Clive Cussler - Deep Six

“Like grabbing control of the Persian Gulf oil?” said Larimer.

“A gulf takeover is the threat they constantly dangle. But they know damned well the Western nations would intervene with force to keep the lifeblood of their economies flowing. No, Marcus, their sights are set on a far easier target. One that would open up their complete dominance of the Mediterranean.”

Larimer’s eyebrows raised. “Turkey?”

“Precisely,” the President answered bluntly.

“But Turkey is a member of NATO,” Moran protested.

“Yes, but would France go to war over Turkey? Would England or West Germany? Better yet, ask yourselves if we would send American boys to die there, any more than we would in Afghanistan? The truth is Turkey has few natural resources worth fighting over. Soviet armor could sweep across the country to the Bosporus in a few weeks, and the West would only protest with words.”

“You’re talking remote possibilities,” said Moran, “not high probabilities.”

“I agree,” said Larimer. “In my opinion, further Soviet expansionism on the face of their faltering system is extremely remote.”

The President raised a hand to protest. “But this is far different, Marcus. Any internal upheaval in Russia is certain to spill over her borders, particularly into Western Europe.”

“I’m not an isolationist, Mr. President. God knows my record in the Senate shows otherwise. But I, for one, am getting damned sick and tired of the United States being constantly twisted in the wind by the whims of the Europeans. We’ve left more than our share of dead in their soil from two wars. I say if the Russians want to eat the rest of Europe, then let them choke on it, and good riddance.”

Larimer sat back, satisfied. He had gotten the words off his chest that he didn’t dare utter in public. Though the President fervently disagreed, he couldn’t help wondering how many grass-roots Americans shared the same thoughts.

“Let’s be realistic,” he said quietly. “You know and I know we cannot desert our allies.”

“Then what about our constituents,” Moran jumped back in. “What do you call it when you take their tax dollars from a budget overburdened with deficit spending and use them to feed and support our enemies?”

“I call it the humane thing to do,” the President replied wearily. He realized he was fighting a no-win war.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” Larimer said, rising to his feet. “But I cannot with a clear conscience support your Eastern bloc aid plan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll hit the sack.”

“Me too,” Moran said, yawning. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Are you settled in all right?” asked the President.

“Yes, thank you,” replied Moran.

“If I haven’t been seasick by now,” said Larimer with a half grin, “I should keep my supper till morning.”

They bid their good nights and disappeared together down the stairs to their staterooms. As soon as they were out of earshot, the President turned to Margolin.

“What do you think, Vince?”

“To be perfectly honest, sir, I think you’re pissing up a rope.”

“You’re saying it’s hopeless?”

“Let’s look at another side to this,” Margolin began. “Your plan calls for buying surplus grain and other agricultural products to give to the Communist world for prices lower than our farmers could receive on the export market. Yet, thanks to poor weather conditions during the last two years and the inflationary spiral in diesel fuel costs, farms are going bankrupt at the highest rate since 1934… If you persist in handing out aid money, I respectfully suggest you do it here — not in Russia.”

“Charity begins at home. Is that it?”

“What better place? Also, you must consider the fact that you’re rapidly losing party support — and getting murdered in the polls.”

The President shook his head. “I can’t remain mute while millions of men, women and children die of starvation.”

“A noble stand, but hardly practical.”

The President’s features became shrouded with sadness. “Don’t you see,” he said, staring out over the dark waters of the river, “if we can show that Marxism has failed, no guerrilla movement anywhere in the world will be justified in using it as a battle cry for revolution.”

“Which brings us to the final argument,” said Margolin. “The Russians don’t want our help. As you know, I’ve met with Foreign Minister Gromyko. He told me in no uncertain terms that if Congress should pass your aid program, any food shipments will be stopped at the borders.”

“Still, we must try.”

Margolin sighed softly to himself. Any argument was a waste of time. The President could not be moved.

“If you’re tired,” the President said, “please don’t hesitate to go to bed. You don’t have to stay awake just to keep me company.”

“I’m not really in the mood for sleep.”

“How about another brandy then?”

“Sounds good.”

The President pressed a call button beside his chair and a figure in the white coat of a steward appeared on deck.

“Yes, Mr. President? What is your pleasure?”

“Please bring the Vice President and me another brandy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The steward turned to bring the order, but the President held up his hand.

“One moment.”

“Sir?”

“You’re not Jack Klosner, the regular steward.”

“No, Mr. President. I’m Seaman First Class Lee Tong. Seaman Klosner was relieved at ten o’clock. I’m on duty until tomorrow morning.”

The President was one of the few politicians whose ego was attuned to people. He spoke as graciously to an eight-year-old boy as he did to an eighty-year-old woman. He genuinely enjoyed drawing strangers out, calling them by their Christian names as if he’d known them for years.

“Your family Chinese, Lee?”

“No, sir. Korean. They immigrated to America in nineteen fifty-two.”

“Why did you join the Coast Guard?”

“A love of the sea, I guess.”

“Do you enjoy catering to old bureaucrats like me?”

Seaman Tong hesitated, obviously uneasy. “Well… if I had my choice, I’d rather be serving on an icebreaker.”

“I’m not sure I like coming in second to an icebreaker.” The President laughed good-naturedly. “Remind me in the morning to put in a word to Commandant Collins for a transfer. We’re old friends.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Seaman Tong mumbled excitedly. “I’ll get your brandies right away.”

Just before Tong turned away he flashed a wide smile that revealed a large gap in the middle of his upper teeth.

A heavy fog crept over the Eagle, smothering her hull in damp, eerie stillness. Gradually the red warning lights of a radio antenna on the opposite shore blurred and disappeared. Somewhere overhead a gull shrieked, but it was a muted, ghostly sound; impossible to tell where it came from. The teak decks soon bled moisture and took on a dull sheen under the mist-veiled floodlights standing above the pilings of the old creaking pier anchored to the bank.

A small army of Secret Service agents, stationed at strategic posts around the landscaped slope that gently rose toward George Washington’s elegant colonial home, guarded the nearly invisible yacht. Voice contact was kept by shortwave miniature radios. So that both hands could be free at all times, the agents wore earpiece receivers, battery units on their belts and tiny microphones on their wrists.

Every hour the agents changed posts, moving on to the next prescheduled security area while their shift leader wandered the grounds checking the efficiency of the surveillance network.