by Night Probe!
Giordino's mind raced in search of options, but none were left. There was no escaping the inevitable this time. Unless the torpedo destructed in the next few moments, the Doodlebug and the three men inside her would lay in the sea forever.
His mouth felt dry as a sand pit He did not count down the seconds this time. In times of stress men perceive strange things that are out of place with unusual clarity. Giordino idly wondered why he hadn't noticed before that Sandecker wasn't wearing any shoes.
"It's going to strike this time," King said. It was a simple statement of fact, no more. His face was drained of all emotion, the skin pale as he raised his hands over his eyes and shut out all sight of the screen.
No sound came over the computers as the torpedo bore in on the Doodlebug. No explosion or shriek of metal bursting into twisted scrap came through the impassive computers. They were immune to the choked-off cries of men dying in the black and icy depths.
One by one the soulless machines shut down. Their lights blinked out and their terminals went cold. They stood silent.
To them, the Doodlebug no longer existed.
Mercier felt no sense of elation about what he must do. He liked James Sandecker, respected the man's candor and forthright manner of organization. But there was no dodging an immediate inquiry into the loss of the Doodlebug. He dared not wait and run the risk of a security breach that would bring the news media circling like vultures. He had to quickly formulate plans for bringing the admiral, and the White House, through the mess without a national outcry.
His secretary's voice came over the intercom. "Admiral Sandecker is here, sir."
"Show him in."
Mercier half expected to see a man haggard from lack of sleep, a man saddened by death and tragedy, but he was mistaken.
Sandecker strode into the room resplendent in gold braid and beribboned uniform. A newly lit cigar was firmly anchored in one corner of his mouth, and his eyes twinkled with their usual gleam of cockiness. If he was going under the magnifying glass, he was obviously going in style.
"Please have a seat, Admiral," said Mercier, rising. "The Security Council meets in a few minutes."
"You mean the inquisition," said Sandecker.
"Not so. The President simply wants to learn the facts behind the Doodlebug's development and place the events of the last thirty-six hours in proper perspective."
"You're not wasting any time. It hasn't been eight hours since my men were murdered."
"That's a bit harsh."
"What else would you call it?"
"I'm not a jury," said Mercier quietly "I want you to know I truly regret that the project didn't work out."
"I'm prepared to shoulder all blame."
"We're not looking for a scapegoat, only the facts, which you've been most reluctant to reveal."
"I've had my reasons."
"We'll be most interested in hearing them." The intercom beeped. "Yes?"
"They're ready for you."
"On our way." Mercier motioned toward the door. "Shall we?"
They stepped into the White House cabinet room. A blue rug matched the drapes and on the north wall a portrait of Harry Truman peered from above the fireplace. The President sat at the center of a huge oval mahogany table, his back to the terrace overlooking the rose garden. Directly opposite, the vice president scratched notes on a pad. Admiral Kemper was present as was Secretary of Energy Dr. Ronald Klein, Secretary of State Douglas Oates and the Director of Central Intelligence, Martin Brogan.
The President came over and greeted Sandecker warmly. "It's a pleasure to see you, Admiral. Please sit down and get comfortable. I believe you know everyone present."
Sandecker nodded and took a vacant chair at the end of the table. He sat alone and distant from the others.
"Now then," the President said for openers, "suppose you tell us about your mysterious Doodlebug."
Dirk Pitt's secretary, Zerri Pochinsky, walked into the computer room with a cup of coffee and a sandwich on a tray. The rims of her hazel eyes were watery. She found it difficult to accept the fact of her boss's death. The shock of losing someone so close had not fully settled about her. It would come later, she knew, when she was alone.
She found Giordino straddling a chair, his elbows and chin nestled on the backrest. He was staring at the row of inert computers.
She sat down next to him. "Your favorite," she said softly. "Pastrami on wheat."
Giordino shook his head at the sandwich but drank the coffee. The caffeine did little to relieve the frustration and anger of having had to watch Pitt and the others die while he stood helpless to prevent it.
