Forbidden Area

by Pat Frank

  Margaret Gresham turned down the radio’s volume and asked, “What’s it mean?”

  Red Gresham smiled and said, “Sounds like everything’s S.O.P. in Russia.”

  Katharine Hume frowned, wondering how a military purge fitted into the Soviet puzzle, and traced watery circles on the yellow plastic tabletop with the tips of her fingers.

  Jesse Price said what he was thinking, “Wish Clark Simmons were here to tell us.”

  3

  Clark Simmons believed he knew what was going on, and theoretically he was in the spot where his knowledge could do the most good, except that it was a Saturday, with only one more shopping day until Christmas. Simmons was one of eight men around a conference table in the office of the Under Secretary of State in Washington. The conference was considering two cables just decoded. One, from the embassy at Ankara, gave the source of the report of the purge. An economic advisor in the Russian consulate-general in Istanbul, enamored of a Turkish girl, had refused to return to Moscow when ordered. He had sought and received the protection of the Turkish government, and in return told what secrets he knew. The other cable came from Moscow. The Russian government would not discuss the purported death of Marshals Jullnick and Kuznoff, and Admiral Zubarov. It was true that the men had not been seen in Moscow for two months, nor had their names been mentioned in the press.

  Clark Simmons had not yet attempted to voice his opinion. Since his judgment, at the moment, was being questioned in the Department, he was hoping that one of the others would broach what he had in mind. It would be best if he supported a theory, rather than advanced one. But nobody was seeing it his way, and finally he knew he must speak. “All of you seem to believe that this shows further weakness in the regime,” he said. “I disagree. I have had some dealings with Jullnick and Zubarov. Kuznoff I never met. Jullnick and Zubarov, on the whole, struck me as moderate men. At a time when Stalin and Molotov were hostile without any reservations, they were as friendly as they dared be. When the great thaw came, they supported our efforts towards full inspection of atomic armaments. It is my opinion that some momentous decision, of which we know nothing, was taken around the middle of November. These three men were not politically ambitious. They had no connection with the conduct of international affairs on the highest level. They were concerned strictly with military matters. So their disagreement must have concerned military action.”

  Walter McCabe, the Special Assistant for Eastern Europe, challenged him. “Simmons, we’re all aware of your belief that war is imminent. You’re just twisting the facts to fit your theories. Look at the record. The Soviet Union is always least aggressive after some internal eruption like this. Look what happened after Stalin’s big Army purge. He appeased Hitler. What happened after Stalin died, after Beria was executed, after Malenkov was deposed? Periods of sweetness and light. Takes ’em time to shake down after one of these purges. I think we can rest easy for a while.”

  “Rest easy?” Simmons asked. “May I quote a bit of Lenin. The soundest strategy in war is to postpone operations until the moral disintegration of the enemy makes the delivery of the mortal blow both possible and easy.’”

  McCabe leaned across the table, angry. “I’m not morally disintegrated!”

  “When you rest easy you are,” Simmons said. “And what about SAC? How do you think the morale is in SAC today?”

  “I think you’re in over your head,” McCabe said.

  The under secretary looked at his watch. He was already late for another conference, and he had promised his wife, whom he hardly remembered having seen all during the week, that he would take the afternoon off and help with the last-minute shopping. How could she be expected to select presents for some of his government friends whom she didn’t even know? The under secretary said, “Well, it’s an enigma. We’ll just have to wait and see.” He was usually an optimistic man, but at this moment he felt disturbed, inwardly. Every conference on Russia seemed to end with him calling it an enigma. This was hardly an original description, but what else was there to say?

  “And another thing,” said Simmons, with a desperation apparent to all of them. “Why have they stopped all outgoing press messages—stopped them completely? That sort of thing hasn’t happened for many, many years. It’s something new, and to me very ominous.”

  He looked around the table. The others were rising. McCabe had already drifted away. The under secretary said, “Sorry Simmons,” and turned his back. There was always so much to do, in the Department, and always so little time, particularly on Saturdays, and the worst Saturday of all was the Saturday before Christmas.

