The Bone Hunters (9 page)

17 May

U.S. Marine Corps Base, Quantico

Marine Corps Records Center

Triangle, Virginia

A green Lincoln Town Car was parked on the apron at the edge of the runway when Macaulay emerged from the Marine Corps courier plane at five that evening. A fresh-faced young lieutenant in fatigues stepped forward to greet him.

“Welcome to Quantico, General,” he said. “I am pleased to escort you to Colonel Alexander.”

It had been twenty years since Macaulay last visited the sprawling base. Back then, he had just gotten out of the air force and was attending a charity tournament at the Medal of Honor Golf Course.

He and his close friend, the billionaire John Lee Hancock, had gotten drunk on tequila and never finished the round. Life was crazy, Macaulay decided. They had both survived plane crashes and serious air combat in the First Gulf War, only to see John Lee murdered by a Norse religious cult on the Greenland Ice Cap. In his mind's eye, Macaulay could see him standing inside the cave containing the ten Vikings from Leif Eriksson's expedition in 1015. His eyes alive with excitement, seemingly indestructible.

The Quantico base was booming with construction activity. Dust clouds swirled outside the windows as the car moved slowly past earthmovers, bulldozers, and construction trailers. Macaulay watched as a steel girder was lifted into position atop one of the new buildings by a gigantic crane and thought about Lexy.

“No derring-do while you're gone, Mr. Quixote,” she had said just before he got in the car that took him to La Guardia. “Your armor is too banged up . . . too many dents, too many patches. Your lance won't pierce the windmills anymore.”

“There's nothing wrong with my lance,” said Macaulay.

As he continued to gaze down at her, she had given him a light kiss on the mouth.

“I hope there's more where that came from,” said Macaulay.

“Be a good boy and one never knows,” she said.

On the courier plane from New York, he read the latest reports from Ira Dusenberry's national security task force about the recent activities of the Chinese oligarch, Zhou Shen Wui, and his son, Li. One report alluded to reports of a massacre that had recently taken place in Sichuan Province. Zhou had possibly orchestrated the attack to blunt the surge in religious fervor sweeping the rural provinces.

The Marine Corps Archival and Records Center was one of several modern office buildings near the base university complex. Colonel Joe Alexander was waiting for him in the reception foyer when he stepped inside.

His blue eyes were clear and alert below the gray crew cut and the weather-beaten face. His grin was warm and
genuine as he reached out to shake hands. Alexander had been a lifer in the corps and a decorated battalion commander in Vietnam. After retiring from the corps as a full colonel, he had become a leading military historian on the World War Two Pacific amphibious campaigns at Tarawa, Pelelieu, and Iwo Jima. Now he was a senior military archivist in the records center.

His office on the third floor was windowless and bare aside from the photographs on the walls of the Corps elite, including Lewis “Chesty” Puller, Smedley Butler, Merritt Edson, and the former commandant, Thomas Holcomb. Macaulay pointed to the photograph of Holcomb.

“The reason I'm here starts with a marine base in China that was named after him,” said Steve. “It involves something that could have happened there the day after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.”

“Sounds pretty intriguing,” said Alexander.

“It is,” said Macaulay.

He slowly went through the details they knew surrounding the possible truck convoy that had departed from Peking on December 8, 1941, and could have been headed for Camp Holcomb when it disappeared.

When he was finished, Joe Alexander said, “Chaos reigned at that point in the war. No one was sure what to do. Most of the marines still there surrendered to the Japanese before they knew what was happening, including more than a couple hundred at Camp Holcomb and Chinwangtao. Most of them ended up at the Woosung prison camp near Shanghai. You can imagine what
happened to them. It's possible the men in your truck convoy ended up in that group.”

“How can we find out one way or another?” asked Macaulay.

“I'll try to track down any after-action report or written orders or possibly eyewitness testimony from marines who might have known one of the men at Camp Holcomb or at the prison camp,” he said. “Thanks to the magic of our new computer system, we have cross-referenced the reports and orders by unit as well as date. If the detachment was based in Peking in 1941, that will provide one reference. If the action took place on December eighth, that will give us another reference. Once we know the unit involved, we can identify the names of the men who served in it and pull their personnel records from the archives at College Park and St. Louis.”

“How long will it all take?” asked Steve.

“There was a time not so long ago when I would have had to search for the original flimsies and three-by-five cards in ten-foot-high stacks of file boxes in a warehouse the size of Fort Knox,” said Alexander. “It might have taken me a month. These days . . . give me an hour and I should be able to come up with something preliminary.”

