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"So my staff and I can feed the transmissions into our own monitoring equipment. If our computers can receive enough data, say within a forty-eight-hour period, we can take the place of the President's brain."
" A substitution to feed the Russians false information," said Brogan, rising to Edgely's inspiration.
"Exactly!" Edgely exclaimed. "Because they have every reason to believe the valinity of the data they receive from the President's, Soviet intelligence can be led down whichever garden path you choose."
"I like the idea," said Oates. "But the stickler is whether we can afford the forty-eight hours. There's no telling what the President might attempt within that time frame."
"The risk is worth it," Brogan stated flatly.
There was a knock on the door and Oates's secretary leaned her head into the room. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Secretary, but Mr. Brogan has an urgent call."
Brogan got up quickly, lifted the phone on Oates's desk and pressed the winking button. "Brogan."
He stood there listening for close to a full minute without speaking. Then he hung up and faced Oates.
"Speaker of the House, Alan Moran just turned up alive at our Guant'anamo Bay naval base in Cuba," he said slowly.
"Margolin?"
"No report."
"Larimer?"
"Senator Larimer is dead."
"Oh, good God!" Oates moaned. "That means Moran could be our next President. I can't think of a more unscrupulous or illequipped man for the job!"
"A Fagin poised at the White House gate," commented Brogan.
"Not a pleasant thought."
PITT WAS CERTAIN HE WAS DEAD. There was no reason why he shouldn't be dead. And yet he saw no blinding light at the end of a tunnel, no faces of friends and relatives who died before him. He felt as though he were dozing in his own bed at home, And Loren was there, her hair cascading on the pillow, her body pressed against his, her arms encircling his neck, holding tightly, refusing to let him drift away. Her face seemed to glow, and her violet eyes looked straight into his. He wondered if she was dead too.
Suddenly she released her hold and began to blur, moving away, diminishing ever smaller until she vanished altogether. A dim light filtered through his closed eyelins and he heard voices in the distance. Slowly, with an effort as great as lifting a pair of hundredpound weights, he opened his eyes. At first he thought he was gazing at a flat white surface. Then as his mind crept past the veil of unconsciousness he realized he really was gazing at a flat white surface.
It was a ceiling.
A strange voice said, "He's coming around."
"Takes more than three cracked ribs, a brain concussion and a gallon of seawater to do this character in." There was no mistaking this laconic voice.
"My worst fears," Pitt managed to mutter. "I've gone to hell and met the devil."
"See how he talks about his best and only friend," said Al Giordino to a doctor in naval uniform.
"He's in good physical shape," said the doctor. "He should mend pretty quickly."
"Pardon the mundane question," said Pitt, "but where am I?"
"Welcome to the U.S. Naval Hospital at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba," the doctor answered. "You and Mr. Giordino were fished out of the water by one of our recovery craft."
Pitt focused his eyes on Giordino. "Are you all right?"
"He has a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on his abdomen, but he'll survive," the doctor said, smiling. "By the way, I understand he saved your life."
Pitt cleared the mist from his mind and tried to recall. "The steward from the Leonin Andreyev was playing baseball with my head."
"Pounded you under the boat with an oar," Giordino explained.
