Deep Six

by Clive Cussler

  The blood pounded in his ears and his lungs felt as though they were filled with angry wasps. The thin veil of blackness began to tint his vision. He felt the woman go limp under his arm, her body creating an unwelcome drag, against his progress. He used up the last particles of oxygen, and a pyrotechnic display flared inside his head. One burst became a bright orange ball that exploaded until it exploded in a wavering flash.

  He broke through the surface, his upturned face directed at the afternoon sun. Thankfully he inhaled deep waves of air, enough to ease the blackness, the pounding and the sting in his lungs. Then he quickly circled the woman's abdomen and squeezed hard several times, forcing the salt water from her throat. She convulsed and began retching, followed by a coughing spell. Only when her breathing returned to near normal and she groaned did he look around for the others.

  Giordino was swimming in Pitts direction, pushing one of the deck chairs in front of him. The two children were sitting on top, immune to the tragedy around them, gaily laughing at Giordino's repertory of funny faces.

  "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to turn up," he said.

  "Bad pennies usually do," said Pitt, keeping the children's mother afloat until she recovered enough to hang on to the deck chair.

  "I'll take care of them," said Giordino. "You better help Loren.

  I think the senator's bought it."

  His arms felt as if they were encased in lead and he was numb with exhaustion, but Pitt carved the water with swift even strokes until he reached the floating jetsam that supported Loren and Moran.

  Gray-faced, her eyes filled with sadness, Loren grimly held the senator's head above water. Pitt saw with sinking heart she needn't have bothered; Larimer would never sit in the Senate again. His skin was mottled and turning a dusky purple. He was game to the end, but the half-century of living in the fast lane had called in the inevitable IOU'S. His heart had gone far beyond its limits and finally quit in protest.

  Gently, Pitt pried Loren's hands from the senator's body, and pushed him away. She looked at him blankly as if to object, then turned away, unable to watch as Larimer slowly drifted off, gently pushed by the rolling sea.

  "He deserves a state funeral," she said, her voice a husky whisper.

  "No matter," said Pitt, "as long as they know he went out a man."

  Loren seemed to accept that. She leaned her head on Pitts shoulder, the tears intermingling with the salt water on her cheeks.

  Pitt twisted and looked around. "Where's Moran?"

  "He was picked up by a Navy helicopter."

  "He deserted you?" Pitt asked incredulously.

  "The crewman shouted that he only had room for one more."

  "So the illustrious Speaker of the House left a woman to support a dying man while he saved himself."

  Pitts dislike for Moran burned with a cold flame. He became obsessed with the idea of ramming his fist into the little fedet's face.

  Captain Pokofsky sat in the cabin of the powerboat, his hands clasped over his ears to shut out the terrible cries of the people drowning in the water and the screams of those suffering the agony of their burns. He could not bring himself to look upon the indescribable horror or watch the Leonin Andreyev plunge out of sight to the seabed two thousand fathoms below. He was a living dead man.

  He looked up at Geinar Ombrikov through glazed and listless eyes.

  "Why did you save me? Why didn't you let me die with my ship?"

  Ombrikov could plainly see Pokofsky was suffering from severe shock, but he felt no pity for the man. Death was an element the KGB agent was trained to accept. His duty came before all consideration of compassion.

  "I've no time for rituals of the sea," he said coldly. "The noble captain standing on the bridge saluting the flag as his ship sinks under him is so much garbage. State Security needs you, Pokofsky, and I need you to identify the American legislators."

  "They're probably dead," Pokofsky muttered distantly.

  "Then we'll have to prove it," Ombrikov snapped ruthlessly. "My superiors won't accept less than positive identification of their bodies. Nor can we overlook the possibility they may still be alive out there in the water."

  Pokofsky placed his hands over his face and shuddered. "I can't-" Before the words were out of his mouth, Ombrikov roughly dragged him to his feet and shoved him out on the open deck.

  "Damn you!" he shouted. "Look for them!"

  Pokofsky clenched his jaws and stared at the appalling reality of the floating wreckage and hundreds of struggling men, women and children. He choked off a sound deep inside him, his face blanched.

  "No!" he shouted. He leaped over the side so quickly, suddenly, neither Ombrikov nor his crew could stop him. He bit the water swimming and dove deep until the white of his uniform was lost to view on the surface.

  The boats from the container ship hauled in the survivors as fast as they could reach them, quickly filling to capacity and unloading their human cargo before returning to the center of the flotsam to continue the rescue. The sea was filled with debris of all kinds, dead bodies of all ages, and those still fighting to live. Fortunately the water was warm and none suffered from exposure, nor did the threat of sharks ever materialize.

  One boat jockeyed close to Giordino, who helped lift the mother and her two children onboard. Then he scrambled over the freeboard and motioned for the helmsman to steer toward Pitt and Loren. They were among the last few to be fished out.

  As the boat slipped alongside, Pitt raised his hand in greeting to the short, stocky figure that leaned over the side.