“Look . . . I haven't eaten all day,” said Macaulay. “Could we meet at the officers' club?”

“Sure,” said Joe.

A little more than an hour later, Macaulay was finishing his rare sirloin with garlic mashed potatoes and green salad when Joe Alexander joined him. He was empty-handed when he sat down at the table.

“Very odd,” said Joe after ordering a Sam Adams lager.

“What is?”

“Your little military action apparently did take place. At least it was ordered.”

“You found the record? It actually happened?”

“I found a copy of a two-line written order from marine headquarters at Camp Holcomb, dated December 7, 1941. It directs a captain named Theodore Allen, who was stationed at the legation compound in Peking, to organize a small truck convoy to escort someone or something of importance from the Peking Union Medical College to Camp Holcomb.”

“What is odd about it?”

“It happened more than seventy years ago,” Joe said, “and it's still classified top secret.”

“What happened to Theodore Allen?”

“His personnel record is classified top secret along with the records of the men in his detachment and whatever details might exist of what happened to their convoy during the mission.”

“Why the hell . . . ?”

“I've run into this before,” said Joe. “It probably means that the mission was embarrassing to either the Marine Corps or the State Department or the White House. It gets stamped top secret. Then it gets forgotten. Of course, there might be more to it.”

“Who has the authority to remove the blanket?” asked Macaulay.

“Hard to say these days,” said Alexander. “It depends on the purview of the original request. I can try to find out, but it might take a while. No guarantees.”

“We don't have that luxury,” said Macaulay.

“I just don't have the horsepower, Steve,” Joe said, his eyes conveying the frustration.

“What about Dusenberry, the president's national security adviser?” asked Macaulay.

“I would ordinarily say yes, but he's in trouble with Congress as well as the CIA for that last fiasco in North Korea,” said Alexander. “In these times, I doubt he could do it. And if he tries and fails, they'll lock it down even tighter. You know anybody at the agency?”

Macaulay thought for a few moments. “Do you have a secure line here I can use?”

•   •   •

Barnaby Finchem stood in front of the ornate mahogany desk once owned by Theodore Roosevelt Sr., which was now occupied by Horace Starling, the deputy director for security at the museum. Starling was in his mid-fifties, with a melancholy face, a fleshy, red-veined nose, and receding brown hair. He wore a rumpled brown suit with a yellow polka-dotted tie.

“There is no one at Professor Choate's office, and the person answering the phone at his home on Riverside Drive says he is not at liberty to tell us anything,” said Barnaby.

After leaving Mulligan's, Barnaby and Lexy had gone straight back to Choate's office. No one had answered their knock. They had waited for thirty minutes and then sought out the head of security at the museum.

“Professor Choate maintains his own schedule,” he said. “I must confess that he is somewhat eccentric in his activities and methods.”

“Eccentric?” said Barnaby. “There are Victorian-era gas lamps in his office suite.”

“His grandfather was a cofounder of this museum. Those were originally his offices. I might add that Professor Choate continues to be a significant patron for us. . . . We indulge his idiosyncrasies.”

“I need to reach him right now. He has promised us access to some very important papers in his safe.”

“I can't help you,” insisted the deputy director, his nose becoming redder. “Professor Choate has already made clear his personal estimation of my own abilities. You'll just have to wait for him to return and then schedule an appointment.”

“I know this is an overused refrain, but it's a matter of national security,” said Barnaby, remembering his own skepticism when the same words were said to him at his lair on the Long Wharf.

“You'll have to prove it,” said the deputy director with a tired smile.

Barnaby turned to Lexy. “Contact Dusenberry right away . . . have him authorize an immediate search for Choate, tell him to check any other possibilities too, hospitals, accident reports . . .”

Barnaby felt a sudden tightening in his chest. It felt as if someone were clenching a giant fist around his heart. A moment later the excruciating pain radiated to his teeth and jaw. He had never experienced anything like it. Dizziness crowded his brain and he felt himself falling.

“Call an ambulance,” he heard Lexy cry as if she were shouting from a long distance.

Barnaby's last conscious thought was that if this was the end of the long, winding road of life, he wished he could have gone out in the proverbial saddle like Nelson
Rockefeller instead of lying facedown on this green carpet.

17 May

Central Intelligence Agency

McNamara Library Annex

Langley, Virginia

Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Everett “Tommy” Somervell IV (retired) sat in the cracked leather easy chair in his cramped, windowless office and pondered for maybe the tenth time that day if it was time to finally turn in his papers and resign.

