Deep Six (47 page)

“And Loren?”

Giordino averted his gaze. “She’s listed as missing.”

“Missing, hell!” Pitt snarled. He grimaced from the sudden pain in his chest as he rose to his elbows. “We both know she was alive and sitting in the lifeboat.”

A solemn look clouded Giordino’s face. “Her name didn’t appear on a list of survivors given out by the ship’s captain.”

“A Bougainville ship!” Pitt blurted as his memory came flooding back. “The Oriental steward who tried to brain us pointed toward the—”

“Chalmette,”
Giordino prompted.

“Yes, the
Chalmette,
and said it belonged to him. He also spoke my name.”

“Stewards are supposed to remember passengers’ names. He knew you as Charlie Gruber in cabin thirty-four.”

“No, he rightly accused me of meddling in Bougainville affairs, and his last words were ‘Bon voyage, Dirk Pitt.’ “

Giordino gave a puzzled shrug. “Beats hell out of me how he knew you. But why would a Bougainville man work as a steward on a Russian cruise ship?”

“I can’t begin to guess.”

“And lie about Loren’s rescue?”

Pitt merely gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

“Then she’s being held prisoner by the Bougainvilles,” said Giordino as if suddenly enlightened. “But for what reason?”

“You keep asking questions I can’t answer,” Pitt said irritably. “Where is the
Chalmette
now?”

“Headed toward Miami to land the survivors.”

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“About thirty-two hours,” replied the doctor.

“Still time,” said Pitt. “The
Chalmette
won’t reach the Florida coast for several hours yet.”

He raised himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room began to seesaw back and forth.

The doctor moved forward and steadied him by both arms. “I hope you don’t think you’re rushing off somewhere.”

“I intend to be standing on the dock when the
Chalmette
arrives in Miami,” Pitt said implacably.

A stern medical-profession look grew on the doctor’s face. “You’re staying in this bed for the next four days. You can’t travel around with those fractured ribs, and we don’t know how serious your concussion is.”

“Sorry, Doc,” Giordino said, “but you’ve both been overruled.”

Pitt stared at him stonily. “Who’s to stop me?”

“Admiral Sandecker, for one. Secretary of State Doug Oates for another,” Giordino answered as de-tachedly as though he were reading aloud the stock market quotes for the day. “Orders came down for you to fly to Washington the minute you came around. We may be in big trouble. I have a hunch we dipped into the wrong cookie jar when we discovered Congressman Moran and Senator Larimer imprisoned on a Soviet vessel.”

“They can wait until I search the
Chalmette
for Loren.”

“My job. You go to the capital while I go to Miami and play customs inspector. It’s all been arranged.”

Pacified to a small degree, Pitt relaxed on the bed. “What about Moran?”

“He couldn’t wait to cut out,” Giordino said angrily. “He demanded the Navy drop everything and fly him home the minute he was brought ashore. I had a minor confrontation with him in the hospital corridor after his routine examination. Came within a millimeter of cramming his hook nose down his gullet. The bastard didn’t demonstrate the slightest concern about Loren, and he seemed downright delighted when I told him of Larimer’s death.”

“He has a talent for deserting those who help him,” Pitt said disgustedly.

An orderly rolled in a wheelchair and together with Giordino eased Pitt into it. A groan escaped his lips as a piercing pain ripped through his chest.

“You’re leaving against my express wishes,” said the doctor. “I want that understood. There is no guarantee you won’t have complications if you overtax yourself.”

“I release you from all responsibility, Doc,” Pitt said, smiling. “I won’t tell a soul I was your patient. Your medical reputation is secure.”

Giordino laid a pile of Navy-issue clothing and a small paper sack in Pitt’s lap. “Here’s some presentable clothes and the stuff from your pockets. You can dress on the plane to save time.”

Pitt opened the sack and fingered a vinyl pouch inside. Satisfied the contents were secure and dry, he looked up at Giordino and shook hands. “Good hunting, friend.”

Giordino patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll find her. You go to Washington and give ‘em hell.”

No one could have suffered from a Rip Van Winkle syndrome and awakened more surprised than Alan Moran. He remembered going to sleep on the presidential yacht almost two weeks earlier, and his next conscious sensation was being dragged into a limousine somewhere in the river country of South Carolina. The imprisonment and escape from the burning Russian cruise ship seemed a distorted blur. Only when he returned to Washington and found both Congress and the Supreme Court evicted from their hallowed halls did he come back on track and retrieve his mantle of political power.

With the government in emotional and political shambles, he saw his chance to fulfill his deep, unfathomable ambition to become President. Not having the popular support to take the office by election, he was determined now to grab it by default. With Margolin missing, Larimer out of the way, and the President laid open for impeachment, there was little to stop him.

Moran held court in the middle of Jackson Square across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House and answered questions fired by a battery of correspondents. He was the man of the hour and was enjoying every second of the attention.

“Can you tell us where you’ve been the last two weeks?” asked Ray Marsh of the New York
Times.

“Be glad to,” Moran replied gracefully. “Senate Majority Leader Marcus Larimer and I went on a fishing holiday in the Caribbean, partly to try our luck at snagging a record marlin, mostly to discuss the issues facing our great nation.”

“Initial reports state that Senator Larimer died during the
Leonid Andreyev
tragedy.”

“I’m deeply saddened to say that is true,” Moran said, abruptly becoming solemn. “The senator and I were trolling only five or six miles away from the Russian cruise ship when we heard and observed an explosion that covered her in fire and smoke. We immediately ordered our skipper to change course for the disaster area. When we arrived, the
Leonid Andreyev
was ablaze from stem to stern. Hundreds of frightened passengers were tumbling into the sea, many with their clothes in flames.”

