by Gil Hogg
“What do you mean? For God’s sake, you can stop what you’ve started, can’t you man?” Reich said, purpling.
“I hope so,” I said without confidence.
“You hope so, Roger! Jesus, tell us what you’ve done,” Rachel said.
I shook my head in refusal. “It’s better you don’t know. If anything goes wrong…” I revelled in playing the Need to Know card against them. And in their bellies, they didn’t want to know. Assassination was vile medicine. Too vile to talk about, let alone swallow.
“Roger, I want your undertaking you’ll do everything necessary to stop this. Everything,” Reich said. His usual throaty confidence had an imploring note.
“May I ask why the change of mind?” I asked, guessing readily enough, but wanting to be awkward.
Reich’s instinct was to cut me off with one of his jibes about my maladroit political sense, but in this extremity he was beholden to me. “It’s not the appropriate time, that’s all.”
“I can see that myself. The President will get back into office with or without Madison. Even if we kill Madison” – I watched both of them wince at the ugly implications of the we – “the President will never bless General Schmiesser as head of the Chiefs of Staff. All this as a result of us botching the PR over the Cuban crisis.”
I was rubbing sand into lacerations, which must have already cut deep into Reich’s hide, in the arguments with his colleagues over the President’s broadcast. Nothing else could explain this unseemly, last-minute capitulation.
Reich must realise now that had the Disciples publicised my coup when it happened, the President would have looked unsafe and untrustworthy. Surprise missile threat. America unready, and only saved by the quick thinking of an agent on the ground. Me. As it turned out, the President had finally taken the news initiative by default, scored with the general public, and probably won four years of relative freedom from the plots of the Disciples.
“You don’t have to explain the political situation to me!” Reich roared. “Your undertaking, Roger?”
“You have it, but may I have a similar one from you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The three CIA thugs at the party.”
“I – we – don’t know anything about them. You’re suggesting they are there to… ”
“Kill me.”
“Not on our instructions. No way,” Reich said.
“If there are dogs out there, they can be called off.”
“There are none! I’ve told you!”
I didn’t believe him. “Well, put it this way. I have your orders, clear and simple. I’ll carry them out. If anything unfortunate happens, you can be absolutely sure it’s not my initiative.”
“Good. Thank you,” Reich said, deflated, his eyes red and clouded.
“And I want to be officially replaced as head of security for the show. I look after Madison, and him alone.”
“I don’t see why…”
“You want me to stop the train I’ve started. OK, but I insist. I’ll deliver Madison, but I won’t be responsible for the rest.”
“Agree, Otto,” Rachel said. “Colonel Clark can take overall responsibility.”
Reich gave a jaundiced movement of the jaw to make the concession.
Rachel Fernandez had said very little, almost distanced herself from Reich, her glance cast downward in her papier mache face. I fancied there would be more arguments to come, and perhaps some repositioning in the Disciples’ camp. It was all very clever for dons to mastermind the broad and confusing currents in a vast sea of intelligence, but when it came down to action on the ground, to actual killing, the toll in stress was profound, and Reich had found that out. He looked as though his blood pressure would explode.
I was asked to wait for an orderly who would escort me to the plane while Reich and Rachel Fernandez departed. In a few minutes, the orderly arrived, and I followed him. Instead of striking out toward the jet, which I could see on the apron of the runway, the corporal led me to another hut. It was empty except for Rachel Fernandez, standing imperiously in her loose black suit, like a priest. She spoke when the orderly had retreated and closed the door.
“Roger, I want to tell you something privately and confidentially. You must do as Otto has asked, but you yourself are in danger. I don’t know the details, but it is intended that you should not return from Fort Gaines. Personally, I have always been opposed to this… and that is why I’m telling you. I value your service very much.”
It was helpful to have confirmed what I had already anticipated, and it was useful to have this special connection with a person of Fernandez’ rank. Since our talk about Dolores Martinez there seemed to be a warm thread between us. Her attitude suggested the possible fall of Reich. I received the information impeturbably.
“Thank you. It’s kind of you to tell me. I’ll bear it in mind.”
“You’re a very cool character, Roger. You obviously knew already.”
“Naturally. It’s my job. But I’m grateful to you for thinking of me.”
“I think of you as a kind of link with Dolores,” she said sadly.
Although I had made my stance appear brave and gravely dramatic, I flew back to Fort Gaines with a relatively light heart. I did not have to go through the convoluted activity of showing that I was carrying out the Disciples’ orders, while at the same time nullifying them. What had been tortuous and confused was now simple. I had to look after myself and Madison.
33
By the time the Learjet landed at Fort Gaines, the official orders from the Pentagon, under which the base was working, had been amended to place Colonel Gerald Clark in overall charge of security, with me remaining responsible for General Madison’s person. Scott Maxell ribbed me about it when we met in the officers’ mess. “Demoted, huh?”
“One general is enough for me to look after.”
Maxell, I was sure, wouldn’t have known what had happened. If he was the one with orders to kill me, he still had them. He regarded me for a long moment with his totem pole face, suspicious. “Why?”
