Flood Tide dp-14

by Clive Cussler

  Pitt stiffened and stared in horrified fascination as the patches of white materialized into human faces on heads attached to bodies heaped together or lying alone in the silt. The lake bed was littered with what must have been hundreds of them, some piled three and four deep, perhaps more, many more. They rested on the slope of the lake in forty feet of water and spread out of sight into the deepest part of the lake. To Pitt it was like staring from a stage at a vast audience through an opaque curtain. Those in the front seats were clear and distinct, but me mass of people seated further to the rear faded and were lost in the dark. He couldn't begin to estimate the numbers. The appalling thought that came to him was that the bodies scattered in the shallower waters were but a small portion of those that lay out of the AUV's camera range in the unseen deep of the lake.

  The chilling fingers of revulsion touched the back of Pitt's neck as he saw a number of women and several children scattered among the sunken field of dead. Many of them were elderly. The icy, fresh water running down from the glaciers had maintained the bodies in a state of near-perfect preservation. They appeared to be lying peacefully, as if asleep, slightly indented in soft silt. On some the facial expressions were tranquil, on others the eyes bulged and mouths were thrust open in what was their final scream. They lay undisturbed, unaffected by the frigid water temperature and the daily sequences of light and dark. There was no sign of decay.

  As the submersible passed directly within one meter of what looked like an entire family, he could see by the folds of the eyes and features of the faces that they were Oriental. He could also see that their hands were tied behind them, their mouths taped and their feet roped to iron weights.

  They had died at the hands of mass murderers. There was no sign of gunshot or knife wounds. Despite the myth, death by drowning is not a pleasant way to die. Only fire can be more horrible. When sinking rapidly into the deep, the eardrums burst, water rushes into the nostrils, causing incredible sinus pain, and the lungs feel as if they are seared by hot coals. Nor was death swift. The terror as they were bound, transported to the middle of the lake in the dead of night and then thrown, he guessed, from under the center cabin of the mysterious twin-hulled black boat, their screams muffled by the black water. They were innocently trapped in some unknown conspiracy, and died terribly and in agony.

  Orion Lake was more than a picture of idyllic, charming scenery, much more. It was a graveyard.

  ALMOST THREE THOUSAND MILES TO THE EAST, A SPRING drizzle fell over the heart of the city as a black limousine rolled silently over the wet, empty streets. The darkened windows rolled up, its occupants unseen, the car seemed as if it was part of a nocturnal funeral procession carrying mourners to a cemetery.

  The dominant capital in the world, Washington had a benign aura of antiquated grandeur. This was especially true late at night when the offices were dark, the phones stopped ringing, the copy machines went mute and the distortions and exaggerations stopped coursing through the halls of the bureaucracy. Its political transient residents had all gone home to sleep with visions of campaign fund-raisers dancing in their heads. But for the lights and minimal traffic, the city took on a look of an abandoned Babylon or Persepolis.

  Neither of the two men in the passenger compartment spoke as the driver, seated at the wheel in front of the closed divider window, efficiently steered the limousine over the rain-slicked asphalt that mirrored the streetlights along the sidewalks. Admiral James Sandecker stared out the window, his eyes staying unfocused as the driver turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. His mind was lost in thought. Dressed in expensive sport coat and slacks, he didn't look the least bit tired. When the call came from Morton Laird, the President's chief of staff, he was hosting a late-night supper for a group of visiting oceanographers from Japan in his office suite atop the NUMA building across the river in Arlington, Virginia.

  Slight of build from jogging five miles a day and exercising in the NUMA employees' health center, Sandecker looked much younger than a man homing in on sixty-five years of age. The respected director of NUMA since its founding, he had built a federal bureau of ocean sciences that was the envy of every maritime nation in the world. Spirited and gutsy, he wasn't a man to take no for an answer. Thirty years in the Navy, highly decorated, he was picked by a former president to head up NUMA when there wasn't a dime in funding nor congressional approval. In fifteen years, Sandecker had stepped on many toes, made any number of enemies, but persevered until no member of Congress dared suggest he resign in favor of a political lackey. Egocentric yet simple, he vainly dyed the gray that was seeping into his flaming red hair and Vandyke beard.

