Deep Six

Simmons began making notes on a pad. “Four down. That leaves the Eagle’s crew.”

“I think I can come up with a convenient cover,” offered Metcalf. “I’ll work through the Coast Guard Commandant. The crew’s families can be told the yacht was ordered on an unscheduled cruise for a top-secret military meeting. No further details need be given.”

Oates stared around the room at his companions. “If there are no further questions—”

“Who else do we let in on the hoax?” queried Fawcett.

“A poor choice of words, Dan,” said Oates. “Let’s call it a ‘distraction.’ “

“It goes without saying,” said Metcalf, “that Emmett of the FBI will have to handle the domestic end of the investigation. And, of course, Brogan of CIA must be called in to check out the international conspiracy angle.”

“You’ve just touched on an ungodly thought, General,” said Simmons.

“Sir?”

“Suppose the President and the rest have already been spirited out of the country?”

Simmons’s speculation brought no immediate response. It was a grim possibility none of them had dared consider. With the President beyond reach of their vast internal resources, their investigative effectiveness would be cut by 80 percent.

“They could also be dead,” Oates said in a controlled voice. “But we’ll operate on the premise they’re alive and held somewhere in the United States.”

“Lucas and I will brief Emmett and Brogan,” Fawcett volunteered.

There was a knock on the door. A Secret Service agent entered, walked over to Lucas and spoke softly in his ear. Lucas’s eyebrows arched upward and he paled slightly. Then the agent retreated from the room, closing the door behind him.

Oates stared at Lucas questioningly. “A new development, Oscar?”

“Ben Greenwald,” Lucas answered vacantly. “He was killed thirty minutes ago. His car struck a city maintenance vehicle.”

Oates wasted no words of sympathy. “With the powers temporarily vested in me, I name you as the new Director of the Secret Service.”

Lucas visibly recoiled. “No, please, I don’t think I can—”

“Doesn’t make sense to select somebody else,” Oates interrupted him. “Like it or not, Oscar, you’re the only man who can be named for the job.”

“Somehow it doesn’t seem right to be promoted for losing the men I’m sworn to protect,” said Lucas dejectedly.

“Blame me,” said Fawcett. “I forced the yacht cruise on you before your people were fully prepared.”

“There’s no time for self-recrimination,” Oates said sharply. “We each have our jobs cut out for us. I suggest we get to work.”

“When should we meet again?” Simmons asked.

Oates looked at his watch. “Four hours from now,” he replied. “The White House Situation Room.”

“We’re flirting with exposure if everyone shows up at the same time,” said Fawcett.

“There’s an underground utility tu

“Good idea,” Metcalf agreed. “We can arrive at the Treasury building in unmarked government cars, cross under the street through the tu

“That settles it then,” Oates said, rising from his chair. “If any of you ever dreamed of going on the stage, this is your big chance. And I don’t have to tell you, if the show’s a flop, we just may bring down the whole country along with the curtain.”

14

After the brisk air of Alaska, the hot, humid atmosphere of South Carolina felt like the inside of a sauna. Pitt made a phone call and then rented a car at the Charleston airport. He drove south on Highway 52 toward the city and took the turnoff for the sprawling naval base. About a mile after turning right on Spruill Avenue, he came to a large red brick building with an ancient rusting sign perched on the roof advertising the Alhambra Iron and Boiler Company.

He parked the car and walked under a high iron archway with the date 1861 suspended on a panel. The reception area took him by surprise. The furnishings were ultramodern. Chrome was everywhere. He felt as though he’d walked onto a photo layout from Architectural Digest.

A sweet young thing looked up, pursed an ever so small smile and said, “Can ah help you, sir?”

Pitt stared into the mossy green magnolia eyes and imagined her as a former homecoming queen. “I called from the airport and set an appointment with Mr. Hun-ley. My name is Pitt.”

The recognition was automatic and the smile didn’t alter so much as a millimeter. “Yes, he’s expecting you. Please come this way.”

She led him into an office decorated entirely in brown tones. Pitt was suddenly overwhelmed with the sensation of drowning in oatmeal. A rotund, smiling little man rose from behind an enormous kidney-shaped desk and extended his hand.

“Mr. Pitt. I’m Charlie Hunley.”

“Mr. Hunley,” Pitt said, shaking hands. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Not at all. Your phone call ticked my curiosity. You’re the first person to ask about our boiler making capacity in, golly, must be forty years.”

“You’re out of the business?”

“Heavens, yes. Gave it up during the summer of fifty-one. End of an era, you might say. My great-granddaddy rolled armor plate for the Confederate ironclad fleet. After World War Two, my daddy figured the time had come for a change. He retooled the plant and started fabricating metal furniture. As things turned out, it was a shrewd decision.”

“Did you, by chance, save any of your old production records?” Pitt asked.

“Unlike you Yankees, who throw out everything,” Hunley said with a sly smile, “we Southern boys hold onto everything, including our women.”

Pitt laughed politely and didn’t bother asking how his California upbringing had qualified him as a Yankee.

“After your call,” Hunley continued, “I ran a search in our file storage room. You didn’t give me a date, but since we only supplied forty water-tube boilers with the specifications you mentioned for Liberty ships, I found the invoice listing the serial number in question in fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you what you don’t already know.”

“Was the boiler shipped to the company that supplied the engines or direct to the shipyard for installation?”

Hunley picked up the yellowing paper from his desk and studied it for a moment. “It says here we shipped to the Georgia Shipbuilding Corporation in Sava

“Yes, I have that,” said Pitt. “It was the Pilottown.”

A strange expression of puzzlement crossed Hun-ley’s face as he restudied the inspector’s report. “We must be talking about two different ships.”

Pitt looked at him. “Could there be a mistake?”

“Not unless you wrote down the wrong serial number.”

“I was careful,” Pitt replied firmly.

“Then I don’t know what to tell you,” said Hunley, passing the paper across the desk. “But according to the inspection report, boiler number 38874 went into a Liberty ship called the San Marino.”

15

Congresswoman Loren Smith was waiting on the concourse when Pitt’s flight from Charleston arrived at Washington’s National Airport. She waved to get his attention, and he smiled. The gesture was u

Loren stood tall, slightly over five foot eight. Her ci