Deep Six dp-7

by Clive Cussler

  Then he snapped the lock, turned off the light and left.

  Pitt suffered hunger pangs as he dropped down a tunnel ladder toward the engine room. He hadn’t eaten since Washington, and the growls from his stomach seemed to echo inside the narrow steel access tube. He wished he was seated in the dining room putting away the delicacies from the gourmet menu. Suddenly he brushed away all thought of food as he detected voices rising from the compartment below.

  He crouched against the ladder and gazed past his feet. A man’s shoulder showed no more than four feet below him. Then the top of a head with stringy, unkempt blond hair moved into view. The crewman said a few words in Russian to someone else. There was a muffled reply followed by the sound of footsteps on a metal grating. After three minutes, the head moved away and Pitt heard the thin clap of a locker door closing. Then footsteps again and silence.

  Pitt swung around the ladder, inserted his feet and calves through a rung and hung upside down, his eyes peering under the lip of the tunnel.

  He found himself with an inverted view of the engine room crew’s locker room. It was temporarily vacant. Quickly he climbed down and went through the lockers until he found a pair of grease-stained coveralls that were a reasonable fit. He also took a cap that was two sizes too large and pulled it over his forehead. Now he was ready to wander the working areas.

  His next problem was that he only knew about twenty words of Russian, and most of them had to do with ordering dinner in a restaurant.

  Nearly a half-hour passed before Pitt meandered into the main crew’s quarters in the bow section of the ship. Occasionally he passed a cook from one of the kitchens, a porter pushing a cart loaded with liquor for the cocktail bars, or a cabin maid coming off duty. None gave him a second look except an officer who threw a distasteful glance at his grimy attire.

  By a fortunate accident, he stumbled on the crew’s laundry room. A round-face girl looked up at him across a counter and asked him something in Russian.

  He shrugged and replied, “Nyet.”

  Bundles of washed uniforms lay neatly stacked on a long table. It occurred to him that the laundry-room girl had asked him which bundle was his. He studied them for a few moments and finally pointed to one containing three neatly folded white coveralls like the dirty pair he wore. By changing into clean ones he could have the run of the entire ship, pretending to be a crewman from the engine room on a maintenance assignment.

  The girl laid the bundle on the counter and asked him another question.

  His mind raced to dredge up something from his limited Russian vocabulary. Finally he mumbled, “Yest’li u vas sosiski.”

  The girl gave him an odd look indeed but handed him the bundle, making him sign for it, which he did in an illegible scrawl. Pitt was relieved to see that her eyes reflected curiosity rather than suspicion.

  It was only after he found an empty cabin and switched coveralls that it dawned on him that he’d asked the laundry girl for frankfurters.

  After pausing at a bulletin board to remove a diagram showing the compartments on the decks of the Leonid Andreyev, he calmly spent the next five hours browsing around the lower hull of the ship. Detecting no clue to Loren’s presence, he returned to his cabin and found Giordino had thoughtfully ordered him a meal.

  “Anything?” Giordino asked, pouring two glasses from a bottle of Russian champagne.

  “Not a trace,” said Pitt wearily. “We celebrating?”

  “Allow me a little class in this dungeon.”

  “You search her suite?”

  Giordino nodded. “What kind of perfume does Loren wear?”

  Pitt stared at the bubbles rising from the glass for a moment. “A French name; I can’t recall it. Why do you ask?”

  “Have an aroma like a flower?”

  “Lilac… no, honeysuckle. Yes, honeysuckle.”

  “Her suite was wiped clean. The Russians made it look like she’d never been there, but I could still smell her scent.”

  Pitt drained the champagne glass and poured another without speaking.

  “We have to face the possibility they killed her,” Giordino said matter-of-factly.

  “Then why hide her clothes and luggage? They can’t claim she fell overboard with all her belongings.”

