this. We all will.”

Murdoch lowered
his voice. “But, Captain. The lifeboats…”

Smith nodded,
knowing exactly what Murdoch was referring to.

The
lifeboats were launching, yet there weren’t enough.

The
Unsinkable Ship.

Absurd.

He
looked at the chart showing their exact location and frowned.

They
were less than an hour from the coordinates where he was supposed to have
stopped.

His
stomach flipped.

Would
the men who held his family show mercy should he die here tonight?

His
finger tapped the location of the planned stop.

It
has to be a rendezvous.

Which
meant there was a ship out there that could save them all if it were big
enough.

But
would they ignore the distress call?

They had
so far, the Carpathia the only one to respond.

What
kind of people would stand by while an entire passenger liner sank?

Unknown Assembly Facility
Present Day

Jerry Sparks sat, quaking in a chair, his hands cuffed behind his
back, a hood over his head. Beyond the sound of his own rapid breathing against
the cloth, he heard nothing.

Except
footsteps.

Slow,
deliberate footsteps, pacing around and around him.

No
voices, no other sounds like traffic or the hustle and bustle of a city.

Not even
the sounds of an HVAC system keeping wherever he was cool.

It was
more terrifying than anything he could imagine.

He had
been escorted out of his office within minutes of the security alert appearing
on his computer, the Military Police taking him to their offices and holding
him there, the Sergeant apologetic.

“Just
following orders.”

They had
chitchatted for almost half an hour before two men in suits and dark glasses
appeared, IDs flashed, cuffs slapped on his wrists. He had been placed in the
back of an SUV, the hood pulled over his head, then driven in silence for about
fifteen minutes.

He had
heard nothing but the sound of the engine.

He had
been led to wherever he was now, only a couple of minutes’ walk from the
vehicle, and still nothing had been said.

Just a
hand shoving him into a chair then silence.

Until
the footsteps.

“Do you
know why you are here?”

He
nearly jumped from the sound, a woman’s voice, slightly deep, confident—German perhaps—echoed,
the room he was in apparently large.

“N-no,”
he replied, his stomach flipping, his heart racing. “Because of the records
search?”

“Very
good. Why did you execute that search?”

The
footsteps continued to circle him, the questions coming at him from all
directions, his head spinning to follow. “I-I was doing someone a favor.”

“Who?”

Tell
him! If he knows you were doing it for a Congressman, then maybe everything
will be okay.

“Congressman
Mahoney.”

The
footsteps stopped for a moment, then resumed.

That
must have surprised her.

“And why
was he asking you to conduct this search?”

He
shrugged. “I’m not sure. I got the impression it was a favor for a friend.
Maybe a constituent?”

“And the
name of this friend or constituent?”

“I have
no idea, but I think they might have been related to Captain Wainwright.”

“Are you
sure?”

He shrugged,
the hood rubbing on his nose. “No, just a hunch.”

She was
behind him now, the sound of her shoe scraping as she turned, distinct. “Thank
you, you’ve been very helpful.”

Two
steps sounded on the floor then stopped directly behind him.

There
was a click.

A loud
bang.

A moment
of searing pain.

Then
nothing.

North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912

“Captain, I’m receiving a CQD signal from the RMS Titanic. They’re
sinking.”

Captain
Johnathan Wainwright spun toward his communications officer. “Repeat that.”

“CQD signal
from the RMS Titanic, Captain. They report they are taking on water and are
sinking fast.”

Unbelievable!

“Location?”

“Fifteen
nautical miles due east.”

Wainwright
frowned. His orders were clear. He was to make best speed to his coordinates
then hold position until ordered to get underway again. He had to admit they
were the strangest orders he had ever received in his time as captain, and in
all the years he had been in the navy, he couldn’t recall a ship simply sailing
into the middle of the North Atlantic and stopping for no reason.

Then ordered
to Darken Ship.

They
were a massive hunk of floating metal in the middle of commercial shipping
lanes.

It
simply didn’t make sense.

But as
had been made abundantly clear to him by Admiral Coolidge, he wasn’t in charge.

Commander
Whitman was.

Whoever
the hell he is.

Whitman had
boarded in Norfolk with five other men, disappearing to segregated quarters,
their equipment isolated in the hold until several hours ago when it had been
ordered moved to the deck.

He still
didn’t know who they were or what department of the government they worked for.
Their uniforms had no insignia, though they had the bearing of military when
they arrived. He had spoken to Whitman for all of two minutes when he had been
delivered his sealed orders.

And that
was it.

But his
orders be damned, there was a civilian ship sinking, thousands of lives were at
stake, and he would not be left sitting here in the dark, waiting for only God
knew what.

“Send a
message to the RMS Titanic that we are responding, ETA one hour.”

“Yes,
Captain!”

“Belay
that order.”

Wainwright
spun toward the voice as his comm officer froze.

It was Whitman.

“She’s
sinking, Commander. It is our duty to provide aide.”

“Negative.
This mission is Top Secret. Our being here can never be known.” He turned to
the comm officer. “Who beyond this room knows of the CQD transmission?”

“Only
the radioman.”

Whitman turned
to Wainwright. “I remind you, Captain, that every one of your crew are sworn to
secrecy. Should anyone reveal what is about to happen, they will be subject to
court-martial, and possibly the death penalty.”

The
entire bridge crew looked at Wainwright, some of these men barely in their
twenties.

The fear
on their faces enraged him.

Yet Whitman
was correct. The orders from the Admiral were clear. Whitman was in charge. The
mission was highly classified. And no matter what was seen or heard, none of it
was to ever be repeated.

In fact,
the entire crew had been ordered below decks upon their arrival, only essential
personnel topside during this phase of the operation.

Wainwright
breathed through his nose, his lips pressed tightly together. “What are your
orders,
Commander
?”

“Maintain
radio silence and Darken Ship conditions. Make best speed for their
coordinates, stopping two nautical miles from their position.”

Wainwright’s
eyes narrowed. “Why two miles? If we’re to render assistance, we should be much
closer.”

Whitman looked
at the Captain. “We will not be rendering assistance of any sort.”

Wainwright’s
chest tightened, his blood beginning to boil. “Then why for the love of God are
we going there?”

“Because,
Captain, our mission is aboard that vessel, and I have every intention of
completing it, whether the Titanic is sinking or not.”