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objective. If he’d learned anything in the past two decades, it was that actions and their consequences were difficult to conceal. Objectives and motives, however, could lie dormant like spores in frozen soil, maybe never to see light. It was these causal motives that he sought.
    Antarctica. What on earth did they want in Antarctica? He’d dug up much information on Operation Tabarin in declassified sources. It was a secret British mission to the southern continent initiated in the midst of World War II, during the southern summer, November, 1944. They’d constructed outposts along the way: one on Deception Island in the South Shetland Islands, another in Port Lockroy in the Palmer Archipelago, west of the Antarctic Peninsula, and finally set up shop at Hope Bay, on Antarctica’s Trinity Peninsula in 1945.
    Daniel understood the scientific interest in Antarctica. In the current day, scientists of all types, from physicists to biologists, frequented the bottom of the world to study everything from the unique animal life to particle physics. In the 1940’s, however, science was scarce in that part of the world, not to mention it was wartime. Research not related to the war effort, of the Axis or the Allies, would have been the last thing on anyone’s minds.
    His heart beat in his chest like a bass drum. Something was there .

 
    6
    Thursday, 7 May (2:22 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)
     
    Captain McHenry fidgeted near the radio receiver. He folded his hands behind his back, took a deep breath, and blew it back out with force. “How long have we been at radio depth?” he asked.
    “Twenty-three minutes, sir,” a sailor replied.
    “What are those DC bureaucrats doing?” McHenry asked.
    “Golfing, skipper. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon,” the sailor quipped.
    McHenry chuckled. And putting down a few beers, he was about to add when the receiver beeped, indicating an incoming message. Finally , he thought as he punched in a passcode. The printer hummed and a minute later he had pages in hand and shut down communications.
    “Get to depth and get us the hell out of here,” McHenry ordered.
    The command echoed through the chain as he exited the control room. He stopped at the mess hall to refill his coffee mug, and then weaved his way to his quarters. He sat at a small desk and read the orders.
    The instructions were diametrically opposed to his instincts. It was not how an attack sub was supposed to operate. Its effectiveness and safety depended on secrecy, stealth, deception, and surprise. The message indicated that other, unspecified subs and surface ships were on their way to the area. His neck muscles tightened. It implied something was afoot. What was down there – a vessel? A weapon? A trap?
    His orders were to keep the operation under wraps until it was initiated. However, without revealing details, he’d bounce some ideas off of his first officer, Gerald Diggs.
    Something big was happening, and it had something to do with whatever was making that noise in the deep.
     

 
    7
    Thursday, 7 May (3:37 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)
     
    Zhichao Cho gazed through the large southwest windows of his new office. Even though the air was cool, the intense sun hurt his face, and he moved into the shade. At his home in China, the sun was never as intense as in Louisiana. It was a good thing he’d only be in Baton Rouge for as long as it took to get what he needed.
    He was still dumbfounded at how easy it had been for him to acquire Syncorp. His lawyers had been creative by working through a food engineering company owned by a Chinese-American citizen. On paper, it was that company that had purchased Syncorp. Were the Americans really that stupid? He knew they wanted to bury all the evil things Syncorp had done, but it seemed irresponsible to allow all of the information – the technology – to get into the hands of a foe. And Cho was no idiot; although they were not overtly at war with each other, the United States and