  “The crew could have stored them below and are waiting for an opportune moment, like rough weather, to announce the tragic news. Sorry, Dirk,” Giordino added, no apology in his voice. “We’ve got to look at every angle, good or bad.”

  “Loren is alive and on board this ship somewhere,” Pitt said steadfastly. “And maybe Moran and Larimer too.”

  “You’re taking a lot for granted.”

  “Loren is a smart girl. She didn’t ask Sally Lindemann to locate Speaker of the House Moran unless she had a damn good reason. Sally claims Moran and Senator Larimer have both mysteriously dropped from sight. Now Loren is missing too. What impression do you get?”

  “You make a good sales pitch, but what’s behind it?”

  Pitt shrugged negatively. “I flatly don’t know. Only a crazy idea this might somehow mix with Bougainville Maritime and the loss of the Eagle.”

  Giordino was silent, thinking it over. “Yes,” he said slowly, “a crazy idea, but one that makes a lot of circumstantial sense. Where do you want me to start?”

  “Put on your Zelda getup and walk past every cabin on the ship. If Loren or the others are held prisoner inside, there will be a security guard posted outside the door.”

  “And that’s the giveaway,” said Giordino. “Where will you be?”

  Pitt laid out the diagram of the ship on his bunk. “Some of the crew are quartered in the stern. I’ll scrounge there.” He folded up the diagram and shoved it in the pocket of the coveralls. “We’d best get started. There isn’t much time.”

  “At least we have until the day after tomorrow, when the Leonid Andreyev docks in Jamaica.”

  “No such luxury,” said Pitt. “Study a nautical chart of the Caribbean and you’ll see that about this time tomorrow afternoon we’ll be cruising within sight of the Cuban coast.”

  Giordino nodded in understanding. “A golden opportunity to transfer Loren and others off the ship where they can’t be touched.”

  “The nasty part is they may not stay on Cuban soil any longer than it takes to put them on a plane for Moscow.”

  Giordino considered that for a moment and then went over to his suitcase, removed the mangy wig and slipped it over his curly head. Then he peered in a mirror and made a hideous face.

  “Well, Zelda,” he said sourly, “let’s go walk the decks and see who we can pick up.”

  54

  The President went on national television that same evening to reveal his meeting and accord with President Antonov of the Soviet Union. In his twenty-three-minute address, he briefly outlined his programs to aid the Communist countries. He also stated his intention to abolish the barriers and restrictions on purchases of American high technology by the Russians. Never once was Congress mentioned. He spoke of the Eastern bloc trade agreements as though they were already budgeted and set in motion. He closed by promising that his next task would be to throw his energies behind a war to reduce the national crime rate.

  The ensuing uproar in government circles swept all other news before it. Curtis Mayo and other network commentators broadcast scathing attacks on the President for overstepping the limits of his authority. Specters of an imperial Presidency were raised.

  Congressional leaders who had remained in Washington during the recess launched a telephone campaign encouraging their fellow lawmakers who were vacationing or campaigning in their home states to return to the capital to meet in emergency session. House and Senate members, acting without the counsel of their majority leaders, Moran and Larimer, who could not be reached, solidly closed ranks against the President in a bipartisan flood.

  Dan Fawcett burst into the Oval Office the next morning, anguish written on his face. “Good God, Mr. President, you ca
n’t do this!”

  The President looked up calmly. “You’re referring to my talk last night?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Fawcett said emotionally. “You as good as went on record as saying you were proceeding with your aid programs without congressional approval.”

  “Is that what it sounded like?”

  “It did.”

  “Good,” said the President, thumping his hand on the desk. “Because that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  Fawcett was astonished. “Not under the Constitution. Executive privilege does not extend that far—”

  “God damn it, don’t try and tell me how to run the Presidency,” the President shouted, suddenly furious. “I’m through begging and compromising with those conceited hypocrites on the Hill. The only way I’m going to get anything done, by God, is to put on the gloves and start swinging.”