  "Hello," Pitt said, grinning winely. "Are we ever glad to see you."

  "Happy to be of service," replied the steward Pitt had passed earlier at the elevator. He was also grinning, baring a set of large upper teeth parted by a wide gap.

  He reached down, grasped Loren by the wrists and pulled her effortlessly out of the water and into the boat. Pitt stretched out his hand, but the steward ignored it.

  "Sorry," he said, "we have no more room."

  "What-what are you talking about?" Pitt demanded. "The boat is half empty."

  "You are not welcome aboard my vessel."

  "You damned well don't even own it."

  "Oh, but I do."

  Pitt stared at the steward in sheer incredulity, then slowly turned and took one long comprehensive look across the water at the container ship. The name of the starboard bow was Chalmette, but the lettering on the sides of the containers stacked on the main deck read "Bougainville." Pitt felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.

  "Our confrontation is a lucky circumstance for me, Mr. Pitt, but I fear a misfortune for yourself."

  Pitt stared at the steward. "You know me?"

  The grin turned into an expression of hate and contempt. "Only too well. Your meddling has cost Bougainville Maritime dearly."

  "Tell me who you are?" asked Pitt, stalling for time and desperately glancing in the sky for a Navy recovery helicopter.

  "I don't think I'll give you the satisfaction," the steward said with all the warmth of a frozen food locker.

  Unable to hear the conversation, Loren pulled at the steward's arm. "Why don't you bring him onboard? What are you waiting for?"

  He turned and savagely backhanded her across the cheek, sending her stumbling backward, falling across two survivors who sat in stunned surprise.

  Giordino, who was standing in the stern of the boat, started forward. A seaman produced an automatic shotgun from under a seat and rammed the wooden shoulder stock into his stomach. Giordino's jaw dropped open, he gasped for breath and lost his footing, dropping partially over the side of the boat, arms trailing in the water.

  The steward's lips tightened and the smooth yellow features bore no readable expression. Only his eyes shone with evil. "Thank you for being so cooperative, Mr. Pitt. Thank you for so thoughtfully coming to me."

  "Get screwed!" Pitt snapped in defiance.

  The steward raised an oar over his head. "Bo
n voyage, Dirk Pitt."

  The oar swung downward and clipped Pitt on the right side of his chest, driving him under the water. The wind was crushed from his lungs and a stabbing pain swept over his rib cage. He resurfaced and lifted his left arm above his head to ward off the next inevitable blow. His move came too late. The oar in the hands of the steward mashed Pitts extended arm down and struck the top of his head, The blue sky turned to black as consciousness left him, and slowly Pitt drifted under the lifeboat and sank out of sight.

  THE President's WIFE ENTERED his second-floor study, kissed him good night and went off to bed. He sat in a soft highback embroinered chair and studied a pile of statistics on the latest economic forecasts. Using a large yellow legal pad, he scribbled a prodigious amount of notes. Some he saved, some he tore up and discarded before they were completed. After nearly three hours, he removed his glasses and closed his tired eyes for a few moments.

  When he opened them again, he was no longer in his White House study, but in a small gray room with a high ceiling and no windows.

  He rubbed his eyes and looked once more, blinking in the monotone light.

  He was still in the gray room, only now he found himself seated in a hard wooden chair, his ankles strapped to square carved legs and his hands to the armrests.

  A violent fear coursed through him, and he cried for his wife and the Secret Service guards, but the voice was not his. It had a different tonal quality, deeper, more coarse.

  Soon a door that was recessed into one wall swung inward and a small man with a thin, intelligent face entered. His eyes had a dark, bemused look, and he carried a syringe in one hand.

  "How are we today, Mr. President?" he asked politely.

  Strangely, the words were foreign, but the President understood them perfectly. Then he heard himself shouting repeatedly, "I am Oskar Belkaya, I am not the President of the United States, I am Oskar-" He broke off as the intruder plunged the needle into his arm.

  The bemused expression never left the little man's face; it might have been glued there. He nodded toward the doorway and another man wearing a drab prison uniform came in and set a cassette recorder on a Spartan metal table that was bolted to the floor. He wired the recorder to four small eyelets on the table's surface and left.

  "So you won't knock our new lesson on the floor, Mr. President," said the thin man. "I hope you find it interesting." Then he switched on the recorder and left the room.

  The President struggled to shake off the bewildering terror of the nightmare. Yet it all seemed too real to be dream fantasy. He could smell his own sweat, feel the hurt as the straps chafed his skin, hear the walls echo with his cries of frustration. His head sagged to his chest and he began to sob uncontrollably as the recorded message droned over and over. When at last he sufficiently recovered, he raised his head as if lifting a ponderous weight and looked around.

  He was seated in his White House study.

  Secretary Oates took Dan Fawcett's call on his private line.

  "What's the situation over there?" he asked without wasting words.