  The man beside him, Commander Rudi Gunn, wore a rumpled business suit. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands briskly. The April nights in Washington could be far too chilly for comfort. A graduate of the Naval Academy, Gunn had served in submarines until he became the admiral's chief aide. When Sandecker resigned to form NUMA, Gunn had followed him and was appointed director in charge of operations. He looked across at Sandecker through horn-rimmed glasses, studied the luminescent dial of his watch and then broke the silence.

  He spoke in a voice mixed with fatigue and irritation. “Do you have any idea, Admiral, why the President demanded to see us at one o'clock in the morning?”

  Sandecker turned his gaze from the passing lights and shook his head. “I haven't a clue. Judging from Morton Laird's tone, it was an invitation we couldn't refuse.”

  “I'm not aware of any crisis going on,” muttered Gunn wearily, “domestic or foreign, that calls for middle-of-the-night secrecy.”

  “Nor I.”

  “Does the man ever sleep?”

  “Three hours between four and seven A.M., according to my sources inside the White House. Unlike the previous three presidents, who served in Congress and were good friends, this one, a two-term governor of Oklahoma, is almost a total stranger to me. In the short time he's been in office since the former chief executive had a debilitating stroke, this is the first chance we've had to talk.”

  Gunn glanced over in the darkness. “You never met Dean Cooper Wallace when he was vice president?”

  Sandecker shook his head. “From what I'm told, he has no use for NUMA.”

  The limousine driver turned off Pennsylvania Avenue and circled into the barricaded drive to the White House, stopping at the northwest gate. “Here we are, Admiral,” he announced as he came around and opened the rear door.

  A uniformed member of the Secret Service checked San-decker's and Gunn's IDs and crossed off their names on a visitors' list. Then they were escorted through the building's entrance and led to the West Wing reception room. The receptionist, an attractive lady in her late thirties with auburn hair tied in an old-fashioned bow, rose and smiled warmly. The sign on her desk read

  ROBIN CARR.

  “Admiral Sandecker, Commander Gunn, a great pleasure to meet you.”

  “You work long hours,” said Sandecker.

  “Fortunately, my time clock ticks in unison with the President's.”

  “Any chance for a cup of coffee?” asked Gunn.

  The smile faded. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there isn't time.” She quickly sat down, picked up a phone and simply said, “The Admiral is here.”

  Within ten seconds, the new President's chief of staff, Morton Laird, who had replaced the hospitalized former president's right-hand man, Wilbur Hutton, appeared and shook hands. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. The President will be pleased to see you.”

  Laird came from the old school. He was the only chief of staff in recent history who wore three-piece suits with vests that sported a large gold chain attached to a pocket watch. And unlike most of his predecessors, who came out of Ivy League schools, Laird was a former professor of communications from Stanford University* A tall, balding man with rimless spectaclesr he peered through glistening fox-brown eyes beneath heavily thicketed eyebrows. He oozed charm and was one of the few men in the executive office whom everyone genuinely
liked. He turned and motioned for Sandecker and Gunn to follow him into the Oval Office.

  The famous room, whose walls had witnessed a thousand crises, the lonely burdens of power and agonized decisions that affected the lives of billions of people, was empty.

  Before either Sandecker or Gunn could comment, Laird turned and said, “Gentlemen, what you will observe in the next twenty minutes is vital to our nation's security. You must swear never to breathe a word to anyone. Do I have your oath of honor?”

  “I venture to say that in all my years of service to my government, I've learned and kept more secrets than you have, Mr. Laird,” said Sandecker with total conviction. “I will vouch for Commander Gunn's integrity.”

  “Forgive me, Admiral,” said Laird. “It comes with the territory.” Laird walked over to one wall and tapped a concealed switch on the baseboard. A section of the wall slid aside, revealing the interior of an elevator. He bowed and extended his hand. “After you.”

