Deep Six (Dirk Pitt 7)

About to leave for the day, Metcalf was in the act of snapping closed his briefcase. His eyes narrowed in apprehension at recognizing Alan Mercier, who was standing in the doorway.

"Of course, please come in and sit down."

The President's National Security Adviser moved toward the desk but remained standing. "I have some news you aren't going to like."

Metcalf sighed. "Bad news seems to be the order of the day lately. What is it?"

Mercier handed him an unmarked binder holding several sheets of typewritten paper and spoke in a soft, hurried voice. "Orders direct from the President. All American forces in Europe must be pulled out by Christmas. He's given you twenty days to draw up a plan for total withdrawal from NATO."

Metcalf slumped into his chair like a man struck with a hammer.

'It's not possible" he mumbled. "I can't believe the President would issue such orders!"

"I was as shocked as you are when he dropped the bomb on me," said Mercier. "Oates and I tried to reason with him, but it was useless.

He's demanding everything be removed-Pershing and cruise missiles, all equipment, supply depots, our whole organization."

Metcalf was bewildered. "But what about our Western alliances?"

Mercier made a helpless gesture with his hands. "His outlook, one I've never heard him voice before, is to let Europe police Europe."

"But good God!" Metcalf snapped in sudden anger. "He's handing the entire continent to the Russians on a gold tray."

"I won't argue with you."

"I'll be damned if I'll comply."

"What will you do?"

"Go direct to the White House and resign," Metcalf said adamantly.

"Before you act hastily, I suggest you meet with Sam Emmett.

"Why?"

"There is something you should know," Mercier said in a low tone, "and Sam is in a better position to explain it than me."

THE President WAS sitting at a writing table in his pajamas and bathrobe when Fawcett walked into the bedroom.

"Well, did you speak with Moran?"

Fawcett's face was grim. "He refused to listen to any of your proposals."

"is that it?"

"He said you were finished as President, and nothing you could say was of any consequence. Then he threw in a few insults."

"I want to hear them," the President demanded sharply.

Fawcett sighed uncomfortably. "He said your behavior was that of a madman and that you belonged in the psycho ward. He compared you with Benedict Arnold and claimed he would see your administration wiped from the history books. After he ran through several more irrelevant slurs, he suggested you do the country a great service by committing suicide, thereby saving the taxpayers a long-drawn-out investigation and expensive trial."

The President's face became a mask of rage. "That sniveling little bastard thinks he's going to put me in a courtroom?"

"It's no secret, Moran is pulling out all stops to take your place."

"His feet are too small to fill my shoes," the President said through tight lips. "And his head is too big to fit the job."

"To hear him tell it, his right hand is already raised to take the oath of office," Fawcett said. "The proposed impeachment proceeding is only the first step in a blueprint for a transition from you to him."