  "Critical," Fawcett replied. "Armed guards everywhere. I haven't seen this many troops since I was with the Fifth Marine Regiment in Korea."

  "And the President?"

  "Spitting out directives like a Gatling gun. He won't listen to advice from his aides any longer, myself included. He's getting increasingly harder to reach. Two weeks ago, he'd give full attention to opposing viewpoints or objective comments. No more. You agree with him or you're out the door. Megan Blair and I are the only ones still with access to his office, and my days are numbered. I'm bailing out before the roof caves in."

  "Stay put," said Oates. "It's best for all concerned if you and Oscar Lucas remain close to the President. You're the only open line of communications any of us have into the White House."

  "Won't work."

  "Why?"

  "I told you, even if I stick around, I'll be closed out. My name is rapidly climbing to the top of the President's shit list."

  "Then get back in his good graces," Oates ordered. "Crawl up his butt and support whatever he says. Play yes-man and relay upto-the-minute reports on every course of action he takes."

  There was a long pause. "Okay, I'll do my best to keep you informed."

  "And alert Oscar Lucas to stand by. We're going to need

  "Can I ask what's going on?"

  "Not yet," Oates replied tersely.

  Fawcett didn't press him. He switched tack. "You want the President's latest brainstorm?"

  "Bad?"

  "Very bad," admitted Fawcett. "He's talking about withdrawing our military forces from the NATO alliance."

  Oates clutched the phone until his knuckles turned white. "Got to be stopped," he said grimly.

  Fawcett's voice sounded far away. "The President and I are a long way together, but in the best interests of the country must agree."

  "Stay in touch."

  Oates put down the phone, turned in his desk chair and stared out the window, lost in thought. The afternoon sky had ominous gray, and a light rain began to fall on Washington streets, their slickened surfaces reflecting the federal buildings eerie distortions.

  In the end he would have to take over the reins of office Oates thought bitterly. He was well aware that every President over the last thirty years had been vilified and debased by ev yond his control. Eisenhower was the last chief executive the White House as venerated as when he came in. No saintly or intellectually brilliant the next President, stoned by an unmovable bureaucracy and increasingly news media; and Oates harbored no desire to be a target for rock throwers.

  He was pulled out of his reverie by the muted buzz of his com. "Mr. Brogan and another gentleman to see you.

  "Send them in," Oates directed. He rose and came around the desk as Brogan entered. They shook hands briefly and introduced the man standing beside him as Dr. Raymond. Oates correctly pegged Edgely as an academician.

  fashioned crew cut and bow tie suggested someone strayed from a university campus. Edgely was slender, scraggly barbed-wire heard, and his bristly dark eyebro untrimmed and brushed upward in a Mephistopheles set a@ "Dr. Edgely is the director of Fathom," Brogan explain Agency's special study into mind-control techniques at UDiversity in Colorado."

  Oates gestured for them to sit on a sofa and took a chair across a marble coffee table. "I've just received a call from Dan Fawcett.

  The President intends to withdraw our troops from NATO."

  "Another piece of evidence to holster our case," said Brogan.

  "Only the Russians would profit from such a move."

  Oates turned to Edgely. "Has Martin explained our suspicions regarding the President's behavior to you?"

  "Yes, Mr. Brogan has filled me in."

  "And how does the situation strike you? Can the President be mentally forced to become an involuntary traitor?"

  "I grant the President's actions demonstrate a dramatic personality change, but unless we can put him through a series of tests, there is no way of being certain of brain alteration or exterior domination."

  "He will never consent to an examination," said Brogan.

  "That presents a problem," Edgely said.

  "Suppose you tell us, Doctor," Oates asked, "how the President's mind transfer was performed?"

  "If that is indeed what we are faced with," replied Edgely, "the first step is to isolate the subject in a womblike chamber for a given length of time, removed from all sensorial influences. During this sequence his brain patterns are studied, analyzed and deciphered into a language that can be programmed and translated by computer. The next step is to design an implant, in this instance a microchip, with the desired data and then insert it by psychosurgery into the subject's brain."

  "You make it sound as elementary as a tonsillectomy," said Oates.

  Edgely laughed. "I've condensed and oversimplified, of course, but in reality the procedures are incredibly delicate and involved."

  "After
the microchip is imbedded into the brain, what then?"

  "I should have mentioned that a section of the implant is a tiny transmitter/receiver which operates off the electrical impulses of the brain and is capable of sending thought patterns and other bodily functions to a central computer and monitoring post located as far away as Hong Kong."

  "Or Moscow," anded Brogan.

  "And not the Soviet embassy here in Washington, as you suggested earlier?" Oates asked, looking at Brogan.

  "I think I can answer that," Edgely volunteered. "The communication technology is certainly available to relay data from a subject via satellite to Russia, but if I were in Dr. Lugovoy's shoes, I'd set up my monitoring station nearby so I could observe the results of the President's actions at firsthand. This would also allow me a faster response time to redirect my command signals to his mind during unexpected political events."