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?"