by Pat Frank
“What’s Civil Defense got to do with you ripping out that lovely panelling?”
“You know. Civil Defense recommends that every home have a shelter with three feet of solid earth over it. Protection against fallout. I thought that with just a little effort I could dig us a real shelter.”
She said, “I think you really are mad! A few years ago when things were critical, before all the conferences and everything, you never paid any attention to Civil Defense. I was the one who talked about a shelter then. Now, all of a sudden, you’re behaving like a mole. What is it, Steve?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
She walked across the room and put her hand on his arm and said, “Steve, what are you driving at?”
“I thought we’d better have a shelter, that’s all. Isn’t safe, being so close to Washington and Baltimore. With a north wind we’d even get fallout from New York and Philly.”
She examined his face to see what he was thinking. He never could hide his feelings from her. Then she asked the question, hating it: “Steve, you think there’s going to be a war, don’t you? Real soon.”
It was necessary that he tell her. Secrecy be damned. Her life, and the lives of their sons, depended on her knowing, preparing. “In my best judgment,” he said, “I believe there will be war. However, I hope I am wrong. My best judgment does not coincide with that of my superiors.” There had been serious conferences in the Navy’s corridors in the Pentagon that morning. The Navy admitted it was worried. It was worried about the dozen pips that had appeared, and then vanished, on the radarscope of one of the Air Force bombers dispatched on long-range search the night before. The Navy was concerned about the Marine private’s story of a landing on the coast, and by the unmistakable sighting of a submarine in the Gulf.
Yet for all these things there could be logical and innocuous explanations, the Navy had recognized. SAC’s radarmen were trained to seek out enemy cities, not identify submarines from the bright pips on their screens. It could have been malfunction of the radar set, or freak skip waves called the Heaviside Bounce, which sometimes causes a radarman to see an object two thousand miles distant as if it were right under his nose. And these so-called submarines had vanished immediately. Batt had pointed out that a flotilla of submarines, cruising at night on the surface, would have its radar operating, and would instantly dive at the approach of aircraft believed hostile, or merely inquisitive. Still, the Navy was skeptical. The international situation had often been more critical, and there had just been another purge in the Soviet high command. As to the Marine’s story, it was just too fantastic. It was the opinion of elderly admirals that this young Marine had found himself in an awkward position with the girl’s family, and that he and his girl had concocted the tale to appease an angry father. True, the story had been accepted by a senior captain at Mayport, but nothing ever happened at Mayport, and unconsciously, perhaps, the captain welcomed a little attention and excitement.
The Navy had agreed, however, to delay the sailing of Coral Sea to the Mediterranean. A change in the carrier’s loading was ordered. A group of fighter planes, just taken aboard, was ordered back to Mainside. It was being replaced by subhunting helicopters and dive bombers. By nightfall the Coral Sea would sortie, steam northeast, and receive additional orders at sea. In addition the hunter-killer task force, scattered over a tremendous area in the Gulf, was ordered to rendezvous near Key West. These concessions Steve Batt, backed by Admiral Blakeney of the Eastern Sea Frontier, had won.
“But you do believe it, don’t you?” Laura insisted, watching his eyes.
“Yes, I do.”
“All right, Steve,” she said. “You keep right on digging. I’ll start clearing away this mess.”
She went to work with shovel, bucket, and broom. He went back into his tunnel. He was thinking ahead, telling himself he would have to accumulate much new lore within the next forty-eight hours. Who would determine the amount of radioactivity sustained in Annapolis, the power and type of bombs used? What would be safe to eat and drink? If radioactive debris fell on the car, would it be safe to drive it afterwards? What would they do if the bombs had a U-238 casing? Or cobalt? Who would know? Who would tell them? Who would be left? Steve Batt, so aware of dangers to the national entity, had forgotten to learn the rules for personal survival. No one, he suspected, could truthfully say that the Civil Defense rules would be of any real use, but at least it would be best to know them. Such rules were like an untested parachute. The parachute might not work, but if you had to jump, it was the only chance you had.
