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Probably manufactured by the Nashville bridge Company, Nashville, Tennessee."
"The draft?" Pitt pushed.
"Empty or loaded?"
"Empty."
"Eighteen inches."
"Thanks, pal. You've done it again."
"Done what?"
"Go back to sleep."
Pitt switched off the speaker and turned to Sandecker. "The smoke clears."
Sandecker fairly beamed. "Clever, clever people, the Bougainvilles."
Pitt nodded. "I have to agree. The last place anyone would look for an expensively equipped laboratory is inside a rusty old river barge moored in a swamp."
"She also has the advantage of being movable," said Sandecker.
The admiral referred to any vessel, scow or aircraft carrier in the feminine gender. "A tug can transport and dock her anywhere the water depth is over a foot and a half."
Pitt stared at the aerial photo pensively. "The next test is to determine where the Bougainvilles hin it again."
"The creek where she was tied leads into the Stono River," Sandecker noted.
"And the Stono River is part of the Intracoastal Waterway," Pitt added. "They can slip it into any one of ten thousand rivers, streams, bays and sounds from Boston to Key West."
"No way of second-guessing the destination," Giordino murmured dejectedly.
"They won't keep it in South Carolina waters," Pitt said. "Too obvious. The catch, as I see it, boils down to north or south, and a distance of six, maybe eight hundred miles."
"A staggering job," Sandecker said in a soft voice, "untangling her from the other barges plying the eastern waterways. They're thicker than leaves in a New England October."
"Still, it's more than we had to go on before," Pitt said hopefully.
Sandecker turned from the photo. "Better give Emmett a call and steer him onto our discovery. Someone in his army of investigators may get lucky and stumble on the right barge."
The admiral's words were empty of feeling. He didn't want to say what was on his mind.
If Lee Tong Bougainville suspected government investigators were breathing down his neck, his only option would be to kill the Vice President and Loren, and dispose of their bodies to cover his tracks.
"THE PATIENT WILL LIVE to fight another day," said Dr. Harold Gwynne, the President's physician, cheerfully. He was a cherubic little man with a balding head and friendly blue eyes. "A common case of the flu bug. Stay in bed for a couple of days until the fever subsides. I'll give you an antibiotic and something to relieve the nausea.
"I can't stay on my back," the President protested weakly. "Too much work to do."
There was little fight in his words. The chills from a 103-degree fever sandbagged him, and he was constantly on the verge of vomiting.
His throat was sore, his nose stuffed up and he felt rotten from scalp to toenails.
"Relax and take it easy," Gwynne ordered. "The world can turn without you for a few hours." He jabbed a needle into the President's arm and then held a glass of water for him to wash down a pill.
Dan Fawcett entered the bedroom. "About through, Doc?" he inquired.
Gwynne nodded. "Keep him off his feet. I'll check back around two o'clock this afternoon." He smiled warmly, closed his black bag and stepped through the door.
