“Why is it unusual?”
“That column’s for removals. The films are signed out. Generally people use the equipment here like you did.”
“Can you pinpoint the time?”
“Couldn’t have been more than a day or so ago. Let me look.” The clerk pulled a metalbound ledger from a shelf. “Here it is. Yesterday afternoon. Twelve strips were signed out. All Chasǒng. At least signing them out makes sense.”
“Why is that?”
“It’d take someone two days in here to go through all that material. I’m surprised it was even collated the way it was.”
“What way was that?”
“Coded indexes. National-security classification. You need the master schedule to locate the films. Even though you’re a doctor, you couldn’t see them.”
“Why not?”
“Your rank isn’t high enough, sir.”
“Who did sign them out?”
“A Brigadier General Ramirez.”
Brown turned his TR-6 into the drive of the enormous data-processing center in McLean, Virginia. There was a guardhouse on the left Across the roadway was a barrier with the inevitable Authorized Government Personnel Only sign affixed to the metal strips.
It hadn’t taken much pressure to convince the staff sergeant at the depository that if men died because a general named Ramirez had removed the means of tracing the Hynobius, the sergeant could well be responsible.
Besides, Brown was perfectly willing to take full responsibility—rank and medical—and sign for the microfilm identification numbers under his own name. The sergeant was not giving him the film, only the numbers; Reed Security would clear him for the duplicates in McLean.
The doctor reasoned that he had a personal score to settle with Ramirez. The brigadier had destroyed General MacAndrew, and MacAndrew had given Phil Brown, farm boy from Gandy, Nebraska, a very decent chance in life. If Ramirez didn’t like it, he could always file charges.
Somehow Brown didn’t think the brigadier would do that.
Breaching the security desk at Walter Reed was not very difficult. It was a question of using the memorandum to browbeat a nonmedical security officer into giving him a general clearance for McLean.
Brown showed his clearance to the civilian behind the entrance desk at McLean. The man punched the buttons of a computer; small green numbers appeared on the miniature screen, and the doctor was directed to the proper floor.
The main point, reflected Brown as he walked through the doors into Section M, Data Processing, was that since he had the serial numbers for the material signed out by Ramirez, he needed nothing else. Each strip of microfilm had its own individual identification. The medical clearance was accepted; the obstacles fell, and ten minutes later he sat in front of a very complicated machine that, weirdly enough, looked like a shiny new version of an old-time Moviola.
And ten minutes after that he realized the staff sergeant at the depository was wrong when he said it would take someone two days to go through these records. It would take less than an hour. Brown was not sure what he had found, but whatever it was, it caused him to stare in disbelief at the information flashed on the small screen in front of him.
Of the hundreds of men who had engaged in the Battle of Chasǒng, only thirty-seven had survived. If that were not startling enough, the disposition of the thirty-seven was appalling. It was in contradiction to every accepted psychological practice. Men severely maimed or crippled in the same combat operation were rarely separated. Since they would spend the rest of their lives in institutions, their comrades were often all they had left, families and friends visiting them less and less frequently until they were only uncomfortable, unseemly shadows in far distant wards.
Yet the thirty-seven survivors of Chasǒng had been meticulously isolated from one another. Specifically, thirty-one had been separated, in thirty-one different hospitals from San Diego to Bangor, Maine.
The remaining six were together, but their close association was next to meaningless. They were in a maximum-security psychiatric ward ten miles west of Richmond. Brown knew the place. The patients were certifiably insane—all dangerous, most homicidal.
Still, they were together. It was not a pleasant prospect, but if Chancellor believed he could learn something, here were the names of six survivors of Chasǒng. From the writer’s point of view the circumstances might be advantageous. As long as communication was possible, these men whose mental capacities had been destroyed at Chasǒng might be capable of revealing a great deal. Unconsciously perhaps, but without the inhibiting strictures imposed by rational thought The causes of insanity rarely left the minds of the insane.
Something he could not define bothered the doctor, but he was too stunned to analyze it. His mind was too packed with the inexplicable to think anymore.
Too, he wanted to get out of the data-processing center into the cold fresh air.
They were not entering a hospital, Peter felt. They were going inside a prison. A sanitized version of a concentration camp.
“Remember, your name is Conley, and you’re an M.N. subgroup specialist,” said Brown. “I’ll do the talking.”
They walked down the long white corridor lined with white metal doors on both sides. There were small, thick observation windows in the walls beside the doors, behind which Chancellor could see the inmates. Grown men lay curled up on bare floors, many soiled by their own wastes. Others paced like animals, when, suddenly catching sight of strangers in the corridor, they thrust contorted faces against the glass. Still others stood at their windows, staring blankly at the sunlight outside, lost in silent fantasies.
“You never get used to it,” said the psychiatrist accompanying them. “Human beings reduced to the lowest primates. Yet they were once men. We must never forget that.”
It took Peter a moment or two to realize the man was speaking to him. At the same time he knew his face reflected the impact of the emotions he was experiencing; equal parts compassion, curiosity, revulsion.
“We’ll want to talk to the Chasǒng survivors,” said Brown, relieving Chancellor of the need to reply. “Will you arrange that, please?”
The staff doctor seemed surprised but did not object “I was told you wanted blood samples.”
“Those, too, of course. But we’d also like to talk to them.”
“Two can’t talk, and three usually don’t. The first are catatonic, the others are schizophrenic. Have been for years.”
“That’s five,” said Brown. “What about the sixth? Would he remember anything?”
“Nothing you’d want to hear. He’s homicidal. And anything can set off his rage—a gesture of your hand or the light from a bulb. He’ll be the one in the jacket.”
