Deep Six (12 page)

Then Pitt was at the top and crawling into the hold containing the nerve agent. The hatch cover was still intact, because the sloping ground above was not as dense near the stern section. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, willing hands were helping Dover toward the after deckhouse and temporary safety. Giordino gripped Pitt’s arm.

“We took casualties during the quake,” he said grimly.

“How bad?” asked Pitt.

“Four injured, mostly broken bones, and one dead.”

Giordino hesitated and Pitt knew.

“Mendoza?”

“One of the drums crushed her legs,” Giordino explained, his voice more solemn than Pitt had ever known it. “She suffered a compound fracture. A bone splinter pierced her suit.” His words died.

“The nerve agent leaked onto her skin,” Pitt finished, a sense of helplessness and shock flooding through him.

Giordino nodded. “We carried her outside.”

Pitt found Julie Mendoza lying on the
Pilottown’s
stern deck. Overhead a great cloud of volcanic ash rose into a blue sky and fortuitously drifted northward and away from the ship.

She lay alone and off to one side. The uninjured people were attending to the living. Only the young officer from the
Catawba
stood beside her, and his entire body was arching convulsively as he was being violently sick into his air filter.

Someone had removed her helmet. Her hair flared out on the rusty deck and glinted orange under the setting sun. Her eyes were open and staring into nothingness, the jaw jutting and rigid in what must have been indescribable agony. The blood was hardening as it dried in sun-tinted copper rivers that had gushed from her gaping mouth, nose and ears. It had even seeped from around the edges of her eyes. What little facial skin still showed was already turning a bluish black.

Pitt’s only emotion was cold rage. It swelled up inside him as he knelt down beside her and struck the deck repeatedly with his fist.

“It won’t end here,” he snarled bitterly. “I won’t let it end here.”

11

OSCAR LUCAS STARED MOODILY
at his desktop. Everything depressed him: the acid tasting coffee in a cold cup, his cheaply furnished government office, the long hours on his job. For the first time since he became special agent in charge of the presidential detail, he found himself longing for retirement, cross-country skiing in Colorado, building a mountain retreat with his own hands.

He shook his head to clear the fantasies, sipped at a diet soft drink and studied the plans of the presidential yacht for perhaps the tenth time.

Built in 1919 for a wealthy Philadelphia businessman, the
Eagle
was purchased by the Department of Commerce in 1921 for presidential use. Since that time, thirteen Presidents had paced her decks.

Herbert Hoover tossed medicine balls while on board. Roosevelt mixed martinis and discussed war strategy with Winston Churchill. Harry Truman played poker and the piano. John Kennedy celebrated his birthdays. Lyndon Johnson entertained the British Royal Family, and Richard Nixon hosted Leonid Brezhnev.

Designed with an old straight-up-and-down bow, the mahogany-trimmed yacht displaced a hundred tons and measured 110 feet in length with a beam of twenty feet. Her draft was five feet and she could slice the water at fourteen knots.

The
Eagle
was originally constructed with five master staterooms, four baths and a large glass-enclosed deckhouse, used as a combination dining and living room. A crew of thirteen Coast Guardsmen manned the yacht during a cruise, their quarters and galley located forward.

Lucas went through the files on the crew, rechecking their personal backgrounds, family histories, personality traits, the results of psychological interviews. He could find nothing that merited any suspicion.

He sat back and yawned. His watch read 9:20
P.M.
The
Eagle
had been tied up at Mount Vernon for three hours. The President was a night owl and a late riser. He would keep up his guests, Lucas was certain, sitting around the deckhouse, thrashing out government affairs, with little thought given to sleep.

He twisted sideways and looked out the window. A falling mist was a welcome sight. The reduced visibility eliminated the chances of a sniper, the greatest danger to a President’s life. Lucas persuaded himself that he was chasing ghosts. Every detail that could be covered was covered.

If there was a threat, its source and method eluded him.

The mist had not yet reached Mount Vernon. The summer night still sparkled clear and the lights from nearby streets and farms danced on the water. The river at this stretch widened to slightly over a mile, with trees and shrubs lining its sweeping banks. A hundred yards from the shoreline, a Coast Guard cutter stood at anchor, her bow pointing upriver, radar antenna in constant rotation.

The President was sitting in a lounge chair on the foredeck of the
Eagle,
earnestly promoting his Eastern European aid program to Marcus Larimer and Alan Moran. Suddenly he came to his feet and stepped to the railing, his head tilted, listening. A small herd of cows were mooing in a nearby pasture. He became momentarily absorbed; the problems of the nation vanished and a country boy surfaced. After several seconds he turned and sat down again.

“Sorry for the interruption,” he said with a broad smile. “For a minute there I was tempted to find a bucket and squeeze us some fresh milk for breakfast.”

“The news media would have a field day with a picture of you milking a cow in the dead of night.” Larimer laughed.

“Better yet,” said Moran sarcastically, “you could sell the milk to the Russians for a fat profit.”

“Not as farfetched as it sounds,” said Margolin, who was sitting off to one side. “Milk and butter have all but disappeared from Moscow state food stores.”

“It’s a fact, Mr. President,” said Larimer seriously. “The average Russian is only two hundred calories a day from a starvation diet. The Poles and Hungarians are even worse off. Why, hell, our pigs eat better than they do.”

“Exactly my point,” said the President in a fervent voice. “We cannot turn our backs on starving women and children simply because they live under Communist domination. Their plight makes my aid plan all the more important to echo the humanitarian generosity of the American people. Think of the benefits such a program will bring in good will from the Third World countries. Think of how such an act could inspire future generations. The potential rewards are incalculable.”

