“And that’s your opinion of Wild Rose?” Lusana asked with a certain acidity.
“Without knowing all the details, yes,” answered Jarvis. “I daresay the South African Defence Ministry has contingency plans for phony insurgent raids on half the nations of the globe.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do,” Jarvis said firmly. “Don’t quote me, but nestled in some deep, dark crevasse of our own government you’ll find some of the wildest scripts ever devised by man and computer: conspiracies to undermine every nation on the globe, including our Western friendlies; measures to plant nuclear bombs in the ghettos in case of mass uprisings by minorities; battle plots to counter invasions from Mexico and Canada. Not one in ten thousand will ever be utilized, but they’re there, waiting, just in case.”
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“Insurance,” said Daggat.
Jarvis nodded. “Insurance against the unthinkable.”
“You mean that’s all there is to it?” Lusana exploded angrily. “You’re just going to write off Operation Wild Rose as an idiot’s nightmare?”
“I’m afraid you’ve taken this thing far too seriously, General.” Jarvis sat unmoved by Lusana’s outburst. “You’ve got to face reality. As my grandfather was fond of saying, you’ve bought yourself a pig in a poke.”
“I refuse to accept that,” Lusana said stubbornly.
Jarvis casually removed his glasses and inserted them in their case. “You are, of course, free to ask for neutral opinions from other intelligence organizations, General, but I think I can safely say that Wild Rose will get pretty much the same reception wherever you present it.”
“I demand you verify De Vaal’s intent to set the operation in motion!” Lusana shouted.
Controlling his rising anger, Jarvis rose, buttoned his jacket, and faced Daggat. “Congressman, if you will excuse me, I must get back to my office.”
“I understand,” Daggat said. He came out from behind his desk and took Jarvis by the arm. “Let me show you to the elevator.”
Jarvis nodded at Lusana, diplomatically forcing a friendly expression. “General?”
Lusana stood trembling, his hands clenched tightly, saying nothing. He turned and stared out a window.
As soon as they stepped into the elevator foyer, Daggat said to Jarvis, “I apologize for the general’s erratic behavior. But you must understand the tremendous strain he has shouldered these past months. And then there was the long flight from Mozambique last night.”
“Jet lag has been known to make men testy.” Jarvis arched an eyebrow. “Or could it be he’s suffering conscience pangs over his back-door entry.”
Daggat moistened dry lips. “You know?”
Jarvis smiled amiably. “Routine. Don’t worry, Congressman. Our job is to keep tabs on men like the general. The NSA is not in the business of prosecuting civil violations. What Immigration doesn’t know in this case won’t hurt them. A piece of advice, though. If I were you, I wouldn’t let the general hang around Washington too long. Befriending a radical revolutionary might prove embarrassing to a man of your reputation.”
“General Lusana is not a radical.”
Jarvis shrugged, unimpressed. “That remains to be seen.”
The red “down” light flashed above the elevator. Jarvis started to
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turn. “There is one more thing,” said Daggat. “A favor.”
The elevator bell rang and the doors parted. The interior was empty. “If I can,” Jarvis said, his eyes shifting from Daggat to his only means of escape.
“Check out Operation Wild Rose. I’m not asking for a maximum effort from your people,” Daggat hastened to add. “Only a few probes that may or may not confirm its validity.”
The doors began to close. Jarvis held them open, one foot in, one foot still on the foyer floor. “I’ll instigate an inquiry,” he said. “But I warn you, Congressman, you may not like what we find.”
Then the doors clunked shut and he was gone.
It was ten o’clock when Daggat came awake. He was in his office alone. His staff had long since left for home. He looked at his watch and figured he had dozed for nearly an hour. He rubbed his eyes and stretched as he vaguely heard the outer-office door open and close. He didn’t bother to look up, thinking it was the cleaning crew. It was only after he failed to tune in the familiar sounds of wastebaskets being emptied and vacuum cleaners humming that he became aware of a strange presence.
Felicia Collins leaned languidly against the doorway, saying nothing, just staring at Daggat.
A thought triggered in the back of his mind and he rose and made an apologetic gesture. “I’m sorry, time slipped away from me. I completely forgot our dinner date.”
