"That tears it," said Sandecker. "All hell will break loose when the news media get the scent."
"Nothing we can do," Fawcett said helplessly. "Word is already coming over the wire services."
The President sank into a chair. He seemed a tall man on the TV screens. He carried himself like a tall man but he was only two inches over Sandecker. His hairline was recessed and graying, and his narrow face wore a set and solemn expression, a look rarely revealed to the public. He enjoyed tremendous popularity, helped immensely by a warm personality and an infectious smile that could melt the most hostile audience. His successful negotiations to merge Canada and the United States into one nation, had served to establish an image that was immune to partisan criticism.
"We can't delay another minute," he said. "The entire Gulf of Alaska has got to be quarantined and everyone within twenty miles of the coast evacuated."
"I must disagree," Sandecker said quietly.
"I'd like to hear why-"
"As far as we know the contamination has kept to open waters.
No trace has shown up on the mainland. Evacuation of the population would mean a time-consuming and massive operation. Alaskans are a tough breed, especially the fishermen who live in the region. I doubt if they'd willingly leave under any circumstances, least of all when ordered to by the federal government."
"A hardfieaded lot."
"Yes, but not stupid. The fishermen's associations have all agreed to restrict their vessels to port, and the canneries have begun burying all catches brought in during the past ten days."
"They'll need economic assistance."
"I expect so."
"What do you’ recommend?"
"The Coast Guard lacks the men and ships to patrol the entire gulf. The Navy will have to back them up."
"That," mused the President, "Presents a problem. Throwing more men and ships in there increases the threat of a higher death toll."
"Not necessarily", said Sandecker. "The crew of the Coast Guard cutter that made the first discovery of the contamination received no ill effects, because the fishing boat had drifted out of the death area."
"What about the boarding crew, the doctor? They died."
"The contamination had already covered the decks, the railings, almost anything they touched on the exterior of the vessel. In the case of the ferry, its entire center section was open to accommodate automobiles. The passengers and crew had no protection.
Modern naval ships are constructed to be buttoned up in case of radioactivity from nuclear attack. They can patrol the contaminated currents with a very small, acceptable degree of risk."
The President nodded his consent. "Okay) I'll order an assist from the Navy Department, but I'm not sold on dropping an evacuation plan. Stubborn Alaskans or not, there are still women and children to consider."
"My other suggestion, Mr. President, or request if you will, is a delay of forty-eight hours before you initiate the operation. That might give my response team time to find the source."
The President fell silent. He stared at Sandecker with deepening interest. "Who are the people in charge?"
"The on-scene coordinator and chairman of the Regional Emergency Response Team is Dr. Julie Mendoza, a senior biochemical engineer for the EPA."
"I'm not familiar with the name."
"She's recognized as the best in the country on assessment and control of hazardous contamination in water," Sandecker said without hesitation. "The underwater search for the shipwreck we believe contains the nerve agent will be headed by my special projects director, Dirk Pitt."
The President's eyes widened. "I know Mr. Pitt. He proved most helpful on the Canadian affair a few months ago.
You mean, saved your ass, Sandecker thought, before he continued.
"We have nearly two hundred other pollution experts who have been called in to assist. Every expert in private industry has been tapped to provide the experience and technical data for a successful cleanup."
The President glanced at his watch. "I've got to cut this short," he said. "They won't start the third act without me. Anyway, you've got forty-eight hours, Admiral. Then I order an evacuation and declare the area a national disaster."
Fawcett accompanied the President back to his box. He seated himself slightly to the rear but close enough so they could converse in low tones while feigning interest in the performance on stage.
"Do you wish to cancel the cruise with Moran and Larimer?"
The President imperceptibly shook his head. "No. My economic recovery package for the Soviet satellite countries has top priority over any other business."
"I strongly advise against it. You're waging a hopeless battle for a lost cause."
"So you've informed me at least five times in the past week." The President held a program over his face to conceal a yawn. "How do the votes stack up?"
"A wave of nonpartisan, conservative support is gaining ground against you. We'll need fifteen votes in the House and five, maybe six, to pass the measure in the Senate."
"We've faced bigger odds."
"Yes," Fawcett muttered sadly. "But if we're defeated this time your administration may never see a second term."
THE DAWN WAS CREEPING OUT OF THE EAST as a low, dark line began to rise above the horizon. Through the windows of the helicopter the black blur took on a symmetrical cone-shaped feature and soon became a mountain peak, surrounded by the sea. There was a three-quarter moon behind it. The light altered from ivory to indigo blue and then to an orange radiance as the sun rose, and the slopes could be seen mantled in snow.
