Clive Cussler - Deep Six

Emmett nodded. “It will be on your desk when we adjourn.”

Oates struggled to keep his emotions in rein. That a high-level meeting of such enormous consequences to world foreign policy had taken place behind the back of the State Department was unthinkable. It was without precedent in anyone’s memory.

“I think we’d all be interested in knowing what you and Georgi Antonov discussed,” he said stiffly.

“A very productive give-and-take,” answered the President. “The most pressing item on the agenda was disarmament. Antonov and I hammered out an agreement to halt all missile production and start up a dismantling program. We arrived at a complicated formula that in simple terms means they break down a nuclear missile and we match them on a one-for-one basis with on-site inspection teams overseeing the operation.”

“France and England will never buy such a proposal,” said Oates. “Their nuclear arsenals are independent from ours.”

“We will begin with the long-range warheads and work down,” the President said, undaunted. “Europe will eventually follow.”

General Clayton Metcalf shook his head. “On the face of it, I’d have to say the proposal sounds incredibly naive.”

“It’s a beginning,” said the President adamantly. “I believe Antonov is sincere in his offer, and I intend to show good faith by pursuing the dismantling program.”

“I’ll reserve judgment until I’ve had a chance to study the formula,” said Simmons.

“Fair enough.”

“What else did you discuss?” asked Fawcett.

“A trade agreement,” answered the President. “Briefly explained, if we allow the Russians to transport their agricultural purchases in their own merchant ships, Antonov promised to pay our farmers top world prices and, most important, not to buy from any other nation unless we fail to provide the goods as ordered. In other words, American farmers are now the exclusive suppliers of Soviet imported farm products.”

“Antonov bought your package?” Oates asked incredulously. “I can’t believe the old bear capable of giving away an exclusive license to any nation.”

“I have his assurance in writing.”

“It sounds great,” said Martin Brogan. “But I’d like someone to explain how Russia can afford to make wholesale agricultural purchases. Their East bloc satellites have defaulted on massive loans to the West. The Soviet economy is in disastrous shape. They can’t even pay their armed forces and government workers in anything but scrip good only for food and clothing. What are they going to use for money? Our farmers aren’t about to go in hock for Communists. They need immediate payment to clear their own yearly debts.”

“There is a way out,” the President said.

“Your East bloc bailout theory?” said Fawcett, anticipating him.

The President nodded. “Antonov agreed in principle to accept my economic assistance plan.”

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President,” said Oates, his hands clutched to keep them from visibly trembling, “your plan solves nothing. What you’re proposing is that we give billions of dollars in financial aid to the Communist nations so they can turn around and buy from our own farming community. I see that as a ‘rob Peter to pay Paul’ sucker game, with our taxpayers footing the bill.”

“I’m with Doug,” said Brogan. “What’s in it for us?”

The President looked around the table, his face set in determination. “I made up my mind that this is the only way to show the world once and for all that, in spite of her monstrous military machine, Russia’s system of government is a failure not to be envied or copied. If we do this thing, no country in the world can ever again accuse us of imperialist aggression, and no Soviet propaganda or disinformation campaigns against us will be taken seriously. Think of it, the United States helped its enemies back on their feet after World War Two. And now we can do the same for a nation that has made a crusade out of condemning our democratic principles. I devoutly believe no greater opportunity will be laid on our doorstep to set humanity on a straight course into the future.”

“Frankly speaking, Mr. President,” said General Metcalf in a stern voice, “your grand design will change nothing. As soon as their economy has recovered, the Kremlin leaders will return to their old belligerent ways. They’re not about to give up the military expansion and political strategies of seventy years out of gratitude for American generosity.”

“The general is right,” Brogan said. “Our latest satellite surveillance photos show that even as we sit here the Russians are installing a string of their latest SS-Thirty multiple-warhead missiles along the northeast coast of Siberia, and each warhead is targeted at a city in the U.S.”

“They will be dismantled,” the President said, his tone set in concrete. “As long as we are aware of their existence, Antonov cannot sidestep his commitment.”

Oates was mad and he didn’t care who knew it. “All this talk is a waste of time.” He almost spat the words at the President. “None of your giveaway schemes can be put into motion without congressional approval. And that, sir, isn’t damned likely.”

“The Secretary is quite correct,” said Fawcett. “Congress still has to appropriate the money, and considering their present mood against Soviet troop incursions along the Iranian and Turkish borders, passage of your programs will most certainly die and be buried in committee.”

The men around the table felt uneasy, all of them realizing that the President’s administration would never function from a granite base of cohesion again.

Differences would arise that had been held in check before. From now on, reverence for teamwork was gone and the line holding personal likes and dislikes broken. Respect for the President and his office had melted away. They saw only a man like themselves, with more faults than they cared to acknowledge. The realization laid a cloud upon the room and they looked to see if the President recognized it too.

He sat there, a strange expression of wickedness spreading across his face, his lips drawn back in cold anticipation of a triumph yet to come.

“I do not need Congress,” he said cryptically. “They will have no voice in my policies.”

During the short walk from the Cabinet Room to the South Portico, Douglas Oates made up his mind to submit his resignation as Secretary of State. The President’s rude act of freezing him out of the negotiations with Antonov was an insult he refused to forgive. There was no turning back as the decision was reached and cemented. He smelled catastrophe in the air, and he wanted no part of it.

He was standing on the steps awaiting his official car when Brogan and Emmett approached.

“Can we have a word with you, Doug?” Emmett asked.

“I’m not in a mood for conversation,” Oates grumbled.

“This is critical,” Brogan said. “Please hear us out.”

His car was not yet in sight on the drive, so Oates shrugged wearily. “I’m listening.”

Brogan looked around him and then said softly, “Sam and I think the President is being manipulated.”

Oates shot him a sarcastic stare. “Manipulated, hell. He’s fallen off his track, and I for one refuse to be a party to his madness. There’s more to the sinking of the Eagle than he let on, and he never did explain the whereabouts of Margolin, Larimer and Moran. I’m sorry, gentlemen; you two can be the first to know. As soon as I get back to the State Department, I’m clearing out my desk and calling a press conference to announce my resignation. Then I’m taking the next plane out of Washington.”

“We suspected what was on your mind,” Emmett said. “That’s why we wanted to catch you before you went off the deep end.”