Night Probe! - Cussler Clive - Страница 21
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"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 president 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."
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