Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

"In that case," Lucas said, "it might be wise to hold the meeting someplace besides the Situation Room. The press constantly monitors the White House. They'd be on us like locusts if the heads of state suddenly converged there at this time of morning.

Sound thinking," Greenwald replied. He paused a moment, then said, "Make it the Observatory."

"The Vice President's residence?"

"Press cars are almost never in evidence there."

"I'll have everyone on the premises as soon as possible."

"Oscar?"

"Yes."

"Very briefly, what happened?"

There was a slight hesitation and then Lucas said, "They all vanished from the presidential yacht."

"I see," said Greenwald heavily, but it was clear he didn't.

Greenwald wasted no more time on talk. He hung up and hurriedly dressed. On the drive to the Observatory his stomach twisted into knots, a delayed reaction to the catastrophic news. His vision blurred and he fought off an overwhelming urge to vomit.

He drove in a mental haze through the deserted streets of the capital. Except for an occasional delivery truck, traffic was nearly nonexistent and most of the traffic signals were simply blinking on a cautious yellow.

Too late he saw a city street sweeper make a sudden U-turn from the right-hand gutter. His windshield was abruptly filled with the bulky white-painted vehicle. In the cab the driver jumped sideways at the protesting scream of tires, his eyes wine in the glare of Greenwald's headlights.

There was a metal-tearing crunch and the splash of flying glass.

The hood bent double, flew up, and the steering wheel rammed into Greenwald's chest, crushing his rib cage.

Greenwald sat pinned to the seat as the water from the mangled radiator hissed and steamed over the car's engine. His eyes were open as though staring in vague indifference at the abstract cracks on the shattered windshield.

Oscar Lucas stood in front of the corner fireplace in the living room of the Vice President's mansion and described the presidential kidnapping. Every few seconds he glanced nervously at his watch, wondering what was keeping Greenwald. The five Men seated around the room listened to him in undisguised astonishment.

Secretary of Defense Jesse Simmons clamped his teeth on the stem of an unlit meerschaum pipe. He was dressed casually in a summer sport coat and slacks, as was Dan Fawcett and National Security Adviser Alan Mercier. Army General Clayton Metcalf was in uniform, while Douglas Oates, the Secretary of State, sat fastidiously groomed in a dark suit and necktie.

Lucas came to the end of his briefing and waited for the barrage of questions he was certain would be fired. Instead, there was a prolonged hush. They just sat there, numb and immobile.

Oates was the first to break the stunned silence. "Good Lord!" he gasped. "How could such a thing happen? How could everyone on the yacht simply evaporate into thin air?"

"We don't know," Lucas answered helplessly. "I haven't ordered an investigating team to the site yet for obvious security reasons.

Ben Greenwald slammed a lid on the affair until you gentlemen could be informed. Outside this room, only three Secret Service personnel, including Greenwald, are privy to the facts."

"There has to be a logical explanation," said Mercier. The President 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 telegram like 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?"