  “You’re setting out on a dangerous course. They’ll band together to freeze out every issue you put before them.”

  “No, they won’t!” the President shouted, rising to his feet and coming around the desk to face Fawcett. “Congress will not have a chance to upset my plans.”

  Fawcett could only look at him in shock and horror. “You can’t stop them. They’re gathering now, flying in from every state to hold an emergency session to block you.”

  “If they think that,” the President said in a morbid voice Fawcett scarcely recognized, “they’re in for a big surprise.”

  * * *

  The early-morning traffic was spreading thin when three military convoys flowed into the city from different directions. One Army Special Counterterrorist Detachment from Fort Belvoir moved north along Anacostia Freeway while another from Fort Meade came down the Baltimore and Washington Parkway to the south. At the same moment, a Critical Operation Force attached to the Marine Corps base at Quantico advanced over the Rochambeau Bridge from the west.

  As the long lines of five-ton personnel carriers converged on the Federal Center, a flight of tilt-rotored assault transports settled onto the grass of the mall in front of the Capitol reflecting pool and disgorged their cargo of crack Marine field troops from Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. The two-thousand-man task force was made up of United Emergency Response teams that were on twenty-four-hour alert.

  As they deployed around the federal buildings, they quickly cleared everyone out of the Capitol chambers, the House and Senate offices. Then they took up their positions and sealed off all entrances.

  At first the bewildered lawmakers and their aides thought it was a building evacuation due to a terrorist bomb threat. The only other explanation was an unannounced military exercise. When they learned the entire seat of American government was shut down by order of the President, they stood shocked and outraged, conferring in heated indignation in small groups on the grounds east of the Capitol building. Lyndon Johnson had once threatened to lock out Congress, but no one could believe it was actually happening.

  Arguments and demands went unheard by the purposeful-looking men dressed in field camouflage and holding M-20 automatic rifles and riot guns. One senator, nationally recognized for his liberal stands, tried to break through the cordon and was dragged back to the street by two grim-faced Marines.

  The troops did not surround or close the executive departments or independent agencies. For most of the federal offices it was business as usual. The streets were kept open and traffic directed in an efficient manner local citizens found downright enjoyable.

  The press and television media poured onto the Capitol grounds. The grass was nearly buried under a blanket of cables and electronic equipment. Interviews before cameras became so hectic and crowded the senators and congressmen had to stand in line to voice their objections to the President’s unprecedented action.

  Surprisingly, reaction from most Americans across the country was one of amusement rather than distaste. They sat in front of their television screens and viewed the event as if it were a circus. The consensus was that the President was throwing a temporary scare into Congress and would order the troops removed in a day or two.

  At the State Department, Oates huddled with Emmett, Brogan and Mercier. The atmosphere was heavy with a sense of indecision and suspense.

  “The President’s a damned fool if he thinks he’s more important than the constitutional government,” said Oates.

  Emmett stared steadily at Mercier. “I can’t see why you didn’t suspect what was going on.”

  “He shut me out completely,” said Mercier, his expression sheepish. “He never offered the slightest clue of what was on his mind.”

  “Surely Jesse Simmons and General Metcalf weren’t a party to it,” Oates wondered aloud.

  Brogan shook his head. “My Pentagon sources say Jesse Simmons flatly refused.”

  “Why didn’t he warn us?” asked Emmett.

  “After Simmons told the President in no uncertain terms that he was off base, the roof fell in. A military security guard detail escorted him home, where he was placed under house arrest.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Oates in exasperation. “It gets worse by the minute.”

  “What about General Metcalf?” asked Mercier.

  “I’m sure he voiced his objections,” Brogan answered. “But Clayton Metcalf is a spit-and-polish soldier who’s duty-bound to carry out the orders of his commander in chief. He and the President are old, close friends. Metcalf undoubtedly feels his loyalty is to the man who appointed him to be Chief of Staff, and not Congress.”

