by T. E. Cruise
“Sorry I’m late,” Steve told Boskins. “I couldn’t get a Jeep. By the way, where’s yours?”
“I came cross-country,” Boskins replied.
“You walked?”
“It’s only about a mile as the crow flies,” Boskins said, and then he grinned. “I won’t say no to a ride home, however.”
Steve followed him into the shallow cave, where it was at least fifteen degrees cooler, thanks to the underground spring that trickled down out of one of the cave’s fissured walls to collect in the small pool the eons of dripping water scooped out of the cave’s stone floor. At least fifty cans of beer bobbed in the pool. Boskins scooped out a pair of brews and tossed one to Steve. Thanks to its time spent immersed in the water the can was frosty cold. Steve sighed happily as he pressed the can against his forehead.
Boskins opened his beer with the church key he’d pulled from his belt pouch, and then tossed it to Steve, who opened his brew and took a long swallow. As he drank, the sweat came popping out of his pores almost faster than he could take the liquid in, but the cold beer nonetheless hit the spot.
This cave had been discovered by some of the pilots while on a cross-country training hike. Now, Air Foce supply personnel kept the cave stocked with beer, and hauled away the litter of empties that periodically carpeted the cave floor as those in the know spent as many evenings here as they could. The cave was kept a secret from the spooks, who had banned alcohol from Whetstone. Steve felt honored to have been let in on the secret; he was, after all, technically straddling the fence between the Air Force and the CIA.
Steve and Boskins settled side by side on a couple of the canvas camp stools that had been left in the cave, and lit cigarettes. “Your note had me upset, Lowball,” Steve began. “What’s wrong? You’re not still upset over the way I waxed your tail the other day?”
“Nah.” Boskins smiled. “I’ve already managed to forget that ever happened.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“It’s not just mah prob’em,” Boskins said quietly in his languid, cowboy drawl. “We’re all mighty upset about what’s been going on, Stevie boy…”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
Boskins looked suspicious. “What you’re telling me here is you don’t know nothing about what I’m saying?”
“That’s right,” Steve replied.
Boskins extracted something from his belt pouch and tossed it to Steve. It tumbled through the air, glinting in the dim light coming in from the mouth of the cave. Steve caught it and held it up to the light.
“A silver dollar?” he asked, puzzled, turning the coin around in his fingers.
“Open it,” Boskins said.
“Open—?”
“Just kinda twist it apart,” Boskins explained. “And do it careful like,” he cautioned. “It’ll be my ass if you lose what’s in there.”
Steve noticed an edge and pried the coin slightly open using his thumbnail. He then twisted it the rest of the way apart. Stuck inside with a bit of cellophane tape was a small straight pin. He looked up inquiringly at Boskins.
“A suicide pin,” Boskins said.
“A what—?” Steve burst out laughing, thinking this was some kind of joke, but his laughter faded as Boskins frowned, straightfaced.
“The spooks told us that they developed some kind of new poison,” Boskins said. “All you got to do is jab yourself with that there pin and according to the spooks you’ll be dead quicker than a two-dollar blow job from a big-city whore.”
“Holy shit,” Steve murmured, holding at arm’s length the half of the coin that contained the pin.
“’Course, that one there’s supposed to be a dud,” Boskins elaborated. “According to the spooks it ain’t been dipped or soaked, or whatever.”
“What are you doing with this thing?” Steve demanded.
“That spook in charge of survival training—”
“Woodrow Brown?”
“Yeah, him.” Boskins scowled. “Ole woody-pecker Brown issued them to us last week, telling us that when we train we got to go with a full kit.” He shook his head. “Some survival training. Guess we’re only supposed to survive long enough to stick ourselves …”
Steve carefully fit together the two halves of the hollow coin, and then tossed it back to Boskins. “Look, Lowball, I’m not sure I see your beef … I mean, you were in Korea. You know what kind of treatment downed pilots received from the Commies. There’s no reason to think the Russians are going to treat you any better.”