Pitt glanced over at Giordino. He was asleep-a state he could slip in and out of like an old sweater. He had slept from the time they left Anchorage. Five minutes after transferring to the helicopter, he promptly drifted off again.
Pitt turned to Mendoza. She sat perched behind the pilot. The look on her face was that of a little girl eager to see a parade. Her gaze was fixed on the mountain. In the early light it seemed to Pitt her face had softened. Her expression was not so businesslike and the ease of her mouth held a tenderness that was not there before.
"Augustine Volcano," she said, unaware that Pitts attention was focused on her and not out the window. "Named by Captain Cook in 1778.
You wouldn't know to look at it but Augustine is the most active volcano in Alaska, having erupted six times in the last century." Pitt regretfully turned away and stared below. The island seemed devoin of any human habitation. Long swirling flows of lava rock spilled down the mountain's sides until they met the sea. A small cloud drifted about the summit.
"Very picturesque," he said, yawning. "Might have possibilities as a ski resort."
"Don't bet on it." She laughed. "That cloud you see over the peak is steam. Augustine is a constant performer. The last eruption in 1987 surpassed Mount St. Helens in Washington. The fall of ash and pumice was measured as far away as Athens."
Pitt had to ask, "What's its status now?"
"Recent data confirm the heat around the summit is increasing, probably forecasting an impending explosion."
"Naturally, you can't say when."
"Naturally." She shrugged. "Volcanoes are unpredictable.
Sometimes they become violent without the slightest warning; sometimes they take months to build up to a spectacular climax that never happens. They sputter, rumble a little and then go dormant.
Those earth scientists I told you about who died from the nerve agent-they were on the island to study the impending activity."
"Where are we settling down?"
"About ten miles off the shore," she replied, "On the Coast Guard cutter Catawba."The Catawba," he repeated as if reminiscing.
"Yes, you know of her?"
"Set a copter on her flight pad myself a few years ago."
"Where was that?"
"North Atlantic, near Iceland." He was gazing beyond the island now. He sighed and massaged his temples. "A good friend and I were hunting for a ship imbedded in an i
ceberg."
"did you find it?"
He nodded. "A burned-out hulk. Barely beat the Russians to it.
Later we crashed in the surf on the Icelandic coast. My friend was killed."
She could see his mind was reliving the events. The expression on his face took on a faraway sadness. She changed the subject.
"We'll have to say goodbye-temporarily, I mean-when we land."
He shook off the past and stared at her. "You're leaving us?"
"You and Al will be staying on the Catawba to search for the nerve agent's location. I'm going to the island where the local response team has set up a data base."
"And part of my job is to send water samples from the ship to your lab?"
"Yes, by measuring trace levels of the contamination we Can direct you toward the surface."
"Like following breadcrumbs."
"That's one way of putting it."
"After we find it, what then?"
"Once your salvage team brings up the drums containing the nerve agent, the Army will dispose of it by deep well injection, on an island near the Arctic Circle."
"How deep is the well?"
"Four thousand feet."
"All neat and tiny." The open-for-business look returned to her eyes. "It happens to be the most efficient method open to us."
"You're optimistic."
She looked at him questioningly. "What do you mean?"
"The salvage. It could take months."
"We can't even afford weeks," she came back almost vehemently.
"You're treading in my territory now," Pitt said as if lecturing.
"Divers can't risk working in water where one drop on their skin will kill them. The only reasonably safe way is to use submersibles-a damned slow and tedious process. And submersibles require highly trained crews, with specially constructed vessels as work platforms."
"I've already explained," she said impatiently, "presidential authority gives us carte blanche on any equipment we need."
"That's the easy part," Pitt continued. "Despite your water sample directions, finding a shipwreck is like looking for a coin in the middle of a football field in the dark with a candle. Then if we get lucky and make contact, we may find the hull broken in sections and the cargo scattered, or the drums too corroded to move.
Murphy's Law can hit us from every angle. No deep-sea recovery operation is ever cut and dried."
Mendoza's face reddened. "I'd like to point out-"
"Don't bother," Pitt cut her off. "I'm the wrong guy for a gung-ho speech. I've heard them all before. You won't get a chorus of the Notre Dame fight song from me. And save your breath for the countless lives hang in the balance' routine. I'm aware of it. I don't have to be reminded every five minutes."
She looked at him, annoyed with him for his arrogant charm, feeling that he was testing her somehow. "Have you ever seen someone who came in contact with Nerve Agent S?"
"No."