Tommy had been put out to the proverbial pasture again three months earlier by the new director and his senior staff. First they had given him another “golden ager” award and then relegated him to the basement again.

Until a few minutes earlier, the blue phone on his desk hadn't rung all week. Then came the call from Steve Macaulay. After hanging up, Tommy called the guard post security team to put General Steven Macaulay on the admittance list and provided his office number in the basement library annex.

The last time he had heard from Steve was right before the bottom dropped out of the Valhalla mess. It was the last good work Tommy had done. Now the only reminders of his colorful career were on his desk, not that anyone saw them except the cleaning staff. A handful of
photographs documented his journey from Exeter to Yale to his years as an air force fighter pilot, the stint in the Pentagon, and then the agency.

Over the years he had arm-wrestled the “reformed” KGB in the Baltics and later on the Islamic fundamentalists in Beirut. Along the way he had earned his share of honorable wounds, including the shards of shrapnel that still ached in his left knee.

Steve Macaulay. There had been a time during the buildup to the First Gulf War when Tommy lusted after his boyish squadron commander. His one attempt at seduction had been artfully deflected without judgment or contempt. In those days, Tommy had largely sublimated his sexual passions for the survival of his military career. Later on, the agency used them to good advantage.

He was tired of trying to find a stimulating Internet chat room in Dubai or Caracas. He no longer slept more than an hour or two at a time, dozing fitfully after lunch and during the lonely nights at his home near Leesburg.

“Tommy?” came a voice after a light knock on the fiberboard door.

“Come in, dear boy,” said Tommy, climbing heavily out of his chair to greet him.

Macaulay looked more handsome than ever, kind of a rangy and seasoned Gregory Peck in
On the Beach
. Macaulay accepted his brief hug.

“Good to see you, Tommy,” he said. “I never had a chance to thank you for pulling my chestnuts out of the fire after the Greenland massacre.”

“A bit of an exaggeration to be sure but welcome in these times,” said Tommy. “You made me temporarily relevant again.”

As Steve watched him carefully lower himself into his easy chair, his face registered the serious physical decline. Tommy was only a few years older than him and had once looked like a more rugged version of Tennessee Williams. Now his hair was the color of old snow, and liver spots mottled his cheeks. As always, he was wearing a rumpled seersucker suit.

“You have quite an office here,” said Macaulay. “It reminds me of a horse stall I once cleaned at the academy.”

“Don't mock, dear boy. I'm just waiting for the Somervell spring.”

“You had better hope that winter doesn't last too much longer,” said Macaulay.

“On the phone you said you might have something interesting for me,” said Tommy.

“I need your help again,” said Macaulay. “It's not as dire as when I was on the run for the two murders. This involves a search we're undertaking for an ancient fossil called the Peking Man.”

“I once wrote a paper about its disappearance at Yale.”

“Then you know the general background. The Chinese government is trying to find it too. I gather a lot is at stake and time is of the essence. We have one pretty good lead going back to 1941 except it's classified top secret.”

“After more than seventy years?”

Macaulay told him what he had learned from Joe Alexander about the marine truck convoy that had left Peking on December 8, 1941, and was heading to Camp Holcomb at Chinwangtao.

“We believe they were carrying the Peking Man fossils,
but that's where the trail ends. All we have is a two-line order from the headquarters at Holcomb to a marine captain named Theo Allen. Allen was apparently stationed at the legation compound and was ordered to organize the convoy. That's all we have.”

Tommy Somervell winced and rubbed his left knee.

“Would classified material this old still exist after all this time?” asked Macaulay.

“Hard to say without doing some digging.”

“Where would records like this be stored?”

“Probably with all the UFO material,” said Tommy without betraying a grin.

“We need the records as quickly as possible,” said Macaulay. “I'm hoping we don't have to go through all the standard protocols with the intelligence review board to remove the veil. That could take weeks.”

“First we have to find out if it's there,” said Tommy. “No need to put more chips on the table until we confirm it. I'll put June Corcoran on it. She's the best paper hauler in the agency, a living legend among those few of us who have an institutional memory. If it's there, she'll find a record of it.”

“I don't have to tell you this has to be kept confidential.”

“June is totally loyal to me. Give me twenty-four hours, dear boy. That should be enough for us to at least gather some preliminary information.”

“You're amazing,” said Macaulay.

“I know,” agreed Tommy. “I only wish that view was more widely held.”

“If she comes up with anything that proves UFOs exist, I want to know.”

