Текст книги "Deep Six"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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63

The President was sitting at a writing table in his pajamas and bathrobe when Fawcett walked into the bedroom.

“Well, did you speak with Moran?”

Fawcett’s face was grim. “He refused to listen to any of your proposals.”

“Is that it?”

“He said you were finished as President, and nothing you could say was of any consequence. Then he threw in a few insults.”

“I want to hear them,” the President demanded sharply.

Fawcett sighed uncomfortably. “He said your behavior was that of a madman and that you belonged in the psycho ward. He compared you with Benedict Arnold and claimed he would see your administration wiped from the history books. After he ran through several more irrelevant slurs, he suggested you do the country a great service by committing suicide, thereby saving the taxpayers a long-drawn-out investigation and expensive trial.”

The President’s face became a mask of rage. “That sniveling little bastard thinks he’s going to put me in a courtroom?”

“It’s no secret, Moran is pulling out all stops to take your place.”

“His feet are too small to fill my shoes,” the President said through tight lips. “And his head is too big to fit the job.”

“To hear him tell it, his right hand is already raised to take the oath of office,” Fawcett said. “The proposed impeachment proceeding is only the first step in a blueprint for a transition from you to him.”

“Alan Moran will never occupy the White House,” the President said, his voice flat and hard.

“No congressional session, no impeachment,” said Fawcett. “But you can’t keep them corralled indefinitely.”

“They can’t meet until I give the word.”

“What about tomorrow morning at Lisner Auditorium?”

“The troops will break that up in short order.”

“Suppose the Virginia and Maryland National Guardsmen stand their ground?”

“For how long against veteran soldiers and Marines?”

“Long enough for a great many to die,” said Fawcett.

“So what?” the President scoffed coldly. “The longer I keep Congress in disarray, the more I can accomplish. A few deaths are a small price to pay.”

Fawcett looked at him uneasily. This was not the same man who solemnly swore during his campaign for the Presidency that no American boy would be ordered to fight and die under his administration. It was all he could do to act out his role of friend and adviser. After a moment he shook his head. “I hope you’re not being overly destructive.”

“Getting cold feet, Dan?”

Fawcett felt trapped in a corner, but before he could reply Lucas entered the room carrying a tray with cups and a teapot.

“Anyone care for some herbal tea?” he asked.

The President nodded. “Thank you, Oscar. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“Dan?”

“Thanks, I could use some.”

Lucas poured and passed out the cups, keeping one for himself. Fawcett drained his almost immediately.

“Could be warmer,” he complained.

“Sorry,” said Lucas. “It cooled on the way up from the kitchen.”

“Tastes fine to me,” the President said, between sips. “I don’t care for liquid so hot it burns your tongue.” He paused and set the cup on the writing desk. “Now then, where were we?”

“Discussing your new policies,” Fawcett said, deftly sidestepping out of the corner. “Western Europe is in an uproar over your decision to withdraw American forces from NATO. The joke circulating around Embassy Row is that Antonov is planning a coming-out party at the Savoy Hotel in London.”

“I don’t appreciate the humor,” the President said coldly. “President Antonov has given me his personal assurances that he will stay in his own yard.”

“I seem to remember Hitler telling Neville Chamberlain the same thing.”

The President looked as if he was going to make an angry retort, but suddenly he yawned and shook his head, fighting off a creeping drowsiness. “No matter what anyone thinks,” he said slowly, “I’ve diffused the nuclear threat and that’s all that matters.”

Fawcett took the cue and yawned contagiously. “If you don’t need me any more tonight, Mr. President, I think I’ll head for home and a soft bed.”

“Same here,” said Lucas. “My wife and kids are beginning to wonder if I still exist.”

“Of course. I’m sorry for keeping you so late.” The President moved over to the bed, kicked off his slippers and removed his robe. “Turn on the TV, will you, Oscar? I’d like to catch a few minutes of the twenty-four-hour cable news.” Then he turned to Fawcett. “Dan, first thing in the morning, schedule a meeting with General Metcalf. I want him to brief me on his troop movements.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Fawcett assured him. “Good night.”