8
All that Saturday morning, and most of the afternoon, Felix Fromburg had been pounding questions at Robert Gumol in a hotel room in Havana. Now, at last, he reckoned that Gumol was weakening. As was inevitable in any lengthy interrogation of a man concealing truth, Gumol had contradicted himself, become flustered, and finally admitted lying. It was true, he confessed, that he had undertaken certain commissions for the Soviet government. Harmless ones, of course, all many years before. He talked for a long time about the financial problems of the U.S.S.R. prior to recognition by the United States in 1933.
Fromburg pressed him. Yes, Gumol said, he had received certain fees from the Russian embassy since that period. Very small, really, in comparison with his total income, and all reported in his tax statements. Perhaps he had forgotten to list the source, but the fees were there. Fromburg should remember that Russia had been an ally. Was it not correct to accept commissions from an ally?
Fromburg demanded details. What kind of services had Gumol performed? Was he paid in cash or by check? When he said the fees were small, did that mean in hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands? And, finally, was Gumol registered as an agent of a foreign power, as the law required?
Gumol said, “I don’t think I want to discuss such a question without advice from my attorney.”
Felix knew, then, that Gumol had succeeded in hanging himself. He stood up, and lifted his tired arms, and stretched. “Mr. Gumol,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to ask Lieutenant González to hold you on an open charge until I can have you extradited for violation of federal statutes requiring registration of those receiving pay from a foreign power. But that isn’t quite all. Then I’m going to trot over to the Associated Press office. I know one of their correspondents here. I’m going to tell him what I’m doing, and tell him how you were rolled for three hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars. It’ll be pretty big news in Philadelphia, and in Washington too, and maybe in Moscow.”
Gumol’s face, which during the day had grown progressively grayer and more unhealthy, now became veined and brick red. He gripped the arms of his chair, leaned forward, and shouted, “You can’t do that!”
“I can, and I will. There’s no question that you’ve violated a federal law. Maybe several.”
“You don’t know what this would mean to me!”
“I think I do. It’d insure quite a reception committee, wouldn’t it? Led by your wife. Of course, once you’re back in Pennsylvania no doubt you can get out on bond. Then what’ll happen to you, Mr. Gumol?”
Gumol’s heavy shoulders weaved. His mouth hung open but he seemed unable to speak. Once Fromburg had witnessed a bullfight in Mexico City, and when the bull was all in, its legs spread, horn-heavy, bleeding, beat, ready for the moment of truth, the bull had looked something like Gumol.
“You won’t last long, will you, Mr. Gumol? They’ll kill you quick.”
Gumol held out his hands. They were clammy as soft clay, and shaking. “Listen, mister, all I want to do is save my life.”
“You know how you can do it, don’t you?”
Gumol’s lips moved, but no words came out.
Felix said, “That was Russian money, wasn’t it? You stole it, didn’t you? Probably had it in a box in your bank, right? Did you leave any, Gumol? It won’t be hard to check, you know.”
Gumol coughed and held his hand to his neck, and
when he spoke his voice sounded half-strangled, as if he had swallowed a drink and fluid had gone into his windpipe. “Yes, it was Russian money, but you don’t understand, mister. This thing is big. I guess I’m in deep. If you’ll just promise me—”
Felix was a man of much inner calm, a characteristic which had advanced him in his profession, but for the first time in years he lost control of himself, and the situation. For the first time in his life he felt impelled to kill. He stretched out his hands close to Gumol’s throat. “You son of a bitch, you tub of rancid lard,” he said, “what did you do to rate that much money?”
“I didn’t do anything. I swear it. It wasn’t me.”
“Then who was it? And what did they do?”
Gumol’s chin fell on his chest, his head wavered, but he could not seem to speak.