Boskins looked angry. “What you’re saying is that you agree with the spooks that if we go down we oughta kill ourselves? Save the diplomats the trouble of trying to negotiate us home?”
“I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying that if it comes down to it, whether you allow yourself to be captured alive is totally up to you. Nobody can force you to stick yourself with that pin. It’s your decision … All the spooks have done is give you the option …”
“That’s what the spooks tole us,” Boskins said skeptically. “They said only us pilots can decide if death is preferable to being tortured into telling the Reds all about the Mayfly project. Only we can decide if it would be more honorable to die than to embarrass our country—and their fuck’n agency—”
“Right,” Steve said.
Boskins spat. “But then they told us something else. That whatever we decided about ourselves, it was our duty to make sure that no part of the aircraft falls into enemy hands.”
“How are you supposed to do that?” Steve asked.
“The spooks are putting a bomb in each airplane, right behind the pilot’s seat. Our orders are to activate the fucker right before we bail out. And get this. Supposedly, we got seventy seconds before she blows, but I’ll tell you something, Stevie. Not one of us pilots believes that.” His smile was sardonic as he held up to the light streaming into the cave the phony silver coin. “Every one of us would bet our bottom dollar that as soon as we activate that bomb it’s gonna blow. No way would we have a chance to bail out.”
“You think the spooks want you to take the death before dishonor route whether you want to or not—”
“That’s right, Steve. Did you know we’re supposed to fly with no I.D. or personal effects? On one hand the spooks are telling us it’ll be up to us to decide for ourselves whether to be taken alive or not, and on the other hand they want to make damned sure we’re not carrying anything that’ll identify us as Americans. You know the airplane don’t carry no markings at all …”
“You guys don’t think your country is going to be there for you if you get caught …”
“Right again.” Boskins nodded firmly. “That’s just what we think, and I was elected the one to come tell you that we also think it stinks. We don’t trust the people we’re working for, Steve, and in our kind of work, that mean’s there’s gonna be trouble at some point down the line.”
Steve nodded. “Your job is going to be tough enough without having to be worried about getting stabbed in the back.”
“The bottom line is that we’re Air Force men, used to doing things the Air Force way,” Boskins continued. “The way you explained this assignment I thought we was taking part in a military reconnaissance operation. I never figured on being turned into a spy, or being treated like one by the enemy if I should fall into his hands.”
“You guys deserve to know that you won’t be forsaken,” Steve agreed.
Boskins, nodding, looked relieved. “I knew you’d see it our way…” He paused. “A bunch of us were figuring that since you brought us in, you could fix things up for us …” He hesitated. “That is, if you got the clout …”
“I’ll certainly talk to them about this, Lowball.”
“You’ll talk to Brown?” Boskins sounded pleased.
“Fuck Brown, and fuck his boss, Cooper, as well.” Steve scowled. “I’ll be back in Washington next week, and when I am, I’ll go right to the top.”
(Three)
Central Intelligence Agency
Washington, D.C.
25 May 1957
“Lieutenant Colonel, you can’t go in there—”
Steve Gold had always coveted Jack Horton’s secretary. From his previous visits here he’d learned her name was Joyce. She was an auburn brunette with hazel eyes and an outstanding set of tits. Today she was wearing a tan, thin wool dress that clung to her curves. Steve enjoyed watching her breasts bounce as she jumped to her feet, moving fast around her desk as if she were going to tackle him to keep him from getting past her.
He should be so lucky … He wouldn’t mind a little unarmed combat with this one … But he did want to keep his confrontation with Jack Horton’s doorkeeper down to a dull roar. He couldn’t afford to attract the attention of building security. He was wearing his Air Force uniform, and pinned to his lapel was the laminated pass that Horton had arranged to be issued him, so he’d had no difficulty getting this far into the building, but he knew that he had no right to be here uninvited …
“Please, sir,” she began again. “You know how busy Mister Horton is. You should have called for an appointment—”
“If I’d called for an appointment you would have put me off for a week,” Steve chided, and then he smiled. “Why, I bet it’d be harder to get penciled in to see old Jack then it would be to get you to see me on a date …”
“Is that what you’d bet?” She tilted her head to look him in the eye, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
Made in the shade. Steve thought. “Uh-huh …”
“What happens when you lose your wagers, Lieutenant Colonel?” she asked playfully.
