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"He came charging out of his office and said he had to attend an urgent meeting with the President on the yacht. He didn't tell me it was an overnight affair."
"He kept it from you?"
"'Shakespeare' is tight-mouthed as hell. I should have known when I saw the garment bag. I'm sorry as hell, Oscar."
A wave of frustration swept Lucas. God, he thought, the leaders of the world's leading superpowers were like kids when it came to their own security.
"It's happened," said Lucas sharply. "So we'll make the best of it. Where is your detail?"
"Standing on the dock," answered Rhinemann.
"Send them down to Mount VerDon and back up Blackowl's people. I want that yacht cordoned off tighter than a bass drum."
"Will do."
"At the slightest hint of trouble, call me. I'm spending the night at the command post."
"You got a line on something?" Rhinemann asked.
"Nothing tangible," Lucas replied, his voice so hollow it seemed to come from a distant source. "But knowing that the President and the next three men in line for his office are all in the same place at the same time scares the hell out of me."
"WE'VE TURNED AGAINST THE CURRENT." Pitts voice was quiet, almost casual, as he stared at the color video screen on the Klein hydro scan sonar that read the seafloor. "Increase speed about two knots."
Dressed in bleached Levi's, Irish knit turtleneck sweater and brown tennis shoes, his brushed hair lain back under a NUMA baseball cap, he looked cool and comfortable with a bored, indifferent air about him.
The wheel moved slowly under the helmsman's hands and the Catawba lazily shoved aside the three-foot swells as she swept back and forth over the sea like a lawn mower. Trailing behind the stern like a tin can tied to the tail of a dog, the side scan sonar's sensor pinged the depths, sending a signal to the video display, which translated it into a detailed image of the bottom.
They took up the search for the nerve agent source in the southern end of Cook Inlet and discovered that the residual traces rose as they worked westward into Kamishak Bay. Water samples were taken every half-hour and ferried by helicopter to the chemical lab on Augustine Island. Amos Dover philosophically compared the project to a children's game of finding hidden candy with an unseen voice giving "warmer" or "colder" clues.
As the day wore on, the nervous tension that had been building up on the Catawba grew unbearable. The crew was unable to go on deck for a breath of air. Only the EPA chemists were allowed outside the exterior bulkheads, and airtight encapsulating suits protected them.
"Anything yet?" Dover asked, peering over Pitts shoulder at the high-resolution screen.
"Nothing man-made," Pitt answered. "Bottom terrain is rugged, broken, mostly lava rock."
"Good clear picture."
Pitt nodded. "Yes, the detail is quite sharp."
"What's that dark smudge?"
"A school of fish. Maybe a pack of seals."
Dover turned and stared through the bridge windows at the volcanic peak on Augustine Island, now only a few miles away. "Better make a strike soon. We're coming close to shore."
"Lab to ship," Mendoza's feminine voice broke over the bridge speaker.
Dover picked up the communications phone. "Go ahead, lab."
"Steer zero-seven-zero degrees. Trace elements appear to be in higher concentrations in that direction."
Dover gave the nearby island an apprehensive eye. "If we hold that course for twenty minutes we'll park on your doorstep for supper."
"Come in as far as you can and take samples," Mendoza answered.
"My indications are that you're practically on top of it."
Dover hung up without further discussion and called out, "What's the depth?"
