Clive Cussler - Deep Six

“I’ve already explained,” she said impatiently, “presidential authority gives us carte blanche on any equipment we need.”

“That’s the easy part,” Pitt continued. “Despite your water sample directions, finding a shipwreck is like looking for a coin in the middle of a football field in the dark with a candle. Then if we get lucky and make contact, we may find the hull broken in sections and the cargo scattered, or the drums too corroded to move. Murphy’s Law can hit us from every angle. No deep-sea recovery operation is ever cut and dried.”

Mendoza’s face reddened. “I’d like to point out—”

“Don’t bother,” Pitt cut her off. “I’m the wrong guy for a gung-ho speech. I’ve heard them all before. You won’t get a chorus of the Notre Dame fight song from me. And save your breath for the ‘countless lives hang in the balance’ routine. I’m aware of it. I don’t have to be reminded every five minutes.”

She looked at him, annoyed with him for his arrogant charm, feeling that he was testing her somehow. “Have you ever seen someone who came in contact with Nerve Agent S?”

“No.”

“It’s not a pretty sight. They literally drown in their own blood as their internal membranes burst. Every body orifice bleeds like a river. Then the corpse turns black.”

“You’re very descriptive.”

“It’s all a game to you,” she lashed out. “It’s not a game to me.”

He didn’t reply. He simply nodded downward at the Catawba looming through the pilot’s windshield. “We’re landing.”

The pilot noted that the ship had turned bow-on to the wind from the fluttered ensign on the halyards. He eased the helicopter over the stern, hovered a few moments and set down on the pad. The rotor blades had hardly swung to a stop when two figures dressed from head to toe in astronaut-looking suits approached while unfolding a circular plastic tube about five feet in diameter that looked like a huge umbilical cord. They secured it around the exit door and gave three knocks. Pitt undid the latches and swung the door inward. The men outside passed him cloth hoods with see-through lenses and gloves.

“Best put them on,” commanded a muffled voice.

Pitt prodded Giordino awake and handed him a hood and pair of gloves.

“What in hell are these?” Giordino mumbled, emerging from the cobwebs.

“Welcome gifts from the sanitation department.”

Two more crewmen appeared in the plastic tunnel and took their gear. Giordino, still half asleep, stumbled from the helicopter. Pitt hesitated and stared into Mendoza’s eyes.

“What’s my reward if I find your poison in forty-eight hours?”

“What do you want it to be?”

“Are you as hard as you pretend?”

“Harder, Mr. Pitt, much harder.”

“Then you decide.”

He gave her a rakish smile and was gone.

The cars that made up the presidential motorcade were lined in a row beside the South Portico of the White House. As soon as the Secret Service detail was in position, Oscar Lucas spoke into a tiny microphone whose wire looped around the watch on his wrist and ran up the sleeve of his coat.

“Tell the Boss we’re ready.”

Three minutes later the President, accompanied by Fawcett, walked briskly down the steps and entered the presidential limousine. Lucas joined them and the cars moved out through the southwest gate.

The President relaxed into the leather of the rear seat and idly stared out the window at the passing buildings. Fawcett sat with an open attache case on his lap and made a series of notes inside the top folder. After a few minutes of silence, he sighed, snapped the case shut and set it on the floor.

“There it is, arguments from both sides of the fence, statistics, CIA projections, and the latest reports from your economic council on Communist bloc debts. Everything you should need to sell Larimer and Moran on your way of thinking.”

“The American public doesn’t think much of my plan, does it?” the President asked quietly.

“To be perfectly honest, no, sir,” Fawcett replied. “The general feeling is to let the Reds stew in their own problems. Most Americans are cheering the fact that the Soviets and their satellites are facing starvation and financial ruin. They consider it proof positive that the Marxist system is a pathetic joke.”

“It won’t be a joke if the Kremlin leaders, backs against an economic wall, strike out in desperation and march through Europe.”

“Your opposition in Congress feel the risk is offset by the very real threat of starvation, which will undermine Russia’s capacity to maintain its military machine. And there are those who are banking on the eroding morale of the Russian people to crystallize in active resistance toward the ruling party.”

The President shook his head. “The Kremlin is fanatical about its military buildup. They’ll never slack off in spite of their economic dilemma. And the people will never rise up or stage mass demonstrations. The party’s collar is too tight.”

“The bottom line,” said Fawcett, “is that both Larimer and Moran are dead set against taking the burden off Moscow.”

The President’s face twisted in disgust. “Larimer is a drunk and Moran is tainted with corruption.”

“Still, there is no getting around the fact you have to sell them on your philosophy.”

“I can’t deny their opinions,” the President admitted. “But I am convinced that if the United States saves the Eastern bloc nations from almost total disintegration, they will turn away from the Soviet Union and join with the West.”

“There are many who see that as wishful thinking, Mr. President.”

“The French and Germans see it my way.”

“Sure, and why not? They’re playing both ends of the field, relying on our NATO forces for security while expanding economic ties with the East.”

“You’re forgetting the many grass-roots American voters who are behind my aid plan too,” said the President, his chin thrust forward at his words. “Even they realize its potential for defusing the threat of nuclear holocaust and pulling down the Iron Curtain for good.”

Fawcett knew it was senseless to try to sway the President when he was in a crusading mood and passionately convinced he was right. There was a kind of virtue in killing your enemies with kindness, a truly civilized tactic that might move the conscience of reasonable people, but Fawcett remained pessimistic. He turned inward to his thoughts and remained silent as the limousine turned off M Street into the Washington Naval Yard and rolled to a stop on one of the long docks.

A dark-skinned man with the stony facial features of an American Indian approached as Lucas stepped from the car.

“Evening, George.”

“Hello, Oscar. How’s the golf game?”

“Sad shape,” answered Lucas. “I haven’t played in almost two weeks.”

As Lucas spoke he looked into the piercing dark eyes of George Blackowl, the acting supervisor and advance agent for the President’s movement. Blackowl was about Lucas’s height, five years younger and carried about ten pounds of excess weight. A habitual gum chewer — his jaws worked constantly — he was half Sioux and was constantly kidded about his ancestors’ role at the Little Big Horn.

“Safe to board?” asked Lucas.

“The boat has been swept for explosives and listening devices. The frogmen finished checking the hull about ten minutes ago, and the outboard chase boat is manned and ready to follow.”

Lucas nodded. “A hundred-and-ten-foot Coast Guard cutter will be standing by when you reach Mount Vernon.”

“Then I guess we’re ready for the Boss.”

Lucas paused for nearly a minute while he scanned the surrounding dock area. Detecting nothing suspicious, he opened the door for the President. Then the agents formed a security diamond around him. Blackowl walked ahead of the point man, who was directly in front of the President. Lucas, because he was left-handed and required ease of movement in case he had to draw his gun, walked the left point and slightly to the rear. Fawcett tailed several yards behind and out of the way.