“You’re forgiven,” she said.
He reached for his coat. “You must be starved.”
“By the fourth martini, all hunger pangs disappeared.” She peered around the office. “I figured you and Hiram were probably tied up in conference.”
“I turned him over to the State Department this afternoon. They’re giving him the usual lukewarm treatment reserved for fourth-class visiting dignitaries.” ;
“Is it safe for him to be out in public?”
“I saw to it that he’s provided with round-the-clock security.”
“Then he’s no longer our houseguest.”
“No, he has a suite at the Mayflower, courtesy of the government.”
Felicia stretched her opulent body and flowed into the room. “By the way, I met Loren Smith for lunch. She poured out her love life to me.”
“She took the bait?”
Salvage I 143
“If you mean the key to your little hideaway in Arlington, the answer is yes.”
He took her in his arms, his eyes gentle but smug with satisfaction. “You won’t be sorry, Felicia. Only good can come from this.”
“Try telling that to Loren Smith,” she said, turning away.
He released her. “Did she mention any names?”
“I gather she’s teasing Phil Sawyer into marriage while she’s screwing some guy from NUMA on the side.”
“Did she say who?”
“His name is Dirk Pitt.”
Daggat’s eyes widened. “You did say Dirk Pitt?”
Felicia nodded.
Daggat’s mind raced to make a connection and then he had it. “Son of a bitch! It’s perfect!”
“What are you talking about?”
“The revered senior senator from California, George Pitt. Didn’t it occur to you? Congresswoman Holier-Than-Thou Smith is shacking with the senator’s son.”
Felicia shivered as her skin suddenly went cold. “For God’s sake, Frederick, drop this stupid scheme of yours before it gets out of hand.”
“I don’t think so,” Daggat said, smiling a sinister smile. “I do what I think best for the country.”
“You mean you do what you think best for Frederick Daggat.”
He took her by the arm and led her from the office. “When you have time to reconsider, you’ll come to find that I was right.” He turned off the lights. “Now then, let’s grab some dinner, and afterward we’ll prepare Loren Smith’s love nest for her one and only visit.”
Admiral James Sandecker was a short, feisty character with flaming red hair and plenty of gall. When his retirement from the Navy was forced upon him, he used his considerable congressional influence to connive his way into the job of chief director of the then-fledgling National Underwater and Marine Agency. It was a match that was ordained for success from the start. In seven short years Sandecker had taken an insignificant eighty-person agency and built it into a massive organization of five thousand scientists and employees supported by an annual
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budget that exceeded four hundred million dollars.
He was accused by his enemies of being a grandstander, of launching oceanic projects that garnered more publicity than scientific data. His supporters applauded his flair for making the field of oceanography as popular as space science. Whatever his assets or liabilities, Admiral Sandecker was as solidly entrenched at NUMA as J. Edgar Hoover had been at the FBI.
He drained the last swallow from a bottle of Seven-Up, sucked on the stub of a giant cigar, and looked into the unsmiling faces of Admiral Walter Bass, Colonel Abe Steiger, Al Giordino, and Dirk Pitt.
“The part I find hard to swallow,” he continued, “is the total lack of interest on the part of the Pentagon. It would seem logical-to me, at any rate-that Colonel Steiger’s report on the discovery of Vixen 03 complete with photos would have shocked the hell out of them. And yet the colonel has told us his superiors acted as though the whole episode was best dropped and forgotten.”
“There is a bona fide reason behind their indifference,” Bass answered impassively. “Generals O’Keefe and Burgdorf are ignorant of the link between Vixen 03 and the QD project because none is recorded.”
“How can that be?”
“What was learned after the deaths of Dr. Vetterly and his scientists motivated everyone who knew of QD’s ghastly power to bury every scrap of evidence and erase all memories of its existence so that it could not be resurrected ever again.”
“You mean you suppressed an entire defense project under the noses of the Joint Chiefs of Staff?” Sandecker said incredulously.
“By direct order from President Eisenhower I was to state in my reports to the Joint Chiefs that the experiment had backfired and the formulation of QD had died along with Dr. Vetterly.”
“And they swallowed the story?”
