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"The bottom end of the Mississippi where the river splits into three main channels to the sea," answered Sandecker. "South Pass, Southwest Pass, and Pass a Loutre. Most major shipping uses the first two."
"Griffin, how long since the barge left your area?"
There was no answer, no buzzing of a broken connection, no sound at all.
"I think he's passed out," said Metcalf.
"Help is on the way. Do you understand, Griffin?"
Still no reply.
"Why move the barge out to sea?" Brogan wondered aloud.
"No reason I can think of," said Sandecker.
Emmett's phone buzzed on his interoffice line.
"There's an urgent call for Admiral Sandecker," said Don Miller, his deputy director.
Emmett looked up. "A call for you, Admiral, if you wish, you can take it in the outer office."
Sandecker thanked him and stepped into the anteroom, where Emmett's private secretary showed him to a telephone at an empty desk.
He punched the blinking white button. "This is Admiral Sandecker."
"One moment, sir," came the familiar voice of the NUMA headquarters' chief operator.
"Hello?"
"Sandecker here. Who's this?"
"You're a tough nut to crack, Admiral. If I hadn't said my call concerned Dirk Pitt, your secretary would never have arranged our connection.
"who is this?" Sandecker demanded again.
"My name is Sal Casio. I'm working on the Bougainville case with Dirk."
Ten minutes later, when Sandecker walked back into Emmett's office, he appeared stunned and shaken. Brogan instantly sensed something was wrong.
"What is it?" he asked. "You look like you've rubbed shoulders with a banshee."
"The barge," Sandecker murmured quietly. "The Bougainvilles have struck a deal with Moran. They're taking it out into the open sea to be scuttled."
"What are you saying?"
"Loren Smith and Vince Margolin are sentenced to die so Alan Moran can be President. The barge is to be their tomb in 70 fathoms of water."
"ANY SIGN OF PURSUIT?" the river pilot asked, synchronizing the control levers of the helm console with the finesse of a conductor leading an orchestra.
Lee Tong stepped back from the large open window at the rear of the pilothouse and lowered the binoculars. "Nothing except a strange cloud of black smoke about two or three miles astern."
"Probably an oil fire."
"Seems to be following."
"An illusion. The river has a habit of doing weird things to the eyes. What looks to be a mile away is four. Lights where no lights are supposed to be. Ships approaching in a channel that fade away as you get closer. Yes, the river can fool you when she gets playful."
Lee Tong gazed up the channel again. He had learned to tune out the pilot's never-ending commentary on the Mississippi, but he admired his skill and experience.
