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  "A piece of engine cowling was found a half mile beyond the runway," Sarveux explained. "Analysis showed fragments embedded in it that matched a type of rocket used by the army's Argo ground-to-air launcher. An inventory at the Val Jalbert Arsenal discovered two were missing, along with several warheads."

  "Good lord." Hunt's voice trembled. "That means all those people on your aircraft were murdered."

  "The evidence points in that direction," Sarveux said placidly.

  "The Free Quebec Society," said Hunt, turning angry. "I can think of no one else who could be responsible."

  "I agree, but their guilt may never be proved."

  "Why not?" asked Hunt. "The FQS are either out of touch with reality or complete idiots to think they could get away with it. The Mounties will never permit the terrorists behind a crime of such magnitude to escape unpunished. As a radical movement they are finished."

  "Do not be too optimistic, old friend. My attempted assassination does not fall into the same category as the bombings, kidnappings and slayings of the last forty years. Those were carried out by political amateurs, belonging to FQS cells, who were apprehended and convicted. The slaughter at James Bay was conceived and directed by professionals. That much is known by the fact they left no trace of their existence. The best guess by the chief commissioner of the Mounties is that they were hired from outside the country."

  Hunt's eyes were steady. "The FQS terrorists might yet push us into a state of civil war."

  "That must not come to pass," Sarveux said quietly. "I will not allow it."

  "It was you who threatened the use of troops to keep the separatists in line."

  Sarveux smiled a dry smile. "A bluff. You are the first to know. I never intended a military occupation of Quebec. Repression of a hostile people would solve nothing."

  Hunt reached in his pocket. "I believe I'll have that pipe now."

  "Please do."

  The two men sat silent while the deputy prime minister puffed his briar bowl to life. Finally he blew a blue cloud toward the ceiling.

  "So what happens now?" asked Hunt.

  "The Canada we know will disintegrate while we stand helpless to prevent it," answered Sarveux sadly. "A totally independent Quebec was inevitable from the start. Sovereignty association was merely a half-assed measure. Now Alberta wants to go it alone. Ontario and British Columbia are making rumblings about nationhood."

  "You fought a good fight to keep us together, Charles. No one can deny you that."

  "A mistake," said Sarveux. "Instead of a delaying action, you and I, the party, the nation, should have, planned for it. Too late; we are faced with a Canada divided forever."

  "I can't accept your ominous forecast," Hunt said, but the life had gone out of his voice.

  "The gap between your English-speaking provinces and my French Quebec is too great to span with patriotic words," said Sarveux, staring Hunt in the eyes. "You are of British descent, a graduate of Oxford. You belong to the elite who have always dominated the political and economic structure of this land. You are the establishment. Your children study in classrooms under a photograph of the Queen. French Quebec children, on the other hand, are stared down upon by Charles de Gaulle. And, as you know, they have little opportunity for financial success or a prominent position in society."

  "But we are all Canadians," Hunt protested.

  "No, not all. There is one among us who has sold out to Moscow."

  Hunt was startled. He jerked the pipe from between his teeth. "Who?" he asked incredulously. "Who are you talking about?"

  "The leader of the FQS," answered Sarveux. "I learned before my trip to James Bay that he has made deals with the Soviet Union that will take effect after Quebec leaves the confederation. What's worse, he has the ear of Jules Guerrier."

  Hunt appeared lost. "The premier of Quebec? I can't believe that. Jules is French-Canadian to the core. He has little love for communism and makes no secret of his hate for the FQS."

  "But Jules, like ourselves, has always assumed we were dealing with a terrorist from the gutter. A mistake. The man is no simple misguided radical. I'm told he holds a high position in our government."

  "Who is he? How did you come by this information?"

  Sarveux shook his head. "Except to say that it comes from outside the country, I cannot reveal my source, even to you. As to the traitor's name, I can't be certain. The Russians refer to him by various code names. His true identity is a well-kept secret."

  "My God, what if something should happen to Jules?"

