Night Probe!

by Clive Cussler

  "You going to turn me in?"

  She stretched back seductively on the bed. "I can see the headlines now:NEW PRESIDENT OF

  QUEBEC CAUGHT IN FLYING WHOREHOUSE ."

  "I'm not President yet." He laughed. "You will be after the elections."

  "They're six months away. Anything can happen between now and then."

  "The polls say you're a shoo-in."

  "What does Charles say?"

  "He never mentions you anymore."

  Villon sat down on the bed and trailed his fingers lightly across her belly. "Now that Parliament has handed him a vote of no confidence, his power has evaporated. Why don't you leave him? Things would be simpler for us."

  "Better I remain at his side a little while longer. There is much I can still learn of importance to Quebec."

  "While we're on the subject, there is something that concerns me."

  She began to squirm. "What is it?"

  "The President of the United States is speaking to Parliament next week. I'd like to know what he intends to say. Have you heard anything?"

  She took his hand and moved it down. "Charles talked about it yesterday. Nothing to worry about. He said the President was going to make a plea for an orderly transition of Quebec independence."

  "I knew it," Villon said, smiling. "The Americans are caving in."

  Danielle began to lose control and reached out for him.

  "I hope you filled the fuel tanks before we left Ottawa," she murmured in a slurred voice.

  "We have enough for three more hours' flying time," he said, and then he came down on top of her.

  "There is no mistake?" Sarveux said into the phone.

  "Absolutely none," replied Commissioner Finn. "My man saw them board Mr. Villon's plane. We've tracked them on air force radar. They've been circling Laurentides Park since one o'clock.

  "Your man is certain it was Henri Villon."

  "Yes, Sir, there was no doubt," Finn reassured him.

  "Thank you, commissioner."

  "Not at all, Prime Minister. I'll be standing by."

  Sarveux replaced the receiver and paused a moment to rally his senses. Then he spoke into the intercom. "You may send him in now."

  Sarveux's face tensed in the first conclusive moment of shock. He was certain his eyes were deceiving him, his mind playing tricks with his imagination. His legs refused to respond, and he could not gather the strength to rise from behind the desk. Then the visitor walked across the room and stood looking down.

  "Thank you for seeing me, Charles."

  The face bore the familiar cold expression, the voice came exactly as he had known it. Sarveux fought to maintain an outward calm, but he suddenly felt weak and dizzy.

  The man standing before him was Henri Villon, in the flesh, completely at ease, displaying the same aloof poise that never cracked.

  "I thought . . . I thought you were . . . were campaigning in Quebec," Sarveux stammered.

  "I took time out to come to Ottawa in the hope you and I might declare a truce."

  "The gap between our differences is too wide," Sarveux said, slowly regaining his composure.

  "Canada and Quebec must learn to live together without further friction," said Villon. "You and I should too."

  "I'm willing to listen to reason." There was a subtle hardening in Sarveux's voice. "Sit down, Henri, and tell me what's on your mind."

  Alan Mercier finished reading the contents of a folder marked MOST SECRET and then reread them.

  He was stunned. Every so often he flipped the pages backward, attempting to keep an open mind, but finding it increasingly difficult to believe what his eyes conveyed. He had the look of a man who held a ticking bomb in his hands.

  The President sat across from him, seemingly detached, patiently waiting. It was very quiet in the room; the only sound was an occasional crackle from a smoldering log in the fireplace. Two trays of food sat on the large coffee table that separated the two men. Mercier was too engrossed to eat, but the President consumed the late dinner hungrily.

  Finally Mercier closed the folder and solemnly removed his glasses. He pondered for a moment, then looked up.

  "I have to ask," he said. "Is this mad plot for real?"

  "Right down to the period in the lase sentence."

  "A remarkable concept," Mercier sighed. "I'll give it that."

  "I think so."

  "I find it hard to believe you took it so far in all these years without a leak."

  "Not surprising when you consider only two people knew about it."

  "Doug Oates over at State was aware."

  "Only after the inauguration," the President acknowledged. "Once I possessed the power to put the wheels in motion, the first step, the obvious step, was to bring in the State Department."

  "But not national security," said Mercier, a cool edge on his voice.

  "Nothing personal, Alan. I only added to the inner circle as each stage progressed."

  "So now it's my turn."

  The President nodded. "I want you and your staff to recruit and organize influential Canadians who see things as I do."

  Mercier dabbed a handkerchief at the sweat glistening on his face. "Good God. If this thing backfires and your announcement of national insolvency follows on its heels . . . ?" He let the implication hang.

  "It won't," the President said grimly.

  "You may have reached too far."

  "But if it is accepted, at least in principle, think of the opportunities."

  "You'll get your first indication when you spring it on the Canadian Parliament on Monday."

  "Yes, it'll be out in the open then." Mercier laid the folder on the table. "I have to hand it to you, Mr.

  President. When you sat silent and refused to intervene in Quebec's bid for independence, I thought you'd slipped a cog. Now I'm beginning to see the method behind your madness."

  "We've only opened the first door"-the President waxed philosophical-"to a long hallway."

