Текст книги "Raise the Titanic"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

    "I thought you'd be dancing on the Titanic about now."

    "The ship means nothing to me. My only concern is the byzanium in its vault, and I've been told it will be another forty-eight hours before the derelict can be moved into dry dock and the wreckage in the cargo hold removed."

    "Then why don't you relax for a couple of days and have some fun. In a few weeks your problems will be over. The Sicilian Project will be off the drawing boards and a working reality."

    Seagram's eyes closed for a moment. "I wanted to talk to you," he said quietly. "I wanted to talk to you about Dana."

    Oh God, Pitt thought, here it comes. How do you keep a straight face, knowing you made love to the man's wife. Up to now, it had been all he could do to maintain a casual tone in his conversation. "How is she getting along after her ordeal?"

    "All right, I suppose." Seagram shrugged.

    "You suppose? She was airlifted off the ship by the Navy two days ago. Haven't you seen her since she came ashore?"

    "She refuses to see me . . . said it was all over between us."

    Pitt contemplated the vodka in the glass. "So it's hearts and flowers time. So who needs her? If I were you, Seagram, I'd find myself the most expensive hooker in town, charge her off on your government expense account, and forget Dana."

    "You don't understand. I love her."

    "God, you sound like a letter to Ann Landers." Pitt reached for the bottle on the tiled floor and freshened his drink. "Look, Seagram, you're a pretty decent guy underneath your pompous, bullshit facade. And who knows, you may go down in history as the great merciful scientist who saved mankind from a nuclear holocaust. You've still got enough looks to attract a woman, and I'm willing to bet that when you clean off your desk in Washington and bid a fond farewell to government service you'll be a rich man. So don't expect tears and violins from me over a lost love. You've got it made."

    "What good is it without the woman I love?"

    "I see I'm not getting through to you." Pitt was one third into the bottle and a warm glow had begun to course through his body. "Why throw yourself down the sewer over a broad who suddenly thinks she's found the fountain of youth. If she's gone, she's gone. Men come crawling back, not women. They persevere. There isn't a man alive a woman can't persevere into the grave. Forget Dana, Seagram. There are millions of other fish in the stream. If you need the phony security of a pair of tits making your bed and fixing your supper, go hire a maid; they're cheaper and a hell of a lot less trouble in the long run."

    "So now you think you're Sigmund Freud," Seagram said, rising from the john. "Women are nothing to you. A beautiful relationship with you is a love affair with a bottle. You're out of touch with the world."

    "Am I?" Pitt stood up in the tub and yanked open the door to the medicine cabinet so that Seagram was staring at his refection in the mirror. "Take a good look. There's the face of a man who's out of touch with the world. Behind those eyes there's a man who's driven by a thousand demons of his own making. You're sick, Seagram. Mentally sick over problems you've magnified out of all proportion. Dana's desertion is only a crutch to enhance your black depression. You don't love her as much as you think you do. She's only a symbol, a prop you lean on. Look at the glaze over the eyes; look at the slack skin around the mouth. Get yourself to a psychiatrist, and damned soon. Think about Gene Seagram for once. Forget about saving the world. It's time you saved yourself."

    Seagram's face was violently flushed. He clenched his fists and trembled. Then the mirror before his eyes began to mist, not on the outside but from within, and another face slowly emerged. A strange face with the same haunted eyes.

    Pitt stood mute and watched as Seagram's expression turned from anger to sheer terror.

    "God, no . . . it's him!"

    "Him?"

    "Him!" he cried, "Joshua Hays Brewster!" Then Seagram struck the mirror with both fists, shattering the glass, and fled the room.

76

    Pensive and dreamy-eyed, Dana stood in front of a full length mirror and scrutinized herself. The bruise on her head was neatly covered by a new hair style and, except for several fading black-and-blue marks, her body looked as lithe and perfect as ever. It definitely passed inspection. Then she stared at the eyes that stared back. There were no additional crow's feet, no new puffiness around the edges. The mythical hardened look of a fallen woman was nowhere to be seen. Instead, they seemed to gleam with a vibrant expectancy that hadn't been there before. Her rebirth as an unfettered woman of the world had been a complete success.

    "Care for any breakfast?" Marie Sheldon's voice carried up the stairs.

    Dana donned a soft lace dressing gown. "Just coffee, thanks," she said. "What time is it?"