  "Then the Parti QudbA-cois would crumble and the FQS could step into the vacuum."

  "What you're suggesting is that Russia will have a toehold in the middle of North America."

  "Yes," Sarveux said ominously. "Exactly."

  Henri Villon stared through the windows of the James Bay control booth, the grim smile of satisfaction on his face reflected in the spotless glass.

  The riddle of Roubaix's garrote lay on the great generator floor below.

  Behind him, Percival Stuckey stood in apprehensive confusion. "I must protest this act," he said. "It is beyond decency."

  Villon turned and stared at Stuckey, his eyes cold. "As a member of Parliament and Mr. Sarveux's minister of internal affairs, I can assure you this test is of utmost concern to the country, and decency has nothing to do with it."

  "It's highly irregular," Stuckey muttered stubbornly.

  "Spoken like a true official," Villon said in a cynical tone. "Now then, can you do what your government asks of you?"

  Stuckey pondered a moment. "The diversion of millions of kilowatts is quite complex and involves intricate lead and frequency control with correct timing. Though most of the excess power surge will be grounded, we'll still be throwing a heavy overload on our own systems."

  "Can you do it?" Villon persisted.

  "Yes." Stuckey shrugged in defeat. "But I fail to see the purpose in cutting power to every city between Minneapolis and New York."

  "Five seconds," Villon said, ignoring Stuckey's probing remark. "You have only to shut off electrical energy to the United States for five seconds."

  Stuckey gave a final glare of defiance and leaned between the engineers seated at the console and twisted several knobs. The overhead television monitors brightened and focused on varied panoramic views of city skylines.

  "The contrast seems to lighten as you scan from left to right," noted Villon.

  "The darker cities are Boston, New York and Philadelphia." Stuckey looked at his watch. "It's dusk in Chicago and the sun is still setting in Minneapolis."

  "How will we know if full blackout is achieved with one city under daylight?"

  Stuckey made a slight adjustment and the Minneapolis monitor zoomed to a busy intersection. The image was so clear that Villon could identify the street signs on the corner of Third Street and Hennepin Avenue. "The traffic signals. We can tell when their lights go dark."

  "Will Canadian power go off as well?"

  "Only in towns near the border below our interconnect terminals."

  The engineers made a series of movements over the console and paused. Stuckey turned and fixed Villon with a steady stare. "I will not be held responsible for the consequences."

  "Your objections are duly noted," Villon replied.

  He gazed at the monitors as a cold finger of indecision tugged his mind, followed by a torrent of last-second doubts. The strain of what he was about to do settled heavily about his shoulders. Five seconds. A warning that could not be dismissed. Finally he cast off all fears and nodded.

  "You may proceed." Then he watched as one-quarter of the United States blinked out.

  Part II

  THE DOODLEBUG

  MARCH 1989

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  There was a feeling of helplessness, almost fear in Alan Mercier's mind as he worked late into the night, sifting through a stack of military recommendations relating to national security. He couldn't help wondering if the new pre
sident was capable of grasping realities. Declaring national bankruptcy was asking for impeachment, no matter how desperately the nation required the act.

  Mercier sat back and rubbed his tired eyes. No longer were these simply typewritten proposals and predictions on eight-by ten bond paper. Now they became decisions affecting millions of flesh-and-blood human beings.

  Suddenly he felt impotent. Matters of vast consequences stretched beyond his view, his comprehension. The world, the government had grown too complex for a mere handful of men to control adequately. He saw himself being swept along on a tidal wave that was racing toward the rocks.

  His depression was interrupted by an aide who entered his office and motioned toward the telephone. "You have a call, Sir, from Dr. Klein."

  "Hello, Ron, I take it you don't have enough hours in the day either."

  "Right you are," Klein came back. "I thought you might like to know I have a lead on your expensive gizmo."

  "What is it exactly?"

  "I can't say. No one around here has the vaguest idea."

  "You'll have to explain."

