Clive Cussler - Deep Six

“We’ll need a smooth sea if we’re to dock in Genoa under Madame Bougainville’s schedule.”

“Why the hurry?” asked Chao. “Another twelve hours of sailing won’t matter.”

“It matters to our employer,” said Mangyai dryly. “She doesn’t wish our cargo in transit any longer than necessary.”

“The chief engineer is making more wind than a typhoon. He claims he can’t keep up this speed for the whole voyage without burning up the engines.”

“He always sees black clouds.”

“You haven’t left the bridge since Odessa, Captain. Let me spell you.”

Mangyai nodded gratefully. “I could use a short rest. But first I should look in on our passenger.”

He turned over the bridge watch to Chao and walked down three decks to a heavy steel door at the end of an alleyway amidships. He pressed a transmit button on a speaker bolted to the bulkhead.

“Mr. Hong, this is Captain Mangyai.”

He was answered by the gentle creak of the massive door as it was pulled open. A small moon-faced man with thick-lensed spectacles peered cautiously around the edge. “Ah, yes, Captain. Please come in.”

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Hong?”

“No, I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”

Hong’s idea of comfort was considerably different from Mangyai’s. The only suggestion of human habitation was a suitcase neatly stowed under a canvas folding cot, one blanket, a small electric burner with a pot of tea, and a desk hanging from a bulkhead, its surface hidden under a pile of chemical analysis equipment. The rest of the compartment was packed with wooden crates and gold bars. The gold was stacked thirty high and ten deep in several rows. Some bars were scattered on the deck next to the open crates, the unsanded sides stenciled with the disclosure:

HANDLE WITH CARE

MERCURY IN GLASS

SUZAKA CHEMICAL COMPANY LIMITED

KYOTO, JAPAN

“How are you coming?” Mangyai asked.

“I should have it all examined and crated by the time we reach port.”

“How many gilded lead bars did the Russians slip in?”

“None,” said Hong, shaking his head. “The count tallies, and every bar I’ve checked so far is pure.”

“Strange they were so accommodating. The shipment arrived at the preset hour. Their dockworkers loaded it on board without incident. And we were cleared to depart without the usual administrative hassle. I’ve never experienced such efficiency in any of my previous dealings with Soviet port authorities.”

“Perhaps Madame Bougainville has great influence in the Kremlin.”

“Perhaps,” said Mangyai skeptically. He looked curiously at the piles of gleaming yellow metal. “I wonder what was behind the transaction?”

“I’m not about to ask,” said Hong, carefully wrapping a bar in wadding and placing it in a crate.

Before Mangyai could answer, a voice came over the speaker. “Captain, are you in there?”

He walked over and cracked the heavy door. The ship’s communications officer was standing outside in the alleyway.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I thought you should know, Captain, someone is jamming our communications.”

“You know this for a fact?”

“Yes, sir,” said the young officer. “I managed to get a fix on it. The source is less than three miles off our port bow.”

Mangyai excused himself to Hong and hurried to the bridge. First Officer Chao was calmly sitting in a high swivel chair studying the instruments on the ship’s computerized control panel.

“Do you have any ship contacts in, Mr. Chao?” asked Mangyai.

If Chao was surprised at the captain’s sudden reappearance, he didn’t show it. “Nothing visual, nothing on radar, sir.”

“What is our depth?”

Chao checked the reading on the depth sounder. “Fifty meters, or about a hundred and sixty feet.”

The awful truth struck Mangyai’s mind like a hammer. He leaned over the chart table and plotted their course. The keel of the Venice was passing over the Tzonston Bank, one of many areas in the middle of the Aegean where the seabed rose to within a hundred feet of the surface. Deep enough for a ship’s safe passage, but shallow enough for a routine salvage operation.

“Steer for deep water!” he shouted.

Chao stared at the captain, hesitating in bewilderment. “Sir?”

Mangyai opened his mouth to repeat the order but the words froze in his throat. At that instant, two sound-tracking torpedoes homed in on the freighter’s engine room and exploded with devastating effect. Her bottom torn in gaping holes, the sea rushed into her innards. The Venice shuddered and entered her death throes.

She took only eight minutes to die, going down by the stern and disappearing beneath the indifferent swells forever.

The Venice was hardly gone when a submarine surfaced nearby and began playing her searchlight on the fragmented floating wreckage. The pitifully few survivors, clinging to the flotsam, were coldly machine-gunned until their shredded bodies sank out of sight. Boats were sent out, guided by the darting shaft of light. After searching for several hours until all the debris was pulled aboard, they returned to their ship.

Then the light was killed and the sub returned to the darkness.

The President sat at the center of the oval mahogany conference table in the White House Cabinet Room. There were eleven men seated there besides himself. A bemused expression shone in his eyes as he surveyed the somber faces around the table.

“I know you gentlemen are curious about where I’ve been for the last ten days, and about the status of Vince Margolin, Al Moran and Marcus Larimer. Let me put this fear to rest. Our temporary disappearance was an event planned by me.”

“You alone?” Douglas Oates put to him.

“Not entirely. President Antonov of the Soviet Union was also involved.”

For several moments, stunned and disbelieving, the President’s top advisers stared at him.

“You held a secret meeting with Antonov without the knowledge of anyone in this room?” Oates said. His face paled in dismay.

“Yes,” the President admitted. “A face-to-face talk minus outside interference and preconceived notions, without the international news media second-guessing every word and unbound by policy. Just our top four people against his.” He paused and his eyes swept the men before him. “An unorthodox way of negotiating, but one I believe the electorate will accept when they see the results.”

“Would you mind telling us how and where this talk was held, Mr. President?” asked Dan Fawcett.

“After the exchange of yachts, we transferred to a civilian helicopter and flew to a small airport outside of Baltimore. From there we took a private airliner belonging to an old friend of mine and crossed the Atlantic to an abandoned airstrip deep in the desert east of Atar, Mauritania. Antonov and his people were waiting when we arrived.”

“I thought… rather it was reported,” Jesse Simmons said hesitatingly, “that Antonov was in Paris last week.”

“Georgi stopped over in Paris for a brief conference with President L’Estrange before continuing to Atar.” He turned and looked at Fawcett. “By the way, Dan, that was a brilliant masquerade.”

“We came within a hair of getting caught.”

“For the time being, I’ll deny the rumors of a double as too absurd to comment on. Everything will be explained to the press, but not before I’m ready.”

Sam Emmett placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward the President. “Were you informed, sir, that the Eagle was sunk and its crew drowned?”

The President stared quizzically for a few moments. Then his eyes sharpened and he shook his head. “No, I wasn’t aware of it. I’d appreciate a full report, Sam, as soon as possible.”