  Oates’s fingers swept an imaginary dust speck off the desktop. “The President disappears for ten days and after his return falls off the deep end.”

  “Huckleberry Finn,” Brogan said slowly.

  “Judging from the President’s behavioral patterns over the past twenty-four hours,” Mercier said thoughtfully, “the evidence looks pretty conclusive.”

  “Has Dr. Lugovoy surfaced yet?” Oates asked.

  Emmett shook his head. “He’s still missing.”

  “We’ve obtained reports from our people inside Russia on the doctor,” Brogan elucidated. “His specialty for the last fifteen years has been mind transfer. Soviet intelligence ministries have provided enormous funding for the research. Hundreds of Jews and other dissidents who vanished inside KGB-operated mental institutions were his guinea pigs. And he claims to have made a breakthrough in thought interpretation and control.”

  “Do we have such a project in progress?” Oates inquired.

  Brogan nodded. “Ours is code-named ‘Fathom,’ which is working along the same lines.”

  Oates held his head in his hands for a moment, then turned to Emmett. “You still haven’t a lead on Vince Margolin, Larimer and Moran?”

  Emmett looked embarrassed. “I regret to say their whereabouts are still unknown.”

  “Do you think Lugovoy has performed the mind-transfer experiment on them too?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Emmett answered. “If I were in the Russians’ shoes, I’d keep them in reserve in the event the President doesn’t respond to instructions as programmed.”

  “His mind could slip out of their grasp and react unpredictably,” Brogan added. “Fooling around with the brain is not an exact science. There’s no way of telling what he’ll do next.”

  “Congress isn’t waiting to find out,” said Mercier. “They’re out hustling for a place to convene so they can start impeachment proceedings.”

  “The President knows that, and he isn’t stupid,” Oates responded. “Every time the House and Senate members gather for a session, he’ll send in troops to break it up. With the armed forces behind him, it’s a no-win situation.”

  “Considering the President is literally being told what to do by an unfriendly foreign power, Metcalf and the other Joint Chiefs can’t continue giving him their support,” said Mercier.

  “Metcalf refuses to act until we produce absolute proof of mind control,” Emmett added. “But I suspect he’s only waiting for a ripe excuse to th
row his lot in with Congress.”

  Brogan looked concerned. “Let’s hope he doesn’t make his move too late.”

  “So the situation boils down to the four of us devising a way to neutralize the President,” Oates mused.

  “Have you driven past the White House today?” Mercier asked.

  Oates shook his head. “No. Why?”

  “Looks like an armed camp. The military is crawling over every inch of the grounds. Word has it the President can’t be reached by anybody. I doubt even you, Mr. Secretary, could walk past the front door.”

  Brogan thought a moment. “Dan Fawcett is still on the inside.”

  “I talked to him over the phone,” Mercier said. “He presented his opposition to the President’s actions a bit too strongly. I gather he’s now persona non grata in the Oval Office.”

  “We need someone who has the President’s trust.”

  “Oscar Lucas,” Emmett said.

  “Good thinking,” Oates snapped, looking up. “As head of the Secret Service, he’s got the run of the place.”

  “Someone will have to brief Dan and Oscar face-to-face,” Emmett advised.

  “I’ll handle it,” Brogan volunteered.

  “You have a plan?” asked Oates.

  “Not off the top of my head, but my people will come up with something.”

  “Better be good,” said Emmett seriously, “if we’re to avoid the worst fear of our Founding Fathers.”

  “And what was that?” asked Oates.

  “The unthinkable,” replied Emmett. “A dictator in the White House.”

  55

  Loren was sweating. She had never sweated so much in her life. Her evening gown was damp and plastered against her body like a second skin. The little windowless cell felt like a sauna and it was an effort just to breathe. A toilet and a bunk were her only creature comforts, and a dim bulb attached to the ceiling in a small cage glowed continuously. The ventilators, she was certain, were turned off to increase her discomfort.