  The elevator was small and could hold no more than four people. The walls were finished in a polished cedar. There were only two buttons on the control panel, one up, one down. Laird pressed DOWN. The false wall inside the Oval Office silently returned to its place as the elevator doors met and sealed. There was no sensation of speed, but Sandecker knew they were dropping at a rapid pace from the falling sensation in his stomach. In less than a minute the elevator slowed and came to a soft stop.

  “We're not meeting the President in the situation room,” said Sandecker, more as a statement than a question.

  Laird looked at nun questioningly. “You guessed?”

  “No guess. I've been there on several occasions. The situation room sits much deeper than we've traveled.”

  “You're very astute, Admiral,” replied Laird. “This elevator goes less than half the distance.”

  The doors smoothly parted, and Laird stepped out into a brightly lit, immaculately maintained tunnel. A Secret Service agent stood beside the open doors of a small, customized bus. The ulterior was fitted out like a small office, with plush leather chairs, a horseshoe-shaped desk, a well-stocked minibar and compact bathroom. Once everyone was comfortably seated, the Secret Service agent eased behind the wheel and spoke into a microphone with an earpiece placed on his head. “Swordfish is leaving the premises.” Then he engaged the transmission, and the bus moved off soundlessly into a large tunnel.

  “Swordfish is my code name with the Secret Service,” Laird explained almost sheepishly.

  “Electric motor,” commented Sandecker on the silent running of the bus.

  “More efficient than building a complicated ventilation system to draw off the exhaust fumes of gas engines,” explained Laird.

  Sandecker stared at the side entrances leading off from the main tunnel in which they were traveling. “There's more to underground Washington than most people imagine.”

  “The system of passages and thoroughfares beneath the city form an intricate maze well over a thousand miles in length. Not exactly public knowledge, of course, except for tunnels built for sewage, drainage, steam and electrical wiring, but there is an extensive network in daily use for vehicular transportation. It spreads from the White House to the Supreme Court, Capitol building, State Department, under the Potomac to the Pentagon, the Central Intelligence Agency headquarters in Langley, and about a dozen other strategic government buildings and military bases in and around the city.”

  “Something like the catacombs of Paris,” said Gunn.

  “The Paris catacombs pale in comparison to Washington's underground web,” said Laird. “May I offer you gentlemen a drink?”

  Sandecker shook his head. “I'll pass.”

  “Not for me, thank you,” answered Gunn. He turned to the admiral. “Did you know about this, sir?”

  “Mr. Laird forgets that I've been a Washington insider for many years. I've traveled a few of the tunnels from time to time. Because they run below the water tables, it takes a small army of maintenance people to fight the invading damp and slime to keep them dry. There are also the derelicts, drug dealers and criminals who use them for warehousing illegal goods, and the young people who get a high partying in dark and eerie chambers. And, of course, reckless daredevils driven by curiosity and a lack of claustrophobia who find sport in exploring the passageways. Many of them are experienced cavers who find unknown labyrinths a challenge.”

  “With so many intruders wandering in and out, how can they be controlled?”

  “The main arteries crucial for government operations are guarded by a special security force which monitors them by video and infrared sensors,” Laird said by way of explanation. “Penetration into critical areas is next to impossible.”

  Gunn said slowly, “This is certainly news to me.”

  Sandecker smiled enigmatically. “The President's chief of staff neglected to mention the escape tubes.”

  Laird covered his surprise by pouring himself a small glass of vodka. “You're extraordinarily well informed, Admiral.”

  “Escape tubes?” Gunn asked mechanically.

  “Shall I?” Sandecker asked almost apologetically.

  Laird nodded and sighed. “It seems government secrets have a short life.”