“They had no reason not to,” said Bass. “Besides the President, Secretary of Defense Wilson, and myself and a handful of scientists, no one else knew exactly what Vetterly had discovered. As far as the Joint Chiefs were concerned, the project was simply another low-budget experiment within the ugly realm of chemical-biological warfare. They suffered no qualms; nor did they ask embarrassing questions before writing it off as a failure.”
“What was the purpose of circumventing the armed-forces power structure?”
Salvage I 145
“Eisenhower was an old soldier who abhorred mass-kill weapons.” Bass seemed to shrivel in his chair while he collected his thoughts. “I am the last surviving member of the Quick Death Team,” he continued slowly. “Unhappily, the secret will not die with me, as I had once hoped, because Mr. Pitt, here, accidentally discovered a long-lost source of the disease strain. I did not bare the facts then-nor will I now-to the men who run the Pentagon, for fear that they would consider recovering Vixen 03’s cargo and storing it, in the name of national defense, against the day it might be unleashed against a future enemy.”
“But surely if it came down to protecting our country …” Sandecker protested.
Bass shook his head. “I don’t think you understand the true horror of the Quick Death organism, Admiral. Nothing known can impede its deadly effects. Allow me to cite an illustration: if five ounces of QD were delivered over Manhattan Island, the organism would seek out and kill ninety-eight percent of the population within four hours. And no one, gentlemen, no human, could set foot on the island for over three centuries. Future generations could only stand on the New Jersey shore and watch the once-mighty buildings erode and crumble over the bones of their former inhabitants.”
The other men around the table paled; their blood ran cold. For a while no one spoke. They sat frozen, visualizing a city entombing three million corpses. It was Pitt who finally broke the uneasy silence.
“The people in Brooklyn and the Bronx-they would not be affected?”
“QD organisms spread in colonies. Strangely, they do not travel by human contact or by the wind. They tend to stay localized. Of course, if enough of the biological agent were delivered by aircraft or rockets, theoretically blanketing all of North America, the entire continent would become barren of all human life until the year 2300.”
“Is there nothing that can kill QD?” asked Steiger.
“H-two-oh,” answered Bass. “The organism can only exist in an atmosphere with a high gaseous-oxygen content. You might say it suffocates when immersed in water, just as we do.”
“It strikes me as odd that Vetterly was the only one who knew how to produce it.” This from Pitt.
Bass smiled thinly. “I would have never permitted one man to keep the critical data to himself.”
“So you destroyed the doctor’s records.”
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“I also falsified all orders and paperwork I could lay my hands on that related to the project, which included, by the way, the original flight plan of Vixen 03.”
Steiger sat back and sighed with apparent relief. “At least that’s one part of the puzzle that won’t bug me any longer.”
“But surely the project left tracks,” Sandecker said spe3ulatively.
“Skeletons still lie on Rongelo Island,” said Pitt. “And what keeps unsuspecting fishermen or yachtsmen off its beaches?”
“I’ll answer your question in reverse,” said Bass. “First, all nautical charts of that area designate Rongelo Island as a dumping ground for hydrogen cyanide. The shores are also ringed with buoys warning of danger.”
“Hydrogen cyanide,” Giordino repeated. “Sounds like bad medicine.”
“Truly. It is a blood agent that interferes with all respiration. In certain doses it causes almost immediate death. This is spelled out on the charts and in six languages on signs attached to the buoys.” Bass paused and pulled out a handkerchief and patted the sweat that gleamed on his bald head. “Also, what few records that remain dealing with the QD project are lying deep in a Pentagon high-security vault that contains documents classified as FEO.”
“FEO?”
” ‘Future eyes only,’ ” Bass explained. “Each file is sealed and marked with a date when it can be opened. Even the President lacks the power to examine a document’s contents before the specified time. It has been referred to as the closet where our nation’s skeletons are kept. The file on Amelia Earhart, UFOs, the truth behind the government’s insistence on the swine-flu shots in the mid-seventies, political scandals that make the old Watergate stories seem like Boy Scout adventures. They’re all there. The QD-project file, for example, cannot be opened until the year 2550. By then, President Eisenhower hoped, our descendants would fail to glean its true implications.”
The other men in the NUMA conference room had never heard of the Future Eyes Only file, and they were astonished.