Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  The President shifted restlessly in his chair. "It all sounds unreal.

  "It's real, all right," said Sandecker. "What it boils down to, gentlemen, is that a fleet of ten Doodlebugs could chart and analyze every geological formation under every cubic foot of seafloor in five years."

  The room fell silent for several moments. Then Oates murmured reverently. "God, the potential is inconceivable."

  CIA Director Brogan leaned over the table. "Any chance the Russians may be onto a similar instrument?"

  Sandecker shook his head. "I don't think so. Until a few months ago we didn't have the technology to perfect the high energy beam. Even with a crash program starting from scratch, they'd need a decade to catch up."

  "One question that needs answering," said Mercier. "Why the Labrador Sea? Why didn't you test the Doodlebug on our own continental shelf"

  "I thought it best to conduct the trials in an isolated area far from normal shipping traffic."

  "But why so close to the Canadian shore?"

  "The Doodlebug stumbled on indications of oil."

  "Oil?"

  "Yes, the trail appeared to lead toward the Hudson Strait north of Newfoundland. I gave the order for the Doodlebug to deviate from its original course and follow the scent into Canadian waters. The responsibility for the loss of a very dear friend, his crew and the research vessel is mine and mine alone.

  No one else is to blame."

  An aide entered the room like a wraith and offered coffee. When he reached Sandecker he laid a note at his elbow. It read,

  URGENT I SEE YOU.

  Giordino

  "If I may beg a short interruption," said Sandecker. "I believe one of my staff is outside with updated information on the tragedy." The President gave him an understanding look and nodded in the direction of the doorway. "Of course. Please have him join us."

  Giordino was shown into the cabinet room, his face beaming like a lighthouse.

  "The Doodlebug and everyone on board came through," he blurted without preamble.

  "What happened?" demanded Sandecker.

  "The torpedo struck a rock outcropping fifty meters from the submersible. The concussion short-circuited the main terminals. It took Pitt and his men until an hour ago to make emergency repairs and reopen communications."

  "No one was injured?" asked Admiral Kemper. "The hull remained tight?"

  "Bumps and bruises," Giordino replied like a telegram. "One broken finger. No leaks reported."

  "Thank God they're safe," said the President, suddenly all smiles.

  Giordino could no longer continue to play it cool. "I haven't mentioned the best part."

  Sandecker looked at him quizzically. "Best part?"

  "Right after the computers came on line, the output analyzers went crazy. Congratulations, Admiral. The Doodlebug ran onto the granddaddy of stratigraphic traps."

  Sandecker tensed. "Are you saying they found oil?"

  "Initial indications suggest a field extending nearly ninety-five miles by three-quarters of a mile wide. The yield appears staggering. Projections put the paying sandbar at two thousand barrels per acre foot. The reserve could conceivably bring in eight billion barrels of oil."

  No one around the table could say a word. They could only sit there, soaking up the enormous consequences of it all.

  Giordino opened an attachd case and handed Sandecker a sheaf of papers. "I didn't have time to tie it with a ribbon, but here are preliminary figures, calculations and projections, including the estimated costs of drilling and production. Dr. King will have a more concise report when the Doodlebug has better surveyed the field."

  "Where exactly is this strike?" asked Klein.

  Giordino unrolled a chart and spread it on the table in front of the President. He began to outline the Doodlebug's course with a pencil.

  "After the near miss by the torpedo, the crew of the Doodlebug took evasive action. They didn't know the sub's attack had been called off. Swinging on a northwest arc from the Labrador Sea, they hugged the seabed through Gray Strait south of the Button Islands and moved into Ungava Bay. It was here,"

  Giordino paused to make a mark on the chart, "they discovered the oil field."

  The excitement abruptly faded from the President's eyes. "Then it wasn't near the coast of Newfoundland?"

  "No, sir. Newfoundland's provincial border ends -at a point of land at the entrance of Gray Strait. The oil strike was in the waters off Quebec."

  The President's expression turned to a look of disappointment. He and Mercier stared at each other in stricken understanding.

  "Of all the places in all the northern hemisphere," the President said barely above a whisper, "it had to be Quebec."

  Part III

  THE NORTH AMERICAN TREATY

  APRIL 1989

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Pitt slipped Heidi's notes on the North American Treaty into a briefcase and nodded as the airline stewardess checked to see if his seat belt was clasped and his back rest was in an upright position. He massaged his temples, trying vainly to relieve a headache that had persisted since he changed planes at St. John's, Newfoundland.

  Now that the Doodlebug's hectic sea trial were over, the little research vessel had been hoisted aboard its mother ship and transported to Boston for repairs and modifications. Bill Lasky and Sam Quayle left immediately for a week's vacation with their families. Pitt envied them. He was not afforded the luxury of a rest. Sandecker ordered him back to NUMA headquarters for a firsthand report on the expedition.

  The plane's tires thumped onto the runway at Washington's National Airport a few minutes before seven.