Moran paused for effect and then enunciated in a vivid descriptive tone. “I leaped into the water, followed by the senator, to help those who were badly injured or unable to swim. We struggled for what seemed like hours, keeping women and children afloat until we could lift them into our fishing boat. I lost track of Senator Larimer. When I looked for him, he was floating facedown, an apparent victim of a heart attack due to overexertion. You can quote me as saying he died a real hero.”

“How many people do you reckon you saved?” This from Joe Stark of the United Press.

“I lost count,” answered Moran, serenely pitching out the lies. “Our small vessel became dangerously overloaded with burned and half-drowned victims. So, rather than become the straw that might capsize it, so to speak, I remained in the water so one more pitiful creature could cheat death. Luckily for me, I was picked up by the Navy, which, I must add, performed magnificently.”

“Were you aware that Congresswoman Loren Smith was traveling on the
Leonid Andreyev?”
asked Marion Tournier of the Associated Press Radio Network.

“Not at the time,” replied Moran, changing back to his solemn demeanor again. “Regretfully, I’ve only just been informed that she’s reported as missing.”

Curtis Mayo signaled his cameramen and edged closer to Moran. “Congressman, what is your feeling regarding the President’s unprecedented closing of Congress?”

“Deeply mortified that such an arrogant deed could take place in our government. It’s obvious the President has taken leave of his senses. With one terrible blow, he has swept our nation from a democracy into a fascist state. I fully intend to see that he is removed from office—the sooner, the better.”

“How do you propose to do it?” Mayo pushed him. “Every time the members of the House convene to launch impeachment proceedings, the President sends in troops to disband them.”

“The story will be different this time,” Moran said confidently. “Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, members of Congress will hold a joint session in Lisner Auditorium at George Washington University. And in order to meet without interference or disruption by the President’s unauthorized and immoral use of the military, we intend to confront force with force. I have conferred with my House and Senate colleagues from the neighboring states of Maryland and Virginia who have prevailed upon their governors to protect our constitutional right to assemble by providing troops from their National Guard units.”

“Will they have orders to shoot?” asked Mayo, smelling newsworthy blood.

“If attacked,” Moran replied coldly, “the answer is an absolute yes.”

“And so Civil War Two erupts,” said Oates wearily as he switched off the TV set and turned to face Emmett, Mercier and Brogan.

“Moran is as daft as the President,” Emmett said, shaking his head in disgust.

“I pity the American public for being forced to accept such miserable leadership material,” Mercier grumbled.

“How do you read the upcoming confrontation at Lisner Auditorium?” Oates asked Emmett.

“The special forces of Army and Marines patrolling Capitol Hill are highly trained professionals. They can be counted on to stand firm and not attempt anything stupid. The National Guard is the real danger. All it takes is one weekend warrior to panic and fire off a round. Then we’ll witness another Kent State bloodbath, except much worse. This time the Guard will have their fire returned by deadly marksmen.”

“The situation won’t be helped if a few congressmen fall in the crossfire,” added Mercier.

“The President has to be isolated. The timetable must be moved up,” said Oates.

Mercier looked unsold. “That means cutting back Dr. Edgely’s evaluation of the President’s brain signals.”

“Preventing wholesale slaughter must take priority over a plan to mislead the Russians,” said Oates.

Brogan gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I think we might steal our chicken and pluck it too.”

Oates smiled. “I hear the gears meshing in your head, Martin. What wild Machiavellian scheme has the CIA got up its sleeve now?”

“A way to give Edgely an advantage,” answered Brogan with a foxlike grin. “A little something borrowed from
The Twilight Zone.”

61

A
LIMOUSINE WAS WAITING
at Andrews Air Force Base when Pitt slowly eased his way down the boarding stairs from a Navy passenger jet. Admiral Sandecker was sitting in the car, hidden by the tinted windows.

He opened the door and helped Pitt inside. “How was the flight?”

“Mercifully, it was smooth.”

“Do you have any luggage?”

“I’m wearing it,” said Pitt. He winced and clenched his teeth as he slipped into the seat beside the admiral.

“You in much pain?”

“A little stiff. They don’t tape cracked ribs like they did in the old days. Just let them heal on their own.”

“Sorry I insisted on your return in such haste, but things in Washington are boiling up a storm, and Doug Oates is hoping you possess information that might clear up a few entanglements.”

“I understand,” Pitt said. “Has there been any news of Loren?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid.”

“She’s alive,” said Pitt, staring out the window.

“I don’t doubt it,” Sandecker concurred. “Probably an oversight her name isn’t on the survivor list. Maybe she requested anonymity to avoid the press.”

“Loren had no reason to hide.”

“She’ll turn up,” Sandecker said. “Now, suppose you tell me how you managed to be present at the worst maritime tragedy in fifty years.”

Pitt marveled at how the admiral could twist a conversation in another direction with the abruptness of leaping from a sauna into the snow.

“In the brief time we had together on the
Leonid Andreyev,”
Pitt began, “Loren told me she was strolling on the deck on the first night of the cruise when the lights around the exterior of the ship went out, followed by the landing of a helicopter. Three passengers were taken off, two of them roughly handled. Loren thought she recognized one of them in the dim light as Alan Moran. Not certain whether her eyes were playing tricks, she called her aide Sally Lindemann over ship-to-shore phone and asked her to locate Moran’s whereabouts. Sally turned up false trails covered over by vague reports and no Moran. She also discovered he and Marcus Larimer were supposed to be together. She then related the negative results to Loren, who told her to contact me. But the call was cut off. The Russians had monitored her calls and learned she’d accidentally stumbled into the middle of a delicate operation.”