“That’s a dangerous business. Maybe we’ll get what we want without having to fight for it. More likely we won’t. Change costs, and sometimes you have to pay in pain.”
He paused, letting that sink in. “I don’t want war. But war is always a possibility. If they push us, we’ll fight for what we believe in. We’ll fight for what belongs to us. We’ll fight, and we’ll hurt them, and we’ll win. But only if we’re prepared.
“You all know what the Alpha List Crisis Evacuation Plan is all about. Most of you have taken part in at least one rehearsal—”
Not me, Tackett thought. Living in Boston shut him out of the primary evacuation plan. But he knew how ambitious the flash evacuation programs were—sixteen helicopters from Andrews Air Force Base descending on preset pickup points around Washington to snatch upwards of a hundred key officials and their families and whisk them to the five shelters scattered along the eastern Appalachians.
After he began to spend so much time in Washington, he had driven up to Boyne Mountain on his own to see the primary shelter. It was civilized, though hardly luxurious. And it felt solid, safe. Fifteen hundred feet of rock was immeasurably more reassuring than the eggshell dome of the South Block, his family’s designated alternate.
“—so you know what the shelters are like. I’m glad we have them. But the truth is that they’re not good enough. The Russians know where they are. You can bet that they’re all targets, along with Washington. And even if they weren’t, shelters won’t be much help if the Russians fight dirty, with bugs or ground-burst bombs.”
Robinson pushed aside a chair and lighted on the edge of the table. “That’s why I asked Albert to help me find a better answer, a better hole to hide in. One that would assure our families a decent life even if the worst came to pass. You’ve probably guessed where this is leading.”
“The alternities,” the Secretary of State said, looking pleased for a change.
Robinson nodded. “The plan is called Rathole. I’m reviewing some more detailed information about the various options. I intend to make a final decision this weekend. Within sixty days, Rathole will be a mature option. It will be there for us if we need it.”
“Rathole,” O’Neill echoed. “Lovely name.”
“What happens to your gate if the Russians drop the Super on Boston?” Madison asked skeptically.
That one was Tackett’s to field. “We don’t know,” he said evenly. “We’ve taken pains not to disturb the gate house even in small ways. There’s no way to tell what happens if it’s destroyed.”
The director grunted. “I’ll tell you what happens—we don’t come back. Have you thought about that?”
“If a submarine missile buries Boyne Mountain in its own rock, we don’t come back either,” Robinson said with sudden sharpness. “Do you have an objection to survivors having a chance to live decent lives? Does everyone have to suffer?”
“No—”
“Because if you have a problem, it’d be just as easy to strike you and your family from the Alpha List. You can stay here in Washington and paint a fucking bull’s-eye on the roof of your house.”
There was some uneasy laughter. Tackett did not join in.
“I’m not that eager to die,” the CIA chief said. “I was just wondering if you’d thought through to the end.”
“We have,” Robinson said. “Dennis, I’d like to be able to protect everyone. I’d like to be able to go on the air and say, we’re going to war, but don’t worry, nobody’s going to die. But we can only protect a few. And it makes sense to me to protect the most valuable members of our government. We embraced that principle when we adopted ALCEP.”
“Keeping the government intact is the key to postwar reconstruction,” the Secretary of State volunteered. “I don’t have any problem with this.”
“We’ve dedicated our lives to our country,” Robinson said. “We don’t have to sacrifice them, as well.”
The CIA chief was still wearing a mystified frown. “Why tell us this?”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t asked us for input, for a decision. You haven’t asked us for anything. It’s almost as though you told us as a favor. But you don’t use state secrets as favors. You could have changed ALCEP, had everyone on Alpha List put on a train and shipped to Boston without saying word one about why.”
O’Neill answered. “Can’t you read between the lines, Dennis? Look who’s here. State—Defense—CIA. We’re the face the country shows to the rest of the world.” He turned a hard gaze on Robinson. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what this meeting is about. Sixty days’ lead time before the rules change. Sixty days to stop thinking like a kitten.”
Looking pleased, Robinson met O’Neill’s gaze. “Yes, Gregory. That’s what it’s about. I want to turn up the heat on that old alley cat. I want his place in the sun.”
EYEWITNESS RECOUNTS
TRAGEDY IN GERMANY
“Something’s Wrong…”
By JOHN RASTEN
Special to the New York Times.
MANNHEIM, Jan 17, 1951—This was not the story I drove 171 miles to write.
This was to be a story about the return of the liberator of Europe to the nation he had vanquished. This was to be a story about the North Atlantic Treaty Organization and what it would mean to the free peoples here, now looking east at Red Russian tanks and learning that fear has survived the fall of the Nazi empire.
Three hours ago my photographer and I were standing on the airport apron in Mannheim, sharing the company of an Air Force crew chief and scanning the gray skies for Dwight Eisenhower’s military transport plane. A bitter wind was blowing across the dry, brown expanse of the field.
The press attache had told us to expect the plane to be on the ground by 1:00 P.M. At 1:10, he came out of the terminal building to advise us the plane had been late leaving Paris. There was no cause for worry, we were assured.
