Deep Six (50 page)

“Before you act hastily, I suggest you meet with Sam Emmett.”

“Why?”

“There is something you should know,” Mercier said in a low tone, “and Sam is in a better position to explain it than me.”

63

THE PRESIDENT WAS SITTING
at a writing table in his pajamas and bathrobe when Fawcett walked into the bedroom.

“Well, did you speak with Moran?”

Fawcett’s face was grim. “He refused to listen to any of your proposals.”

“Is that it?”

“He said you were finished as President, and nothing you could say was of any consequence. Then he threw in a few insults.”

“I want to hear them,” the President demanded sharply.

Fawcett sighed uncomfortably. “He said your behavior was that of a madman and that you belonged in the psycho ward. He compared you with Benedict Arnold and claimed he would see your administration wiped from the history books. After he ran through several more irrelevant slurs, he suggested you do the country a great service by committing suicide, thereby saving the taxpayers a long-drawn-out investigation and expensive trial.”

The President’s face became a mask of rage. “That sniveling little bastard thinks he’s going to put me in a courtroom?”

“It’s no secret, Moran is pulling out all stops to take your place.”

“His feet are too small to fill my shoes,” the President said through tight lips. “And his head is too big to fit the job.”

“To hear him tell it, his right hand is already raised to take the oath of office,” Fawcett said. “The proposed impeachment proceeding is only the first step in a blueprint for a transition from you to him.”

“Alan Moran will never occupy the White House,” the President said, his voice flat and hard.

“No congressional session, no impeachment,” said Fawcett. “But you can’t keep them corralled indefinitely.”

“They can’t meet until I give the word.”

“What about tomorrow morning at Lisner Auditorium?”

“The troops will break that up in short order.”

“Suppose the Virginia and Maryland National Guardsmen stand their ground?”

“For how long against veteran soldiers and Marines?”

“Long enough for a great many to die,” said Fawcett.

“So what?” the President scoffed coldly. “The longer I keep Congress in disarray, the more I can accomplish. A few deaths are a small price to pay.”

Fawcett looked at him uneasily. This was not the same man who solemnly swore during his campaign for the Presidency that no American boy would be ordered to fight and die under his administration. It was all he could do to act out his role of friend and adviser. After a moment he shook his head. “I hope you’re not being overly destructive.”

“Getting cold feet, Dan?”

Fawcett felt trapped in a corner, but before he could reply Lucas entered the room carrying a tray with cups and a teapot.

“Anyone care for some herbal tea?” he asked.

The President nodded. “Thank you, Oscar. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Dan?”

“Thanks, I could use some.”

Lucas poured and passed out the cups, keeping one for himself. Fawcett drained his almost immediately.

“Could be warmer,” he complained.

“Sorry,” said Lucas. “It cooled on the way up from the kitchen.”

“Tastes fine to me,” the President said, between sips. “I don’t care for liquid so hot it burns your tongue.” He paused and set the cup on the writing desk. “Now then, where were we?”

“Discussing your new policies,” Fawcett said, deftly sidestepping out of the corner. “Western Europe is in an uproar over your decision to withdraw American forces from NATO. The joke circulating around Embassy Row is that Antonov is planning a coming-out party at the Savoy Hotel in London.”

“I don’t appreciate the humor,” the President said coldly. “President Antonov has given me his personal assurances that he will stay in his own yard.”

“I seem to remember Hitler telling Neville Chamberlain the same thing.”

The President looked as if he was going to make an angry retort, but suddenly he yawned and shook his head, fighting off a creeping drowsiness. “No matter what anyone thinks,” he said slowly, “I’ve diffused the nuclear threat and that’s all that matters.”

Fawcett took the cue and yawned contagiously. “If you don’t need me any more tonight, Mr. President, I think I’ll head for home and a soft bed.”

“Same here,” said Lucas. “My wife and kids are beginning to wonder if I still exist.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for keeping you so late.” The President moved over to the bed, kicked off his slippers and removed his robe. “Turn on the TV, will you, Oscar? I’d like to catch a few minutes of the twenty-four-hour cable news.” Then he turned to Fawcett. “Dan, first thing in the morning, schedule a meeting with General Metcalf. I want him to brief me on his troop movements.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Fawcett assured him. “Good night.”

In the elevator going down to the first floor Fawcett looked at his watch. “Two hours should do it.”

“He’ll sleep like the dead and wake up sicker than a dog,” said Lucas.

“By the way, how did you manage it? I didn’t see you slip anything into his tea, and yet you poured all three cups from the same pot.”

“An old magician’s trick,” Lucas said, laughing. “The teapot had two interior compartments.”

The elevator doors opened and they met Emmett, who was standing off to one side. “Any problems?” he asked.

Fawcett shook his head. “As smooth as glass. The President went down like a baby.”

Lucas looked at him, his eyes cautious. “Now comes the hard part—fooling the Russians.”

“He’s sleeping unusually soundly tonight,” said Lugovoy.

The monitoring psychologist who drew the early-morning shift nodded. “A good sign. Less chance for Comrade Belkaya to penetrate the President’s dreams.”

Lugovoy studied the display screen that recorded the President’s body functions. “Temperature up one degree. Congestion forming in the nasal passages. Appears as though our subject is coming down with either a summer cold or the flu.”