  "Don't you think you're counting too heavily on finding the North American Treaty?"

  "Yes, I suppose you're right." The President stared out the window at Washington without seeing it. "But if a miracle happens on the Hudson River by Monday, we may have the privilege of designing a new flag."

  The sky hook was just what its name suggested: a helicopter capable of transporting bulky equipment to the tops of high buildings and heavy equipment across rivers and mountains. Its slender fuselage tapered to a length of 105 feet and the landing gear hung down like rigid stalks.

  To the men on the salvage site the ungainly craft looked like a monstrous praying mantis that had escaped from a Japanese science fiction movie. They watched fascinated as it flew two hundred feet above the river, the huge rotor blades whipping the water into froth from shore to shore.

  The sight was made even stranger by the wedge-shaped object that hung suspended from the sky hook's belly. Except for Pitt and Giordino, it was the first time any of the NUMA crew had set eyes on the Doodlebug.

  Pitt directed the lowering operation by radio, instructing the pilot to set his load beside the De Soto. The sky hook very slowly halted its forward motion and hovered for a few minutes until the Doodlebug's pendulum motion died. Then the twin cargo cables unreeled, easing the research vessel into the river.

  When the strain slackened, the De Soto's crane was swung over the side and divers scrambled up the ladder on the vertical hull. The cable hooks were exchanged on the hoisting loops and, free of its burden, the sky hook rose, banked into a broad half circle and headed back downriver.

  Everyone stood along the rails gawking at the Doodlebug, wondering about its purpose. Suddenly, adding to their silent bewilderment, a hatch popped open, a head appeared and a pair of heavy-lidded eyes surveyed the astonished onlookers. "Where in hell is Pitt?" the intruder shouted.

  "Here!" Pitt yelled back.

  "Guess what?"

  "You found another bottle of snakebite medicine in your bunk."
r />   "How'd you know?" Sam Quayle replied, laughing.

  "Lasky with you?"

  "Below, rewiring the ballast controls to operate in shallow water.

  "You took a chance, riding inside all the way from Boston."

  "Maybe, but we saved time by activating the electronic systems during the flight."

  "How soon before you're ready to dive?"

  "Give us another hour."

  Chase moved beside Giordino. "Just what is that mechanical perversion?" he asked.

  "If you had any idea what it cost," Giordino answered with an imperturbable smile, "you wouldn't call it nasty names."

  Three hours later-the Doodlebug, its top hatches rippling the water ten feet beneath the surface, crawled slowly across the riverbed. The suspense inside was hard to bear as the hull skirted dangerously close to the gnarled pieces of the bridge.

  Pitt kept a close eye on the video monitors while Bill Lasky maneuvered the craft against the current.

  Behind them, Quayle peered at a systems panel, focusing his attention on the detection readouts.

  "Any contact?" Pitt asked for the fourth time.

  "Negative," answered Quayle. "I've widened the beam to cover a twenty-meter path at a depth of one hundred meters into the geology, but all I read is bedrock."

  "We've worked too far upriver," Pitt said, turning to Lasky. "Bring it around for another pass."

  "Approaching from a new angle," acknowledged Lasky, his hands busy with the knobs and switches of the control console.

  Five more times the Doodlebug threaded its way through the sunken debris. Twice they heard wreckage scraping along the hull. Pitt was all too aware that if the thin skin was penetrated, he would be blamed for the loss of the six-hundred-million dollar vessel.

  Quayle seemed immune to the peril. He was infuriated that his instrument remained mute. He was particularly angry at himself for thinking the fault was his.

  "Must be a malfunction," he muttered. "I should have had a target by now."

  "Can you isolate the problem?" Pitt asked.

  "No, dammit!" Quayle abruptly snapped. "All systems are functioning normally. I must have miscalculated when I reprogrammed the computers."

  The expectations of a quick discovery began to dim. Frustration was worsened by false hopes and anticipation. Then, as they turned around for another run through the search grid, the never current surged against the exposed starboard area of the Doodlebug and swept its keel into a mud bank Lasky struggled with the controls for nearly an hour before the vessel worked free.

  Pitt was giving the coordinates for a new course when Giordino's voice came over the communications speaker. "De Soto to Doodlebug. Do you read?"

  "Speak," said Pitt tersely.

  "You guys have been pretty quiet."

  "Nothing to report," Pitt answered.

  "You better close up shop. A heavy storm front is moving in. Chase would like to secure our electronic marvel before the wind strikes."

  Pitt hated to give up, but it was senseless to continue. Time had run out. Even if they found the train in the next few hours, it was doubtful if the salvage crew could pinpoint and excavate the coach that carried Essex and the treaty before the President's address to Parliament.

  "Okay," said Pitt. "Make ready to receive us. We're folding the act.

  Giordino stood on the bridge and nodded at the dark clouds massing over the ship. "This project has had a curse on it from the beginning," he mumbled gloomily. "As if we don't have enough problems, now it's the weather."

  "Somebody up there plain doesn't like us," said Chase, pointing to the sky.

  "You blaming God, you heathen?" Giordino joked goodnaturedly.

  "No," answered Chase looking solemn. "The ghost."