We did not worry. We passed the time by complaining about the cold and the indignities of our respective professions.
At 1:40 P.M, the silver four-engined C-72 carrying the General and his new NATO command staff appeared as a small speck in the western sky. Hardened to the comings and goings of aircraft, the crew chief offered me his binoculars. I watched as the plane, nicknamed America, bore in straight toward the field, five hundred feet in the air.
To the untrained eye, it seemed that the pilot intended to pass over the field before circling to land. I was about to ask the crew chief for his opinion when the plane abruptly nosed over and began a steep descent.
We watched together for one long second as the plane dropped, like a dart bumped off a table. “Something’s wrong,” the crew chief said, and ran for his vehicle.
The roar of the engines filled the air. They whined, bit at the air, seemingly dragging the aircraft down toward the earth. Somehow in the last instant, the pilot managed to bring the nose up.
It was too late. Directly in front of where we stood, the fragile-bodied transport slammed into the ground with a sickening jolt. Wings shaking and fuselage flexing, America rose a dozen feet into the air before settling back to slide out of control along the hard-frozen runway in a cloud of fine brown dust.
The landing gear snapped like toothpicks. One huge tire bounced and rolled crazily alongside the plane like a small dog chasing a car.
Still there was no fire and observers only just realizing what had happened allowed themselves to think that somehow those aboard might yet survive. Then the plane slewed sideways and skidded off the runway. A wing tip caught the ground and the wing folded, fuel spilling from broken tanks.
In an instant, a gout of bright orange flame enveloped the doomed aircraft. A deep-throated explosion rattled the terminal windows. Black oily smoke climbed skyward in a funereal signature. To those of us who were there to see the twisted, blackened metal left when the fire was quenched, the survival of radio engineer Walter Thomas is nothing short of a miracle.
But f
or all the free world, Eisenhower’s death in that blazing cabin is a tragedy far outweighing the miracle. The architect of D-Day—the conqueror of Hitler—the eloquent spokesman for American values—he of the benevolent smile and pragmatic mind—is gone.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
Twixt Scylla and Charybdis
Washington, D.C., The Home Alternity
Part of the power of the presidency, Tackett thought as he repacked the briefcase, is that you can always get the last word. With a simple, “Thank you, everyone,” you can end discussion whenever you choose.
Madison had been entirely right—Robinson hadn’t called them in to ask their advice. And when it began to look like he was going to get an unsolicited contribution from O’Neill. Robinson had simply thanked them and excused himself, ending the meeting.
There was not much conversation in the wake of his departure. A tradition of etiquette—or was it paranoia?—called for any postmortems to be conducted away from the West Wing, in the privacy of a car or the inner sanctum of an Executive Office Building suite. While on the President’s turf, the staff tended to keep its own counsel. But watching them scatter, Tackett knew that this time more than etiquette was at work.
Rodman followed on Robinson’s heels, and the CIA chief was almost as fast out the door. Probably going out to Langley to scream at his people for not keeping him informed. Tackett thought, spinning the locks on his case. The Secretary of State glanced at his watch, said something about a hearing on the Hill, and backed out the door. O’Neill left without moving: he sat in his chair and stared at his own folded hands, which were perched on the edge of the table.
Endicott was the exception. He circled the table to where Tackett stood and peered curiously into the briefcase. “Hell of a road show you’ve got, Al,” he said. “It’s like having a patent on the funniest joke ever told.”
“I guess it is at that.” Tackett picked up the heavy case and started for the door.
To his annoyance, Endicott followed, inviting himself into Tackett’s company. With a will, Tackett stilled the queasy feeling Endicott evoked in him. The President was expecting both of them in the Oval Office. He would have to endure it a while longer.
Several paces down the hall, the Senator touched him on the arm. “If I could slow you down just a moment, Al—”
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing wrong. Just a little request.”
Save your breath, Tackett thought. The President’s already scratched your back for you. “What is it?”
But Endicott’s interest was more personal than an objection to disbanding Red Section. “A few weeks back you procured a… ah, package for me. I’m sure you remember.”
Procured. That’s the right word, all right. “I remember.”
“I have need of another, same specifications.”
Another? Tackett was incredulous. It’s not like you can use them up—“Something wrong with the girl?”
“No. Nothing wrong. I just have need of another. You do remember?”
“I think so.” Tackett remembered. White. Female. Long hair, chestnut preferred. Well fed, but not fat. Young, but not too young. A one-man operation, nothing on paper. Tackett had selected and instructed the iceman personally. No one else knew.
The Guard’s icemen had carried out more than a hundred snatches in the last five years, some of them involving different “versions” of the same person. They had brought back aircraft designers, electronics and computer engineers, guidance and propulsion experts, crack cryptologists, weapons specialists.
Each snatch required its own ExOps, a clear prior justification. Often Tackett said no. The risks were substantial at both ends. The disappearance of prominent or talented people drew unwelcome attention. And a clean snatch did not guarantee success. Several early targets had never found a reason to work productively for the Guard. Two had managed to commit suicide.