In the elevator going down to the first floor Fawcett looked at his watch. “Two hours should do it.”

“He’ll sleep like the dead and wake up sicker than a dog,” said Lucas.

“By the way, how did you manage it? I didn’t see you slip anything into his tea, and yet you poured all three cups from the same pot.”

“An old magician’s trick,” Lucas said, laughing. “The teapot had two interior compartments.”

The elevator doors opened and they met Emmett, who was standing off to one side. “Any problems?” he asked.

Fawcett shook his head. “As smooth as glass. The President went down like a baby.”

Lucas looked at him, his eyes cautious. “Now comes the hard part – fooling the Russians.”

“He’s sleeping unusually soundly tonight,” said Lugovoy.

The monitoring psychologist who drew the early-morning shift nodded. “A good sign. Less chance for Comrade Belkaya to penetrate the President’s dreams.”

Lugovoy studied the display screen that recorded the President’s body functions. “Temperature up one degree. Congestion forming in the nasal passages. Appears as though our subject is coming down with either a summer cold or the flu.”

“Fascinating, we know he’s been attacked by a virus before he feels it.”

“I don’t think it’s serious,” Lugovoy said. “But you better keep a tight watch in case it develops into something that could jeopardize the project—”

Abruptly the green data filling the dozen screens encompassing the console faded into distorted lines and vanished into blackness.

The monitoring psychologist tensed. “What in hell—”

Then, as quickly as the display data were wiped clean, they returned in bright, clear readings. Lugovoy quickly checked the circuit warning lights. They all read normal.

“What do you suppose that was?”

Lugovoy looked thoughtful. “Possibly a temporary failure in the implant transmitter.”

“No indication of a malfunction.”

“An electrical interference, perhaps?”

“Of course. An atmospheric disturbance of some kind. That would explain it. The symptoms match. What else could it be?”

Lugovoy passed a weary hand across his face and stared at the monitors. “Nothing,” he said somberly. “Nothing of any concern.”

General Metcalf sat in his military residence and swirled the brandy around in his glass as he closed the cover of the report in his lap. He looked up sadly and stared at Emmett, who was sitting across the room.

“A tragic crime,” he said slowly. “The President had every chance for achieving greatness. No finer man ever sat in the White House.”

“The facts are all there,” said Emmett, gesturing at the report. “Thanks to the Russians, he’s mentally unfit to continue in office.”

“I must agree, but it’s no easy thing. He and I have been friends for nearly forty years.”

“Will you call off the troops and allow Congress to meet at Lisner Auditorium tomorrow?” Emmett pressed.

Metcalf sipped the brandy and gave a weary nod to his head. “I’ll issue orders for their withdrawal first thing in the morning. You can inform the House and Senate leaders they can hold session in the Capitol building.”

“Can I ask a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Is it possible to remove the Marine guard from around the White House by midnight?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Metcalf. “Any particular reason?”

“A deception, General,” Emmett replied. “One you will find most intriguing.”

64

Sandecker stood in the chart room of NUMA and peered through a magnification enhancer at an aerial photo of Johns Island, South Carolina. He straightened and looked at Giordino and Pitt, who were standing on the opposite side of the table. “Beats me,” he said after a short silence. “If Suvorov pinpointed his landmarks correctly, I can’t understand why he didn’t find Bougainville’s lab facility from a helicopter.”

Pitt consulted the Soviet agent’s notebook. “He used an old abandoned gas station for his base point,” he said, pointing to a tiny structure on the photograph, “which can be distinguished here.”

“Emmett or Brogan know you made a copy before we left Guantanamo Bay?” asked Giordino, nodding toward the notebook.

Pitt smiled. “What do you think?”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“If Suvorov escaped the lab at night,” said Sandecker, “it’s conceivable he got his bearings crossed.”

“A good undercover operative is a trained observer,” Pitt explained. “He was precise in his description of landmarks. I doubt he lost his sense of direction.”

“Emmett has two hundred agents crawling over the area,” Sandecker said. “As of fifteen minutes ago, they came up empty-handed.”

