Forbidden Area

by Pat Frank

  The intelligence officers had already thought of this, and when the order came the clothing was packed and ready. While Master Sergeant Lear couldn’t tell them anything, his clothing might tell them much.

  6

  From the moment that Corpus Christi reported that it had lost contact with a B-99 bearing the operational name of Georgia Peach, until a jet fighter was flying to Ohio with Lear’s clothing, Major Price stayed close to the communications center in Air Force. There was, really, nothing else for him to do. Until he was re-assigned to other duty by General Keatton, or someone countermanded General Clumb’s order dissolving the Intentions Group, he was a spectator.

  He sent his secretary home at four, and then sat at her typewriter, attempting to phrase a personal message to Keatton that could go through official channels from the Pentagon to Hibiscus. Nothing he wrote made much sense, when he imagined the Chief-of-Staff, snowed under by the mounting emergency, reading it. Finally he condensed all that was ludicrous into one sentence. “OPERATIONAL PRIORITY X CLASSIFICATION TOP SECRET,” he wrote. “FROM MAJOR PRICE, DETACHED DUTY, TO GENERAL KEATTON X I THINK RUSSIANS WILL ATTACK US MONDAY MORNING X DO BE CAREFUL.” He laughed, ripped the paper out of the typewriter, and tore it into shreds. Then, out of habit, he dropped the pieces into the carton on which was stencilled: “Secret Waste.”

  At dusk, frustrated and edgy, he left the Pentagon and drove back to Georgetown. He idled his car down Dumbarton, although this was not the quickest way home. Katy Hume’s apartment was on Dumbarton, and in recent months, with more and more frequency, he had felt a compulsion to use the street. Now, he looked up at her apartment. Her lights were on. Raoul Walback’s big blue sedan wasn’t parked on the block. Jesse Price dropped in to see Katy whenever he could think of an excuse, but he made it a point not to intrude when Raoul was there.

  He needed to talk to her. She had, he realized, become a necessity to him. When a day passed without seeing her, he felt out of sorts and lonely. He parked around the corner and walked to her apartment.

  When she answered his knock he sensed at once that something was wrong. When he had left her the night before she had seemed tired, physically, but still vibrant and full of fight. Katy had two things he greatly admired in a woman as well as a man, drive and bounce. Now the drive and bounce seemed missing. The corners of her face were etched with tiny lines as if she were suppressing physical pain. She looked listless, tired, beaten. She didn’t say she was glad to see him, or offer him a drink. All she said was, “Don’t tell me about the one today. I heard it on the radio.”

  He put his big hands on her shoulders and said, “Come on, Katy, snap out of it. I think we’re going to get an answer out of this one.” Her shoulders were round and warm. Quite beyond his volition, as naturally as if she belonged to him, he pulled her close. Surprisingly, she put her face against his chest, and he could feel her body seeking his, molding herself to him. He crushed her. He kissed her hair, her eyes, and then she lifted her open mouth to his. Finally she moved her lips away and whispered, “I can’t breathe. I’m not going to run away, Jess. We’ve got all night. We’ve got a lifetime of nights, if you want me.”

  He said, “I want you.”

  She kissed him again, hungrily, for she had suddenly remembered something. A lifetime could mean fifty years—or five days. She said, “Why didn’t you ever do this before?”

  “Never thought you wanted me to.”

  “You could have tried.”

  “I don’t poach, and Raoul had signs all over the place: ‘Posted—Keep Off.’”

  “I guess he did, didn’t he?” She walked over to the couch and sat down, tucking her legs under her. “Today I ripped the signs down.”

  He followed her to the couch and sat beside her and she let her head fall over on his shoulder as if it were the only natural place for it to rest. The lines of tension and weariness were erased from her face. She looked assured, ready. He sniffed at her hair. “You smell like a woman,” he said, and kissed her again.

  She thought of the first time she had been kissed on this couch, when she was fifteen, or maybe it was fourteen, by the boy who lived across the street, and bore the improbable name of Gaston, and who in two years had seemed much too young for her. There had been others, quite a few when you got right down to it. But it was much too cramped for adult love-making with a man as big and sort of wild as Jess. She didn’t want to let him out of her arms but she wished he would pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. That’s what she wanted, but at the same time she hoped he wouldn’t because their first night should be a big thing. She supposed it was Victorian, but if they went to bed together now it would be a little too sudden, a night that might tarnish, and that they might prefer to forget later. If there was to be a later, after Christmas Eve. She said, finally, “We’ve got to stop because when you make love to me I can’t think and I have to think. Don’t you want to hear about Raoul?”

