Trojan Odyssey (44 page)

W
HEN HE AWOKE
in the morning, Loren had already left for her apartment to shower and change for another day's battle in Congress. He felt a glow remembering her joyful embraces with her arms held tight around him through the night. Though he had a meeting to attend at the White House, he didn't feel in the mood to put on a business suit and play the role of bureaucrat. Besides, his mind was made up to retire so he felt he no longer had to impress presidential advisors. Instead he wore slacks, a golf shirt and a sport coat.

Another black Lincoln, driven by a Secret Service agent, was waiting when he walked from his hangar. The driver, broad-shouldered, but with a fairly substantial belt line, said nothing as he sat behind the wheel, letting Pitt open his own rear door. The journey to Al's condo was conducted in silence.

After Giordino eased into the rear seat next to Pitt, it soon became clear that the driver was not taking the normal route toward the White House. Giordino leaned over the front seat. “Excuse me, pal, but aren't you taking the long way around?”

The driver kept his eyes straight ahead and did not answer.

Giordino turned to Pitt with an expression of circumspection. “A real chatterbox, this guy.”

“Ask him where he's taking us.”

“How about it?” Giordino spoke directly into the driver's ear. “If not the White House, what's our destination?”

Still no answer. The driver ignored Giordino and steered the car as if he was a robot.

“What do you think?” Giordino muttered. “Should we stick an ice pick in his ear at the next stoplight and hijack the car?”

“How do we know he's actually with the Secret Service?” said Pitt.

The driver's face remained impassive as reflected in the rearview mirror. He reached an arm over his shoulder with his hand displaying his Secret Service identification.

Giordino peered at the ID. “He's genuine. He has to be with a name like Otis McGonigle.”

“I'm glad it's not the White House,” Pitt said, yawning as if bored. “The people inside are so drab and dreary. And what's worse, they think the country will go to the dogs without them.”

“Especially those toadies who protect the president,” Giordino added.

“You mean those deadheads who stand around with little radios in their ears wearing sunglasses that went out of fashion thirty years ago?”

“The same.”

Still no response, not even a twitch of irritation.

Pitt and Giordino gave up trying to get a rise out of the agent and sat quietly for the rest of the trip. McGonigle stopped at a heavy iron gate. A guard in the uniform of the White House police recognized the driver, stepped into his guardhouse and pressed a switch. The gate swung open and the car rolled down a ramp into a tunnel. Pitt was familiar with the tunnels deep beneath Washington that led into most of the government buildings around the Capitol. Former President Clinton had often used them during his forays around the city nightspots.

After what Pitt estimated was nearly a mile, McGonigle stopped the car in front of an elevator, got out and opened the rear door.

“Okay, gentlemen, we've arrived.”

“He talked,” Giordino said, looking around the tunnel. “But how? I don't see his ventriloquist.”

“You guys will never get hired at the Comedy Club,” muttered McGonigle, refusing to be drawn in. He stood aside as the doors opened. “I'll await your return with bated breath.”

“I don't know why, but I like you,” Giordino said, slapping the agent on the back as he stepped into the elevator. He failed to see the response as the door closed before the agent could react.

The elevator did not go up, but descended for what seemed a quarter of a mile before it slowed and the doors noiselessly slid open. Here they found an armed Marine standing in dress uniform beside a steel door. He carefully checked Pitt and Giordino, comparing their faces with photographs. Satisfied, he pressed a code on the side of the door and stood aside as it swung open. He merely motioned for them to enter, without speaking.

They found themselves in a long conference room with enough technical communications equipment to support a major war room. TV monitors and visual displays of maps and photographs covered three walls. Sandecker rose from a chair and greeted them.

“Well, you two have really opened a Pandora's box this time.”

“I hope the results of our investigation proved useful,” said Pitt modestly.

“Useful is a major understatement.” He turned as a tall, gray-haired man in a black pin-striped suit with a red tie approached. “I believe you know the president's security advisor, Max Seymour.”

Pitt shook the outstretched hand. “I've met him on occasion at my father's Saturday-afternoon barbecues.”

“Senator Pitt and I go back a long way,” said Seymour warmly. “How is your lovely mother?”

“Except for arthritis, she's doing fine,” replied Pitt.

Sandecker quickly made the introductions of the other three men standing around one end of the long table. Jack Martin, White House science advisor; Jim Hecht, assistant director of the CIA; and General Arnold Stack, whose exact job at the Pentagon was never fully revealed. They all sat down as Sandecker asked Pitt to report on what he and Giordino found in the tunnels and at the Odyssey development center on Isle de Ometepe.

After a secretary announced that her recorder was on and receiving, Pitt started off first, trading off every few minutes with Giordino, filling in what the other overlooked. They described the broad spectrum of events and scenes they had witnessed, enhanced by their conclusions. No questions interrupted their report until they wrapped up by telling of their escape off the island with the Lowenhardts and the murderous woman from Odyssey.

The president's men took a few moments to digest the enormity of the looming disaster. Max Seymour looked across the table with an icy smile on his face at Jim Hecht of the CIA. “Seems like your people dropped the ball on this one, Jim.”

Hecht shrugged uncomfortably. “No directives were received from the White House to investigate. We saw little cause to send in operatives because our satellite photos showed no indication of a major construction project that could prove detrimental to the security of the United States.”

“And the development facility on Ometepe?”