  4

  The matter of time concerned Jesse Price also. He wasn’t seeing Katy Hume often, and when he did see her someone else was always present. What did a man do when he loved a woman, and she him, and both believed their personal world might very well end in less than forty-eight hours? The only sensible thing was to take her away to the safest possible place and enjoy what hours remained. Habit would not permit this. When a department store is bankrupt or a newspaper suspends, the clerks remain at their counters and the reporters at their typewriters until the last bell rings, or the last edition is off the press, although they know their presence is of no possible use to anyone. It is simpler and more comforting that way, for it is habit, even though it enjoys the loftier name of duty. So Jesse Price, when breakfast was done, drove Clint Hume back to the BOQ and then returned to the administration building to see whether Buddy Conklin had any odd jobs for him to do.

  Conklin was back at his old desk in the commanding general’s office, and the whole wing of the building seemed subtly different. The atmosphere of high command, with its tensions, was missing. The only star on the base rode Conklin’s shoulder. Conklin called, “Major Price.” Jesse walked over to his desk.

  “You never checked out in multi-engined jets, did you, Jess?” Conklin asked.

  “I’ve never even flown a jet trainer.”

  “Too bad. We could use even one-eyed pilots for ferry duty today.”

  “What’s up? Where’s all the brass?”

  “Two more Nine-Nines blew out of Texas this morning. By tomorrow night we’re scheduled to bring in reserve aircraft from Arizona and New Mexico.”

  “The General’s grounded the Nine-Nines?”

  “No. Not yet. He’s on the way to Washington to fight it out. I think he’s beginning to believe in your theory that grounding the Nine-Nine is what the enemy wants. Can’t say that I do. Those two in Texas today—after tearing apart every aircraft in SAC, after all the security. I’ll tell you, Jess, I’m shook. I’ve lost five aircrews out of my division already. That’s enough for me. I hope I never have to ask another man to climb into a Nine-Nine. Not until I know what’s wrong.”

  Momentarily, Jesse Price felt a sense of failure, but this was displaced and overwhelmed by the realization of what his intervention with Keatton—others would call it meddling—had accomplished. As certainly as if he had lined them up against a wall and shot them, he was responsible for the death of fourteen airmen that morning. Had it not been for him, the two aircrews out of Texas, had they been up at all, would have been flying in the proved 47’s and 52’s. “If I’ve been wrong—” he whispered, not to Buddy Conklin, but to himself.

  Conklin read what he was thinking, accurately. “Don’t ride it, Jess. That pressure bomb idea sounded like the answer to me when I heard it. Just didn’t pan out. Anybody can look good by keeping his mouth shut. Now snap out of it!”

  Jesse turned away. It was going to be tough, living with himself, living by himself. If he had been wrong, he no longer would be welcome in this Air Force, or perhaps anywhere.

  “Major Price!”

  Jesse straightened and faced the desk. “Yes, sir.”

  Conklin’s face was bleak, the freckles standing out like orange stains on blank white paper. “Major, you have been assigned to temporary duty on this base and by God I’ve got plenty of duty to do, without time off for
mental flagellation or self-pity. My exec is a pilot. I need him on the ferry run. You will relieve him for the time being. Find me some more ferry pilots. Get ’em out of spare crews, wing staffs, anywhere. Arrange for their transportation west. And now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jesse said, his mind working again. Work was what he needed, lots of work. And he knew he still had at least one friend on the base—the commanding general.

  5

  Phil Cusack waited until after the lunch-hour rush was over before he entered the Sea Trout Restaurant. Five or six waitresses were trotting around, all dressed in sea-green uniforms and hats. He tried to guess which one was Stan Smith’s girl. He couldn’t. To Phil, a shy boy who had never been successful with girls, they all seemed equally pretty, voluptuous, and unattainable. There was an older woman behind the cashier’s counter. He waited for a moment when she was unbusy, and then approached the counter and said, “Is Betty Jo Atkins here?”

  The cashier nodded towards the rear. “Last three tables.”