    "A few minutes after nine."

    A minute later Marie poured the coffee as Dana stepped into the kitchen. "What's on the agenda for today?" she asked.

    "Something typically feminine-I think I'll go shopping. Have lunch by myself at an intimate tearoom and then go over to the NUMA clubhouse and scare up a partner for an hour or so of tennis."

    "Sounds charming," Marie said dryly; "but I suggest you stop playing Mrs. Rich Bitch, which you aren't, and start acting like a broad with responsibilities, which you are."

    "What's the sense in it?"

    Marie threw up her hands in exasperation. " `What's the sense in it?' For one thing, sweetie, you're the girl of the hour. In case you haven't noticed, the phone has been ringing off the hook for the past three days. Every woman's magazine in the country wants your exclusive story, and I've taken at least eight requests for you to appear on nationally televised talk shows. Like it or not, you're big news. Don't you think it's about time you came back down to earth and met the onslaught head-on?"

    "What's there to say? So I was the only woman on board an old drifting derelict with twenty men. Big deal."

    "You almost died out there in the ocean and you treat the whole episode as though it were just another cruise down the Nile on Cleopatra's barge. Having all those men catering to your every whim must have gone to your head."

    If only Marie knew the whole truth. But Dana and everyone on board had been sworn to secrecy by Warren Nicholson. The attempted assault by the Russians was to be buried and forgotten by everyone. But she took a perverse sort of satisfaction in knowing that her performance on the Titanic that cold stormy night would linger in the minds of the men who were present for the rest of their lives.

    "Too much happened out there." Dana sighed. "I'm not the same person any more."

    "So what does that mean?"

    "To begin with, I'm taking out papers to divorce Gene."

    "It's come to that?"

    "It's come to that," Dana repeated firmly. "Also, I'm going to take a leave of absence from NUMA and have a fling at life. As long as I'm the exalted female of the year, I'm going to make it pay. The personal stories, the TV appearances-they're going to enable me to do what every girl yearns to do all her life."

    "Which is?"

    "Spend money, and have a high old time doing it."

    Marie shook her head sadly. "I'm beginning to feel like I've helped create a monster."

    Dana took her gently by the hand. "Not you, dear friend. It took a brush with death for me to learn that I had condemned myself to an existence that led nowhere.

    "It began, I suppose, with my childhood-" Dana's voice trailed off as the terrible memories came flickering back. "My childhood was a nightmare, and I've carried its effects with me all my adult life. I even infected my marriage with its sickness. Gene recognized the symptoms and married me more out of pity than deep love. Unwittingly, he treated me more as a father than as a lover.

     "I can't force myself to go back now. The emotional responses that it takes to build and maintain a lasting relationship just aren't in me. I'm a loner, Marie; I know that now. I'm too selfish with my affections toward others; it's the albatross around my neck. From here on in, I'm going it alone. That way I can never hurt anyone ever again."

    Marie looked up, tears in her eyes. "Well then, I guess between us we'll even up the sides. You're folding your marriage and going back to the single ways while I'm shucking the odd-woman-out syndrome and joining the great ranks of the matronly housewives."

    Dana's lips parted in a wide smile. "You and Mel?"

    "Me and Mel."

    "When?"

    "It had better be soon or I'm going to have to order my trousseau from the Blessed Event Maternity Shop."

    "You're pregnant?"

    "That ain't Betty Crocker that's rising in my oven."

    Dana came around the table and hugged Marie. "You with a baby, I can't believe it."

    "You better believe it. They tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and massive doses of adrenaline, but it was no go. The frog still died."

    "You mean rabbit."

    "Where've you been? They gave up rabbits years ago."

    "Oh, Marie, I'm so happy for you. The two of us beginning whole new life patterns. Aren't you excited?"

    "Oh sure," Marie said in a dry tone. "Nothing like starting anew with a big bang."

    "Is there any other way?"

    "I've got the easy path, sweetie." Marie kissed Dana on to cheek lightly. "It's you I'm worried about. Just don't go too far too fast and fall off the deep end."

    "The deep end is where all the fun is."

    "Take my word for it. Learn to swim in the shallows."

    "Too tame." Dana's eyes grew thoughtful. "I'm going to start at the very crest."

    "And just how are you going to initiate that little feat?"

