"A staggering job," Sandecker said in a soft voice, "untangling her from the other barges plying the eastern waterways. They're thicker than leaves in a New England October."

"Still, it's more than we had to go on before," Pitt said hopefully.

Sandecker turned from the photo. "Better give Emmett a call and steer him onto our discovery. Someone in his army of investigators may get lucky and stumble on the right barge."

The admiral's words were empty of feeling. He didn't want to say what was on his mind.

If Lee Tong Bougainville suspected government investigators were breathing down his neck, his only option would be to kill the Vice President and Loren, and dispose of their bodies to cover his tracks.

"THE PATIENT WILL LIVE to fight another day," said Dr. Harold Gwynne, the President's physician, cheerfully. He was a cherubic little man with a balding head and friendly blue eyes. "A common case of the flu bug. Stay in bed for a couple of days until the fever subsides. I'll give you an antibiotic and something to relieve the nausea.

"I can't stay on my back," the President protested weakly. "Too much work to do."

There was little fight in his words. The chills from a 103-degree fever sandbagged him, and he was constantly on the verge of vomiting.

His throat was sore, his nose stuffed up and he felt rotten from scalp to toenails.

"Relax and take it easy," Gwynne ordered. "The world can turn without you for a few hours." He jabbed a needle into the President's arm and then held a glass of water for him to wash down a pill.

Dan Fawcett entered the bedroom. "About through, Doc?" he inquired.

Gwynne nodded. "Keep him off his feet. I'll check back around two o'clock this afternoon." He smiled warmly, closed his black bag and stepped through the door.

"General Metcalf is waiting," Fawcett said to the President.

The President pushed a third pillow behind his back and struggled to a sitting position, massaging his temples as the room began to spin.

Metcalf was ushered in, resplendent in a uniform decorated by eight rows of colorful ribbons. There was a briskness about the general that was not present at their last meeting.

The President looked at him, his face pallin, his eyes drooping and watery. He began to cough uncontrollably.

Metcalf came over to the bed. "is there anything I can get you, sir?" he asked solicitously.

The President shook his head and waved him away. "I'll survive," he said at last. "What's the situation, Clayton?"

The President never called his joint Chiefs by rank, preferring to lower them a couple of notches down their pedestal by andressing them with their Christian names.

Metcalf shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "The streets are quiet at the moment, but there were one or two isolated incinents of sniping. One soldier was killed and two Marines wounded."

"Were the guilty parties apprehended?"

"Yes, sir," Metcalf answered.