"Why don't you go home and get some sleep," Zerri said. "Nothing can be accomplished by staying here."
Giordino spoke as if in a trance. "Pitt and I went back a long way."
"Yes, I know."
"We played high-school football together. He was the shrewdest, most unpredictable quarterback in the league."
"You forget, I've been present when you two reminisced. I can almost give you an instant replay."
Giordino turned to her and smiled. "Were we that bad?"
Zerri smiled back through her tears. "You were that bad."
A team of computer technicians came through the door. The man in charge came over to Giordino. "Sorry to interrupt, but I have orders to break down the project and move the equipment to another section of the departments."
"Erase- the-evidence time, is it?"
"Sir?"
"Did you clear this with Dr. King?"
The man solemnly nodded his head. "Two hours ago. Before he left the building."
"Speaking of home," said Zerri. "Come along. I'll do the driving."
Obediently Giordino rose to his feet and rubbed his aching eyes. He held the door open and gestured for Zerri to exit first. He started to follow her, but suddenly stopped on the threshold.
He came within a hair of missing it. Later, he could never explain why an unfathomable urge made him turn for one final look.
The wink of light was so brief he would have missed it if his eyes hadn't been aimed in the right direction at the right moment. He shouted at the technician who had just switched off the circuits. "Turn them back on!"
"What for?" demanded the technician.
"Damn it, turn the circuits back on!"
One look at Giordino's scowling features was enough. There was no argument this time. The technician did as he was told.
Suddenly the room lost all dimension. Everyone recoiled as though witnessing the birth of some grotesque apparition. Everyone except Giordino. He stood immobile, his lips spreading in a surprised, joyous smile.
One by one, the computers returned to life.
"Let me get this straight," said the President, his face clouded with doubt. "You say this Doodlebug of yours can see through ten miles of solid rock?"
"And identify fifty-one different minerals and metal traces within it," Sandecker replied without blinking an eye. "Yes, Mr. President, I said exactly that."
"I didn't think it was possible," said CIA Director Brogan. "Electromagnetic devices have had limited success measuring the electrical resistivity of underground minerals, but certainly nothing of this magnitude."
"How is it a project of such importance was researched and developed without presidential or congressional knowledge?" asked the vice-president.
"The former president knew," Sandecker explained. "He had a fancy for supporting futuristic concepts. As I'm sure you're aware of by now, he secretly funded an undercover think tank called Meta Section. It was Meta Section scientists who designed the Doodlebug. Wrapped in security, the plans were given to NUMA. The President arranged the bankroll, and we built it."
"And it actually works?" the President pressed.
"Proof positive," Sandecker answered. "Our initial test runs have pinpointed commercially obtainable deposits of gold, manganese, chromium, aluminum and at least ten other elements including uranium."
The men
around the table had a varied display of expressions. The President looked at Sandecker strangely. Admiral Kemper's face was impassive. The rest stared in open disbelief.
"Are you suggesting you can determine the extent of the deposit as well as an appraisal of its worth?" Douglas Oates asked dubiously.
"Within a few seconds of detecting the element or mineral, the Doodlebug computes a precise evaluation of ore reserve data, projected mining costs and operating profits and, of course, the exact coordinates of the location." If Sandecker's audience had appeared skeptical before, they looked downright incredulous now. Energy Secretary Klein asked the question that was on everyone's mind.
"How does the thing work?"
"The same basic principle as radar or marine depth sounders, except that the Doodlebug transmits a sharply focused, concentrated pulse of energy straight down into the earth. This high energy beam, similar in theory to a radio station that broadcasts different sound tones over the air, throws out various signal frequencies that are reflected by the geological formations it encounters. My engineers refer to it as sweep modulation. You can compare it to shouting across a canyon. When your voice hits a rock wall, you get a distinct echo. But if there are trees or foliage in the way, the echo comes back muffled."