    Dana met Marie's eyes evenly. "All it takes is one little phone call."

    The President came from behind his desk in the Oval Office and greeted the Majority Leader of the Senate, John Burdick, with warmth.

    "John, it's good to see you. How are Josie and the kids?"

    Burdick, a tall, thin man with a bush of black hair that seldom saw a comb, shrugged good naturedly. "Josie's fine. And you know kids. As far as they're concerned, good old Dad is nothing but a money machine."

    After they were seated, the talk kicked off with their differences on budget programs. Although the two men were opposing party leaders and sniped at each other at every opportunity in the open, behind closed doors they were warm, intimate friends.

    "Congress is beginning to think you've gone mad, Mr. President. During the past six months, you've vetoed every spending bill sent to the White House from the Hill."

    "And I'm going to go right on vetoing until the day I walk through that door for the last time." The President paused to light a thin cigar. "Let's face the cold, hard truth, John. The government of the United States is broke, and it's been broke since the end of World War Two, but nobody will admit it. We go merrily on our way running up a national debt that defies comprehension, figuring that somewhere down the line the poor bastard that defeats us in the next election will pay the piper for the spending spree of the last fifty years."

    "What do you expect Congress to do? Declare bankruptcy?"

    "Sooner or later it may have to."

    "The consequences are unthinkable. The national debt is carried by half the insurance companies, savings and loans, and banks in the nation. They'd all be wiped out overnight."

    "So what else is new?"

    Burdick shook his head. "I refuse to accept it."

    "Damn it, John, you can't sweep it under the carpet. Do you realize that every taxpayer under the age of fifty will never see a Social Security check. In another twelve years it will be absolutely impossible to pay even a third of the people who are eligible for benefits. That's another reason I'm going to sound the warning. A small voice in the wilderness, I regretfully admit. But still, in the few months remaining of my term in office, I'm going to shout doom every chance I get"

    "The American people don't like to hear sad tidings. You won't be very popular."

    "I don't give a damn. I don't care one thin dime for what anybody thinks. Popularity contests are for egoists. A few months from now I'm going to be on my ketch, sailing peacefully somewhere south of Fiji, and the government can go straight to hell."

    "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. President. You're a good man. Even your worst enemies will concede that."

    But the President was not to be stopped. "We had a great republic going for a while, John, but you and I and all the other attorneys screwed it up. Government is a big business and attorneys shouldn't be allowed to take office. It's the accountants and the marketing people who should be congressmen and President."

    "It takes attorneys to run a legislature."

    The President shrugged wearily. "What's the use? Whatever course I take won't change a thing." Then he straightened in his chair and smiled. "My apologies, John, you didn't come here to hear me make a speech. What's on your mind?"

    "The underprivileged children's medical bill." Burdick stared intently at the President. "Are you going to veto that one too?"

    The President leaned back in his chair and studied his cigar. "Yes," he said simply.

    "That's my bill," Burdick said quietly. "I nursed it through both the House and the Senate."

    "I know."

    "How can you veto a bill for children whose families can't afford to give them proper medical attention?"

    "For the same reason I've vetoed added benefits for citizens over eighty, federal scholarship programs for the minorities, and a dozen other welfare bills. Somebody has to pay for them. And the working class who support this country has been pushed to the wall with a five-hundred. per-cent tax increase over the last ten years."

    "For the love of humanity, Mr. President."

    "For the love of a balanced budget, Senator. Where do you expect the funds to support your program to come from?"

    "You might begin by cutting back the budget of Meta Section."

    So there it was. Congressional snoops had finally breached the walls of Meta Section. It had to come sooner or later. At least it was later.

    He decided to play it noncommittal. "Meta Section?"

    "A super-classified think-tank you've supported for years. Surely, I don't have to describe its operation to you."

    "No," the President said evenly. "You don't."

    An uncomfortable silence followed.

    Finally Burdick forged ahead "It took months of checking by my investigators-you covered the financial tracks very cleverly-but they finally managed to backtrail the source of the funds used to raise the Titanic to a supersecret organization, operating under the name of Meta Section, and then ultimately to you. My God, Mr. President, you authorized nearly three quarters of a billion dollars to salvage that worthless old wreck and then lied by saying that it costs less than half that amount. And here I am only asking for fifty million to get the children's medical bill off the ground. If I may say so, sir, your odd sense of priorities is a bloody crime."