  “No.”

  She held him away. “I really don’t want to talk about Raoul, but we do have to talk about the forecast, and the B-Ninety-Nines, and Keatton. I don’t know how you feel, but right now, more than anything else, I want to live. I want to live a long time. Raoul was up here today. He asked me to go away with him to his place in Front Royal. With his mother. You see, come next Monday, he wants to be sure that he’ll go on living. I turned him down. I despised him for it. But if you asked me to do the same thing right now, I’d say yes. Isn’t that strange?”

  “No. It’s not so strange. I feel the same way. And Monday you may find yourself somewhere safe, or safe as you can get. I won’t ask you. I’ll take you. Because I’m damned if I’m going to die now that I’m just beginning to five.”

  “Tell me about that bomber that blew up over Texas,” she said.

  He rose, straightened his jacket, and felt in his pocket for a pipe. “Okay,” he said, “back to earth. But let’s not be sensible adults too long, Katy. If all we’ve got is a few days—at least only a few days before the lights go out—we’re going to fly.”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “We’ll fly.”

  “There are two new and interesting facts about the loss of this last Nine-Nine. The first four all blew within eighteen to twenty-five minutes after takeoff. This one blew fifty-nine minutes after takeoff. Why? The complete communications log from Corpus Christi tower hadn’t come in when I left the office, but when it does I have a hunch it’ll tell us something.” Jesse Price lighted his pipe and stared out of the window, not at anything except the image building in his own mind. “Second thing is, a man survived. If there had been structural failure, and sudden decompression of the crew’s quarters, he and everyone else would have been sucked out through that hole, squeezed into sausages. He wouldn’t have been shot out in his pod. In decompression, death is almost instant.”

  “Shot out in a pod? Is that what happened? It wasn’t on the radio.”

  “It won’t be,” he said. “The enemy hasn’t been informed, as yet, that the B-Nine-Nine has been modified for escape pods. Anyway, this indicates to me that it was an internal explosion, and that the explosion triggered this radarman’s pod. So before he could burn or disintegrate when the second explosion—all that fuel—came, he was shot out into space.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Means it could be sabotage.”

  “Jess, you’ve got to go to Hibiscus and tell that to Keatton!”

  He laughed. “Honey, General Keatton must have figured that out about four hours ago.”

  “You don’t know what he’s figured out, Jess. And maybe if you could get in to see Keatton you’d get a chance to tell him about Clumb, and the forecast.”

  Jesse shook his head. “You don’t understand. At this moment Keatton is the busiest man in the world. His air force is blowing up around his ears. He won’t have time to see me, and if he did see me and I started telling him about our brawl with Clumb, and the forecast, he’d throw me out.”

  “Unles
s you showed him that blowing up SAC was part of the plan. You said yourself that the only way they could get away with it was to put SAC out of action. Aren’t they doing it?”

  Jesse thought it over and shook his head again, no. “They can’t blow up SAC. You’ve got to be practical. Five planes in two weeks? That’s nothing. We could lose that many in five minutes through one error in navigation at a refueling rendezvous. In one raid on Schweinfurt, the Eighth Air Force lost ninety-nine B-Seventeens. That didn’t stop them from smearing most of Germany before they were through. Anyway, Keatton has half the technicians in the Air Force down at Hibiscus. One more man won’t help, and I don’t see what one man can do.”

  Katharine stood up, stepped to the window, and whirled, so that she stood directly before him and his eye could not evade her angry face. “You make me sore! You want to know what one man can do? I’ll tell you. One man, name of Klaus Fuchs. Came to this country to work at Los Alamos. Among other things, he worked on the original planning for a thermonuclear weapon. Then he left us, with everything neatly filed in his head. He went back to Europe and turned it all over to the Russians. If it wasn’t for Klaus Fuchs—and a few others—I wouldn’t be wondering whether you and I will be cinders by Monday night. That’s what one man can do, and did!”