"It's not a pretty sight. They literally drown in their own blood as their internal membranes burst. Every body orifice bleeds like a river. Then the corpse turns black."
"You're very descriptive."
"It's all a game to you," she lashed out. "it's not a game to me."
He didn't reply. He simply nodded downward at the Catawba looming through the pilot's windshield. "We're landing."
The pilot noted that the ship had turned bow-on to the wind from the fluttered ensign on the halyards. He eased the helicopter over the stern, hovered a few moments and set down on the pad.
The rotor blades had hardly swung to a stop when two figures dressed from head to toe in astronaut-looking suits approached while unfolding a circular plastic tube about five feet in diameter that looked like a huge umbilical cord. They secured it around the exit door and gave three knocks. Pitt undid the latches and swung the door inward. The men outside passed him cloth hoods with see-through lenses and gloves.
"Best put them on," commanded a muffled voice.
Pitt prodded Giordino awake and handed him a hood and pair of gloves.
"What in hell are these?" Giordino mumbled, emerging from the cobwebs.
"Welcome gifts from the sanitation department."
Two more crewmen appeared in the plastic tunnel and took their gear. Giordino, still half asleep, stumbled from the helicopter.
Pitt hesitated and stared into Mendoza's eyes.
"What's my reward if I find your poison in forty-eight hours?"
"What do you want it to be?"
"Are you as hard as you pretend?"
"Harder, Mr. Pitt, much harder."
"Then you decide."
He gave her a rakish smile and was gone.
THE CARS THAT MADE up the presidential motorcade were lined in a row beside the South Portico of the White House. As soon as the Secret Service detail was in position, Oscar Lucas spoke into a tiny microphone whose wire looped around the watch on his wrist and ran up the sleeve of his coat.
"Tell the Boss, we're ready."
Three minutes later the President, accompanied by Fawcett, walked briskly down the steps and entered the presidential limousine. Lucas joined them and the cars moved out through the southwest gate.
The President relaxed into the leather of the rear seat and stared out the window at the passing buildings. Fawcett sat with an open attaché' case on his lap and made a series of notes inside the top folder. After a few minutes of silence, he sighed, snapped the case shut and set it on the floor.
"There it is, arguments from both sides of the fence, statistics, CIA projections, and the latest reports from your economic council on Communist bloc debts. Everything you should need to sell Larimer and Moran on your way of thinking."
"The American public doesn't think much of my plan, does it?" the President asked quietly.
"To be perfectly honest, no, sir," Fawcett replied. "The general feeling is to let the Reds stew in their own problems. Most Americans are cheering the fact that the Soviets and their satellites are facing starvation and financial ruin. They consider it proof positive that the Marxist system is a pathetic joke."
"It won't be a joke if the Kremlin leaders, backs against an economic wall, strike out in desperation and march through Europe."
"Your opposition in Congress feels the risk is offset by the very real threat of starvation, which will undermine Russia's capacity to maintain its military machine. And there are those who are banking on the eroding morale of the Russian people to crystallize in active resistance toward the ruling party."
The President shook his head. "The Kremlin is fanatical about its military buildup. They'll never slack off in spite of their economic dilemma. And the people will never rise up or stage mass demonstrations. The party's collar is too tight."
"The bottom line," said Fawcett, "is that both Larimer and Moran are dead set against taking the burden off Moscow."
The President's face twisted in disgust. "Larimer is a drunk and Moran is tainted with corruption."
"Still, there is no getting around the fact you have to sell them on your philosophy."
"I can't deny their opinions," the President admitted. "But I am convinced that if the United States saves the Eastern bloc nations from almost total disintegration, they will turn away from the Soviet Union and join with the West."
"There are many who see that as wishful thinking, Mr. President."
"The French and Germans see it my way."
"Sure, and why not? They're playing both ends of the field, relying on our NATO forces for security while expanding economic ties with the East."
"You're forgetting the many grass-roots American voters who are behind my aid plan too," said the President, his chin thrust forward at his words. "Even they realize its potential for defusing the threat of nuclear holocaust and pulling down the iron Curtain for good."
Fawcett knew it was senseless to try to sway the President when he was in a crusading mood and passionately convinced he was right. There was a kind of virtue in killing
your enemies with kindness, a truly civilized tactical move to ease the conscience of reasonable people, but Fawcett remained pessimistic. He turned inward to his thoughts and remained silent as the limousine turned Off M Street into the Washington Naval Yard and rolled to a stop on one of the long docks.
A dark-skinned man with the stony facial features of an American Indian approached as Lucas stepped from the car.
"Evening, George."