“Then where?” Giordino asked in a general sense. “No structure the size Suvorov recorded shows on the aerial survey. A few old houseboats, some scattered small homes, a couple of decrepit sheds, nothing on the order of a warehouse.”

“An underground facility?” Sandecker speculated.

Giordino considered the point. “Suvorov did say he took the elevator up to break out.”

“On the other hand, he mentions walking down a ramp to a gravel road.”

“A ramp might suggest a boat,” Giordino ventured.

Sandecker looked doubtful. “No good. The only water near the spot where Suvorov puts the lab is a creek with a depth of no more than two or three feet. Far too shallow to float a vessel large enough to require an elevator.”

“There is another possibility,” said Pitt.

“Which is?”

“A barge.”

Giordino looked across the table at Sandecker. “I think Dirk may have something.”

Pitt stepped over to a telephone, dialed a number and switched the call to a speaker.

“Data Department,” came a groggy voice.

“Yaeger, you awake?”

“Oh, God, it’s you, Pitt. Why do you always have to call after midnight?”

“Listen, I need information on a particular type of vessel. Can your computers come up with a projection of its class if I supply the dimensions?”

“Is this a game?”

“Believe you me, this is no game,” Sandecker growled.

“Admiral!” Yaeger muttered, coming alert. “I’ll get right on it. What are your dimensions?”

Pitt thumbed to the correct page in the notebook and read them off into the speaker phone. “A hundred sixty-eight feet in length at inside perpendiculars by thirty-three feet in the beam. The approximate height is ten feet.”

“Not much to go on,” Yaeger grumbled.

“Try,” Sandecker replied sternly.

“Hold on. I’m moving to the keyboard.”

Giordino smiled at the admiral. “Care to make a wager?”

“Name it.”

“A bottle of Chivas Regal against a box of your cigars Dirk’s right.”

“No bet,” said Sandecker. “My specially rolled cigars cost far more than a bottle of scotch.”

Yaeger could be heard clearing his throat. “Here it is.” There was a slight pause. “Sorry, not enough data. Those figures are a rough match for any one of a hundred different craft.”

Pitt thought a moment. “Suppose the height was the same from bow to stern.”

“You talking a flat superstructure?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on,” said Yaeger. “Okay, you’ve lowered the numbers. Your mystery vessel looks like a barge.”

“Eureka,” exclaimed Giordino.

“Don’t cash in your coupons yet,” Yaeger cautioned. “The dimensions don’t fit any known barge in existence.”

“Damn!” Sandecker blurted. “So near, yet—”

“Wait,” Pitt cut in. “Suvorov gave us interior measurements.” He leaned over the speaker phone. “Yaeger, add two feet all around and run it through again.”

“You’re getting warmer,” Yaeger’s voice rasped over the speaker. “Try this on for size – no pun intended– one hundred and ninety-five by thirty-five by twelve feet.”

“Beam and height correspond,” said Pitt, “but your length is way off.”

“You gave me interior length between perpendicular bulkheads. I’m giving you overall length including a raked bow of twenty-five feet.”

“He’s right,” said Sandecker. “We didn’t allow for the scoop of the forward end.”

Yaeger continued. “What we’ve got is a dry cargo barge, steel construction, two hundred and eighty to three hundred tons – self-enclosed compartments for carrying grain, lumber and so forth. Probably manufactured by the Nashville Bridge Company, Nashville, Tennessee.”

“The draft?” Pitt pushed.

“Empty or loaded?”

“Empty.”

“Eighteen inches.”

“Thanks, pal. You’ve done it again.”

“Done what?”

“Go back to sleep.”

Pitt switched off the speaker and turned to Sandecker. “The smoke clears.”

Sandecker fairly beamed. “Clever, clever people, the Bougainvilles.”

Pitt nodded. “I have to agree. The last place anyone would look for an expensively equipped laboratory is inside a rusty old river barge moored in a swamp.”

“She also has the advantage of being movable,” said Sandecker. The admiral referred to any vessel, scow or aircraft carrier in the feminine gender. “A tug can transport and dock her anywhere the water depth is over a foot and a half.”