Felix had to say it, his voice like an icicle held at the man’s throat. “Mr. Gumol, I think you know something that is going to happen. If anything does happen, if it happens before you come clean, I can promise you this—I don’t know where the first shot will be fired, but the second one will be right into your fat gut.”
Gumol’s face changed color again. From brick red it faded to gray, and then to chalk white and when he spoke he strangled again, and he had difficulty speaking, as if he breathed off the top of his chest and had little breath for words. “All right. . . . I’ll tell you about it. Remember it was me who told you . . . they’re blowing up the bombers. . . . There are four of them in this country . . . I mean the United States. I met one . . . his name . . . his name is—” Gumol’s hands lifted and crept up across his stomach as if to hold in pain. “Smith—” He gasped. “The others are . . .” Gumol’s chin fell again. He seemed, indeed, to be looking down at his stomach, open-mouthed in astonishment. But he kept on leaning forward until he rolled off the chair onto the floor. He choked, his hands clawed at his throat, saliva appeared at the corners of his mouth, his legs kicked with unexpected force. He relaxed, still. Long before the doctor reached the room, Fromburg knew that Gumol was dead.
To the doctor, a North American, it was very simple. “Classic coronary type,” he said. “They come to Havana to live it up. They live about two years in two days and kick off. What’s he been up to for the last two days?”
“Nothing,” Felix said. “He hasn’t even been talking very much.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did. Should’ve been dead a couple of years ago.”
It wasn’t that simple for Fromburg. He had everything—and he had nothing. Perhaps Gumol had left some useful documents or records at the bank, but he doubted it. And why did the man’s name have to be Smith? What Smith? Where? There were no scrambler lines out of Havana, so Felix was forced to telephone, in clear, from his own room. Since it was Saturday afternoon, only a few people, and none in authority, were on duty in counter-espionage. They promised to relay his information to someone who knew more about this Gumol matter, and send special agents from the Philadelphia office over to the bank. It seemed far-fetched that a suburban banker would know anything about sabotage of the B-99 bombers, but the Air Force would be alerted nevertheless. It was a shame that Fromburg’s information was not more specific.
Felix called at Havana police headquarters, and at the embassy, which would have the duty of notifying Gumol’s family, and arranging for shipment of the body back to Upper Hyannis. He returned to the hotel and packed his bag. Perhaps he had failed. Perhaps he should have been more observant of the man’s condition, and been easier on him. Yet on the whole he felt he had done all he could. Late that night he boarded a plane back to Washington. At least he would be with his family before Christmas, and with them face what was to come. He had called Sarah, and told her to load up the car, and be ready to leave when he got home.
9
Phil Cusack thought that Betty Jo Atkins’ house was really something, much nicer than the house of any girl he had known in Morgantown, and infinitely cleaner and more luxurious than his own family’s unpainted two-story frame packing-case, with its torn green shades, uncarpeted, gritty flowers, junk furniture, and primitive bathroom. Betty Jo’s living room was furnished in modern, just like the quarters of the married officers on the base. Betty Jo had a fascinating lamp, shaped like a black leopard standing on its haunches, and the shade was painted like a tiger’s skin. She had a combination television set and record-player. She had everything. Stan Smith was a lucky man to have her.
She could cook, too. She cooked a Hungarian goulash better than any he had ever tasted at a hunyak table in West Virginia. They ate on the glass-topped, wrought-iron coffee table in the living room. Then she brought in ice cream and beer.
They drank a second beer and sat side by side on the soft, white rug and watched a comedy hour. Then the “Hit Parade” came on and she shook off her shoes and pulled him to his feet and said, “Let’s dance.”
He wasn’t much of a dancer anyway, and it was embarrassing, trying to dance on that deep rug. She said, “You’ll do better if you hold me a little closer.” She pressed close against him.
Phil didn’t do any better. Much as he tried to concentrate on dancing, he found that his feet were hardly moving at all. He was scared of what was happening, but he couldn’t control himself. He said, taking his arm from her waist, “I think I ought to go back to the base.”