“I beg to differ,” said Moran coldly. “In my mind what you propose is foolish, a sucker play. The billions of dollars they spend annually propping up their satellite countries have nearly wiped out their financial resources. I’ll take bets the money they save by your proposed bailout plan would go directly into their military budget.”

“Perhaps, but if their troubles continue unchecked the Soviets will become more dangerous to the U.S.,” the President argued. “Historically, nations with deep economic problems have lashed out in foreign adventures.”

“Like grabbing control of the Persian Gulf oil?” said Larimer.

“A gulf takeover is the threat they constantly dangle. But they know damned well the Western nations would intervene with force to keep the lifeblood of their economies flowing. No, Marcus, their sights are set on a far easier target. One that would open up their complete dominance of the Mediterranean.”

Larimer’s eyebrows raised. “Turkey?”

“Precisely,” the President answered bluntly.

“But Turkey is a member of NATO,” Moran protested.

“Yes, but would France go to war over Turkey? Would England or West Germany? Better yet, ask yourselves if we would send American boys to die there, any more than we would in Afghanistan? The truth is Turkey has few natural resources worth fighting over. Soviet armor could sweep across the country to the Bosporus in a few weeks, and the West would only protest with words.”

“You’re talking remote possibilities,” said Moran, “not high probabilities.”

“I agree,” said Larimer. “In my opinion, further Soviet expansionism on the face of their faltering system is extremely remote.”

The President raised a hand to protest. “But this is far different, Marcus. Any internal upheaval in Russia is certain to spill over her borders, particularly into Western Europe.”

“I’m not an isolationist, Mr. President. God knows my record in the Senate shows otherwise. But I, for one, am getting damned sick and tired of the United States being constantly twisted in the wind by the whims of the Europeans. We’ve left more than our share of dead in their soil from two wars. I say if the Russians want to eat the rest of Europe, then let them choke on it, and good riddance.”

Larimer sat back, satisfied. He had gotten the words off his chest that he didn’t dare utter in public. Though the President fervently disagreed, he couldn’t help wondering how many grass-roots Americans shared the same thoughts.

“Let’s be realistic,” he said quietly. “You know and I know we cannot desert our allies.”

“Then what about our constituents,” Moran jumped back in. “What do you call it when you take their tax dollars from a budget overburdened with deficit spending and use them to feed and support our enemies?”

“I call it the humane thing to do,” the President replied wearily. He realized he was fighting a no-win war.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” Larimer said, rising to his feet. “But I cannot with a clear conscience support your Eastern bloc aid plan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll hit the sack.”

“Me too,” Moran said, yawning. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Are you settled in all right?” asked the President.

“Yes, thank you,” replied Moran.

“If I haven’t been seasick by now,” said Larimer with a half grin, “I should keep my supper till morning.”

They bid their good nights and disappeared together down the stairs to their staterooms. As soon as they were out of earshot, the President turned to Margolin.

“What do you think, Vince?”

“To be perfectly honest, sir, I think you’re pissing up a rope.”

“You’re saying it’s hopeless?”

“Let’s look at another side to this,” Margolin began. “Your plan calls for buying surplus grain and other agricultural products to give to the Communist world for prices lower than our farmers could receive on the export market. Yet, thanks to poor weather conditions during the last two years and the inflationary spiral in diesel fuel costs, farms are going bankrupt at the highest rate since 1934. . . . If you persist in handing out aid money, I respectfully suggest you do it here—not in Russia.”

“Charity begins at home. Is that it?”

“What better place? Also, you must consider the fact that you’re rapidly losing party support—and getting murdered in the polls.”

The President shook his head. “I can’t remain mute while millions of men, women and children die of starvation.”

“A noble stand, but hardly practical.”

The President’s features became shrouded with sadness. “Don’t you see,” he said, staring out over the dark waters of the river, “if we can show that Marxism has failed, no guerrilla movement anywhere in the world will be justified in using it as a battle cry for revolution.”

“Which brings us to the final argument,” said Margolin. “The Russians don’t
want
our help. As you know, I’ve met with Foreign Minister Gromyko. He told me in no uncertain terms that if Congress should pass your aid program, any food shipments will be stopped at the borders.”

“Still, we must try.”

Margolin sighed softly to himself. Any argument was a waste of time. The President could not be moved.

“If you’re tired,” the President said, “please don’t hesitate to go to bed. You don’t have to stay awake just to keep me company.”

“I’m not really in the mood for sleep.”

“How about another brandy then?”

“Sounds good.”

The President pressed a call button beside his chair and a figure in the white coat of a steward appeared on deck.

“Yes, Mr. President? What is your pleasure?”

“Please bring the Vice President and me another brandy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward turned to bring the order, but the President held up his hand.

“One moment.”

“Sir?”

“You’re not Jack Klosner, the regular steward.”

“No, Mr. President. I’m Seaman First Class Lee Tong. Seaman Klosner was relieved at ten o’clock. I’m on duty until tomorrow morning.”

The President was one of the few politicians whose ego was attuned to people. He spoke as graciously to an eight-year-old boy as he did to an eighty-year-old woman. He genuinely enjoyed drawing strangers out, calling them by their Christian names as if he’d known them for years.

“Your family Chinese, Lee?”

“No, sir. Korean. They immigrated to America in nineteen fifty-two.”

“Why did you join the Coast Guard?”

“A love of the sea, I guess.”

“Do you enjoy catering to old bureaucrats like me?”

Seaman Tong hesitated, obviously uneasy. “Well . . . if I had my choice, I’d rather be serving on an icebreaker.”