Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) by J Robert Kennedy Page A

Steve.
    “I think
so,” said Acton. “I think the United States Navy sent a ship on a highly
classified mission to rendezvous with the Titanic in order to retrieve
something or someone on board. During that mission, the Titanic struck an
iceberg, the Navy ship steamed to the location, sent a team aboard to execute
their mission, then left. While on board, one or more of the team stole this
painting, and perhaps other items.”
    Steve
shook his head. “I can’t believe my grandfather was a thief.”
    “Neither
can I,” said Acton, “and Captains wouldn’t accompany a team like that, so if I
had to guess someone took it upon themselves to steal it. The real question now
is what were they after?”
    Steve
shrugged. “I don’t know, but whoever was behind it I think knows I’m looking
into it.”
    Acton’s
eyes narrowed, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as the other shoe
was about to drop. “What do you mean?”
    “When I
was with Congressman Mahoney, the clerk who was searching the database for my
grandfather’s records said there was some sort of security alert on his
computer and then the line went dead.”
    Acton
looked at Laura, concern on her face. “A search of your grandfather’s records a
century later triggered a security alert?” Acton leaned back in his chair, slowly
nodding.
    “What?”
asked Laura, looking at him.
    “I think
this proves that our theory is correct.”
    Milton
shifted in his chair. “And somebody wants to keep it a secret.”
    Laura
frowned. “I wonder how far they’re willing to go.”
     
     

 
     

     
     
    North Atlantic Ocean
United States Naval Vessel—Identity Classified
April 15, 1912
     
    Captain Johnathan Wainwright sat in his cabin, debating what to write
in his log, and at the moment could think of nothing. The wireless operator had
been busy monitoring the signals being bounced around and the news was
horrific.
    Over one
thousand dead at last estimate.
    And
we could have saved them all.
    The Carpathia
had arrived as quickly as it could, yet hours after the ship sank below the
surface. Hundreds had frozen in the water, the lifeboats too few.
    His fist
clenched into a ball and he slammed the top of his small desk.
    I
have to know why.
    He leapt
to his feet, exiting his cabin, the guard snapping to attention. Storming
through the cramped corridors, he quickly made his way to the area repurposed
to hold the team he had been ordered to transport.
    He was
about to knock when he cursed and threw the door open.
    He
surveyed the shocked faces, Commander Whitman not among them.
    “Where’s
your commander?”
    “Up top,
Captain,” replied one of the men as they all struggled to their feet. It made
him think they were all military men, which made what had happened even more
appalling in his mind. That military men could follow orders that would leave
so many dead was unthinkable.
    What
did you do?
    His
chest tightened as he realized he had become one of them. Complicit in the
deaths of over one thousand innocent souls, all for the sake of following
orders.
    He
spotted something rolled up in haste under a blanket. He reached over and
grabbed it, one of the men reaching to stop him. Wainwright glared and the man
backed off. Unrolling it, he immediately went red at the sight of what was most
likely a priceless painting, hastily cut from its frame, the edges jagged and
torn.
    “What
the hell is this?”
    Nobody
said anything.
    His eyes
bore into the man who had tried to stop him.
    “Answer
me, that’s an order.”
    The man
looked at him for a moment as if he were debating whether or not this was an
order he cared to follow. Finally, he shrugged. “A souvenir.”
    Wainwright
rolled up the painting, sucking in rapid, angry breaths through his nose before
launching into a tirade. “I may have to put up with a lot of things, but theft
isn’t one of them. You may not care that we could have saved those
civilians, but I can assure you the men on this ship do!”