Clive Cussler - Cyclops

The President knew better than to ask how it came to be in Joe's hands. "So what am I looking for?"

"Please study the area above the northern coast of the island and below the Florida Keys."

The President took a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and peered at the image in the photo. "Looks like the Goodyear blimp."

"No, it's the Prosperteer, an old airship belonging to Raymond LeBaron."

"I thought he was lost over the Caribbean two weeks ago."

"Ten days to be exact, along with the blimp and two crewmen."

"Then this photo was taken before he disappeared."

"No, the film came off the aircraft only eight hours ago."

"Then LeBaron must be alive."

"I'd like to think so, but all attempts to raise the Prosperteer by radio have gone unanswered."

"What's LeBaron's connection with the Jersey Colony?"

"He was a member of the `inner core.' "

The President leaned close. "And you, Joe, are you one of the original nine men who conceived the project?"

Joe didn't answer. He didn't have to. The President, staring at him, knew without a doubt.

Satisfied, he sat back and relaxed. "Okay, so what's your problem?"

"In ten days the Soviets will take their newest heavy-lift launch vehicle out of the barn and send it into space with a manned lunar lander that's six times the size and weight of the module used by our astronauts during the Apollo program. You know the details from CIA intelligence reports."

"I've been briefed on their lunar mission," the President agreed.

"And you're also aware that over the past two years they've sent three unmanned probes in orbit around the moon to survey and photograph landing sites. The third and last crashed onto the moon's surface. The second had an engine malfunction and its fuel exploded. The first probe, however, performed successfully, at least in the beginning. It circled the moon twelve times. Then something went wrong. After returning to earth orbit prior to reentry it suddenly refused all commands from the ground. For the next eighteen months, Soviet space controllers worked at bringing the craft down intact. Whether or not they were able to retrieve its visual data, we have no way of knowing. Finally, they managed to fire the retro-rockets. But instead of Siberia, their lunar probe, Selenos 4, landed in the Caribbean Sea."

"What has this to do with LeBaron?"

"He went searching for the Soviet moon probe."

A doubtful look crossed the President's face. "According to CIA reports, the Russians retrieved the craft in deep water off Cuba."

"A smokescreen. They even put on a good show of raising the craft. But in reality, they were never able to find it."

"And your people think they know where it lies?"

"We have a site pinpointed, yes."

"Why would you want to beat the Russians out of a few pictures of the moon? There are thousands of photos available to anybody who wants to study them."

"Those were all taken before Jersey Colony was established. The new Russian survey will no doubt reveal the location."

"What harm could it do?"

"I believe that if the Kremlin discovers the truth, the USSR's first mission to the moon will be to attack, capture our colony, and use it for their own purposes."

"I don't buy that. The Kremlin would be laying their entire space program open for retaliation by our side."

"You forget, Mr. President, our lunar project is blanketed in secrecy. No one can charge the Russians with stealing something that isn't supposed to exist."

"You're stabbing in the dark," the President said sharply.

Joe's eyes hardened. "No matter. Our astronauts were the first to step on the lunar surface. We were the first to colonize it. The moon belongs to the United States and we shall fight any intrusion."

"This isn't the fourteenth century," said the President, shocked. "We can't take up arms and keep the Soviets or anyone else off the moon. Besides, the United Nations ruled that no country had jurisdiction over the moon and planets."

"Would the Kremlin heed U.N. policy if they were in our shoes? I think not." Joe twisted in the seat and extracted a putter from the bag. "The eighteenth green. Your final play, Mr. President."

Dazedly, the President lined up the lay of the green and sank a twenty-foot putt. "I could stop you," he said coldly.

"How? NASA has no ready hardware to land a platoon of Marines on the lunar surface. Thanks to the shortsightedness of you and your predecessors, their efforts are wrapped up in the orbiting space station."

"I can't stand by and allow you to start a war in space that might spill over on earth."

"Your hands are tied."

"You could be wrong about the Russians."

"Let us hope so," said Joe. "But I suspect they may have already killed Raymond LeBaron."

"And this is why you've taken me into your confidence?"

"If the worst happens, at least you have been alerted to the facts and can prepare your strategy for the bedlam to follow."

"Suppose I have my bodyguards arrest you as a crackpot assassin, and then blow the lid off Jersey Colony?"

"Arrest me and Reggie Salazar dies. Expose the project and all the behind-the-scenes double-dealing, the backstabbing, the fraud and the lies, and, yes, the deaths that took place to accomplish what has been achieved, will be laid on your political doorstep, beginning when you were sworn into the Senate. You'll get bounced out of the White House under a bigger cloud than Nixon, providing, of course, you live that long."

"You're threatening me with blackmail?" So far the President had kept his anger under control but now he was seething with fury. "Salazar's life would be a small price to pay to preserve the integrity of the presidency."

"Two weeks, then you can announce the existence of the Jersey Colony to the world. With trumpets sounding and drums beating you can play the big political hero. Two weeks, and you can demonstrate proof of this century's greatest scientific achievement."

"After all this time, why then?"

"Because that's when we've scheduled the original crew to leave Jersey Colony and return to earth with the accumulation of two decades of space research-- reports on meteorological and lunar probes, the scientific results on thousands of biological, chemical, and atmospheric experiments, uncountable photographs and miles of video records of the first human establishment of a planetary civilization. The first phase of the project is completed. The dream of the `inner core' is finished. Jersey Colony now belongs to the American people."

The President toyed with his putter thoughtfully. Then he asked, "Who are you?"

"Look to your memory. We knew each other many years ago."

"How am I to contact you?"

"I'll arrange another meeting when I feel it's required." Joe lifted the clubs from the cart's rack and began walking along a narrow path toward the clubhouse. Then he stopped and came back.

"By the way, I lied. That's not a bomb, but a present from the `inner core'-- a new box of golf balls."

The President gazed at him in frustration. "Burn in hell, Joe."

"Oh, and one more thing. . . congratulations."

"Congratulations?"

Joe handed him the scorecard. "I kept track of your play. You hit a seventy-nine."

<<4>>

The sleek hull of the sailboard skimmed the choppy water with the graceful elegance of an arrow shot through mist. Its slick and delicately curved shape was as visually pleasing to the eye as it was efficient in achieving great speed over the waves. Perhaps the simplest of all sailing systems, the board was built with a polyethylene shell molded over an inner core of rigid plastic foam to give it lightness and flexibility. A small skeg or fin protruded from below the stern for lateral control, while a daggerboard hung down near the middle to prevent the board from being swept sideways by the wind.