“That's above your pay grade, dear boy,” said Tommy.

•   •   •

“It's a complete mystery to me,” said Dr. Nancy Nealon as she looked down at Barnaby and then glanced again at the test results on her clipboard.

The senior cardiologist in the hospital's intensive care unit was an attractive, compact woman in her fifties with intelligent blue eyes, short reddish brown hair, and a low, sultry voice.

“How are you feeling now?” she asked.

“If anyone tries to inject me with another needle, they will find out,” said Barnaby, his face a burgeoning storm cloud.

His massive frame completely overwhelmed the hospital bed and he had been forced to lie in it from corner to corner. His bare feet extended past the footboard.

“Our initial tests confirm that you did not suffer a heart attack,” she said, “yet you clearly experienced all the obvious symptoms—dizziness, chest pain, shortness of breath, plus your history.”

“He turned pasty white before he collapsed,” said Lexy. “It was frightening.”

“I would have leaned toward the possibility of pacemaker syndrome,” said Dr. Nealon. “It sometimes occurs when the timing between the two chambers loses synchronization and less blood is delivered with each heartbeat. However, your implanted ICD is designed to orchestrate cardioversion, defibrillation, and the pacing of the heart. It's programmed to sense an abnormal heart
rhythm and respond automatically to address the tachycardia. Your device appears to be functioning perfectly.”

“Fine,” said Barnaby. “I did not have a heart attack. Have someone bring me my clothes.”

“I'm afraid not,” said Dr. Nealon firmly. “This may have been a fortunate precursor, an episode that gives us the opportunity to perform additional tests to find out what is happening inside you.”

“What is happening inside me is that I'm ready to sign a release form stating that I decline to be experimented on any longer,” said Barnaby. “I can only assume that your tender concern stems from the fact that like all hospitals you are besieged by contingency lawyers. I pledge that I won't add to your burden.”

“That is absolutely untrue,” said Dr. Nealon with heat in her voice. “Based on your history, your life is genuinely at risk until we have the opportunity to find out why this arrhythmic anomaly occurred.”

“Just how would you do that?” he asked.

“Like Sherlock Holmes,” said Dr. Nealon with a grim smile. “Eliminate all other factors and the one that remains must be the truth.”

“Please, Barnaby,” said Lexy. “Give her a chance.”

“Fine. Question away,” said Barnaby.

“Have you recently played any contact sports?”

He stared back up at her with such a look of sheer incredulity that Lexy burst out laughing.

“I know it is unlikely,” said the doctor. “What about any activities that might have involved an intense magnetic field such as arc welding . . . or possibly a new set of headphones to listen to music? They can also cause an
arrhythmic irregularity or loss of the atrial input to the ventricle.”

“Arc welding,” repeated Barnaby with another level of astonishment. “I'm leaving.”

Lexy put her hand on his shoulder to restrain him.

“What about a malfunctioning battery in his ICD?” she asked the doctor.

“They typically last at least six years,” said Dr. Nealon. “We already checked. His battery is functioning normally, as is the computer chip, the capacitor, and the electrode wire to the right ventricle. We have to perform more tests before we can rule out other possibilities.”

Barnaby removed the sheet from his naked chest and began climbing out of the bed.

“You can't be released until—”

“I'm releasing myself,” said Barnaby, his half-naked form attracting the stares of the patients in the adjoining beds as two more nurses arrived. “If you don't bring me my clothes, I'm walking out of here in my birthday suit.”

Finally surrendering, Dr. Nealon directed one nurse to bring his clothes and another to get his signature on a release form. Barnaby's only concession was to allow them to deliver him to the hospital entrance in a wheelchair, and that was only after Dr. Nealon threatened to call the security guards to put him in restraints.

Ten minutes later, he was dressed and rolling toward the hospital's emergency room entrance in a wheelchair pushed by one of the nurses. Lexy had called ahead, and the car assigned to them by Ira Dusenberry was waiting outside.

“Thank you for your kind ministrations,” Barnaby said
to the nurse as he climbed out of the chair and began walking toward the car.

He walked briskly through the door with Lexy following close behind. As they drew nearer to the curb, she saw the driver step out of the car and open the rear passenger door for them.

She heard Barnaby issue a loud sigh and his step faltered. A moment later, he collapsed to the pavement. He was barely conscious as Lexy and the driver lifted him back into the wheelchair.

Dr. Nealon was standing with her arms crossed by the automatic doors of the intensive care unit with a smug and superior smile on her face when Barnaby was wheeled back inside a few minutes later.