"I still don't understand how it can identify specific minerals," said a confused Klein.
"Each mineral, each element in the makeup of the earth resonates at its own peculiar frequency. Copper resonates at about two thousand cycles. Iron at twenty-two hundred. Zinc at four thousand. Mud, rock and sand shale each have an individual signature that determines the quality of the signal that strikes and reflects off its surface. On a computer display, the readout looks like a vivid cross-section of the earth, because the various formations are color-coded."
"And you measure the depth of the deposit by the signal's time lag," Admiral Kemper commented. "You're quite right."
"Seems to me the signal would weaken and become distorted the deeper it goes," said Mercier.
"It does," admitted Sandecker. "The beam loses energy as it passes through the different earth layers. But by recording each encounter during the penetration, we've learned to expect and recognize the deviant reflections. We call this density tracking. The computers analyze the effect and transmit the corrected data in digital form."
The President shifted restlessly in his chair. "It all sounds unreal.
"It's real, all right," said Sandecker. "What it boils down to, gentlemen, is that a fleet of ten Doodlebugs could chart and analyze every geological formation under every cubic foot of seafloor in five years."
The room fell silent for several moments. Then Oates murmured reverently. "God, the potential is inconceivable."
CIA Director Brogan leaned over the table. "Any chance the Russians may be onto a similar instrument?"
Sandecker shook his head. "I don't think so. Until a few months ago we didn't have the technology to perfect the high energy beam. Even with a crash program starting from scratch, they'd need a decade to catch up."
"One question that needs answering," said Mercier. "Why the Labrador Sea? Why didn't you test the Doodlebug on our own continental shelf"
"I thought it best to conduct the trials in an isolated area far from normal shipping traffic."
"But why so close to the Canadian shore?"
"The Doodlebug stumbled on indications of oil."
"Oil?"
"Yes, the trail appeared to lead toward the Hudson Strait north of Newfoundland. I gave the order for the Doodlebug to deviate from its original course and follow the scent into Canadian waters. The responsibility for the loss of a very dear friend, his crew and the research vessel is mine and mine alone. No one else is to blame."
An aide entered the room like a wraith and offered coffee. When he reached Sandecker he laid a note at his elbow. It read,
URGENT I SEE YOU.
Giordino
"If I may beg a short interruption," said Sandecker. "I believe one of my staff is outside with updated information on the tragedy." The President gave him an understanding look and nodded in the direction of the doorway. "Of course. Please have him join us."
Giordino was shown into the cabinet room, his face beaming like a lighthouse.
"The Doodlebug and everyone on board came through," he blurted without preamble.
"What happened?" demanded Sandecker.
"The torpedo struck a rock outcropping fifty meters from the submersible. The concussion short-circuited the main terminals. It took Pitt and his men until an hour ago to make emergency repairs and reopen communications."
"No one was injured?" asked Admiral Kemper. "The hull remained tight?"
"Bumps and bruises," Giordino replied like a telegram. "One broken finger. No leaks reported."
"Thank God they're safe," said the President, suddenly all smiles.
Giordino could no longer continue to play it cool. "I haven't mentioned the best part."
Sandecker looked at him quizzically. "Best part?"
"Right after the computers came on line, the output analyzers went crazy. Congratulations, Admiral. The Doodlebug ran onto the granddaddy of stratigraphic traps."
Sandecker tensed. "Are you saying they found oil?"
"Initial indications suggest a field extending nearly ninety-five miles by three-quarters of a mile wide. The yield appears staggering. Projections put the paying sandbar at two thousand barrels per acre foot. The reserve could conceivably bring in eight billion barrels of oil."
No one around the table could say a word. They could only sit there, soaking up the enormous consequences of it all.
Giordino opened an attachd case and handed Sandecker a sheaf of papers. "I didn't have time to tie it with a ribbon, but here are preliminary figures, calculations and projections, including the estimated costs of drilling and production. Dr. King will have a more concise report when the Doodlebug has better surveyed the field."