  Jesse said nothing.

  “I think you’re better than Klaus Fuchs,” she said. “I hope you are. Anyway, it’s always been one man. It’s never anyone else. It’s always you.”

  He said, “You’ll go with me?”

  “Of course.”

  At midnight they sat side by side on an airliner leaving National Airport. They held hands, and kissed as soon as the overhead lights were out. The stewardess was certain they were newlyweds.

  At Jacksonville they got out to stretch their legs and in the grimy terminal building Jess bought a paper. There was nothing new from Texarkana or Hibiscus or Washington. But there was a two-column editorial, captioned: “WHAT’S WRONG WITH THE B-99?”, on the front page. The lead paragraph read: “Americans have been understandably disturbed by the mysterious loss of four of the new B-99 jet bombers. Now comes the news that a fifth has blown up over Texas. The Air Force, while conducting extensive safety tests of the eight-engined intercontinental bombers at Hibiscus Base, has made no announcement as to the cause of any of these mishaps. Since security measures are notoriously stringent around bases of the Strategic Air Command, and since the missions of the five doomed planes originated at three separate bases, the possibility of widespread sabotage seems remote. The inescapable conclusion is that the B-99, perhaps in some small detail that can quickly be remedied, is defective.”

  The editorial said that thirty-four airmen had already died and others would certainly die unless the cause of the disasters was discovered.

  It spoke of the present equable international situation, with the Russian divisions pulling back from the Western Europe borders, and the Chinese Communists quiet in Southeast Asia. The renewal of strict censorship of Moscow dispatches was not necessarily ominous. It might only reflect internal conflicts within the Kremlin, and a power shift in the Presidium.

  The editorial concluded: “Why not ground the B-99 until it is proved safe? Let SAC replace the B-99, for the time being, with the B-47’s and B-52’s, efficient aircraft presently in mothballs.”

  Jesse was silent as they walked back towards their plane. Katharine said, “Well?”

  “Maybe that’s the answer,” he said. “The Russians aren’t going to destroy SAC. They’re going to let the American people do it.”

  five

  THREE IN the morning is an awkward hour for a man and a woman, unmarried and carrying only weekend luggage, to arrive in Orlando, or anywhere, by plane. The hotels will accept them, of course, but only with a leer, even when they request separate rooms. Katharine Hume and Jesse Price were both stimulated with the heady wine of fresh love, but they were aware that they needed sleep, and would have to sleep, eventually, and that it was best they sleep now, before the business of the day opened at Hibiscus Base.

  They spoke of this problem as they waited for the airport bus. “I know we have to sleep,” Katy said, “but I don’t want to go to a hotel. I’m not prudish, or anything, but when we go to a hotel I want you to be able to walk up to the desk, look the clerk in the eye, and sign Major and Mrs. Jesse Price. You are going to marry me, aren’t you?”

  “Certainly I’m going to marry you.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask? You haven’t, you know. But don’t ask now. Wait for the right time. And I want it to be romantic, with a proper setting. Like under a frangipani tree in the moonlight.”

  “I’m not a very romantic guy,” he said. He leaned over, his bristles brushing her cheek, and kissed her.

  “Blackbeard the pirate!” she said.

  By the time the bus reached the city they had decided to taxi on to Hibiscus. If her brother was listed for a morning mission he’d be up early. If he wasn’t, they’d wake him. Clint lived in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters so she could not, of course, stay with him. But he undoubtedly would have married friends living on the base, and perhaps one of them might put her up. No problem existed for Jesse. “If there isn’t room in the BOQ or transient quarters,” he said, “all I need is a sack and six feet of floor.”

  It wasn’t quite that easy.

  At 4:00 A.M. the taxi dropped them at the guardhouse, a one-story structure of concrete block painted white, of the main gate. Over the gate was a gay orange-and-blue sign: “Welcome to Hibiscus A.F.B.—Home of the 83rd Air Division, SAC.” Under the gate stood two Air Police. Jesse noted that they carried tommy guns in addition to their sidearms. Inside the guardhouse was a second lieutenant of the Air Police and four or five enlisted men. All, even a man bent over a typewriter, were armed. Hibiscus was in a condition of alert.

