Clive Cussler - Fire Ice

Warned by the Secret Service man that Sandecker was on his way, President Dean Cooper Wallace was waiting to ambush the admiral with a handshake. The president was known as the most eager flesh-presser to occupy the White House since Lyndon Johnson.

"Great to see you, Admiral," Wallace said. "Thank you for coming on such short notice." He pumped Sandecker's hand as if he were courting votes at a church fair. Sandecker managed to detach himself from the president's grip and responded with a charm offensive of his own. He went around the table and greeted each man by his first name, asking about wife, children or golf game. He had a particularly warm greeting for his friend Erwin LeGrand, the tall, Lincolnesque director of the CIA.

NUMA's director was only a few inches over five feet, yet his presence filled the large chamber with the energy of a testosterone dynamo. The president sensed that Sandecker was overshadowing him. He snagged the admiral and guided him by the elbow to a seat at the long conference table.

"Got the place of honor reserved for you."

Sandecker slipped into his seat to the president's left. Sandecker knew his placement at the president's elbow was no accident and was meant to flatter him. Despite a folksy manner that made him sound at times like the actor Andy Griffith, Wallace was a shrewd politician. As always, Vice President Sid Sparkman was seated on the president's right.

The president sat down and grinned. "I was telling the boys here about the one that got away. Hooked a grandpappy trout as big as a whale the last time I was out west. Snapped my rod in half. Guess that ol' fellow didn't know he was dealing with the commander in chief of the USA."

The men at the table responded to the witticism with loud laughter, the loudest coming from the vice president. Sandecker chuckled dutifully. He'd had warm relations with all those who occupied the White House during his tenure at NUMA. Whatever their political persuasion, every president he dealt with respected his power in Washington and his influence with universities and corporations around the country and world. Sandecker was not universally loved, but even his adversaries admired his hard-driving honesty.

Sandecker exchanged smiles with the vice president. Older than Wallace by several years, the vice president was the eminence grise at the White House, wielding his power out of sight of the public, covering his Machiavellian machinations and hard-knuckle style with jovial bonhomie. The former college football player was a self-made millionaire. Sandecker knew the vice president secretly held Wallace in the contempt that men who have achieved success on their own sometimes have for those who have inherited their wealth and connections.

"Hope you gentlemen don't mind if we get down to business," said the president, who was dressed casually in a plaid shirt, navy blazer and khaki slacks. "Air Force One is all gassed up to take me to Montana for another crack at that trout." He made a show of glancing at his watch. "I'm turning the meeting over to the secretary of state to fill you in."

A tall hawk-faced man, with his white hair so carefully coifed that it looked like a helmet, gazed around the room with piercing eyes. Nelson Tingley reminded Sandecker of what an astute observer had said about Daniel Webster, that Webster looked too good to be true. Tingley hadn't been a bad senator, but he had let his Cabinet position go to his head. The secretary saw himself playing the role of Bismarck to Wallace's Frederick the Great. In truth, he seldom got the president's ear because he had to go through Sparkman. As a consequence, he tended to grandstand when he got the chance.

"Thank you, Mr. President," he said in the sonorous voice that for years had echoed across the floor of the U.S. Senate. "I'm sure you gentlemen all know the severity of the situation in Russia. Within the next few weeks or possibly days, we can expect the fall of that country's legally elected president. Their economy is at an all-time low, and Russia is expected to default on its obligations around the world."

"Tell 'em what you said about the army," the president suggested.

"I'd be happy to, Mr. President. The Russian forces are up for grabs. The public is sick of the corruption in government and of the power of organized crime. Nationalist sentiment and antagonism toward the United States and Europe are at an all-time high. In short, Russia is a tinderbox that can be touched off at any time by the slightest of incidents." He paused to let his words sink in and glanced in Sandecker's direction. Sandecker knew the secretary was famous for his filibusters and wasn't about to subject himself to a long-winded lecture. He cut the secretary off at the oratorical pass.

"I assume you're talking about the Black Sea incident involving NUMA," Sandecker said pleasantly.

The secretary was derailed, but not discouraged. "With all due respect, Admiral, I would hardly describe an incursion into a country's air and sea space and unauthorized invasion of its sovereign territory as an incident."

"Nor would I describe it as an invasion, Mr. Secretary. As you know, I considered the encounter important enough to submit a full report immediately to the State Department, so they would not be caught by surprise in the event the Russian government complained. But let's look at the facts, shall we?" Sandecker seemed as calm as a Buddhist at repose. "An American television crew had its boat shot out from under it, and a Turkish fisherman whom they hired was killed. They had no choice but to swim to shore. They were about to be attacked by bandits when a NUMA engineer who had been looking for them went to their aid. Later he and the television people were rescued by a NUMA ship."

"All done without going through the proper channels," the secretary countered.

"I'm not unaware of the incendiary situation in Russia, but I hope we aren't blowing this out of proportion. The whole incident took less than a few hours. The television crew was remiss in venturing within national waters, but there was no harm done."

The secretary made a show of opening a folder emblazoned with the State Department emblem. "Not according to this report from your agency. In addition to the Turkish fisherman, at least one Russian national was killed and others may have been injured in this so-called incident."

"Has the Russian government delivered a protest through the 'proper channels' you mentioned?"

The national security advisor, a man named Rogers, leaned forward. "There has been no word from the Russians or the Turks to date."

"Then I suggest this is a tempest in a teapot," Sandecker said. "If the Russians complain about a breach in their national sovereignty, I will be glad to layout the facts, apologize personally to the Russian ambassador, whom I know quite well through NUMA's joint ventures with his country, and assure him it won't happen again."

Secretary Tingley addressed Sandecker, but he was looking at the president when he spoke, his words dripping with acid. "I hope you won't take this personally, Admiral, but we're not going to have a bunch of ocean groupies dictating the foreign policy of the United States."

The tart comment was meant to be funny, but no one laughed, least of all Sandecker, who didn't take kindly to having NUMA described as "a bunch of ocean groupies."

Sandecker flashed a barracuda smile, but an icy coldness crept into his authoritative blue eyes as he prepared to rip Tingley to shreds.

The vice president saw what was coming and rapped his knuckles on the table. "It seems you gentlemen have stated your case with the usual conviction. We don't want to take up any more of the president's valuable time. I'm sure the admiral considers the secretary's points well taken and that Secretary Tingley accepts NUMA's explanation and assurances."