  Cusack walked back there, picking out the last girl, admiring her wide hips and heavy, round breasts. In his part of West Virginia, she was the type of girl that men fought over. He caught her attention and said, “Are you Betty Jo?”

  “Yes.” She appraised him. He was probably the boy who had left his suitcase in the car. If so, he was lucky. Stan had forgotten to take the suitcase back to the base with him and so she had put it in the luggage compartment of the car, thinking that if Stan didn’t come for it she would take it out to Hibiscus. He had never allowed her to drive him out to the base. He claimed the Air Force didn’t like it. She had never seen the base, and the suitcase might be a good excuse for her to go out there.

  “I’m Stan’s roommate. I’ve got a note for you.”

  She accepted the envelope eagerly. Probably Stan had got off somehow, or changed his duty hours again, and would be in to see her tonight. It would be awfully lonely, the whole weekend without him. She read the note, her face showing disappointment.

  “Gee, I hope it’s not too much trouble,” Cusack said.

  She glanced at him again. He was no dream boat. His face was blemished and he had cut himself shaving. He wasn’t old enough to have rank, money, or experience. She would bet he didn’t even have a car. She looked around the room. Two other girls, moving in the short, skipping steps a waitress uses to skirt tables and maintain balance, were watching her, and appraising the boy. “You know this is Saturday night,” she said. “Most of the girls are all dated up Saturdays. They’ve all got steadies.”

  “Oh,” he said. That was all, really, he had expected.

  “Tell you what,” she said, thinking that she ought to make some effort or it might displease Stan. “I’ll ask around. I’m off at five. You come back here then and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Sure,” Cusack said. “Thanks a lot. I’ll be back here at five.” He left the restaurant and walked slowly towards the center of town. Christmas decorations were strung over the streets. People were fighting their way into the stores like stuff was being given away. Women hurtled into him, and jostled him, and jammed packages into his ribs. He felt lonely, an outsider. He hadn’t bought any Christmas presents for anyone, and he was sure nobody back home had bought any for him. But there’d be quite a Christmas at the base, with a tree in the gym. It’d be the biggest Christmas he had ever seen. He found refuge in the first movie he saw, chewed licorice, and waited for the hours to pass. Since it was Saturday the theater was full of kids, and was showing a Western and a comedy. Phil, hunched back, watched the screen, but he really didn’t absorb what was going on, nor was he disturbed by the kids around him, their holiday excitement bursting out in horseplay and giggling. He was dreaming of a girl, a waitress in a sea-green dress—any one of them would do.

  When Betty Jo Atkins left the Sea Trout at five, Phil was waiting for her on the pavement outside. She said, “I’m sorry, but all the other girls are busy tonight.”

  “Thanks for trying,” he said. He felt awful. Somehow, he had built up the idea that she surely was going to get him one of the girls.

  Betty Jo was surprised by the impact of her words. He looked pathetic. She really ought to do something for him, it being just before Christmas and everything. She could ask him to her house. There wasn’t anything wrong in that, was there? Stan couldn’t very well get sore. Besides, this boy’s company was better than no company at all. Saturday nights were for fun. “Phil,” she said, “how would you like to come out to my house for dinner?”

  “I’d like to,” he said.

  “Car’s parked around the corner. Can you drive?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” She took his arm. He was somebody to talk to, anyway. He could be worse.

  6

  After the lodge was in order, Raoul Walback checked what he now called the “survival list” with his mother. He had been able to convince her of the necessity of leaving for Front Royal largely, he felt, because she was a compulsive shopper. Henrietta went on buying sprees the way some people went on alcoholic binges, and often for the same reason, boredom. Her closets were filled with dresses she had never worn, and she collected shoes the way a lifelong philatelist buys stamps. She was a devotee of auctions, and fancied herself an expert on Oriental rugs and English bone china. As a result, the house on Massachusetts Avenue, except for Raoul’s bedroom and study, was slowly but inexorably solidifying, like the dreary interior of a museum.

