Deep Six

“There has to be a logical explanation,” said Mercier. The President’s adviser on national security rose to his feet and paced the room. “Twenty people were not whisked away by supernatural powers or aliens from outer space. If, and I make that a questionable if, the President and the others are indeed missing from the Eagle, it has to be a highly organized conspiracy.”

“I assure you, sir,” said Lucas, staring directly into Mercier’s eyes, “my deputy agent found the boat totally deserted.”

“You say the fog was thick,” Mercier continued.

“That’s how Agent Blackowl described it.”

“Could they have somehow penetrated your security network and driven away?”

Lucas shook his head. “Even if they managed to elude my security detail in the fog, their movement would have been detected by the sensitive alarm systems we installed around the estate.”

“That leaves the river,” observed Jesse Simmons. The Secretary of Defense was a taciturn man, given to telegramlike statements. A leathery tan face was evidence of his weekends as an avid water skier. “Suppose the Eagle was boarded from the water? Suppose they were forcibly removed to another boat?”

Oates gave Simmons a dubious stare. “You make it sound as if Blackbeard the Pirate was responsible.”

“Agents were patrolling the dock and riverbank,” Lucas explained. “No way passengers and crew could be subdued and carried off without a sound.”

“Maybe they were drugged,” suggested Dan Fawcett.

“A possibility,” admitted Lucas.

“Let’s look at this head-on,” said Oates. “Rather than speculate on how the abduction occurred, I think we must concentrate on the reason and the force responsible before we can plan a response.”

“I agree,” said Simmons. He turned to Metcalf. “General, any evidence the Russians are behind this as a time cushion to launch a first strike?”

“If that was the case,” answered Metcalf, “their strategic rocket forces would have taken us out an hour ago.”

“They still might.”

Metcalf gave a slight negative tilt to his head. “Nothing indicates they’re in a state of readiness. Our Kremlin intelligence sources report no signs of increased activity in or around the eighty underground command posts in Moscow, and our satellite surveillance shows no troop buildup along the Eastern bloc border. Also, President Antonov is on a state visit to Paris.”

“So much for World War Three,” said Mercier with a look of relief.

“We’re not out of shallow water yet,” Fawcett said. “The officer carrying the codes designating nuclear strike sites is also gone.”

“Not to worry on that score,” said Metcalf, smiling for the first time. “As soon as Lucas here alerted me to the situation, I ordered the alphabetical code words changed.”

“What’s to stop whoever has them from using the old code words to break the new ones?”

“For what purpose?”

“Blackmail, or maybe an insane attempt to hit the Russians first.”

“Can’t be done,” Metcalf replied simply. “There are too many built-in safeguards. Why hell, even the President couldn’t launch our nuclear arsenal on his own, in a fit of madness. The order to start a war has to be transmitted through Secretary of Defense Simmons and the Joint Chiefs. If any of us knew for certain the order was invalid, we could countermand it.”

“All right,” said Simmons, “we temporarily shelve a Soviet conspiracy or an act of war. What are we left with?”

“Damned little,” grunted Mercier.

Metcalf looked squarely at Oates. “As things stand, Mr. Secretary, you are the constitutionally designated successor.”

“He’s right,” said Simmons. “Until the President, Margolin, Larimer and Moran are found alive, you’re the acting President.”

For several seconds there was no sound in the library. Oates’s flamboyant and forceful facial exterior cracked ever so slightly, and he seemed to suddenly age five years. Then, just as suddenly, he regained control and his eyes took on a cold, visceral expression.

“The first thing we must do,” he said in a level tone, “is to act as though nothing has happened.”

Mercier tilted back and gazed unseeing at the high ceiling. “Granted we can’t hold a press conference and a

“And we have to consider the likelihood the people responsible for the kidnapping will give us an ultimatum or make a ransom demand through the news media,” Simmons added.

Metcalf looked doubtful. “My guess is that when contact is made it will come without a trumpet blast to Secretary Oates, and any demand will be for something besides money.”

“I can’t fault your thinking, General,” said Oates. “But our top priority is still to conceal the facts and stall for as long as it takes to find the President.”

Mercier had the look of an atheist buttonholed by a Hare Krishna at an airport. “Lincoln said it: ‘You can’t fool all the people all the time.’ It won’t be easy keeping the President and Vice President out of the public eye for more than a day, at most. And you can’t simply erase Larimer and Moran; they’re too highly visible around Washington. Then there is the Eagle’s crew to consider. What do you tell their families?”

“Jack Sutton!” Fawcett blurted as though he was having a revelation.

“Who?” Simmons demanded.

“The actor, the spitting image of the President who plays him in TV commercials and on comedy shows.”

Oates sat up. “I think I see your point. The resemblance is remarkable, but we’d never get away with it, not on a face-to-face basis. Sutton’s voice is a far from perfect imitation, and anyone who is in close daily contact with the President would see through the deception.”

“Yes, but from thirty feet his own wife couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Where is this leading?” Metcalf asked Fawcett.

The White House Chief of Staff took his cue. “Press Secretary Thompson can hand out a press release saying the President is taking a working vacation on his New Mexico farm to study congressional reaction to his Eastern aid program. The White House press corps will be kept on the sidelines — a situation that’s not uncommon when the President isn’t in the mood to answer questions. All they’d see from a roped-off distance would be him — in this case, Sutton the actor — entering the helicopter for the flight to Andrews Air Force Base for departure in Air Force One. They could follow on a later plane, of course, but be denied entry onto the farm itself.”

“Why not have a phony Vice President go with Sutton?” Mercier suggested.

“Both men can’t fly on the same plane,” Lucas reminded him.

“Okay, send him on a plane leaving at night,” Mercier persisted. “Not much news coverage is given to Margolin’s movements. No one would notice a stand-in.”

“Or care,” added Oates, alluding to the public apathy toward vice presidents.

“I can handle the details from the White House end,” offered Fawcett.

“Two down,” said Simmons. “Now what about Larimer and Moran?”

“This is an odd-numbered year,” Mercier said, warming up to the scheme. “Congress recesses for the entire month of August — only two days away. Our one slice of luck. Why not invent a mutual fishing trip or a junket to some out-of-the-way resort?”

Simmons shook his head. “Scratch the fishing trip.”

“Why?”

Simmons gave a tight smile. “Because it’s known all over Capitol Hill that Moran and Larimer relate like syrup and vinegar.”

“No matter. A fishing hole conference to discuss foreign relations sounds logical,” said Oates. “I’ll write up the memorandum from the State Department end.”

“What do you tell their office staffs?”

“This is Saturday; we’ve got two days’ grace to iron out the bugs.”