Tackett had become more selective, narrowing the candidates he would consider to those technical specialists whose special knowledge could be put to immediate practical use. Otherwise worthy candidates that he rejected went onto lists for reconsideration when either the risks or the pressure to produce were reduced.
But Endicott’s package had been procured outside the rules. There was no ExOps anywhere in the files on the woman, for the only justification Tackett could offer was that he had been ordered to have it done. Which was not nearly enough to keep the whole business from setting his teeth on edge.
Endicott was holding Tackett in an expectant gaze. “I trust you’ll be able to take care of it, then,” he said.
Tackett answered with a hard, cold stare. Giving me orders, you bastard? I’ll take care of it, all right. I’ll keep it to myself and pretend you never said anything. That’ll take care of it. “I’ll look into it,” he said. “No promises.”
He turned away and moved on down the corridor before the Senator could say any more. The President apparently liked and trusted Endicott. Tackett was not obliged to feel the same way, and he didn’t. Endicott’s real usefulness had ended when he surrendered the secret of the Cambridge to Vandenberg: Robinson had other friends who could chair the Intelligence Committee. If it had been his call to make. Endicott would have quietly disappeared long ago.
Never too late, he thought, raising a hand to the President’s appointments secretary as he passed through to the Oval Office. That would really take care of it—
Robinson settled back into the white and red claw-footed armchair by the fireplace and invited his guests onto the facing couch with a gesture. “Let’s see the dossiers.”
With a nod. Tackett pulled the briefcase to his lap and attacked the locks. Beside him. Endicott stretched out his legs and snuggled down into the corner in search of a comfortable position.
The contrast amused Robinson. The two looked for all the world like the loyal eldest son and the carefree black sheep from an episode of Sins of the Wealthy. And I love ’em both, he thought. Need them both. Even if they can’t stand each other.
“From what Al said down the hall, the only real choices are Yellow, Green, and Blue,” the Senator offered, peering sideways into the briefcase.
“I have profiles for the both of you on your counterparts in every alternity except for White, which I think we’re all agreed General Betts can keep with our blessing,” Tackett said, handing a black-covered report an inch thick across to Robinson and a slightly thinner version to Endicott. “I think you’ll find all the fundamental questions answered there,” he added.
The fundamental questions: Who am I? Who’s in charge? How much distance is there between the two?
“I’d guess so,” Robinson said, hefting the dossier. “You have been working hard.”
“And I thought the Guard was padding that line-item for typing paper,” Endicott said. “Jesus, Al, I’m going to have to skip meals to get this read in a week.”
“I wanted the President to have the detail he needed to make an informed decision,” Tackett said stiffly. “He asked that you be provided equivalent detail.”
“Thanks a lot, Peter,” Endicott said wryly, flipping through the first few pages. “Remind me to send you a thank-you present—a couple of new puppies with diarrhea, maybe, or an eager little trixie with the clap.”
That brought a chuckle from Robinson. Skimming the contents of his own copy, he asked, “What’s your projection, Albert? Where should we go?”
“Sir, that’s not my decision to make.”
“I don’t want a decision, just an opinion. Did you do run-ups on yourself, by the way?”
“No, Mr. President.”
“Even better. It’ll be an unbiased opinion What do you say?”
“We’ve had several of the analysts score the options,” Tackett said. “The majority came up for Alternity Yellow. We’d have the option there of staying in England, which would almost assure that all the Common Worlders on the list wouldn’t draw attention to themselves. And it’s a com
fortable place, on the whole.”
“Looks like I’m missing my Yellow bio here,” Robinson said, frowning at the page before him.
“No, sir. Your counterpart in Yellow is dead.”
“Really,” he said lightly. “How did I die? Anything dramatic?”
Tackett shook his head. “A car crash on National Highway 5, coming back in a freezing rain from a party in Chicago. December 24, 1971.”
“Rather ordinary, if you ask me,” Endicott observed. “Unless it’s your name the stonecutter has to spell right. What about me? Where am I dead? Besides Red.”
“In Alternity White. You were shot by your wife’s lover, May of 1965,” Tackett said with evident satisfaction.
“So young. I hope they at least fried the bastard.”
Tackett smiled. “Your wife hired him a first-class lawyer—possibly bought a judge, too. He served sixty days probation for involuntary manslaughter.”
“The bitch.”
“You don’t even know her,” Robinson said, bemused.
“How much more do I need to know?” Endicott said gruffly. “Well, needless to say I’m not interested in going there. Or to Red, of course.”
“I don’t think you understand what’s planned,” Tackett said sharply. “The public profile of the Alpha List member counterparts and the internal security of the particular society are the top considerations. We’re not crossing over to take over—we’re crossing over to protect our families and preserve our government. We’re crossing over hoping to come back.”
“Yes,” Robinson affirmed.
“In point of fact, counterparts for several members of Alpha List are dead in every alternity,” Tackett continued. “That hardly matters—we can’t go there as ourselves. We have to go there prepared to deny who we are, to keep out of the way, to hide if necessary.”
“We’ll have the gate, the Station’s financial resources, and friends,” Endicott said. “I see no reason to condemn us to poverty and obscurity.”
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