    "What do you intend to do, John? Blackmail me into signing your bill?"

    "To be perfectly candid, yes."

    "I see."

    Before the conversation could go on, the President's secretary entered the room.

    "Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. President, but you asked to check over your appointment schedule for this afternoon."

    The President made an apologetic gesture to Burdick. "Excuse me, John, this will only take a moment."

    The President scanned the schedule. He stopped at a name penciled in for 415. He looked up at his secretary, his eyebrows raised. "Mrs. Seagram?"

    "Yes, sir. She called and said she had traced down the history of that model ship in the bedroom. I thought perhaps you might be interested in what she discovered, so I squeezed her in for a few minutes."

    The President held his hands over his face and closed his eyes. "Call Mrs. Seagram and cancel the four-fifteen appointment. Ask her to join me for dinner on board the Presidential yacht at seven-thirty."

    The secretary made the notation and left the room.

    The President turned back to Burdick. "Now, John, if I still refuse to sign your bill, what then?"

    Burdick held up. his hands. "Then you leave me no choice but to blow the whistle on your clandestine uses of government funds. In that event, I fear you can expect a scandal that will make the old Watergate mess look like an Easter egg hunt."

    "You'd do that?"

    "I would."

    An icy calm seemed to settle ever the President. "Before you dash out the door and waste more of the taxpayers' dollars on a congressional hearing over my fiscal maneuverings, I suggest you hear from the horse's own mouth what Meta Section is all about and what they've produced in the defense of the country that keeps us both gainfully employed."

    "I'm listening, Mr. President." Good.

    One hour later, a thoroughly subdued Senator John Burdick sat in his office and carefully dropped his secret file on Meta Section into a shredding machine.

77

    It was a staggering sight to see the Titanic propped high and dry in the huge canyon of a dry dock.

    Already the noise had started. Welders were attacking the clogged passageways. Riveters were hammering against the scarred hull, beefing up the temporary repairs made at sea to the jagged wounds below the waterline. Overhead, two sky-reaching cranes dipped their jaws down into the darkened cargo holds only to have them reappear minutes later with mangled bits and pieces of debris clutched in their iron teeth.

    Pitt took what he knew would be his last look about the gymnasium and Upper Deck. Like bidding a New Year's Eve good-by to a passing piece of his life, he stood there and soaked up the memories. The sweat of the salvage, the blood and sacrifice of his crew, the fragility of their hope that had in the end carried them through. It would all be left behind. Finally, he cast aside his reverie and walked down the main staircase and eventually found his way to the forward cargo hold on G Deck.

    They were all present and accounted for and looking strangely unfamiliar under the silver hard hats. Gene Seagram, gaunt and trembling, paced back and forth. Mel Donner, wiping trickles of sweat from his neck and chin, and nervously keeping a concerned eye on Seagram. Herb Lusky, a Meta Section mineralogist, standing by with his analysis equipment. Admirals Sandecker and Kemper, huddled in one corner of the darkened hold and conversing in low tones.

    Pitt carefully stepped around the twisted bulkhead supports and over the rippled deck of warped steel until he was standing behind a shipyard worker who was intently aiming his cutting torch at a massive hinge on the vault door. The cult, Pitt thought darkly, it was only a matter of minutes now before the secret hidden inside its gut was laid bare, suddenly, he became aware of an icy chill, everything around him seemed to turn cold, and he began to dread the opening of the vault.

    As if sharing his uneasiness, the other men in the dank hold became quiet and gathered beside Pitt in restless apprehension.

    At last, the worker turned off the fiery blue jet of his torch and raised his face shield.

    "How's it look?" Pitt asked.

    "They sure built them good in the old days," the worker replied. "I've torched out the lock mechanism and knocked off the hinges, but she's still frozen solid."

    "What now?"

    "We run a cable from the Doppleman crane above, attach it to the vault door and hope for the best."

    It took the better part of an hour for a crew of men to wrestle a two-inch-thick cable into the hold and fasten it onto the vault. Then, when all was ready, a signal was relayed to the crane operator via a portable radio transmitter, and the cable began slowly to straighten out its curves and tighten. No one had to be told to move back out of the way. They all knew that if the wire took it in its head to snap, it would whiplash through the hold with more than enough force to split a man in two.

