"I happened to be in the neighborhood, yes. You're in the wrong business, Massarde. You missed your calling by not becoming a palm reader."
To Massarde the novelty of the confrontation was wearing off. He was not used to being talked down to. For a man who controlled a vast financial empire on a day-to-day basis, wasting time with a pair of unwelcome interlopers was merely an annoyance to be pushed aside and handled by employees.
He nodded at Verenne. "Our little talk has ended. Please arrange for General Kazim to take these men into custody."
Verenne's statue face finally broke into a python grin. "With pleasure."
Captain Brunone did not come from the same mold as Massarde or Verenne. A product of the French military establishment, he may have resigned for triple wages but he still retained a level of honor. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Massarde, I wouldn't turn a rabid dog over to General Kazim. These men may be guilty of trespassing, but they certainly don't deserve to be tortured to death by ignorant barbarians."
Massarde considered Brunone's comment for a moment. "Quite right, quite right," he said, strangely agreeable. "We can't lower ourselves to the level of the General and his butchers." A gleam came to his eyes as he stared at Pitt and Giordino. "'Transport them to the gold mines at Tebezza. He and Dr. Rojas can enjoy each other's company while they dig in the pits."
"What about Kazim?" asked Verenne. "Won't he feel cheated out of making them pay for destroying his car?"
"No matter," Massarde said with utter unconcern. "By the time he discovers their whereabouts they'll be dead."
The President looked across his desk in the oval office at Sandecker. "Why wasn't I briefed on this earlier?"
"I was informed that it was a low-priority item that did not warrant interrupting your busy schedule of appointments."
The President shifted his gaze toward the White House Chief of Staff, Earl Willover. "Is this true?"
A balding, bespectacled man about fifty with a large red moustache shifted in his chair, leaned forward, and glared at Sandecker. "I ran the red tide theory by our national science board. They didn't agree that it was a worldwide threat"
"Then how do they explain the incredible growth that's sweeping the middle Atlantic Ocean?"
Willover returned the President's gaze impassively. "Respected ocean scientists believe the growth is temporary and the tide will soon begin to dissipate as it has in the past."
Willover ran the Executive Branch like Horatius standing against the entire Etruscan army defending the bridge to Rome. Few got across to the oval office, and few escaped Willover's wrath if they overstayed their visit or had the audacity to disagree with the President and argue over policy. It went without saying, almost every member of Congress hated his intestines.
The President looked down at the satellite photos of the Atlantic spread on his desk. "It seems pretty obvious to me this is not a phenomenon to ignore."
"Left to its own resources the red tide would normally fade away," explained Sandecker. "But off the west coast of Africa it is being nursed by a synthetic amino acid and cobalt that stimulate the tide's growth to incredible proportions."
The President, a former senator from Montana, looked more at home in the saddle than behind a desk. He was long and lean, spoke in a soft drawl, and stared through bright blue eyes. He addressed every man as sir and every woman as ma'am. Whenever he escaped from Washington, he headed for his ranch located not far from the Custer battlefield on the Yellowstone River. "If this threat is as serious as you say, the whole world is at risk."
"If anything, we've probably underestimated the potential danger," said Sandecker. "Our computer experts have updated the rate of expansion. Unless we stop the spread, all life as we know it on earth will die from lack of oxygen in the atmosphere by late next year, probably sooner. The oceans will be dead before spring."
"That's ridiculous," Willover scoffed. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but this is a classic case of Chicken Little claiming the sky is falling."
Sandecker gave Willover a look equal to a jab with a spear.
"I am not Chicken Little, and the coming annihilation is very real. We're not talking about the potential risks of ozone depletion and its effects on skin cancer two centuries from now. No geological upheavals or unknown plague, no nuclear Armageddon with ensuing darkness, no meteor striking the planet in a raging cataclysm. Unless the scourge of the red tide is stopped, and stopped quickly, it will suck up the oxygen from the atmosphere, causing the total destruction of every living thing on the face of the earth."
"You paint a grim picture, sir," said the President. "This is all but impossible for me to visualize."
"Let me put it this way, Mr. President. If you are reelected, the odds are you won't be around at the end of your term. Nor will you have a successor because there will be no one left to vote for him."
Willover wasn't buying any of it. "Come now, Admiral, why don't you put on a sheet and walk around holding a sign saying the world ends at midnight? To think we'll see complete extinction of mankind by this time next year because of oversexed behavior by some microscopic organisms is too farfetched."
"The facts speak for themselves," said Sandecker patiently.
"Your deadline sounds like nothing more than a scare tactic," replied Willover. "Even if you're correct, our scientists still have ample time to invent a solution."
"Time we don't have. Let me give you a little illustration in simplified terms. Imagine that the red tide could double itself in size every week. If allowed to spread unhindered, it would cover every square kilometer of the earth's oceans in one hundred weeks. If history repeats itself, world governments will decide to shove aside the problem until the oceans are half covered. Only then do they institute a crash program to eliminate the red tide. My question to you, Mr. President, and you too, Mr. Willover, is what week will the oceans be covered by the tide, and how much time until the world can prevent disaster?"
The President exchanged confused looks with Willover. "I have no idea."
"Nor I," said Willover.
"The answer is the oceans will be half covered in ninety-nine weeks, and you would have only one week to act."
The President recognized the horrendous possibility with renewed respect. "I think we both get your point, Admiral."
"The red tide shows no sign of dying," Sandecker continued. "We now know the cause. That's a step in the right direction. The next problem is to cut off the contamination at the source, and then seek out another compound that will either stop or at least hinder the growth."
"Excuse me, Mr. President, but we must cut this short. You're supposed to have lunch with the Senate majority and minority leaders."
"Let them wait," the President said irritably. "Do you have a handle on where this stuff is coming from, Admiral?"
Sandecker shook his head. "Not yet, but we suspect it flows through an underground stream to the Niger River from the French solar detoxification project in the Sahara."
"How can we be certain?"
"My Special Projects Director and his right arm are inside Fort Foureau now."
"You are in contact with them."
Sandecker hesitated. "No, not exactly."
"Then how do you know this?" Willover pushed him.
"Intelligence satellite photos identified them penetrating the facility on board an incoming trail of hazardous material."
"Your Special Projects Director," mused the President. "Would that be Dirk Pitt?"
"Yes, and Al Giordino."
The President stared across the room, unseeing for a moment as he remembered. Then he smiled. "Pitt was the man who saved us from the Kaiten nuclear car bomb menace."