Vixen 03 (Dirk Pitt 5)

"Yes," the President said, nodding wearily, "there is still that."

"We cannot allow any trace of the organism to remain."

The President looked at Jarvis. "What do you propose?"

"Erase the island from the map," Jarvis replied.

"Impossible," said March. "The Soviets would raise holy hell if we set off a bomb. The moratorium on aboveground nuclear tests has been respected by both nations for two decades."

A thin smile touched Jarvis's lips. "The Chinese have yet to sign the pact."

"So?"

"So we take apage from Operation Wild Rose," explained Jarvis. "We send one of our missile-carrying subs as close as we dare to the Chinese mainland, then order it to launch a nuclear warhead at Rongelo Island."

March and the President exchanged thoughtful glances. Then they turned to Jarvis, waiting for the rest of it.

"As long as American preparations for a test are nonexistent and none of our surface ships or aircraft are within two thousand miles of the blast area, there is no tangible evidence the Russians can use to build a case against us. On the other hand, their spy satellites cannot help but record the missile trajectory as originating from Chinese territory."

"We might pull it off if we played shadylike," said March, warming to the scheme. "The Chinese would, of course, deny any involvement. And after the usual nasty accusations from the Kremlin, our own State Department, and the other outraged nations, condemning Peking, the episode would die and be mostly forgotten inside two weeks."

>

The President stared into space as he battled with his conscience. For the first time in nearly eight years he felt the total vulnerability of his office. The armor of power was filled with hairline cracks that could burst apart when struck by the unanticipated.

At last, with the exertion of a man twice his age, he rose from his chair.

"I pray to God," he said, his eyes filled with sadness, "I am the last man in history who willfully orders a nuclear strike."

Then he turned and slowly made his way toward the elevator that would take him up to the White House.

97

Fool's Mate

Umkono, South Africa-January 1989

The heat from the early-morning sun made itself felt as two men gently slipped the cradle ropes through their hands and lowered the wooden box to the floor of the grave. Then the ropes were pulled free, making a soft rustling sound as they snaked around the sharp, unsanded edges of the coffin.

"Sure you don't want me to fill it in?" asked an ebony-skinned gravedigger as he coiled the rope around a sinewy shoulder.

"Thanks, I'll take care of it," Pitt said, holding out several South African rand notes.

"No pay," said the gravedigger. "The captain was a friend. I could dig a hundred graves and never repay the kindness he rained upon my family when he was alive."

Pitt nodded in understanding. "I'll borrow your shovel."

The digger obliged, shook Pitt's hand vigorously, and flashed an enormous smile. Then with a wave he set foot over a narrow path that led from the cemetery to the village.

Pitt looked around. The landscape was lush but harsh. Steam from the damp undergrowth wisped above the plants as the sun rose higher in the sky. He rubbed a sleeve over his sweat-soaked forehead and stretched out under a mimosa tree, studying its blossoming yellow fluffy balls and long white thorns and listening to the honking of hornbills in the distance. Then he turned his attention back to the large granite stone sitting at the head of the grave site.

HERE LIE THE FAMILY FAWKES

Patrick McKenzie

Myrna Clarissa

Patrick McKenzie, Jr.