  Flight to Front Royal gave Henrietta a valid excuse for wholesale buying, far beyond the necessities Raoul had contemplated. While she didn’t really believe it was necessary to leave Washington, it was an exciting game. She said nothing to her friends, except to cancel her engagements. She maintained this extraordinary silence only because she didn’t wish to expose herself, and Raoul, to ridicule. She embarked upon the game with the same enthusiasm as when planning a large dinner party. On Thursday she had sent a preliminary load to Front Royal with the chauffeur, thereby salvaging the family plate, a magnificent service of flat silver, and objets d’art which she judged would have value, no matter what the future. She raided an expensive Connecticut Avenue food store, buying tinned hams, imported cheeses, chutney, olive oil, dates, English toffee, and teas and Bovril by the case.

  Henrietta was sorry about the Hume girl. Raoul had told her that Katharine had decided, at the last minute, that her place was with her brother in this time of danger, and so the Hume girl had not come to Front Royal, but gone to Florida. Henrietta didn’t believe Raoul had told her all the truth. But if the Hume girl was too stupid to appreciate Raoul’s offer of their safe haven in the mountains, then she was too stupid to be Raoul’s wife.

  Now, in Front Royal, Henrietta discovered discrepancies in Raoul’s list of staples. He had forgotten, of all things, soap powder and detergents. How on earth could he expect her to have the laundry done unless she had soap powder? Neither had he considered a reserve supply of dust clothes, dish towels, furniture and silver polish, and roach powder. She detested bugs and she knew the old lodge. It would be overrun. And somehow she simply had to find a maid.

  So on Saturday afternoon Raoul had driven to Winchester, where there were larger markets, to supplement their purchases. While he was loading the grocery cart with soap powder, he noticed a man whose face was familiar plucking jars of condiments from the fancy food shelves. The man was buying enough pepper, relish, mustard pickles, and horseradish to last a family for a year. Raoul was sure he knew this man, knew him from Washington, had chatted with him at diplomatic parties. The man bent over to inspect a lower shelf, and his posture stimulated Raoul’s memory. It was Svirski, First Secretary at the Polish embassy. Svirski, he remembered owned a summer cottage near Riverton. But this was not summer, not the season for the diplomatic colony to be stocking its country house larders. Svirski had remained eight years in his post in Washington despite the periodic purges within the Polish government. After Raoul had paid for his purchases a
nd a boy had carried them to his car, Raoul considered Svirski’s presence and his actions. Then Raoul went back into the market and bought an extra supply of salt and pepper. It was going to be a long winter. Svirski was no fool, and neither was he.

  7

  Stephen Batt usually spent his Saturday afternoons in the garden of his house on the Severn. The house was old-fashioned, with frame wings and extensions tacked on to the central brick nucleus which had been built by his grandfather, the Admiral. Steve himself had converted the cellar into a game room and home workshop. On this Saturday, instead of rooting in the garden, he worked in the cellar.

  From the sounds that came from down there, you would think he was tearing the house apart. Before dinner, Laura, his wife, decided to go down cellar to see what he was doing. Her first impression was that he was tearing the house apart, or at least he was digging at its foundations. Batt was wearing old suntan trousers, souvenirs of the South Pacific, now grimy to the hips. He had been wielding a pick and shovel. In the center of the game room rose a pryamid of stones and dirt. In the game room wall was a dark hole, or tunnel. Her husband obviously had just crawled out this hole. Laura asked, “Have you gone mad?”

  “It’ll hold four of us,” Steve said, rubbing his arm across his face.

  “It’ll hold four of what?”

  “People. You, me, and the boys.” The Batts had two sons, four and seven.

  “Why should it hold us? What are you planning to do, bury us all alive?” Laura was not actually alarmed. Steve was the most sensible of men. Still, it was most unusual that he should be tunnelling under the house without telling her about it first.

  “Now just a minute, dear,” Steve said. “Let me explain.” She had been in Crabtown, on a last-minute Christmas shopping expedition, when he returned from Washington at one o’clock. He had immediately gone down cellar and started digging, and had become so engrossed in the excavation that he had forgotten both the time and Laura, and hadn’t heard her re-enter the house. “You’ve heard about the Civil Defense recommendations, haven’t you?” he asked. If he put it on that basis she might not get too excited.