Clive Cussler - Deep Six

“In the long haul they’ll come to accept the risks of a temporary military imbalance in order to dilute the dreaded specter of nuclear conflict.” The President shook Metcalf’s hand. “Nice piece of work, Clayton. Thank you for keeping Congress paralyzed.”

Metcalf walked along the corridor for fifty feet until it emptied into the vast interior of a barren warehouselike structure.

The stage set that contained an exact replica of the President’s White House bedroom sat in the middle of the Washington Navy Yard’s old brick ordnance building, which had gone virtually unused since World War Two.

Every detail of the deception was carefully planned and executed. A sound technician operated a stereo recorder whose tape played the muted sounds of street traffic at a precise volume. The lighting outside the bedroom windows matched the sky exactly, with an occasional shadowed effect to simulate a passing cloud. The filters over the lamps were set to emit changing yellow-orange rays to duplicate the day’s movement of the sun. Even the plumbing in the adjacent bathroom worked with the familiar sounds of the original, but emptying its contents into a septic tank rather than the Washington city sewer system. The huge concrete floor was heavily populated with Marine guards and Secret Service agents, while overhead, amid great wooden rafters, men stood on catwalks manning the overhead lighting system.

Metcalf stepped across a network of electrical cables and entered a large mobile trailer parked against the far wall. Oates and Brogan were waiting and invited him into a walnut-paneled office.

“Coffee?” Brogan asked, holding up a glass urn.

Metcalf nodded gratefully, reached for a steaming cup and sank into a chair. “My God, for a minute there I could have sworn I was in the White House.”

“Martin’s people did an amazing job,” said Oates. “He flew in a crew from a Hollywood studio and constructed the entire set in nine hours.”

“Did you have a problem moving the President?”

“The easy part,” replied Brogan. “We transferred him in the same moving van as the furniture. Strange as it might sound, the toughest hurdle was the paint.”

“How so?”

“We had to cover the walls with a material that didn’t have the smell of new paint. Fortunately, our chemists at the agency lab came up with a chalky substance they could tint that left no aroma.”

“The news program was an ingenious touch,” commented Metcalf.

“It cost us,” Oates explained. “We had to make a deal with Curtis Mayo to give him the exclusive story in return for his cooperation in broadcasting the phony news report. He also agreed to hold off a network investigation until the situation cools.”

“How long can you continue to deceive the President?”

“For as long as it takes,” answered Brogan.

“For what purpose?”

“To study the President’s brain patterns.”

Metcalf threw Brogan a very dubious look indeed.

“You haven’t convinced me. Stealing back the President’s mind from the Russians who stole it in the first place is stretching my gullibility past the breaking point.”

Brogan and Oates exchanged looks and smiled. “Would you like to see for yourself?” Oates asked.

Metcalf put down the coffee. “I wouldn’t miss it for a fifth star.”

“Through here,” Oates said, opening a door and gesturing for Metcalf to enter.

The entire midsection and one end of the mobile trailer was filled with exotic electronic and computer hardware. The monitoring data center was a generation ahead of Lugovoy’s equipment on board the Bougainville laboratory.

Dr. Raymond Edgely noticed their appearance and came over. Oates introduced him to General Metcalf.

“So you’re the mysterious genius who heads up Fathom,” Metcalf said. “I’m honored to meet you.”

“Thank you, General,” Edgely said. “Secretary Oates tells me you have some suspicions about the project.”

Metcalf looked around the busy complex, studying the scientists who were engrossed in the digital readings on the monitors. “I admit I’m puzzled by all this.”

“Basically, it’s quite simple,” Edgely said. “My staff and I are intercepting and accumulating data on the President’s brain rhythms in preparation for switching control from his cerebral implant to our own unit, which you see before you.”

Metcalf’s skepticism melted away. “Then this is all true. The Russians really are dominating his thoughts.”

“Of course. It was their instructions to close down Congress and the Supreme Court so he could instigate projects beneficial to the Communist bloc without legislative roadblocks. The order to withdraw our troops from NATO is a perfect example. Exactly what the Soviet military wants for Christmas.”

“And you people can actually take the place of the President’s mind?”

Edgely nodded. “Do you have any messages you wish sent to the Kremlin? Some misleading information perhaps?”

Metcalf brightened like a searchlight. “I think my intelligence people can write some interesting science fiction that should spur them to draw all the wrong conclusions.”

“When do you expect to release the President from Lugovoy’s command?” Brogan asked.

“I think we can make the transfer in another eight hours,” answered Edgely.

“Then we’ll get out of the way and leave you to your work,” Oates said.

They left the data acquisition room and returned to the outer office, where they found Sam Emmett waiting. Oates could see that the expression on his face spelled trouble.

“I’ve just come from Capitol Hill,” Emmett said. “They’re acting like animals in a zoo who haven’t been fed. Debate over impeachment is raging in Congress. The President’s party is making a show of loyalty, but that’s all it is — a show. There is no support on a broad front. Desertions come in wholesale lots.”

“What about committee?” asked Oates.

“The opposition party rammed through a floor vote to bypass a committee investigation to save time.”

“A guess as to when they’ll decide?”

“The House may vote on impeachment this afternoon.”

“The odds?”

“Five to one in favor.”

“The Senate?”

“Not in the cards. A straw vote indicates the Senate will vote to convict with considerably more than the necessary two-thirds majority.”

“They’re not wasting any time.”

“Considering the President’s recent actions, the impeachment proceedings are looked upon as a national emergency.”

“Any show of support for Vince Margolin?”

“Of course, but no one can stand behind him if he doesn’t put in an appearance. Sixty seconds after the President is swept from office, someone has to take the oath as successor. The rumor mills have him hiding out until the last minute so he won’t be associated with the President’s crazy policies.”

“What about Moran?”

“This is where it gets sticky. He’s claiming he has proof that Margolin committed suicide and that I am covering up the fact.”

“Anybody believe him?”

“Doesn’t matter if he’s believed. The news media are jumping on his statements like ants on honey. His news conferences are getting massive attention, and he’s demanding Secret Service protection. His aides have already drafted a transition plan and named his inner circle of advisers. Shall I go on?”

“The picture is clear,” Oates said resignedly. “Alan Moran will be the next President of the United States.”

“We can’t allow it,” Emmett said coldly.

The others stared at him. “Unless we can produce Vince Margolin by tomorrow,” asked Brogan, “how can we prevent it?”

“Any way possible,” said Emmett. He produced a folder from an attaché case. “I’d like you gentlemen to take a look at this.”