  “A script straight out of science-fiction movies,” Sandecker continued. “Until now, saving the President, his Cabinet and the military Chiefs of Staff during a nuclear strike by whisking them away by helicopter to an airfield or an underground operations center was a fallacy almost from the beginning. Submarine missiles fired from a few hundred miles out at sea during a surprise attack could rain down on the city in less than ten minutes. Not nearly enough time to carry out an emergency evacuation.”

  “There had to be another way,” added Laird. “And there is,” Sandecker went on. “Underground tubes leading out of the city were constructed using electromagnetic technology that can hurl a convoy of canisters containing high-ranking people from the White House and classified material from the Pentagon to Andrews Air Force Base and into the basement of a hangar where an air-command-transport version of the B-2 bomber is prepared to take off within seconds of their arrival.”

  “I'm pleased to learn that I know something that you don't,” Laird said cryptically.

  “If I took a wrong turn, please set me straight.”

  “Andrews Air Force Base is too widely known for departure and arrival of aircraft carrying high-level personnel,” said Laird. “You were quite correct about a facility for housing a B-2 modified as an airborne command post. But the plane is based underground at a secret site southeast of the city in Maryland.”

  “If you'll forgive me,” said Gunn, “I don't doubt what you're saying, but it does have a ring of fantasy about it.”

  Laird cleared his throat and spoke directly to Gunn as if he was lecturing a schoolboy. “The American public would be knocked out of their socks if they had the slightest glimpse of the devious and circuitous maneuvers that take place around the nation's capital in the name of good government. I know I certainly was when I came here. I still am.”

  The bus slowed and came to a stop beside the entrance of a short passageway that led toward a steel door standing beneath two video cameras. The forbidding starkness was heightened by recessed fluorescent lighting that illuminated the narrow chamber with an intense brilliance. To Gunn it appeared as “the last mile” walked by condemned murderers on their way to the gas chamber. He remained in his chair, his eyes straying into the passageway when the driver came around and opened the side panel on the bus.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but one more question.” Gunn shifted his gaze to Laird. “I'd be grateful to learn just where it is we're meeting with the President.”

  Laird looked speculatively at Gunn for a moment. Then at Sandecker. “How say you, Admiral?”

  Sandecker shrugged. “In this circumstance I can only rely on speculation and rumor. I'm curious myself.”

  “Secrets are meant to be kept,” said Laird seriously, “but si
nce you've come this far and your history of honor in the service of your country goes unquestioned, I believe I can take it upon myself to induct you into what is a very exclusive fraternity.” He paused and then continued tolerantly. “Our short journey has taken us to Fort McNair and directly beneath what was once the base hospital until it was abandoned after World War H.”

  “Why Fort McNair?” Gunn persisted. “It seems more convenient for the President to have met us at the White House.”

  “Unlike former chief executives, President Wallace almost never goes near the place at night.” He said it as if it were a comment on the weather.

  Gunn looked confused. “I don't understand.”

  “It's painfully simple, Commander. We live in a Machiavellian world. Leaders of unfriendly countries—enemies of the United States, if you will—armies of highly trained and skilled terrorists or just plain crazies, they all dream of destroying the White House and its live-in residents. Many have tried. We all remember the car that crashed through the gate, the lunatic who fired an automatic weapon through the fence on Pennsylvania Avenue, and the suicidal maniac who flew his plane onto the South Lawn. Any athlete with a good throwing arm could heave a rock from the street against the Oval Office windows. The sad fact is the White House is a tough target to miss—”

  “That goes without saying,” added Sandecker. “The number of attempts that were nipped in the bud by our intelligence services remains a deep secret.”

  “Admiral Sandecker is correct. The professionals who planned to assault the Executive Mansion were apprehended before their operation could get off the ground.” Laird finished off his vodka and set the glass in a small sink before exiting the bus. “It is too dangerous for the First Family to eat and sleep in the White House. Except for public tours, occasional press conferences, social functions for visiting dignitaries and photo opportunities of the President meeting in the Rose Garden with the public, the First Family is seldom at home.”

  Gunn found it difficult to accept the revelation. “You're saying the executive branch of the government conducts business someplace other than the White House?”