Deep Six

by Clive Cussler

  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 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 drowsidess. "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 standin 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."

  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 emptyhanded."

  " 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, y
ou 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 on 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.

  "Don't cash in your coupons yet," Yaeger cautioned. "The dimensions don't fit any known barge in existence."

  "Damni" Sandecker blurted. "So near, yet-"

  "Wait," Pitt cut in.

  "Suvorov gave us interior measurements." He leaned over the speaker phone. "Yaeger, and two feet all around and run it through again."

  "You're getting warmer," Yaeger's voice rasped over the speaker.

  "Try this on for size-no pun intended-one hundred and ninety-five by thirty-five by twelve feet."

  "Beam and height correspond," said Pitt, "but your length is way off."

  "You gave me interior length between perpendicular bulkheads.

  I'm giving you overall length including a raked bow of twenty-five feet."

  "He's right," said Sandecker. "We didn't allow for the scoop of the forward end."

  Yaeger continued. "What we've got is a dry cargo barge, steel construction, two hundred and eighty to three hundred tons-selfenclosed compartments for carrying grain, lumber and so forth.

  Probably manufactured by the Nashville bridge Company, Nashville, Tennessee."

  "The draft?" Pitt pushed.

  "Empty or loaded?"

  "Empty."

  "Eighteen inches."

  "Thanks, pal. You've done it again."

  "Done what?"

  "Go back to sleep."

  Pitt switched off the speaker and turned to Sandecker. "The smoke clears."

  Sandecker fairly beamed. "Clever, clever people, the Bougainvilles."

  Pitt nodded. "I have to agree. The last place anyone would look for an expensively equipped laboratory is inside a rusty old river barge moored in a swamp."

  "She also has the advantage of being movable," said Sandecker.

  The admiral referred to any vessel, scow or aircraft carrier in the feminine gender. "A tug can transport and dock her anywhere the water depth is over a foot and a half."

  Pitt stared at the aerial photo pensively. "The next test is to determine where the Bougainvilles hin it again."

  "The creek where she was tied leads into the Stono River," Sandecker noted.

  "And the Stono River is part of the Intracoastal Waterway," Pitt added. "They can slip it into any one of ten thousand rivers, streams, bays and sounds from Boston to Key West."

  "No way of second-guessing the destination," Giordino murmured dejectedly.

  "They won't keep it in South Carolina waters," Pitt said. "Too obvious. The catch, as I see it, boils down to north or south, and a distance of six, maybe eight hundred miles."

  "A staggering job," Sandecker said in a soft voice, "untangling her from the other barges plying the eastern waterways. They're thicker than leaves in a New England October."

  "Still, it's more than we had to go on before," Pitt said hopefully.

  Sandecker turned from the photo. "Better give Emmett a call and steer him onto our discovery. Someone in his army of investigators may get lucky and stumble on the right barge."

  The admiral's words were empty of feeling. He didn't want to say what was on his mind.

  If Lee Tong Bougainville suspected government investigators were breathing down his neck, his only option would be to kill the Vice President and Loren, and dispose of their bodies to cover his tracks.

  "THE PATIENT WILL LIVE to fight another day," said Dr. Harold Gwynne, the President's physician, cheerfully. He was a cherubic little man with a balding head and friendly blue eyes. "A common case of the flu bug. Stay in bed for a couple of days until the fever subsides. I'll give you an antibiotic and something to relieve the nausea.

  "I can't stay on my back," the President protested weakly. "Too much work to do."

  There was little fight in his words. The chills from a 103-degree fever sandbagged him, and he was constantly on the verge of vomiting.

  His throat was sore, his nose stuffed up and he felt rotten from scalp to toenails.

  "Relax and take it easy," Gwynne ordered. "The world can turn without you for a few hours." He jabbed a needle into the President's arm and then held a glass of water for him to wash down a pill.

  Dan Fawcett entered the bedroom. "About through, Doc?" he inquired.

  Gwynne nodded. "Keep him off his feet. I'll check back around two o'clock this afternoon." He smiled warmly, closed his black bag and stepped through the door.

  "General Metcalf is waiting," Fawcett said to the President.

  The President pushed a third pillow behind his back and struggled to a sitting position, massaging his temples as the room began to spin.

  Metcalf was ushered in, resplendent in a uniform decorated by eight rows of colorful ribbons. There was a briskness about the general that was not present at their last meeting.

  The President looked at him, his face pallin, his eyes drooping and watery. He began to cough uncontrollably.

  Metcalf came over to the bed. "is there anything I can get you, sir?" he asked solicitously.

  The President shook his head and waved him away. "I'll survive," he said at last. "What's the situation, Clayton?"

  The President never called his joint Chiefs by rank, preferring to lower them a couple of notches down their pedestal by andressing them with their Christian names.

  Metcalf shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "The streets are quiet at the moment, but there were one or two isolated incinents of sniping. One soldier was killed and two Marines wounded."

  "Were the guilty parties apprehended?"

  "Yes, sir," Metcalf answered.

  "A couple of criminal radicals, no doubt."

  Metcalf stared at his feet. "Not exactly. One was the son of Congressman Jacob Whitman of South Dakota and the other the son of Postmaster General Kenneth Potter. Both were under seventeen years of age."

  The President's face looked stricken for an instant and then it quickly hardened. "Are your troops deployed at Lisner Auditorium?"

  "One company of Marines is stationed on the grounds around the building."

  "Hardly seems enough manpower," said the President. "The Maryland and Virginia Guard units combined will outnumber them five to one."

  "The Guard will never come within rifle shot of the auditorium," said Metcalf knowingly. "Our plan is to defuse their effectiveness by stopping them before they arrive in the city."

  "A sound strategy," the President said, his eyes briefly gleaming.

  "I have a special news report," sa
id Fawcett, who was kneeling in front of the television set. He turned up the volume and stood aside so the picture could be seen from the bed.