  "The funding came to the Department of Energy all right. But then it was immediately siphoned off to another government agency."

  "Which one?"

  "The National Underwater and Marine Agency." Mercier did not respond. He went silent, thinking.

  "You there, Alan?"

  "Yes, I'm sorry."

  "Seems we were only the middleman," Klein went on. "Wish I could give you more information, but that's all I found."

  "Sounds devious," mused Mercier. "Why would Energy quietly switch such a large sum of money to an agency concerned with marine science?"

  "Can't say. Shall I have my staff pursue it further?" Mercier thought a moment. "No, better let me handle it. A probe from a neutral source might encounter less hassle."

  "I don't envy you, tangling with Sandecker."

  "Ah, yes, the director of NUMA. I've never met him, but I hear he's a testy bastard."

  "I know him," Klein said. "That description is an understatement. You nail his hide on the barn door and I guarantee half of Washington will present you with a medal."

  "Talk has it he's a good man."

  "The guy is no idiot. He skirts politics but keeps the right company. He won't hesitate to step on feet, 'damn the torpedoes' and all that, to get a job done. No one who ever picked a fight with him came out a winner. If you have evil thoughts in his direction, I suggest you have a strong case."

  "Innocent until proved guilty," said Mercier.

  "He's also a tough man to catch. Almost never returns his phone calls or sits around his office."

  "I'll think of a way to pin him down," Mercier said confidently. "Thanks for your help."

  "Not at all," said Klein. "Good luck. I have a feeling you'll need it."

  Every afternoon at exactly five minutes to four, Admiral James Sandecker, the chief director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency, left his office and took the elevator down to the tenth-floor communications department.

  He was a bantam-size man, a few inches over five feet with a neatly trimmed red beard matching a thick head of hair that showed little indication of white. At age sixty-one, he was a confirmed health nut. He nurtured a trim body by downing daily doses of vitamins and garlic pills supplemented by a six-mile morning run from his apartment to the tall, glassed headquarters of NUMA.

  He entered the immense, equipment-laden communications room, which covered fifteen thousand square feet and was manned by a staff of forty-five engineers and technicians. Six satellites, dispersed in hovering orbits above the earth, interconnected the agency with weather stations, oceanographic research expeditions, and a hundred other ongoing marine projects around the world.

  The communications director looked up at Sandecker's entry. He was quite familiar with the admiral's routine.

  "Projection room B, if you please, Admiral."

  Sandecker acknowledged with a curt nod and stepped into what appeared to be a small movie theater. He sank into a soft chair and patiently waited until an image began to focus on the screen.

  A tall, lanky man three thousand miles away stared out of the screen from piercing eyes. His hair was black and he grinned from a face that looked like a rock that dared ocean surf to crash over it.

  Dirk Pitt was sitting tilted back in a chair with his feet planted irreverently on an electronic console. He held up a sandwich that displayed a missing bite and made an open gesture. "Sorry, Admiral, you caught me in the middle of a snack."

  "You've never stood on formality before," Sandecker grumbled good-naturedly. "Why start now?"

  "It's colder than a polar bear's rectum inside this floating abortion. We burn off a ton of calories just trying to keep warm.

  "The Doodlebug is not a cruise ship."

  Pitt set the sandwich aside. "Maybe so, but next trip the crew would appreciate a little more thought being given to the heating system."

  "How deep are you?"

  Pitt consulted a dial. "Seven hundred and thirty feet. Water temperature is twenty-nine degrees. Conditions not exactly conducive to a game of water polo."

  "Any problems?"

  "None," Pitt answered, his grin still in place. "The Doodlebug is performing like a perfect lady."

  "We're running out of time," said Sandecker evenly. "I expect a call from the new president at any moment, demanding to know what we're up to."

  "The crew and I will stick around until the fuel is gone, Admiral. I can promise you no more."

  "Any mineral contacts?"

  "We've passed over large iron deposits, commercially obtainable uranium, thorium, gold and manganese. Almost every mineral except our primary target."