"Where exactly is this strike?" asked Klein.
Giordino unrolled a chart and spread it on the table in front of the President. He began to outline the Doodlebug's course with a pencil.
"After the near miss by the torpedo, the crew of the Doodlebug took evasive action. They didn't know the sub's attack had been called off. Swinging on a northwest arc from the Labrador Sea, they hugged the seabed through Gray Strait south of the Button Islands and moved into Ungava Bay. It was here," Giordino paused to make a mark on the chart, "they discovered the oil field."
The excitement abruptly faded from the President's eyes. "Then it wasn't near the coast of Newfoundland?"
"No, sir. Newfoundland's provincial border ends -at a point of land at the entrance of Gray Strait. The oil strike was in the waters off Quebec."
The President's expression turned to a look of disappointment. He and Mercier stared at each other in stricken understanding.
"Of all the places in all the northern hemisphere," the President said barely above a whisper, "it had to be Quebec."
Part III
THE NORTH AMERICAN TREATY
APRIL 1989
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Pitt slipped Heidi's notes on the North American Treaty into a briefcase and nodded as the airline stewardess checked to see if his seat belt was clasped and his back rest was in an upright position. He massaged his temples, trying vainly to relieve a headache that had persisted since he changed planes at St. John's, Newfoundland.
Now that the Doodlebug's hectic sea trial were over, the little research vessel had been hoisted aboard its mother ship and transported to Boston for repairs and modifications. Bill Lasky and Sam Quayle left immediately for a week's vacation with their families. Pitt envied them. He was not afforded the luxury of a rest. Sandecker ordered him back to NUMA headquarters for a firsthand report on the expedition.
The plane's tires thumped onto the runway at Washington's National Airport a few minutes before seven. Pitt remained in his seat while the other passengers crowded prematurely into the
aisles. One of the last to debark, he took his time, rightly figuring that no matter how slowly he wandered to the baggage claim, he always arrived before his luggage.
He found his car, a red 1966 AC Ford Cobra, in the V.I.P section of the parking lot where it had been left by his secretary earlier in the afternoon. A note was tucked in the steering wheel.
Dear Boss,
Welcome home.
Sorry I couldn't hang around to greet you, but I have a date. Get a good night's sleep.
I told the admiral your plane wouldn't arrive till tomorrow night. Have a day off on me.
Zerri
P.S. Almost forgot what it's like to drive a big old brute. Fun, fun, but oh what awful gas mileage.
Pitt smiled and engaged the starter, listening with pleasure as the 427-cubic-inch engine kicked into life with an obscene roar. While waiting for the temperature gauge to creep into the WARM, he reread the note.
Zerri Pochinsky was the lively type, her pretty face seldom without a contagious smile, hazel eyes mischievous and warm. She was thirty, never married, a mystery to Pitt, full-bodied, with long fawn-colored hair that fell below her shoulders. He'd thought more than once of having an affair with her. The invitation had been demurely signaled often enough. But with regret, he adhered to a law burned in the concrete of an office building somewhere, and learned the hard way during his younger, less disciplined days, that grief always comes to the man who plays games with his staff.
He shook off an erotic image of her inviting him between the sheets and crammed the Cobra into gear. The aging two-seater convertible leaped out of the parking lot and squeaked rubber as it swung onto the highway leading from the airport. He turned from the capital city and headed south, remaining on the Virginia side of the Potomac River. The Cobra's engine loafed along without effort as Pitt passed a stream of mini cars that made up the tail end of the evening traffic rush.
At a small town called Hague he turned off the highway and took a narrow road until he reached Coles Point. When the river came into sight he began studying names on the rural mailboxes beside the road's shoulder. His headlights picked out an elderly woman walking a large Irish setter.
He stopped and leaned toward the passenger window. "I beg your pardon, can you direct me to the Essex place?"