“I pay off.” Steve paused. “Say this Friday night …?”
“All right … I’ll write down my number…” She turned to bend across her desk to reach pen and paper, the tan wool stretching to mold her backside.
Outstanding upstairs and downstairs, Steve thought, tempted to tarry another moment to enjoy the view. Business before pleasure, he reminded himself. While she was occupied he tried to slide past her, but she was fast—he’d have to remember that—and managed to plant herself in his path.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said firmly, all business again even as she deftly unbuttoned the flap of his jacket’s breast pocket to tuck away the folded slip with her telephone number. “Mister Horton is in a meeting. He mustn’t be disturbed.”
Steve caught a whiff of her perfume as he watched her button the pocket flap and smooth it down with a proprietary little pat. “I like a girl with nimble fingers, but what I have to say to Jack can’t wait.”
He placed his hands on her waist and gently, easily, lifted her out of he way, enjoying her startled protestations as her feet left the carpet. As he set down the flustered girl he winked. “On Friday night I’ll pick up where I left off.”
He opened the double doors to Horton’s office. Jack was behind his hulking, black laquered desk, going over some papers with his assistant, Turner Layten, who was seated nearby in a spindly, straight-backed armchair. Horton glanced up, obviously surprised by the intrusion.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Steve heard the secretary feverishly apologizing from behind him as he stepped into the office. “I tried to stop him, sir, but—”
“She couldn’t,” Steve said pleasantly, finishing her sentence.
“That’s all right, Joyce,” Horton said.
“See, Joyce?” Steve said, glancing back over his shoulder at her. “I told you your boss was a great guy.”
“Thank you, Joyce,” Horton said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us…”
“Yes, sir.”
Steve gritted his teeth, trying not to wince as Joyce gave him a hard pinch on his butt before backing out of the office, shutting the doors behind her.
“This better be important, Gold,” Turner Layten blustered. Layten was in his thirties. He was pear-shaped, with rounded shoulders, baby-smooth jowls, small gray eyes, and waxed black hair parted on the side. Like his boss, he was wearing a gray suit, white shirt, and red tie, except that his shirt had French cuffs, from which gleamed heavy rectangles of gold. “You’ve got a lot of nerve barging in this way,” Layten continued.
Steve ignored him. Layten was a “yes man”; a fawning jackal to Horton’s lion. Steve, who during his military career had been unable to bring himself to kiss ass, and had paid the price for it, despised Layten’s breed. “Your secretary said you were in a meeting, Jack,” Steve said. “But I don’t see anybody.”
“Goddamn it!” Layten began.
“That’s enough,” Horton said crossly, nervously fingering his mustache. Layten shut up like a clam.
Steve allowed himself to smirk. Sure it was juvenile, he thought, but what the hey, nobody’s perfect.
“I wasn’t aware you were back in town,” Horton said.
“I just got back from Nevada yesterday.” Steve looked around Horton’s vast burgundy-carpeted office filled with curios. “I see you’ve added some new pieces since I was here last.” He wandered over to the end table next to the black leather sofa and picked up a small tulip-shaped purple glass vase overlaid with silver. “For instance, this is new, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Horton said. He seemed to flinch as Steve balanced the vase on his palm.
“I swear, Jack, you’ve got enough art deco stuff to open up your own shop on King Street.”
“Actually, that’s art nouveau,” he said, his jaw clenched. “And it’s very delicate, and very expensive. Please be careful with it.”