    In the distance they could hear the engine of the crane straining. For long seconds nothing happened; the cable stretched and quivered, its strands groaning under the tremendous load. Pitt threw caution aside and edged closer. Still nothing happened. The vault's stubborn resolve seemed as firm as the steel of its walls.

    The cable slackened as the crane operator eased off the strain to work up his engine's rpm's. Then he revved up and engaged the clutch once more, and the cable suddenly went taut with an audible twang. To the silent men who looked anxiously on, it seemed inconceivable that the old rusted vault could stand up to such a powerful assault, and yet the inconceivable was apparently happening. But then a tiny hairline crack made its appearance along the upper edge of the vault door. It was followed by two vertical cracks along the sides and, finally, a fourth, running across the bottom. Abruptly, with an agonizing screech of protest, the door reluctantly relinquished its grip and tore off the great steel cube.

    No water came out of the yawning blackness. The vault had remained airtight during its long sojourn in the deep abyss.

    Nobody made a move. They stood rooted, frozen, mesmerized by that uninviting black square hole. A musty stench rolled out from within.

    Lusky was the first to find his voice. "My God, what is it? What in hell is that smell?"

    "Get me a light," Pitt ordered one of the workmen.

    Someone produced a fluorescent hand light. Pitt switched it on and danced its bluish-white beam on the interior of the vault.

    They could see ten wooden boxes, tightly secured by stout leather straps. They could also see something else, something that turned every face ghostly pale. It was the mummified remains of a man.

78

    He was lying in one corner of the vault, eyes closed and sunken in, skin as blackened as old tar paper on a warehouse roof. The muscle tissue was shrunken over the bony skeleton and a bacterial growth covered him from head to toe. He looked like a moldy piece of bread. Only the white hair of his head and beard were perfectly preserved. A pool of viscous fluid extended around the remains and moistened the atmosphere, as if a bucket of water had been thrown on the walls of the vault.

    "Whoever it is is still wet," Kemper murmured, his faces mask of horror. "How can that be after so long?"

    "Water accounts for over half the weight of the body," Pitt answered quietly. "There simply wasn't enough air trapped inside the vault to evaporate all of the fluids."

    Donner turned away, repulsed by the macabre scene. "Who was he?" he managed, fighting the urge to vomit.

    Pitt looked at the mummy impassively. "I think we will find that his name was Joshua Hays Brewster."

    "Brewster?" Seagram whispered, his frightened eyes wild with fear.

    "Why not?" Pitt said. "Who else knew the contents of the vault?"

    Admiral Kemper shook his head in stunned wonderment. "Can you imagine," he said reverently, "what it must have been like dying in that black hole while the ship was sinking into the depths of the sea?"

    "I don't care to dwell on it," Donner said. "I'll probably have nightmares every night for the next month as it is."

    "It's positively ghastly," Sandecker said with difficulty, He studied the saddened, knowing expression on Pitt's face. `You knew about this?"

    Pitt nodded. "I was forewarned by Commodore Bigalow."

    Sandecker fixed him with a speculative look, but he let it drop at that and turned to one of the shipyard workers. "Call the coroner's office and tell them to come and get that thing out of there. Then clear the area and keep it cleared until I give you an order to the contrary."

    The shipyard people needed no further urging. They disappeared from the cargo hold as if by magic.

    Seagram grabbed Lusky's arm with an intensity that made he mineralogist start. "Okay, Herb, it's your show now."

    Hesitantly, Lusky entered the cavity, stepped over the mummy and pried open one of the ore boxes. Then he set up his equipment and began analyzing the contents. After what seemed forever to the men pacing the deck outside the vault. he looked up, his eyes reflecting a dazed disbelief.

    "This stuff is worthless."

    Seagram moved in closer. "Say again."

    "It's worthless. There isn't even a minute trace of byzanium."

    "Try another box," Seagram gasped feverishly.

    Lusky nodded and went to work. But it was the same story on the next ore box, and the next, until the contents of all ten were strewn everywhere.

    Lusky looked as though he was suffering a seizure. "Junk . . . pure junk.. ." he stammered. "Nothing but common gravel, the kind you'd find under any roadbed."