Pitt stared at the aerial photo pensively. “The next test is to determine where the Bougainvilles hid it again.”

“The creek where she was tied leads into the Stono River,” Sandecker noted.

“And the Stono River is part of the Intracoastal Waterway,” Pitt added. “They can slip it into any one of ten thousand rivers, streams, bays and sounds from Boston to Key West.”

“No way of second-guessing the destination,” Giordino murmured dejectedly.

“They won’t keep it in South Carolina waters,” Pitt said. “Too obvious. The catch, as I see it, boils down to north or south, and a distance of six, maybe eight hundred miles.”

“A staggering job,” Sandecker said in a soft voice, “untangling her from the other barges plying the eastern waterways. They’re thicker than leaves in a New England October.”

“Still, it’s more than we had to go on before,” Pitt said hopefully.

Sandecker turned from the photo. “Better give Emmett a call and steer him onto our discovery. Someone in his army of investigators may get lucky and stumble on the right barge.”

The admiral’s words were empty of feeling. He didn’t want to say what was on his mind.

If Lee Tong Bougainville suspected government investigators were breathing down his neck, his only option would be to kill the Vice President and Loren, and dispose of their bodies to cover his tracks.

65

“The patient will live to fight another day,” said Dr. Harold Gwynne, the President’s physician, cheerfully. He was a cherubic little man with a balding head and friendly blue eyes. “A common case of the flu bug. Stay in bed for a couple of days until the fever subsides. I’ll give you an antibiotic and something to relieve the nausea.”

“I can’t stay on my back,” the President protested weakly. “Too much work to do.”

There was little fight in his words. The chills from a 103-degree fever sandbagged him, and he was constantly on the verge of vomiting. His throat was sore, his nose stuffed up and he felt rotten from scalp to toenails.

“Relax and take it easy,” Gwynne ordered. “The world can turn without you for a few hours.” He jabbed a needle into the President’s arm and then held a glass of water for him to wash down a pill.

Dan Fawcett entered the bedroom. “About through, Doc?” he inquired.

Gwynne nodded. “Keep him off his feet. I’ll check back around two o’clock this afternoon.” He smiled warmly, closed his black bag and stepped through the door.

“General Metcalf is waiting,” Fawcett said to the President.

The President pushed a third pillow behind his back and struggled to a sitting position, massaging his temples as the room began to spin.

Metcalf was ushered in, resplendent in a uniform decorated by eight rows of colorful ribbons. There was a briskness about the general that was not present at their last meeting.

The President looked at him, his face pallid, his eyes drooping and watery. He began to hack uncontrollably.

Metcalf came over to the bed. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?” he asked solicitously.

The President shook his head and waved him away. “I’ll survive,” he said at last. “What’s the situation, Clayton?”

The President never called his Joint Chiefs by rank, preferring to lower them a couple of notches down their pedestal by addressing them with their Christian names.

Metcalf shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “The streets are quiet at the moment, but there were one or two isolated incidents of sniping. One soldier was killed and two Marines wounded.”

“Were the guilty parties apprehended?”

“Yes, sir,” Metcalf answered.

“A couple of criminal radicals, no doubt.”

Metcalf stared at his feet. “Not exactly. One was the son of Congressman Jacob Whitman of South Dakota and the other the son of Postmaster General Kenneth Potter. Both were under seventeen years of age.”

The President’s face looked stricken for an instant and then it quickly hardened. “Are your troops deployed at Lisner Auditorium?”

“One company of Marines is stationed on the grounds around the building.”

“Hardly seems enough manpower,” said the President. “The Maryland and Virginia Guard units combined will outnumber them five to one.”

“The Guard will never come within rifle shot of the auditorium,” said Metcalf knowingly. “Our plan is to defuse their effectiveness by stopping them before they arrive in the city.”

“A sound strategy,” the President said, his eyes briefly gleaming.

“I have a special news report,” said Fawcett, who was kneeling in front of the television set. He turned up the volume and stood aside so the picture could be seen from the bed.

