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.”
“A what?” Metcalf asked as if he hadn’t heard right.
“River barge,” Emmett repeated. “Moored God knows where along the inland water route.”
“Are you searching?”
“With every available agent Martin and I can spare from both our agencies.”
“If you give me a few more details and come up with a quick plan to coordinate our efforts, I’ll throw in whatever forces the Defense Department can muster in the search areas.”
“That would certainly help, General,” said Oates. “Thank you.”
The phone rang and Oates picked it up. After listening silently for a moment, he set it down. “Crap!”
Emmett had never heard Oates use such an expletive before. “Who was that?”
“One of my aides reporting from the House of Representatives.”
“What did he say?”
“Moran just railroaded through passage of the impeachment vote.”
“Then nothing stands between him and the Presidency except trial by the Senate,” Brogan said.
“He’s moved up the timetable by a good ten hours,” said Metcalf.
“If we can’t produce the Vice President by this time tomorrow,” Emmett said, “we can kiss the United States goodbye.”
66
Giordino found Pitt in his hangar, sitting comfortably in the back seat of an immense open touring car, his feet propped sideways on a rear door. Giordino couldn’t help admiring the classic lines of the tourer. Italian built in 1925, with coachwork by Cesare Sala, the red torpedo-bodied Isotta-Fraschini sported long, flared fenders, a disappearing top and a coiled cobra on the radiator cap.
Pitt was contemplating a blackboard mounted on a tripod about ten feet from the car. A large nautical chart depicting the entire inland water route was tacked to the outer frame. Across the board he had written several notations and what appeared to Giordino as a list of ships.
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