Dr. Raymond Edgely noticed their appearance and came over. Oates introduced him to General Metcalf.
“So you’re the mysterious genius who heads up Fathom,” Metcalf said. “I’m honored to meet you.”
“Thank you, General,” Edgely said. “Secretary Oates tells me you have some suspicions about the project.”
Metcalf looked around the busy complex, studying the scientists who were engrossed in the digital readings on the monitors. “I admit I’m puzzled by all this.”
“Basically, it’s quite simple,” Edgely said. “My staff and I are intercepting and accumulating data on the President’s brain rhythms in preparation for switching control from his cerebral implant to our own unit, which you see before you.”
Metcalf’s skepticism melted away. “Then this is all true. The Russians really are dominating his thoughts.”
“Of course. It was their instructions to close down Congress and the Supreme Court so he could instigate projects beneficial to the Communist bloc without legislative roadblocks. The order to withdraw our troops from NATO is a perfect example. Exactly what the Soviet military wants for Christmas.”
“And you people can actually take the place of the President’s mind?”
Edgely nodded. “Do you have any messages you wish sent to the Kremlin? Some misleading information perhaps?”
Metcalf brightened like a searchlight. “I think my intelligence people can write some interesting science fiction that should spur them to draw all the wrong conclusions.”
“When do you expect to release the President from Lugovoy’s command?” Brogan asked.
“I think we can make the transfer in another eight hours,” answered Edgely.
“Then we’ll get out of the way and leave you to your work,” Oates said.
They left the data acquisition room and returned to the outer office, where they found Sam Emmett waiting. Oates could see that the expression on his face spelled trouble.
“I’ve just come from Capitol Hill,” Emmett said. “They’re acting like animals in a zoo who haven’t been fed. Debate over impeachment is raging in Congress. The President’s party is making a show of loyalty, but that’s all it is — a show. There is no support on a broad front. Desertions come in wholesale lots.”
“What about committee?” asked Oates.
“The opposition party rammed through a floor vote to bypass a committee investigation to save time.”
“A guess as to when they’ll decide?”
“The House may vote on impeachment this afternoon.”
“The odds?”
“Five to one in favor.”
“The Senate?”
“Not in the cards. A straw vote indicates the Senate will vote to convict with considerably more than the necessary two-thirds majority.”
“They’re not wasting any time.”
“Considering the President’s recent actions, the impeachment proceedings are looked upon as a national emergency.”
“Any show of support for Vince Margolin?”
“Of course, but no one can stand behind him if he doesn’t put in an appearance. Sixty seconds after the President is swept from office, someone has to take the oath as successor. The rumor mills have him hiding out until the last minute so he won’t be associated with the President’s crazy policies.”
“What about Moran?”
“This is where it gets sticky. He’s claiming he has proof that Margolin committed suicide and that I am covering up the fact.”
“Anybody believe him?”
“Doesn’t matter if he’s believed. The news media are jumping on his statements like ants on honey. His news conferences are getting massive attention, and he’s demanding Secret Service protection. His aides have already drafted a transition plan and named his inner circle of advisers. Shall I go on?”
“The picture is clear,” Oates said resignedly. “Alan Moran will be the next President of the United States.”
“We can’t allow it,” Emmett said coldly.
The others stared at him. “Unless we can produce Vince Margolin by tomorrow,” asked Brogan, “how can we prevent it?”
“Any way possible,” said Emmett. He produced a folder from an attaché case. “I’d like you gentlemen to take a look at this.”
Oates opened the folder and studied the contents without comment, and then passed it on to Brogan, who in turn handed it to Metcalf. When they finished they gazed at Emmett as if silently nominating him to speak first.
“What you gentlemen read in the report is true,” he said simply.
“Why hasn’t this come out before?” Oates demanded.
“Because there was never a reason to order an in-depth investigation into the man before,” answered Emmett. “The FBI is not in the habit of revealing skeletons in our legislators’ closets unless there is solid evidence of criminal activity in their backgrounds. Dirt on divorces, petty misdemeanors, sexual perversions or traffic violations we file in a vault and look the other way. Moran’s file showed him to be clean, too clean for someone who clawed his way to the top without benefit of education, average intelligence, a penchant for hard work, wealth or important contacts. Nothing about his character indicated aggressiveness or talent. As you can see the results aren’t exactly a recommendation for a pope.”
Metcalf scanned the report again. “This stock brokerage firm in Chicago, what is it called? Ah, yes, Blackfox and Churchill.”
“A front to launder Moran’s bribery and payoff operation. The names came off tombstones in a Fargo, North Dakota, cemetery. Bogus stock transactions are conducted to hide bribe money from shady special-interest groups, defense contractors, state and city officials seeking federal funding and not caring how they get it, underworld payments for favors. Speaker of the House Moran makes the Bougainvilles look like Boy Scouts.”
“We’ve got to go public with this,” Brogan said adamantly.
“I wouldn’t push it,” cautioned Oates. “Moran would go to any length to deny it, claiming it was a frame-up to keep him from leading the country to reconciliation and unity. I can see him pleading for the American tradition of fair play while he’s hanging from the cross. And by the time the Justice Department can make things tough for him, he will have been sworn in as President. Let’s face it, you can’t put the country through two impeachment proceedings in the same year.”
Metcalf nodded his head in agreement. “Coming on the heels of the President’s insane policies and Moran’s ravings about the Vice President’s presumed death, the upheaval may prove more than the public can accept. A complete loss of confidence in the federal system could ignite a voters’ revolt during the next election.”
“Or worse,” Emmett added. “More and more people are refusing to pay taxes on the rationale they don’t like where their tax dollars are spent. And you can’t blame them for not wanting to support a government managed by inept leaders and rip-off artists. You get five million people out there who tear up their tax forms come next April fifteenth, and the federal machinery as we know it will cease to function.”
The four men sat in the trailer office like frozen figures in a painting. The fantasy of their conjecture was not implausible. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The prospects of surviving the storm unscathed seemed remote.
At last Brogan said, “We’re lost without Vince Margolin.”
“That fellow Pitt over at NUMA gave us our first tangible lead,” said Brogan.
“So what have you got?” asked Metcalf.
“Pitt deduced that the mind control laboratory where Margolin is held is inside a river barge.”