Curtis Mayo was standing beside a highway blocked by armed soldiers. In the background a line of tracks stretched across the road, the muzzles of their guns pointing ominously at a convoy of personnel carriers.

“The Virginia National Guard troops that Speaker of the House Alan Moran was relying on to protect a meeting of Congress on the George Washington University campus this morning have been turned back outside the nation’s capital by armored units of the Army special forces. I understand the same situation exists with the Maryland Guard northeast of the city. So far there has been no threat of fighting. Both state Guard units appeared subdued, if not in numbers, by superior equipment. Outside Lisner Auditorium, a company of Marines, under the command of Colonel Ward Clarke, a Vietnam Medal of Honor holder, is turning away members of Congress, refusing them entrance to hold a session. And so once again the President has thwarted House and Senate members while he continues his controversial foreign affairs programs without their approval. This is Curtis Mayo, CNN news, on a highway thirty miles south of Washington.”

“Seen enough?” asked Fawcett, turning off the set.

“Yes, yes,” the President rasped happily. “That ought to keep that egomaniac Moran floundering without a rudder for a while.”

Metcalf rose to his feet. “If you won’t need me any further, Mr. President, I should be getting back to the Pentagon. Conditions are pretty unsettled with our division commanders in Europe. They don’t exactly share your views on pulling back their forces to the States.”

“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.”

Oates opened the folder and studied the contents without comment, and then passed it on to Brogan, who in turn handed it to Metcalf. When they finished they gazed at Emmett as if silently nominating him to speak first.

“What you gentlemen read in the report is true,” he said simply.

“Why hasn’t this come out before?” Oates demanded.

“Because there was never a reason to order an in-depth investigation into the man before,” answered Emmett. “The FBI is not in the habit of revealing skeletons in our legislators’ closets unless there is solid evidence of criminal activity in their backgrounds. Dirt on divorces, petty misdemeanors, sexual perversions or traffic violations we file in a vault and look the other way. Moran’s file showed him to be clean, too clean for someone who clawed his way to the top without benefit of education, average intelligence, a penchant for hard work, wealth or important contacts. Nothing about his character indicated aggressiveness or talent. As you can see the results aren’t exactly a recommendation for a pope.”

Metcalf scanned the report again. “This stock brokerage firm in Chicago, what is it called? Ah, yes, Blackfox and Churchill.”

“A front to launder Moran’s bribery and payoff operation. The names came off tombstones in a Fargo, North Dakota, cemetery. Bogus stock transactions are conducted to hide bribe money from shady special-interest groups, defense contractors, state and city officials seeking federal funding and not caring how they get it, underworld payments for favors. Speaker of the House Moran makes the Bougainvilles look like Boy Scouts.”

“We’ve got to go public with this,” Brogan said adamantly.

“I wouldn’t push it,” cautioned Oates. “Moran would go to any length to deny it, claiming it was a frame-up to keep him from leading the country to reconciliation and unity. I can see him pleading for the American tradition of fair play while he’s hanging from the cross. And by the time the Justice Department can make things tough for him, he will have been sworn in as President. Let’s face it, you can’t put the country through two impeachment proceedings in the same year.”

Metcalf nodded his head in agreement. “Coming on the heels of the President’s insane policies and Moran’s ravings about the Vice President’s presumed death, the upheaval may prove more than the public can accept. A complete loss of confidence in the federal system could ignite a voters’ revolt during the next election.”

“Or worse,” Emmett added. “More and more people are refusing to pay taxes on the rationale they don’t like where their tax dollars are spent. And you can’t blame them for not wanting to support a government managed by inept leaders and rip-off artists. You get five million people out there who tear up their tax forms come next April fifteenth, and the federal machinery as we know it will cease to function.”

The four men sat in the trailer office like frozen figures in a painting. The fantasy of their conjecture was not implausible. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The prospects of surviving the storm unscathed seemed remote.

At last Brogan said, “We’re lost without Vince Margolin.”

“That fellow Pitt over at NUMA gave us our first tangible lead,” said Brogan.

“So what have you got?” asked Metcalf.

“Pitt deduced that the mind control laboratory where Margolin is held is inside a river barge.”