  Pitt turned. "Ghost?"

  "An unmentionable subject around here," said Chase. "Nobody likes to admit they've seen it."

  "Speak for yourself." Giordino cracked a smile. "I've only heard the thing."

  "Its light was brighter than hell when it swung up the old grade to the bridge the other night. The beam lit up half the east shoreline. I don't see how you missed it."

  "Wait a minute," Pitt broke in. "are you talking about the phantom train?"

  Giordino stared at him. "You know?"

  "Doesn't everyone?" Pitt asked in mock seriousness."

  "Tis said the specter of the doomed train is still trying to cross the DeauvilleHudson bridge to the other side."

  "You don't believe that?" Chase asked cautiously.

  "I believe there is something up on the old track bed that goes chug in the night. In fact, it damn near ran over me."

  "When?"

  "A couple of months ago when I came here to survey the site."

  Giordino shook his head. "At least we won't go to the loony bin alone."

  "How often has the ghost called on you?"

  Giordino looked at Chase for support. "Two, no, three times."

  "You say some nights you heard sounds but saw no lights?"

  "The first two intrusions came with steam whistles and the roar of a locomotive," explained Chase. "The third time we got the full treatment. The clamor was accompanied by a blinding light."

  "I saw the light too," Pitt said slowly. "What were your weather conditions?"

  Chase thought a moment. "As I recall, it was clear and blacker than pitch when the light showed."

  "That's right," added Giordino. "The noise came alone only on nights the moon was bright."

  "Then we've got a pattern," said Pitt. "There was no moon during my sighting."

  "All this talk about ghosts isn't putting us any closer to finding the real train," said Giordino blandly. "I suggest we get back to reality and figure a way to get under the bridge wreckage in the next"-he hesitated and consulted his watch- "seventy-four hours."

  "I have another suggestion," said Pitt.

  "Which is?"

  "To hell with it."

  Giordino looked at him, ready to smile if Pitt was joking. But he was not.

  "What are you going to tell the President?"

  A strange, distant look came over Pitt's face. "The President?" he repeated vaguely. "I'm going to tell him we've been fishing in the air, wasting an enormous amount of time and money searching for an illusion."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "The Manhattan Limited," Pitt replied. "It doesn't lie on the bottom of the Hudson River. It never has."

  The setting sun was suddenly snuffed out by the clouds. The sky went dark and menacing. Pitt and Giordino stood on the old track bed, listening to the deep rumbling of the storm as it drew closer. And then lightning crackled and the thunder echoed and the rain came.

  The wind swept through the trees with a demonic whine. The humid air was oppressive and charged with electricity. Soon the light was gone and there was no color, only black pierced by brief streaks of white. Raindrops, hurled in horizontal sheets by wind gusts, struck their faces with the stinging power of sand.

  Pitt tightened the collar of his raincoat, hunched his shoulders against the tempest and stared into the night.

  "How can you be sure it will appear?" Giordino shouted over the gale.

  "Conditions are the same as the night the train vanished," Pitt shouted back. "I'm banking on the ghost having a melodramatic sense of timing."

  "I'll give it another hour," said a thoroughly miserable Chase. "And then I'm heading back to the boat and a healthy slug of Jack Daniel's."

  Pitt motioned them to follow. "Come on, let's take a hike down the track bed."

  Reluctantly Chase and Giordino fell in behind. The lightning became almost incessant and, seen from shore, the De Soto looked like a gray ghost herself. A great shaft of brilliance flashed for an instant across the river behind her and she became a black outline. The only sign of life was the white light on the mast that burned defiantly through the downpour.

  After about half a mile, Pitt halted and tilted his head as if listening. "I think I hear something." />
  Giordino cupped his hands to his ears. He waited until the last thunderclap died over the rolling hills.

  Then he heard it too: the mournful wail of a train whistle.

  "You called it," said Chase. "It's right on schedule."

  No one spoke for several seconds as the sound grew closer, and then there came the clang of a bell and the puff of the exhaust. It was drowned out momentarily by another burst of thunder. Chase swore later that he could feel time grinding to a stop.

  At that moment a light came around a curve and washed its beam on them, the rays eerily distorted by the rain. They stood there, each seeing the yellow reflections on the face of the others.

  They stared ahead, disbelieving, yet certain it was not a trick of their imaginations. Giordino turned to say something to Pitt and was astounded to see him smiling, actually smiling at the expanding blaze.

  "Don't move," Pitt said with incredible calm. "Turn around, close your eyes and cover them with your hands so you aren't blinded by the glare."

  Instinct dictated they do just the opposite. The urge for selfpreservation, to run or at least throw themselves flat on the ground tore at their conscious senses. Their only bond with courage was Pitt's firm words.

  "Steady . . . steady. Be ready to open your eyes when I yell.

  God, it was unnerving.

  Giordino tensed for the impact that would smash his flesh and bones into a ghastly spray of crimson and white. He made up his mind he was going to die, and that was that. The deafening clangor was upon them, assaulting their ear drums. They felt as though they had been thrust into some strange vacuum where twentieth-century reasoning lost all relevance.