I heaved my shoulders. “Obviously, it’s easier. I do what I’m told without asking why. I’m like you, Scott, and all other agents – a mushroom.”
“You’re damn right! We’re in the dark. What we get to know is a piece of information about the size of a rat’s turd.”
We could exchange these truisms about the service philosophically.
“The other thing is, Gerry Clark is my boss. Maybe being the security supremo on this picnic looks good to him.”
Maxell was confused about this, because he probably knew there was going to be trouble, but he was a foot soldier, and knew better than to question higher authority.
Yarham’s reaction was pleasurable when he heard my account of events at Andrews Air Force Base. “This means that the Conway reputation should be virgo intacta, Captain, assuming you come out of the tunnel with Madison. I should think Gerry Clark’s a worried man. All sorts of nasties could happen.”
The morning of the launch was clear, with a chill in the wind off the mountains. The jets were coming in from Washington, modified 727s with plenty of space for the Pentagon brass, contractors, scientists and engineers; and there were some smaller jets from other locations. The total complement expected was just short of a hundred and twenty persons. While Gerry Clark, who pointedly ignored me, was fussing about, I made sure the arrangements I had put in place were working, particularly the perimeter security, and the methodical checking of identities.
The programme had been timed to the minute: coffee on arrival in the mess hall, speeches and presentations on the tarmac, inspection of the deadly monster and the launch; and afterwards a relaxed lunch before departure.
I was at the foot of the gangway when General Madison’s plane disembarked. He greeted me warmly. “I put myself in your hands, Roger.” He introduced me to his aides: uniformed high officers themselves, greying and doing their fighting now with their wais
tlines in the gymnasium. They looked at me sceptically, a slim young man in well-tailored light grey flannel suit, and so obviously an Englishman. They would have heard a version of my exploits, but could not quite understand why the life of the second most important person in the US should have been committed to the hands of such a person.
I leaned toward them confidentially. “I hope it won’t be necessary, but there could be circumstances in which I have to take the General with me, on his own, without you, for his safety.”
“You’re in charge on this, Roger,” General Madison said, blocking any disagreement.
The aides nodded reluctant agreement, and were not too concerned that anything untoward could happen to their chief in this small, isolated gathering in the cool New Mexico sunshine.
The officer in charge of the ID verification drew me aside, and said that one of the perimeter guards was sick and would not be replaced, and there was an addition to the complement; an elderly scientist who had been omitted by mistake from the guest list.
Sally Greengloss had arrived with Gerry Clark. I assumed she was here to assist Clark. One had to be suspicious of everybody, and I remained uneasy about her. It was also interesting that she was discarding her cover as a publisher’s assistant, and was coming out as an agent, certainly as far as I was concerned. I later gave her a cheery hello, but showed no sign of surprise at her presence.
The party finished their coffee and chatter after twenty-five minutes, and moved to the grandstand outside. Generals Madison and Schmiesser ascended the dais in front of the stand. General Madison made the first address. He described the R40 as the most deadly accurate long distance missile ever invented. Like the Gomez missile (although he did not refer to the Cuban missile or the Cuban affair), it travelled close to the ground at supersonic speed, and could be set on a varied course. It was believed to be unstoppable by any known defences. Versions of the R40, which was only ten feet long and eighteen inches in diameter, equipped with nuclear warheads, could be stationed on, and operated from, satellites. “This is indeed a formidable weapon,” General Madison said, “a triumph of science, and yet it is a sad commentary on our times that we need it. Pray God we never have to use it.”
General Schmiesser, free of any regret, outlined excitedly the kind of war he envisioned, with the US zapping its foes like a kid with a video game. “America is the big guy on the block and must never surrender that position to any other nation,” he said. He presented personal letters of thanks, signed by the President, to a group of scientists and researchers who had led the project, designing more effective silos, more accurate firing controls, and vastly more powerful fuel and burners.
I watched and listened from the fringes, trying, impossibly, to see the poison lurking in a scene which looked as innocent as a crowd of parents gathered at a college baseball pitch to present prizes. Sally Greengloss, absorbed in the proceedings, looked quite attractive in her grey trouser suit. Clark moved restively at her side, picking his fingernails.
The speeches closed as planned according to time, and Gerry Clark stepped to the podium: “All those guests not cleared to visit the control centre, please proceed to the mess hall. You will find a video link set up there, which will give you a full view of events. All those visiting the control centre, please follow Colonel Stanley…”
The control centre was too small to accommodate more than a handful of people, and this choice group included the two generals, their chief aides, Scott Maxell, Clark, and myself. I moved into line behind Colonel Stanley, with General Madison, and a rising heartbeat.
We walked a short distance across the tarmac to the head of the bunker, entered an elevator, and travelled a hundred and fifty feet underground in silence. We exited into a long passage, circular in shape, leading to a number of control centres for different silos. Despite the air-conditioning, my skin was prickling and damp. Some conversation spurted in the gathering, but we were more like strangers in a weird art gallery, looking cautiously for the next exhibit.