  "Does the geology still look promising?"

  "Strengthening indications, but nothing that looks like a structural uplift, anticline or salt dome."

  "I'm hoping for a stratigraphic trap. It's got the greatest potential."

  "The Doodlebug can't produce a paying sandbar, Admiral, only find one."

  "Not to change the subject, but keep a sharp eye in your rearview mirror. I can't bail you out if you're caught trespassing on the wrong side of the street."

  "I've been meaning to ask you, what's to stop an audience from triangulating my video transmissions?"

  "One shot in forty."

  "Sir?"

  "NUMA's satellite communications network has a direct link with forty other stations. They all receive and instantaneously relay your transmissions. The lag is less than a millisecond. To anyone tuned into this sending frequency your voice and image come from forty different locations around the globe. There is no way they can single out the original."

  "I think I can live with those odds."

  "I'll leave you to your sandwich."

  If Pitt felt pessimistic he didn't show it. He put on a confident face and threw a lazy wave. "Hang loose, Admiral. The law of averages is bound to catch up."

  Sandecker watched as Pitt's figure faded from the screen. Then he rose from his chair and left the projection room. He walked up two flights of stairs to the computer section and passed through security. In a glass-enclosed room set away from the rest of the humming machines a man in a white lab coat studied a stack of computer printout sheets. He peered over the rims of his glasses as the admiral approached.

  "Good afternoon, doc," greeted Sandecker.

  Dr. Ramon King indolently replied by holding up a pencil. He had a light-skinned narrow, gloomy face, with jutting jaw and barbed-wire eyebrows-the kind of face that mirrors nothing and rarely displays a change of expression.

  Doc King could afford a sour countenance. He was the creative genius behind the development of the Doodlebug.

  "Everything functioning smoothly?" asked Sandecker, trying to make conversation.

  "The probe is functioning perfectly," answered King. "Just as it did yesterday, the day before that and the previous two weeks. If our baby develops teething problems, you'll be the f
irst to be notified."

  "I'd prefer good news to no news."

  King laid aside the printout sheets and faced Sandecker. "You're not only demanding the moon but the stars as well. Why continue this risky expedition? The Doodlebug is a qualified success. It penetrates deeper than we had any right to expect. The doors of discovery it throws open stagger the mind. For God's sake, cut the subterfuge and make its existence known."

  "No!" Sandecker snapped back. "Not until I damn well have to."

  "What are you trying to prove?" King persisted.

  "I want to prove that it's more than a highfalutin dowser."

  King readjusted his glasses and went back to scanning the computer data. "I'm not a gambling man, Admiral, but since you're carrying the bulk of the risk on your shoulders, I'll tag along for the ride, knowing full well I'll go on the Justice Department shit list as an accomplice." He paused and peered at Sandecker. "I have a vested interest in the Doodlebug. I'd like to see it make a score as much as anyone. But if something fouls up and those guys out there in the ocean are caught like thieves in the night, then the best you and I can hope for is to be tarred and feathered and exiled to Antarctica. The worst, I don't want to think about."

  The Washington athletic community looked askance at Sandecker's running habits. He was the only jogger anyone had ever seen pounding along the sidewalk with an ever-present Churchill-style cigar stub protruding from his mouth.

  He was puffing along toward the NUMA building under an early morning overcast sky when a rotund man in a rumpled suit, sitting on a bus bench, looked up over a newspaper.

  "Admiral Sandecker, may I have a word with you?"

  Sandecker turned out of curiosity, but not recognizing the President's security adviser, he kept his stride. "Call me for an appointment," he panted indifferently. "I don't like to break my pace."

  "Please, Admiral, I'm Alan Mercier."

  Sandecker stopped, his eyes narrowing. "Mercier?"

  Mercier folded the newspaper and stood. "My apologies for interrupting your morning exercise, but I understand you're a hard man to trap for conversation."

  "Your office supersedes mine. You could have simply ordered me to come to the White House."