Neither of the two men in the passenger compartment spoke as the driver, seated at the wheel in front of the closed divider window, efficiently steered the limousine over the rain-slicked asphalt that mirrored the streetlights along the sidewalks. Admiral James Sandecker stared out the window, his eyes staying unfocused as the driver turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue. His mind was lost in thought. Dressed in expensive sport coat and slacks, he didn't look the least bit tired. When the call came from Morton Laird, the President's chief of staff, he was hosting a late-night supper for a group of visiting oceanographers from Japan in his office suite atop the NUMA building across the river in Arlington, Virginia.
Slight of build from jogging five miles a day and exercising in the NUMA employees' health center, Sandecker looked much younger than a man homing in on sixty-five years of age. The respected director of NUMA since its founding, he had built a federal bureau of ocean sciences that was the envy of every maritime nation in the world. Spirited and gutsy, he wasn't a man to take no for an answer. Thirty years in the Navy, highly decorated, he was picked by a former president to head up NUMA when there wasn't a dime in funding nor congressional approval. In fifteen years, Sandecker had stepped on many toes, made any number of enemies, but persevered until no member of Congress dared suggest he resign in favor of a political lackey. Egocentric yet simple, he vainly dyed the gray that was seeping into his flaming red hair and Vandyke beard.
The man beside him, Commander Rudi Gunn, wore a rumpled business suit. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands briskly. The April nights in Washington could be far too chilly for comfort. A graduate of the Naval Academy, Gunn had served in submarines until he became the admiral's chief aide. When Sandecker resigned to form NUMA, Gunn had followed him and was appointed director in charge of operations. He looked across at Sandecker through horn-rimmed glasses, studied the luminescent dial of his watch and then broke the silence.
He spoke in a voice mixed with fatigue and irritation. “Do you have any idea, Admiral, why the President demanded to see us at one o'clock in the morning?”
Sandecker turned his gaze from the passing lights and shook his head. “I haven't a clue. Judging from Morton Laird's tone, it was an invitation we couldn't refuse.”
“I'm not aware of any crisis going on,” muttered Gunn wearily, “domestic or foreign, that calls for middle-of-the-night secrecy.”
“Nor I.”
“Does the man ever sleep?”
“Three hours between four and seven A.M., according to my sources inside the White House. Unlike the previous three presidents, who served in Congress and were good friends, this one, a two-term governor of Oklahoma, is almost a total stranger to me. In the short time he's been in office since the former chief executive had a debilitating stroke, this is the first chance we've had to talk.”
Gunn glanced over in the darkness. “You never met Dean Cooper Wallace when he was vice president?”
Sandecker shook his head. “From what I'm told, he has no use for NUMA.”
The limousine driver turned off Pennsylvania Avenue and circled into the barricaded drive to the White House, stopping at the northwest gate. “Here we are, Admiral,” he announced as he came around and opened the rear door.
A uniformed member of the Secret Service checked San-decker's and Gunn's IDs and crossed off their names on a visitors' list. Then they were escorted through the building's entrance and led to the West Wing reception room. The receptionist, an attractive lady in her late thirties with auburn hair tied in an old-fashioned bow, rose and smiled warmly. The sign on her desk read
ROBIN CARR.
“Admiral Sandecker, Commander Gunn, a great pleasure to meet you.”
“You work long hours,” said Sandecker.
“Fortunately, my time clock ticks in unison with the President's.”
“Any chance for a cup of coffee?” asked Gunn.
The smile faded. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid there isn't time.” She quickly sat down, picked up a phone and simply said, “The Admiral is here.”
Within ten seconds, the new President's chief of staff, Morton Laird, who had replaced the hospitalized former president's right-hand man, Wilbur Hutton, appeared and shook hands. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. The President will be pleased to see you.”
Laird came from the old school. He was the only chief of staff in recent history who wore three-piece suits with vests that sported a large gold chain attached to a pocket watch. And unlike most of his predecessors, who came out of Ivy League schools, Laird was a former professor of communications from Stanford University* A tall, balding man with rimless spectaclesr he peered through glistening fox-brown eyes beneath heavily thicketed eyebrows. He oozed charm and was one of the few men in the executive office whom everyone genuinely liked. He turned and motioned for Sandecker and Gunn to follow him into the Oval Office.
The famous room, whose walls had witnessed a thousand crises, the lonely burdens of power and agonized decisions that affected the lives of billions of people, was empty.
Before either Sandecker or Gunn could comment, Laird turned and said, “Gentlemen, what you will observe in the next twenty minutes is vital to our nation's security. You must swear never to breathe a word to anyone. Do I have your oath of honor?”
“I venture to say that in all my years of service to my government, I've learned and kept more secrets than you have, Mr. Laird,” said Sandecker with total conviction. “I will vouch for Commander Gunn's integrity.”
“Forgive me, Admiral,” said Laird. “It comes with the territory.” Laird walked over to one wall and tapped a concealed switch on the baseboard. A section of the wall slid aside, revealing the interior of an elevator. He bowed and extended his hand. “After you.”
The elevator was small and could hold no more than four people. The walls were finished in a polished cedar. There were only two buttons on the control panel, one up, one down. Laird pressed DOWN. The false wall inside the Oval Office silently returned to its place as the elevator doors met and sealed. There was no sensation of speed, but Sandecker knew they were dropping at a rapid pace from the falling sensation in his stomach. In less than a minute the elevator slowed and came to a soft stop.
“We're not meeting the President in the situation room,” said Sandecker, more as a statement than a question.
Laird looked at nun questioningly. “You guessed?”
“No guess. I've been there on several occasions. The situation room sits much deeper than we've traveled.”
“You're very astute, Admiral,” replied Laird. “This elevator goes less than half the distance.”
The doors smoothly parted, and Laird stepped out into a brightly lit, immaculately maintained tunnel. A Secret Service agent stood beside the open doors of a small, customized bus. The ulterior was fitted out like a small office, with plush leather chairs, a horseshoe-shaped desk, a well-stocked minibar and compact bathroom. Once everyone was comfortably seated, the Secret Service agent eased behind the wheel and spoke into a microphone with an earpiece placed on his head. “Swordfish is leaving the premises.” Then he engaged the transmission, and the bus moved off soundlessly into a large tunnel.
“Swordfish is my code name with the Secret Service,” Laird explained almost sheepishly.
“Electric motor,” commented Sandecker on the silent running of the bus.
“More efficient than building a complicated ventilation system to draw off the exhaust fumes of gas engines,” explained Laird.
Sandecker stared at the side entrances leading off from the main tunnel in which they were traveling. “There's more to underground Washington than most people imagine.”