I kept glancing about me for anything out of place, or any sign of agitation in my companions, but I could see none.
“You’re sweating, son,” General Madison said to me in a quiet and friendly undertone.
I didn’t reply, but he knew fear, and he had detected mine. It was probably no bad thing. He began to look more serious. It wasn’t merely an outing to look at the new toys.
When we reached the control room, I deliberately positioned Madison near the door. He was watching me now, understanding I knew more than he did. It wasn’t such a good viewing point for Madison, because there was an array of computer screens, partly blocked out by those in front. A young woman lieutenant stood before the screens, and began explaining their importance. Two or three people motioned Madison to take a central place beside Schmeisser. He looked at me. I moved my head slightly to signal a negative. “I’m fine here,” Madison said modestly. “I can see perfectly.”
The lieutenant showed us a computerised map, literally the target range, which could be adjusted to cover any part of the surface of the earth within range with street-map precision. She showed how the target, if static, could be selected in detail down to a particular house in a particular street, or a parked vehicle, simply by moving a cursor on the screen to that point. She showed how a moving target, such as a motor vehicle, could be tracked.
“You don’t need that much accuracy with a nuclear warhead,” Schmiesser grinned.
“That’s correct, sir. There are a variety of warheads. It depends what effect you want,” she said, as though she was talking about painting and decorating a house.
The lieutenant took us through an imaginary arming and fuelling sequence, explaining that the missile we were going to fire was already fuelled, and did not have an explosive warhead.
“Pity about that. We could have tried one on Baghdad,” Schmiesser chuckled.
I watched the group carefully, agonising whether I should get Madison out of there. Maxell was eyeing me. He was the only one, apart from me, not paying attention to the lieutenant. He seemed easy. Perhaps I was completely wrong in my assessment that the danger was underground. Then I realized that Clark had disappeared, slipped back to the lift unnoticed, and my worst fears came flooding back. But Schmiesser was present, and he was a safety indicator.
The lieutenant finished her piece, and a major at the control panel began a countdown. “We can fire instantly, but this is slow motion to illustrate the stages. By the way, this missile is going straight up into the atmosphere, and will destruct after four seconds,” he said.
The earth trembled, and we had the vision, on a screen, of the missile leaping out of the ground and flaring upwards, its course obscured by smoke.
I grabbed General Madison’s arm. “Time to leave,” I whispered.
He looked at me, close and directly in the eyes, saw that I looked troubled, but perhaps doubted whether he should make a sly exit, when in the normal course he would have said a few words of thanks on behalf of the audience. There was a small round of applause, and no apparent danger. In his hesitation the years of discipline, and the understanding of why the event was organised in this way, came through. He moved his lips almost imperceptibly. “OK.”
We slipped out of the control room while nobody was looking, and I made him jog along the corridor for twenty yards.
“Look, are you sure we need to do this, Roger? I mean… I feel like a fugitive… ”
As we came past one of the bulkheads with steel doors, a circular side panel swung open. Yarham’s face appeared. “In here, sir.”
I bundled Madison through, and followed. Yarham took Madison away at a run. As I turned to close the hatch, Schmiesser came running toward us. “Where are you going? What’s going on? Where is General Madison?” he shouted.
“Sorry, sir. No time to explain.” He gobbled like a goldfish in a bowl as I slammed the thick steel plate shut in his face. I locked the hatch, and closed the wingnuts over the surrounding bolts
.
Madison and Yarham had moved along the sodium-lit sub-passage for a hundred yards before I caught up.
“Who was that out there?” Madison asked.
“General Schmiesser.”
“Why didn’t you let him through?”
“He didn’t want to come through. This is an exit route prepared exclusively for you. I’m responsible for you, and I’m not taking any chances. This is a set-up to kill you. I’m just hoping they don’t blow the control room.”
“Oh, surely…”
“No guards, sir,” Yarham said, looking at me, alarmed.
I had placed part of the team of perimeter guards in the underground complex. “Maybe Clark withdrew them. We better go carefully.”
I slipped the 9 mm Beretta out of my shoulder holster.
“It’s that serious?” General Madison said, seeing the gun, and still feeling that he was the victim of security overkill.
“It’s that serious. I’m taking a special route which should bring us safely above ground, but it should have been guarded. I’m concerned that there are no guards now.”
Just then, from behind, there was a shock-wave which seemed to momentarily crush me, compress my head, and make my ears pop. And behind it a muffled roar. The ground shook.
“That wasn’t another missile… ” the General said.
“No, I don’t think so. It was an explosion in the control room or the passage.”
“All those people!”
“There are other escape routes, and they had a little time,” I said.
“The TIFU factor, sir,” Yarham said.
“What do you mean?” Madison asked.
“He means it’s a fuck-up, General. An assassination attempt gone wrong, running out of control, and it’s not over yet.”
The lights went out, and we all broke our stride and stopped.
“My God!” the General said. “This is like war.”