    The hushed note of bewilderment in Lusky's voice faded away and the quiet in the Titanic's cargo hold became heavy and deep. Pitt stared downward, stared dumbly. Every eye was held by the rubble and the broken boxes while numbed minds fought to grasp the appalling reality, the horrible, undeniable truth that everything-the salvage, the exhausting labor, the astronomical drain of money, the deaths of Munk and Woodson had all been for nothing. The byzanium was not on the Titanic, nor had it ever been. They were the victims of a monstrously cruel joke that had been played out seventy-six years before.

    It was Seagram who finally broke the silence. In the final ignition of madness he grinned to himself in the gray light, the grin mushrooming into' a bansheelike laughter that echoed in the steel hold. He thrust himself through the door of the vault, snatched up a rock, and struck Lusky on the side of the head sending a spray of red over the yellow wood ore boxes.

    He was still laughing, locked in the throes of black hysteria, when he fell upon the putrescent remains of Joshua Hays Brewster and began bashing the mummified head against the vault wall until it loosened from the neck and came off in his hands.

    As he held the ugly, abhorrent thing before him, Seagram's conflicted mind suddenly saw the blackened, parchmentlike lips spread into a hideous grin. His breakdown was complete. The parallel depression of Joshua Hays Brewster had reached out through the mists of time and bequeathed Seagram a ghostly inheritance that hurled the physicist into the yawning jaws of a madness from which he was never to escape.

79

    Six days later, Donner entered the hotel dining room where Admiral Sandecker was eating breakfast and eased into a vacant chair across the table. "Have you heard the latest?"

    Sandecker paused between bites of his omelet. "If it's more bad news, I'd just as soon you keep it to yourself."

    "They nailed me coming out of my apartment this morning." He threw a folded paper on the table in front of him. "A subpoena to appear in front of a congressional investigating committee."

    Sandecker forked another slice of the omelet without looking at the paper. "Congratulations."

    "Same goes for you, Admiral. Dollars-to doughnuts a federal marshal is lurking in your office anteroom this very minute, waiting to slap one on you."

    "Who's behind it?"

    "Some punk-eased freshman senator from Wyoming who's trying to make a name for himself before he's forty." Donner dabbed a crumpled handkerchief on his damp forehead. "The stupid ass even insists on having Gene testify."

    "That I'd have to see." Sandecker pushed the plate away and leaned back in his chair. "How is Seagram getting along?"

    "Manic depressive psychosis is the fancy term for it."

    "How about Lusky?"

    "Twenty stitches and a nasty concussion. He should be out of the hospital in another week."

    Sandecker shook his head. "I hope I never have to live through anything like that ever again." He took a swallow of coffee. "How do we play it?"

    "The President called me personally from the White House last night. He said to play it straight. The last thing he wants is to become entangled in a snarl of conflicting lies."

    "What about the Sicilian Project?"

    "It died a quick death when we opened the Titanic's vault," Donner said. "We have no alternative but to spill the entire can of worms from the beginning to the sorry end."

    "Why does the dirty laundry have to be washed in the open? What good will it do?"

    "The woes of a democracy," Donner said resignedly. "Everything has to be open and above board, even if it means giving away secrets to an unfriendly foreign government."

    Sandecker placed his hands on his face and sighed. "Well, I guess I'll be looking for a new job."

    "Not necessarily. The President has promised to issue a statement to the effect that the whole failure of the project was his responsibility and his alone."

    Sandecker shook his head. "No good. I have several enemies in Congress. They're just drooling in anticipation of turning the screws on my resignation from NUMA."

    "It may not come to that."

    "For the past fifteen years, ever since I attained the rank of admiral, I've had to double-deal with politicians. Take my word for it, it's a dirty business. Before this thing is over with, everyone remotely connected with the Sicilian Project and the raising of the Titanic will be lucky if they can find a job cleaning stables."

    "I'm truly sorry it had to end like this, Admiral."

    "Believe me, so am I" Sandecker finished off his coffee and patted a napkin against his mouth. "Tell me, Donner, what's the batting order? Who has the illustrious senator from Wyoming named as the lead-off witness?"

    "My understanding is that he intends taking the Titanic's salvage operation first, and then working backward to involve Meta Section and finally the President." Donner picked up the subpoena and shoved it back in his coat pocket. "The first witness they're most likely to call is Dirk Pitt."