  Pitt remained in his seat while the other passengers crowded prematurely into the aisles. One of the last to debark, he took his time, rightly figuring that no matter how slowly he wandered to the baggage claim, he always arrived before his luggage.

  He found his car, a red 1966 AC Ford Cobra, in the V.I.P section of the parking lot where it had been left by his secretary earlier in the afternoon. A note was tucked in the steering wheel.

  Dear Boss,

  Welcome home.

  Sorry I couldn't hang around to greet you, but I have a date. Get a good night's sleep.

  I told the admiral your plane wouldn't arrive till tomorrow night. Have a day off on me.

  Zerri

  P.S. Almost forgot what it's like to drive a big old brute. Fun, fun, but oh what awful gas mileage.

  Pitt smiled and engaged the starter, listening with pleasure as the 427-cubic-inch engine kicked into life with an obscene roar. While waiting for the temperature gauge to creep into the WARM, he reread the note.

  Zerri Pochinsky was the lively type, her pretty face seldom without a contagious smile, hazel eyes mischievous and warm. She was thirty, never married, a mystery to Pitt, full-bodied, with long fawn-colored hair that fell below her shoulders. He'd thought more than once of having an affair with her.

  The invitation had been demurely signaled often enough. But with regret, he adhered to a law burned in the concrete of an office building somewhere, and learned the hard way during his younger, less disciplined days, that grief always comes to the man who plays games with his staff.

  He shook off an erotic image of her inviting him between the sheets and crammed the Cobra into gear.

  The aging two-seater convertible leaped out of the parking lot and squeaked rubber as it swung onto the highway leading from the airport. He turned from the capital city and headed south, remaining on the Virginia side of the Potomac River. The Cobra's engine loafed along without effort as Pitt passed a stream of mini cars that made up the tail end of the evening traffic rush.

  At a small town called Hague he turned off the highway and took a narrow road until he reached Coles Point. When the river came into sight he began studying names on the rural mailboxes beside the road's shoulder. His headlights picked out an elderly woman walking a large Irish setter.

  He stopped and leaned toward the passenger window. "I b
eg your pardon, can you direct me to the Essex place?"

  She gave Pitt a wary look and pointed behind the car. "You missed the Essex gate about a half mile back. The one with the iron lions."

  "Yes, I recall seeing it."

  Before Pitt could begin a U-turn, the woman bent down to the open window. "Won't find him home.

  Mr. Essex left four, maybe five weeks ago."

  "Do you know when he'll return?" Pitt asked.

  "Who's to say?" She shrugged. "He often closes down his house and goes to Palm Springs this time of year. Lets my son tend his oyster ponds. Mr. Essex just comes and goes; easy for him, being alone and all. Only way to tell he's gone to the desert is when his mailbox overflows."

  Of all people to ask directions, Pitt thought, he had to pick the neighborhood busybody. "Thank you," he said. "You've been most helpful."

  The woman's lined face suddenly became a mask of friendliness and her voice turned to molasses. "If you have a message for him, you can give it to me. I'll see that he gets it. I pick up all his mail and newspapers anyway."

  Pitt looked at her. "He didn't stop his newspaper?"

  She shook her head. "The man is as absentminded as they come. When my boy was working the ponds the other day he said he saw steam coming from the Essex house heating vents. Imagine going away and leaving the heat in the house on. Pure waste, considering the energy shortage."

  "You said Mr. Essex lives alone?"

  "Lost his wife ten years ago," answered busybody. "His three children are scattered all over. Hardly ever write the poor man."

  Pitt thanked her again and rolled up the window before the woman could prattle on. He didn't have to look in the rearview mirror to know she had kept her eye on the car as he turned into the Essex drive.

  He rolled through the trees, parked the Cobra in front of the house and switched off the ignition, but left the headlights on. He sat there a few moments, listening to the engine crackle from its heat, hearing a siren on the other side of the river in Maryland. It was a beautiful night. Clear and brisk. Lights sparkled on the river like Christmas ornaments.

  The house stood dark and silent.

  Pitt climbed out of the sports car and walked around the garage. He lifted the main door on its well-oiled hinges and peered at the two cars facing frontward, the bright work on their grills and bumpers gleaming under the Cobra's lights. One was a compact, a tiny, gas-saving, front-engined Ford. The other was an older Cadillac Brougham, one of the last of the big cars. They were both covered with a light layer of dust.

  The interior of the Cadillac was immaculate and the odometer only showed 6400 miles. Both cars looked showroom new; even the underside of the fenders had been kept free of road grime. Pitt had begun to penetrate Essex's world. Judging from the loving care the former ambassador lavished on his automobiles, he was a meticulous and orderly man.

  He eased the garage door back down and turned to face the house. The woman's son had been right.

  Wisps of whitish vapor drifted out of the vents on the roof and faded into the blackened sky. He stepped onto the front porch, found the chime button and pushed it. There was no reply, no movement on the other side of the picture windows whose drapes were tied open. Purely because it seemed the thing to do, he tried the door.

  It opened.

  Pitt stood there in momentary surprise. An unlocked front door was not in the script; neither was the rank stink of putrefaction that wafted over the threshold and invaded his nostrils.