Her hips and shoulders were still weaving. She said, “I thought you said you were on twenty-four-hour pass? You don’t have to be back until tomorrow morning, do you?”
“That’s right. But the last bus leaves at twelve. After that there isn’t another bus for the base until eight, maybe eight-thirty in the morning.”
“Aw, don’t worry about it. We’ve got a car. I can drive you back any time.”
“That’s real nice of you, Betty Jo, but I don’t want to put you out, cause you any trouble or anything.”
“It’s no trouble,” she said. “I want you to have a big time tonight. Tell you what you do. I’m out of beer. Take the car and get another six cans. Lots of places open on the Trail. Then when you come back we’ll talk it over.”
Phil said, “Okay.” He thought of Stan, and felt guilty, but what else could he say?
She found the car keys in her pocketbook and juggled them for a moment in her hand, thinking about the car. Again that day, she had forgotten to get the tail light fixed. The garages were open late, Saturday nights, but they’d all be closed Sunday morning, and Stan had said he might be in to see her tomorrow. If she didn’t have that light fixed when he came in again, Stan would be real sore. He was a bug about little things like that. “Tell you what you do, Phil,” she said. “My left tail light is busted. Drive on in to town and get it fixed for me, will you? Then pick up the beer and come on back. Here’s some money.”
He refused the bills. “I’ve got plenty,” he said. “I’ll catch it.” It made him feel better to be able to pay. It made him feel like an older man.
10
Lieutenant Hans Fischer, of the Air Police, had his own theory about the airman receiving a suitcase from a boat up the coast. It was Fischer’s theory that no submarine was involved, and that the airman wasn’t an enemy agent at all, but was engaged in smuggling dope. You will find young punks in the Air Force, as elsewhere, and Fischer had just succeeded in turning up two nineteen-year-old addicts. But he hadn’t laid hands on the pusher who sold them the heroin, and, until all Air Police at Hibiscus were placed on anti-sabotage alert, it had been his assignment to find this pusher, and he had not forgotten it. It was also Fischer’s belief that the smuggler’s car and suitcase would not turn up at Hibiscus, if it turned up at all, but in Orlando. If the smuggler had a new car it indicated he was newly affluent. The pusher would not want to attract attention to himself by driving it on the base.
Fischer had been on duty almost all Friday night, and until noon Saturday. He had been told to take Saturday night off. Instead, he had come to Orlando and stationed himself withi
n sight of the terminal for Air Force busses. If there was any dope pushing going on, it would likely be near this center of activity, and Saturday night was the time to spot it. He watched for a new green-and-white Chewy hardtop with an airman at the wheel. He saw six or seven cars that came close to answering the description, but they were all driven by civilians. Then he saw it.
A green-and-white Chewy, driven by an airman, turned into the big all-night garage and filling station just down the street. Excited, but walking at an even pace and pretending that his attention was elsewhere, so as not to alarm his man, Fischer strolled down the sidewalk. As he was crossing the concrete ramp, studded with gas pumps, Fischer saw the driver get out of the car. The airman was talking to one of the filling station attendants, and they were examining a broken tail light, when Fischer put his hand on his shoulder. “This your car?” Fischer said.
The airman looked up. He was a pimply-faced scrub of about the same age as the two addicts Fischer had nailed. He said, “No.” His eyes took in Fischer’s rank and the A.P. brassard on his arm and he added, “sir, Lieutenant.”
“Who’s it belong to?”
“Belongs to a girl.” Again, belatedly, he added, “sir.” Cusack couldn’t imagine what crime he had committed. The lieutenant was probably looking for somebody else.
“Let’s see your pass, ID card, and driver’s license.”
Cusack reached into his pocket and brought out his wallet, with his pass and ID card. The lieutenant, very tall, lean, and seeming somehow hard and faceless, although little older than the airman, said, “Where’s your license?”