So I’m a bull in a china shop, eh? Steve thought as he put down the vase. Then beware my horns…
“Anyway, Steve, to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit?” Horton’s smile remained, but his eyes behind his black horn-rimmed eyeglasses were flat, dark gun muzzles.
Steve reached into his trouser pocket as he approached Horton’s desk. “I came by to discuss this with you. It’s a little something I got from one of the pilots at Whetstone,” he added as he tossed the silver dollar onto the desktop.
Horton had to block it with his hand to keep it from skidding clear across the waxed surface and into his lap. He then gingerly picked it up and placed it carefully on his desk blotter. He and Layten took a moment to distastefully study it.
“You know you shouldn’t have this …” Horton said.
“It’s totally against regulations—” Layten rushed to agree.
“Keep your shirts on, guys,” Steve replied, drawing up a chair and sitting down. “That’s a genuine silver dollar, not the little door prize your boys were handing out to my pilots—”
“Your pilots—?” Layten snickered gleefully.
“Where do all you guys with two last names get that obnoxious, snorting-honking sort of laugh?” Steve inquired. “I mean, are you guys born with it, or do they bring in geese and hogs at prep school to teach it to you?”
“Is there a point to this, Steve?” Horton asked tiredly.
Steve nodded. “First, I wanted to know if you knew about what was going on at Whetstone, and now that I do know that, I want to know how you could condone handing out cyanide-dipped pins—”
“Actually, it’s a shellfish toxin,” Layten said earnestly. “We’re quite proud of it. It’s instantly fatal; a really great advance in the field …”
“You’re up on your poisons, aren’t you, Layten?” Steve asked.
“Actually, I was in charge of research and development of this particular toxin.”
“Now how did I know that?” Steve mused. “Were you also in charge of the suicide bomb?”
“What ‘suicide bomb’?” Horton interrupted.
“Come on, Jack.” Steve scowled. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Don’t make things worse. You’ve already made some terrible mistakes with this poison pin crap, and this crap about putting bombs in the airplanes and expecting the pilots to detonate them before bailing out.”
“The self-destruct device in each plane i
s timed to allow the pilot ample time to eject—”
“So you say!”
“You don’t believe me?” Horton protested.
Steve had to give the guy credit. He actually managed to look hurt. He wondered if they taught acting classes at the Company training center. “It’s not what I believe that matters,” Steve said calmly. “Your pilots don’t believe you. You’re facing a mutiny in the ranks at Whetstone.”
Horton was shaking his head. “That’s not the information that Layten has been relaying to me.”
“Then you’re a horse’s ass for buying it!” Steve shot back.
Layten began to say something, but Horton held up his hand. “Let him finish,” he said affably.
“Thank you.” Steve nodded. He glanced at Layten. “Look, seriously, Turner, no offense to you, but you weren’t there. I was.”
“I’m in constant communication with Whetstone,” Layten replied defensively.
“Then you’re being fed false information,” Steve countered, struggling to keep the scorn he felt toward Horton’s lapdog out of his voice.
“My network is absolutely reliable,” Layten said firmly, glancing anxiously at Horton.
Steve gave up on Layten. “Jack, you listen to me now. What you’ve got at Whetstone is a little cold war going on between your personnel and the pilots I recruited. It’s easy to see how it got started: Your personnel are self-reliant lone wolves trained to operate behind the lines. From day one they’re probably taught that they’re expendable.”
“That’s true.” Horton nodded.
“Are you saying that Air Force pilots are taught something different?” Layten demanded, looking amused.
“In a way, they are …”
“But the men you recruited were all fighter pilots: lone wolves, as well!” Layten said triumphantly.
Steve shook his head. “I can see how it might look like that to you …” He smiled. “To tell you the truth, I thought the same way once, but since then I’ve learned that despite how it might seem, flying a fighter requires teamwork and trust. First, you’ve got to trust your flight crew to see to it that your airplane is in top condition. Then you’ve got to trust your wingman to work with you during combat. Finally, if things should go wrong, you’ve got to trust S & R—”