  He stepped inside, leaving the door open behind him. Then he groped for the light switch and flicked it on. The foyer was empty, as was the adjoining dining room. He moved swiftly through the house, beginning with the upstairs bedrooms. The terrible odor seemed everywhere. There was no pinning it down to a particular area. He returned downstairs and checked the living room and kitchen, quickly scanning their interiors before moving on. He almost missed the study, thinking the closed door merely opened to a closet.

  John Essex sat in the overstuffed chair, his mouth agape, head twisted over and to the side in agony, a pair of glasses hanging grotesquely from a leathered ear. His once twinkling blue eyes had collapsed and depressed into the skull. Decomposition had been rapid because the thermostat in the room was set at 75F. He had been sitting there, strangely undiscovered for a month, struck dead, so the coroner would state, by a blood clot in the coronary artery.

  Pitt could read the signs. During the first two weeks the body had turned green and bloated, popping the buttons from Essex's shirt. Then after the internal fluids had expelled and evaporated, the corpse began to shrivel and dry out, the skin stiffening to the consistency of tanned hide.

  Sweat began to seep from Pitt's forehead. The stuffiness of the room, together with the stench, spun him to the verge of sickness. Holding a handkerchief over his nose, he struggled against the urge to vomit, and knelt in front of John Essex's corpse.

  A book lay in the lap; one clawlike hand was clamped on the engraved cover. The cold finger of dread etched a path down Pitt's neck. He had seen death close up before, and his reaction was always the same: a feeling of repugnance that slowly gave way to a frightening realization that he too would someday look like the rotting thing in the chair.

  Hesitantly, as though he half expected Essex to awake, he pried the book loose. Then he switched on a desk lamp and flipped through the pages. It looked to be some sort of diary or personal journal. He turned to the front heading. The words seemed to rise up from the yellowed paper.

  PERSONAL OBSERVATIONS

  By

  RICHARD C. ESSEX

  FOR

  APRIL OF 1914

  Pitt sat down behind the desk and began reading. After about an hour he stopped and looked at the remains of John Essex, his expression of revulsion replaced with one that was filled with pity. "You poor old fool," he said with sadness in his eyes.

  Then he turned off the light and left, leaving the former ambassador to England alone once again in a darkened room.

  The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder as Pitt moved behind a row of muzzle-loading gun enthusiasts at a shooting range outside Fredericksburg, Virginia. He stopped at a baldheaded man who sat hunched over a bench, peering intently down the iron sights of a rifle barrel that was fully forty-six inches in length.

  Joe Epstein, a columnist for the Baltimore Sun during working hours and an avid black powder rifleman on weekends, gently squeezed the trigger. The report came like a sharp thump, followed by a small whiff of dark smoke. Epstein checked his hit through a telescope and then began pouring another powder charge down the long barrel.

  "The Indians will be all over you before you've reloaded that antique," Pitt said with a grin.

  Epstein's eyes brightened in recognition. "I'll have you know I can get off four shots a minute if I hurry."

  Using pillow ticking as wadding, he rammed a lead ball past the muzzle. "I tried to call you."

  "I've been on the go," Pitt said briefly. He nodded at the gun. "What is it?"

  "A flintlock. Seventy-five-caliber Brown Bess. Carried by British soldiers during the Revolutionary War." He handed the gun to Pitt. "Care to try it?"

  Pitt sat down at the bench and sighted on a target two hundred yards away. "Were you able to dig up anything?"

  "The newspaper morgue had bits and pieces on microfilm." Epstein placed a small amount of powder in the flintlock's priming pan. "The trick is not to flinch when the flint ignites the powder in the pan."

  Pitt pulled the lock mechanism back. Then he aimed and eased the trigger. The primer flashed almost in his eyes and carried down the touchhole. The charge in the barrel exploded an instant later and his shoulder felt as if it had been rammed by a pile driver.

  Epstein stared through the telescope. "Eight inches, two o'clock of dead center. Not bad for a city dude." A voice over a loudspeaker announced a cease-fire and the shooters laid down their pieces and began walking across the range to replace their targets. "Come along and I'll tell you wh
at I found."

  Pitt nodded silently and followed Epstein down a slope toward the target area.

  "You gave me two names, Richard Essex and Harvey Shields. Essex was undersecretary of state.

  Shields was his British counterpart, deputy secretary of the Foreign Office. Both career men, the workhorse type. Very little publicity on either man. Carried out their work behind the scenes. Apparently they were rather shadowy figures."

  "You're only icing the cake, Joe. There has to be more."

  "Not much. As near as I can tell, they never met, at least in their official roles."

  "I have a photograph showing them coming out of the White House together."

  Epstein shrugged. "My four hundredth mistaken conclusion for the year."

  "What became of Shields?"

  "He drowned on the Empress of Ireland."

  "I know about the Empress. A passenger liner that sank in the St. Lawrence River after colliding with a Norwegian coal collier. Over a thousand lives were lost."