Night Probe!

The President shifted restlessly in his chair. "It all sounds unreal.
"It's real, all right," said Sandecker. "What it boils down to, gentlemen, is that a fleet of ten Doodlebugs could chart and analyze every geological formation under every cubic foot of seafloor in five years."
The room fell silent for several moments. Then Oates murmured reverently. "God, the potential is inconceivable."
CIA Director Brogan leaned over the table. "Any chance the Russians may be onto a similar instrument?"
Sandecker shook his head. "I don't think so. Until a few months ago we didn't have the technology to perfect the high energy beam. Even with a crash program starting from scratch, they'd need a decade to catch up."
"One question that needs answering," said Mercier. "Why the Labrador Sea? Why didn't you test the Doodlebug on our own continental shelf"
"I thought it best to conduct the trials in an isolated area far from normal shipping traffic."
"But why so close to the Canadian shore?"
"The Doodlebug stumbled on indications of oil."
"Oil?"
"Yes, the trail appeared to lead toward the Hudson Strait north of Newfoundland. I gave the order for the Doodlebug to deviate from its original course and follow the scent into Canadian waters. The responsibility for the loss of a very dear friend, his crew and the research vessel is mine and mine alone. No one else is to blame."
An aide entered the room like a wraith and offered coffee. When he reached Sandecker he laid a note at his elbow. It read,
URGENT I SEE YOU.
Giordino
"If I may beg a short interruption," said Sandecker. "I believe one of my staff is outside with updated information on the tragedy." The President gave him an understanding look and nodded in the direction of the doorway. "Of course. Please have him join us."
Giordino was shown into the cabinet room, his face beaming like a lighthouse.
"The Doodlebug and everyone on board came through," he blurted without preamble.
"What happened?" demanded Sandecker.
"The torpedo struck a rock outcropping fifty meters from the submersible. The concussion short-circuited the main terminals. It took Pitt and his men until an hour ago to make emergency repairs and reopen communications."
"No one was injured?" asked Admiral Kemper. "The hull remained tight?"
"Bumps and bruises," Giordino replied like a telegram. "One broken finger. No leaks reported."
"Thank God they're safe," said the President, suddenly all smiles.
Giordino could no longer continue to play it cool. "I haven't mentioned the best part."
Sandecker looked at him quizzically. "Best part?"
"Right after the computers came on line, the output analyzers went crazy. Congratulations, Admiral. The Doodlebug ran onto the granddaddy of stratigraphic traps."
Sandecker tensed. "Are you saying they found oil?"
"Initial indications suggest a field extending nearly ninety-five miles by three-quarters of a mile wide. The yield appears staggering. Projections put the paying sandbar at two thousand barrels per acre foot. The reserve could conceivably bring in eight billion barrels of oil."
No one around the table could say a word. They could only sit there, soaking up the enormous consequences of it all.
Giordino opened an attachd case and handed Sandecker a sheaf of papers. "I didn't have time to tie it with a ribbon, but here are preliminary figures, calculations and projections, including the estimated costs of drilling and production. Dr. King will have a more concise report when the Doodlebug has better surveyed the field."
"Where exactly is this strike?" asked Klein.
Giordino unrolled a chart and spread it on the table in front of the President. He began to outline the Doodlebug's course with a pencil.
"After the near miss by the torpedo, the crew of the Doodlebug took evasive action. They didn't know the sub's attack had been called off. Swinging on a northwest arc from the Labrador Sea, they hugged the seabed through Gray Strait south of the Button Islands and moved into Ungava Bay. It was here," Giordino paused to make a mark on the chart, "they discovered the oil field."
The excitement abruptly faded from the President's eyes. "Then it wasn't near the coast of Newfoundland?"
"No, sir. Newfoundland's provincial border ends -at a point of land at the entrance of Gray Strait. The oil strike was in the waters off Quebec."
The President's expression turned to a look of disappointment. He and Mercier stared at each other in stricken understanding.
"Of all the places in all the northern hemisphere," the President said barely above a whisper, "it had to be Quebec."
Part III
THE NORTH AMERICAN TREATY
APRIL 1989
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Pitt slipped Heidi's notes on the North American Treaty into a briefcase and nodded as the airline stewardess checked to see if his seat belt was clasped and his back rest was in an upright position. He massaged his temples, trying vainly to relieve a headache that had persisted since he changed planes at St. John's, Newfoundland.
Now that the Doodlebug's hectic sea trial were over, the little research vessel had been hoisted aboard its mother ship and transported to Boston for repairs and modifications. Bill Lasky and Sam Quayle left immediately for a week's vacation with their families. Pitt envied them. He was not afforded the luxury of a rest. Sandecker ordered him back to NUMA headquarters for a firsthand report on the expedition.
The plane's tires thumped onto the runway at Washington's National Airport a few minutes before seven. Pitt remained in his seat while the other passengers crowded prematurely into the aisles. One of the last to debark, he took his time, rightly figuring that no matter how slowly he wandered to the baggage claim, he always arrived before his luggage.
He found his car, a red 1966 AC Ford Cobra, in the V.I.P section of the parking lot where it had been left by his secretary earlier in the afternoon. A note was tucked in the steering wheel.
Dear Boss,
Welcome home.
Sorry I couldn't hang around to greet you, but I have a date. Get a good night's sleep.
I told the admiral your plane wouldn't arrive till tomorrow night. Have a day off on me.
Zerri
P.S. Almost forgot what it's like to drive a big old brute. Fun, fun, but oh what awful gas mileage.
Pitt smiled and engaged the starter, listening with pleasure as the 427-cubic-inch engine kicked into life with an obscene roar. While waiting for the temperature gauge to creep into the WARM, he reread the note.
Zerri Pochinsky was the lively type, her pretty face seldom without a contagious smile, hazel eyes mischievous and warm. She was thirty, never married, a mystery to Pitt, full-bodied, with long fawn-colored hair that fell below her shoulders. He'd thought more than once of having an affair with her. The invitation had been demurely signaled often enough. But with regret, he adhered to a law burned in the concrete of an office building somewhere, and learned the hard way during his younger, less disciplined days, that grief always comes to the man who plays games with his staff.
He shook off an erotic image of her inviting him between the sheets and crammed the Cobra into gear. The aging two-seater convertible leaped out of the parking lot and squeaked rubber as it swung onto the highway leading from the airport. He turned from the capital city and headed south, remaining on the Virginia side of the Potomac River. The Cobra's engine loafed along without effort as Pitt passed a stream of mini cars that made up the tail end of the evening traffic rush.