“Fascinating, we know he’s been attacked by a virus before he feels it.”

“I don’t think it’s serious,” Lugovoy said. “But you better keep a tight watch in case it develops into something that could jeopardize the project—”

Abruptly the green data filling the dozen screens encompassing the console faded into distorted lines and vanished into blackness.

The monitoring psychologist tensed. “What in hell—”

Then, as quickly as the display data were wiped clean, they returned in bright, clear readings. Lugovoy quickly checked the circuit warning lights. They all read normal.

“What do you suppose that was?”

Lugovoy looked thoughtful. “Possibly a temporary failure in the implant transmitter.”

“No indication of a malfunction.”

“An electrical interference, perhaps?”

“Of course. An atmospheric disturbance of some kind. That would explain it. The symptoms match. What else could it be?”

Lugovoy passed a weary hand across his face and stared at the monitors. “Nothing,” he said somberly. “Nothing of any concern.”

General Metcalf sat in his military residence and swirled the brandy around in his glass as he closed the cover of the report in his lap. He looked up sadly and stared at Emmett, who was sitting across the room.

“A tragic crime,” he said slowly. “The President had every chance for achieving greatness. No finer man ever sat in the White House.”

“The facts are all there,” said Emmett, gesturing at the report. “Thanks to the Russians, he’s mentally unfit to continue in office.”

“I must agree, but it’s no easy thing. He and I have been friends for nearly forty years.”

“Will you call off the troops and allow Congress to meet at Lisner Auditorium tomorrow?” Emmett pressed.

Metcalf sipped the brandy and gave a weary nod to his head. “I’ll issue orders for their withdrawal first thing in the morning. You can inform the House and Senate leaders they can hold session in the Capitol building.”

“Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Is it possible to remove the Marine guard from around the White House by midnight?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Metcalf. “Any particular reason?”

“A deception, General,” Emmett replied. “One you will find most intriguing.”

64

SANDECKER STOOD IN
the chart room of NUMA and peered through a magnification enhancer at an aerial photo of Johns Island, South Carolina. He straightened and looked at Giordino and Pitt, who were standing on the opposite side of the table. “Beats me,” he said after a short silence. “If Suvorov pinpointed his landmarks correctly, I can’t understand why he didn’t find Bougainville’s lab facility from a helicopter.”

Pitt consulted the Soviet agent’s notebook. “He used an old abandoned gas station for his base point,” he said, pointing to a tiny structure on the photograph, “which can be distinguished here.”

“Emmett or Brogan know you made a copy before we left Guantanamo Bay?” asked Giordino, nodding toward the notebook.

Pitt smiled. “What do you think?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“If Suvorov escaped the lab at night,” said Sandecker, “it’s conceivable he got his bearings crossed.”

“A good undercover operative is a trained observer,” Pitt explained. “He was precise in his description of landmarks. I doubt he lost his sense of direction.”

“Emmett has two hundred agents crawling over the area,” Sandecker said. “As of fifteen minutes ago, they came up empty-handed.”

“Then where?” Giordino asked in a general sense. “No structure the size Suvorov recorded shows on the aerial survey. A few old houseboats, some scattered small homes, a couple of decrepit sheds, nothing on the order of a warehouse.”

“An underground facility?” Sandecker speculated.

Giordino considered the point. “Suvorov did say he took the elevator up to break out.”

“On the other hand, he mentions walking down a ramp to a gravel road.”

“A ramp might suggest a boat,” Giordino ventured.

Sandecker looked doubtful. “No good. The only water near the spot where Suvorov puts the lab is a creek with a depth of no more than two or three feet. Far too shallow to float a vessel large enough to require an elevator.”

“There is another possibility,” said Pitt.

“Which is?”

“A barge.”

Giordino looked across the table at Sandecker. “I think Dirk may have something.”

Pitt stepped over to a telephone, dialed a number and switched the call to a speaker.

“Data Department,” came a groggy voice.

“Yaeger, you awake?”

“Oh, God, it’s you, Pitt. Why do you always have to call after midnight?”

“Listen, I need information on a particular type of vessel. Can your computers come up with a projection of its class if I supply the dimensions?”

“Is this a game?”

“Believe you me, this is no game,” Sandecker growled.

“Admiral!” Yaeger muttered, coming alert. “I’ll get right on it. What are your dimensions?”

Pitt thumbed to the correct page in the notebook and read them off into the speaker phone. “A hundred sixty-eight feet in length at inside perpendiculars by thirty-three feet in the beam. The approximate height is ten feet.”

“Not much to go on,” Yaeger grumbled.

“Try,” Sandecker replied sternly.

“Hold on. I’m moving to the keyboard.”

Giordino smiled at the admiral. “Care to make a wager?”

“Name it.”

“A bottle of Chivas Regal against a box of your cigars Dirk’s right.”

“No bet,” said Sandecker. “My specially rolled cigars cost far more than a bottle of scotch.”

Yaeger could be heard clearing his throat. “Here it is.” There was a slight pause. “Sorry, not enough data. Those figures are a rough match for any one of a hundred different craft.”

Pitt thought a moment. “Suppose the height was the same from bow to stern.”

“You talking a flat superstructure?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on,” said Yaeger. “Okay, you’ve lowered the numbers. Your mystery vessel looks like a barge.”

“Eureka,” exclaimed Giordino.