“We checked it,” answered Hecht, becoming annoyed with Seymour's questions, “and found it was engaging in alternative power research. Our analysts saw nothing that revealed Odyssey was researching and developing weapons of death or destruction. So we moved on, since our main objective is observing and analyzing the Republic of China's penetration into Central America, in particular, the Canal Zone.”

Jack Martin said, “I find it troubling that our best scientific efforts are still years away from producing an efficient fuel cell power system. Not only did Odyssey make an astonishing technical breakthrough, but the Red Chinese are already manufacturing millions of units.”

“We can't lead the world in everything, every time,” said General Stack. He nodded at Pitt and Giordino. “What you're telling us is that Odyssey lured away a number of the world's leading scientists who were conducting research into fuel cells, took them to the facility in Nicaragua and then coerced them into developing a practical and efficient product.”

Pitt nodded. “That is correct.”

“I can name at least four of our own scientists who left their research laboratories at universities and quietly disappeared,” said Martin.

Hecht looked at Pitt. “Are you certain the Lowenhardts will cooperate and give us the technical data we require to recreate their advance in nitrogen fuel cells?”

“They agreed up and down the line after I promised them that their children would be flown under guard to the United States for a family reunion and protected from now on.”

“Good thinking,” said Sandecker with a glint in his eyes, “even if you did step beyond your authority.”

“It seemed the honorable thing to do,” Pitt came back, with a sly grin.

Jack Martin doodled on a notepad. “As soon as they've recovered from their ordeal and are rested, we'll begin interviewing them.” He gazed at Pitt across the table. “What did they tell you about the cell's inner workings?”

“Only that after they determined that hydrogen was im-practical as a fuel they began experimenting with nitrogen because it makes up seventy-eight percent of Earth's air. By drawing it out of the atmosphere along with oxygen, they ingeniously created a fuel cell that was self-sustaining and powered by natural gases, with only pure water as waste. According to Claus they engineered an ingeniously simple unit with less than eight parts. It was this simplicity that enabled the Chinese to produce so many units so quickly.”

General Stack looked grim. “Such huge production numbers in such a short space of time is astonishing.”

“Something of that magnitude would have called for a staggering amount of platinum to coat the anodes that separate the gas into protons and electrons,” explained Martin.

Hecht replied, “Over the past ten years, Odyssey has accumulated eighty percent of the world's platinum-producing mines. A phenomenon that has cost the auto industry dearly since they rely on platinum for a number of engine parts.”

“Once we have the Lowenhardts' blueprint in our hands,” said Seymour, “we'll have the same problem of finding enough platinum to match Chinese production.”

“They did say they had yet to design a fuel cell to power automobiles,” Giordino commented.

Martin said, “By using the Lowenhardts' data and by making an all-out effort, we might get the jump on Odyssey and the Chinese in that field.”

“Certainly worth a try,” said General Stack, “now that the groundwork has been achieved and the technology laid in our lap.”

“Which brings us to a plan about how to deal with Odyssey and the tunnels,” continued Stack, his eyes straying across the table to Seymour.

“Sending Special Forces to block a series of tunnels is not the same as sending troops to subdue a dictator who has built up an arsenal of nuclear, biological and chemical weapons like Saddam in Iraq,” Seymour spelled out. “I cannot in good conscience advise the president to use force.”

“But the results of a terrible freeze above the thirtieth parallel could be just as deadly.”

“Max is right,” said Martin. “Convincing the rest of the world of the danger would border on the impossible.”

“Regardless of how you approach the dilemma,” Sandecker said, “those tunnels must be blocked and blocked fast. Once they are opened and millions of gallons of water from the Atlantic is flowing into the Pacific, they'll be much more difficult to destroy.”

“How about sending in a small covert team with explosives to do the job?”

“They'd never penetrate Odyssey's security,” counseled Giordino.

“You and Dirk made it in and out,” said Sandecker.

“We weren't carrying a hundred tons of explosives, which is what it will take to do the job.”

Pitt had left his chair and moved around the room, studying the monitors and maps on the walls. He found particular interest in a large satellite photo of the Odyssey R&D facility on Ometepe. He moved in closer and examined the slope of Mount Concepcion and a thought began to form. Finally, he turned and stepped back to the table.

“A B-fifty-two drop of two-thousand-pound penetrating bombs would do it,” suggested Stack.

“We can't go around dropping bombs on friendly countries,” said Seymour, “despite the threat.”

“Then you admit the potential for a deep freeze is a threat to the nation's security,” Stack cornered him.

“That part of the equation goes without saying,” Seymour said wearily. “What I'm saying is there must be a logical solution that won't make the president and the United States government look like inhuman monsters to the nations of the world.”

“And lest we forget,” Hecht said with a tight, canny smile, “the political implications and fallout in the next election if we make the wrong decisions.”

“There might be another approach,” said Pitt slowly, while still looking at the satellite photo. “An approach that would satisfy everyone involved.”

“All right, Mr. Pitt,” said General Stack dubiously, “how do we destroy the tunnels without sending in the Special Forces or a squadron of bombers?”

Pitt held their attention, every eye was trained on him. “I propose we give the job to Mother Nature.”

They all looked at him, waiting for an explanation, their minds beginning to think he may have lost some gray matter. Martin, the scientist, broke the silence.

“Could you please explain?”

“According to geologists, a slope of the Concepcion volcano on Ometepe is slipping. This was no doubt caused by the tunnel excavation under the outer edge of the volcano. When Al and I were in the tunnel closest to its core, we could feel a substantial rise in temperature.”