  The lieutenant, tall, thin, deeply tanned, and very young, looked them over carefully, almost angrily. He unbuttoned his holster. A sergeant, standing at the other end of the room, stark and bright with tubular lights, lifted a carbine and brought it to rest on the long counter so that it almost, but not quite, pointed at Jess’s middle. The lieutenant spoke. “I don’t know who you people are. But if it’s one of those penetration stunts this is the wrong time to try it.”

  Katy said, “Oh!” In spite of her knowledge of war on the theoretical and strategic plane, she had never before encountered armed and hostile soldiers. They looked formidable, and dangerous, not at all like the immaculate Pentagon guards, whose weapons seemed only part of a uniform, like officers’ dress swords.

  Jesse understood the lieutenant’s nervousness. Special Investigations teams kept security taut on SAC bases by attempting penetrations, so there was always a running battle between the uniformed Air Police, and the civilian-clad SI. The SI tried to crash the gate in ambulances and fire engines and phone company trucks. Occasionally they landed in an aircraft feigning distress. They posed as newspapermen and doctors, distraught wives and lawyers, and even, on occasion, adopted the identity of general officers. Air Police had been eaten out, and even dismissed from the service, for allowing themselves to be fooled by these teams, and the lieutenant, Hans Fischer, had no intention of allowing anything like that to happen to him. So Jesse, when he spoke, did so with care and precision. “We’re not from SI,” he said. “This lady is Miss Hume. She represents the Atomic Energy Commission, with an assignment in the Pentagon, and is here to see her brother. Her brother is Major Clinton Hume of the Five-Nineteenth Bomb Wing. I’m Major Price, attached to the Joint Chiefs of Staffs. I’m here to see General Keatton.”

  From the other end of the room the sergeant said, loudly enough to be heard but not sufficiently loud to be called down for open insolence, “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Lieutenant Fischer said, “If you were here to see General Keatton his aide would have called and left your name. And you wouldn’t be coming in a taxi. You’d be in a staff car, or aircraft. You’ll have to do bet
ter than that, mister. Why don’t you two just go away and come back after eight o’clock, when I’m off duty?”

  “Can’t,” Jesse said. “Our taxi’s gone. Want to see my ID card? We’ve both got all sorts of credentials.”

  “I’ll bet you have,” said Lieutenant Fischer. “They always do.”

  “Now look, Lieutenant,” said Jesse, wishing he had worn not only his uniform but decorations, “I was in the Air Force when you were in grammar school.”

  “I’m not in grammar school now,” the lieutenant said. “I’ve had a post-graduate course. One of the lessons was not to get conned by the SI.”

  Katy saw that the back of Jesse’s neck was becoming red, and she felt that if he said much more things might get even more complicated, and that it was best she intercede. “May I call my brother?” she asked.

  “I’m not getting anybody out of the sack at this hour.”

  “Well,” said Jesse, “what do you want us to do?”

  “I don’t care what you do except don’t try to get on this base.”

  “I’m hungry,” said Katharine. “Please, Lieutenant, may I call my brother?”

  The lieutenant inspected her, considering the possibilities. She really didn’t look like a spy, but then, a spy wouldn’t look like a spy. Worse than a spy, she might be a WAF officer assigned to Special Investigations. There was only one way to find out. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll call the duty officer at the Five-Nineteenth. If you do have a brother there, and if he comes down and identifies you, then you can go in.”

  “What about me?” said Jesse.

  “Know anybody who can identify you personally?”

  “Yes,” Jesse said. “General Keatton and General Conklin.”

  “Major,” said the lieutenant, “you’ve got me over a barrel. You know I can’t call any generals. Nobody on this base has been getting any sleep, hardly, and if I woke up a general I’d find myself in Alaska checking Eskimos in and out of igloos. I’ll go this far. If there is a Major Hume, and if he comes down here and identifies his sister, then you can go along to the mess hall or his quarters in his custody. I’ll send two of my men to watch until you’re positively identified by an officer who knows you personally. But don’t try to go near the flight line or any of the hangars, because I’m going to give my boys orders to shoot you if you do. And before either of you go on the base, I’ll have to examine your bags. Now as a starter, let’s see your credentials.”