Chancellor felt ill; the pain shot through his temples. They’d made the trip for nothing, for nothing could be learned. He heard Brown ask a question, his tone reflecting an equal sense of dispair.
“Where are they? Let’s make it quick.”
“They’re all together in one of the south-wing labs. They’re prepped for you. Right this way.”
They reached the end of the hallway and turned into another, wider corridor. It was lined with separate enclosed cubicles, some with benches against the walls, others with examination tables in the center. Each cubicle was fronted by an observation window made of the same thick glass as in the hallway they had just left The psychiatrist led them to the last cubicle and gestured through the window.
Chancellor stared through the glass, his breath suspended, his eyes wide. Inside were six men in green buttonless fatigues. Two sat immobile on benches, their eyes distant. Three were sprawled on the floor, moving their bodies in horrible, tortured motions—giant insects imitating one another. One stood in the corner, his neck and shoulders twitching, his face a series of unending contortions, his trapped arms straining against the tight fabric that bound his upper body.
But what caused Peter’s sudden and profound terror was not merely the sight of the pathetic
half-humans beyond the glass but the sight of their skin.
All were blacks.
“That’s it,” he heard Brown whisper. “The letter n.”
“What?” asked Chancellor, barely able to be heard, so intense was his fear.
“It was there. Everywhere,” said the major quietly. “It didn’t register because I was looking for other things. The small letter n after the names. Hundreds of names. Negro. All the troops at Chasǒng were black. All Negroes.”
“Genocide,” said Peter softly, the fear total, the sickness complete.
38
They raced north on the highway in silence, each with his own thoughts, each consumed with a horror neither had ever before experienced. Yet both knew precisely what had to be done; the man they had to confront had been identified: Brigadier General Pablo Ramirez.
“I want that son of a bitch,” Brown had said as soon as they left the hospital.
“Nothing makes sense,” answered Peter, knowing it was no reply. “Sutherland was black. He was the only connection. But he’s dead.”
Silence.
“I’ll make the call,” said Brown finally. “You can’t; he’d never see you. And there are too many ways for a general to be suddenly transferred halfway around the world.”
They drove into one of those Colonial-style restaurants that seem to breed in the Virginia countryside. There was a telephone booth at the end of a dimly lit hallway. Chancellor waited by the open door; the doctor went inside and dialed the Pentagon.
“Major Brown?” asked the irritated Ramirez over the phone. “What’s so urgent you can’t discuss it with my secretary?”
“It’s more than urgent, General. And you are a general according to the microfilm depository at Walter Reed. I’d say it’s an emergency.”
A momentary silence conveyed the brigadier’s shock. “What are you talking about?” he asked, barely audible.
“A medical accident, I think, sir. I’m a doctor assigned to trace a viral strain that had its origins in Korea. We isolated the districts; one of them was Chasǒng. All the casualty records were removed under your name.”
“Chasǒng has a national-security classification,” said the brigadier quickly.
“Not medically, General,” interrupted Brown. “We have controlled priority. I received clearance to check the duplicates at data processing.…” He let his voice trail off, suspended, as if he had more to say but did not know how to say it.
Ramirez couldn’t stand the tension. “What are you driving at?”
“That’s it, sir. I don’t know, but as one military man to another, I’m scared to death. Hundreds of men killed at Chasǒng; hundreds missing with no postwar resolutions. All Negro troops. Thirty-seven survivors; except for six insane men, thirty-one in thirty-one separate hospitals. All black, all isolated. That’s against every accepted practice. I don’t care if it is twenty-two years ago, if all this comes out—”
“Who else knows about these records?” broke in Ramirez.
“At this juncture no one but me. I called you because your name—”
“Keep it that way!” said the brigadier curtly. “That’s an order. It’s seventeen-thirty hours. Come to my house in Bethesda. Be there at nineteen hundred.” Ramirez gave him the address and hung up.
Brown stepped out of the booth. “We’re here; we’ve got time. Let’s get something to eat.”
They ate mechanically, with a minimum of conversation.
The coffee came; Brown leaned forward, “How do you explain O’Brien?” he asked.
“I can’t. Any more than I can explain a man like Varak. They take lives, they risk their own lives, and for what? They live in a world I can’t understand.” Chancellor paused, remembering. “Maybe O’Brien explained it himself. Something he said when I asked him about Varak. He said there were times when life and death weren’t the issues; times when all that mattered was the elimination of a problem.”
“That’s incredible.”
“It’s inhuman.”
“It still doesn’t explain O’Brien.”
“Something else might. He was part of the files. He told me he thought he was ready to be tested, but he wasn’t sure. We know the answer now.”
Peter’s eyes were drawn to a slight movement at the window overlooking the porch of the restaurant. The front lights had been switched on, the day having turned into early evening. Suddenly he froze. His hand stayed where it was, the glass at his lips, his eyes riveted on the window, on the figure of a man on the porch.
For an instant he wondered if he were going mad, if his mind had cracked under the strain of the swiftly disintegrating line between the real and the unreal. Then he knew he was seeing someone he had seen before. Outside another window, standing on another porch. A man with a gun!
The same man. Through the window, on the walk-around porch of the old Victorian house on Chesapeake Bay: Munro St. Claire’s chauffeur. He was waiting for them, checking to make sure they were still there!
“We’ve been followed,” he said to Brown.
“What?”
“There’s a man on the porch. He’s looking inside. Keep your eyes on me!… He’s walking away now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. He’s St. Claire’s man. Which means if he’s followed us here, he’s been following us the whole time. He knows Alison’s in Arundel!” Peter got to his feet, doing his best to conceal his fear. “I’m going to call.”
Alison answered.
“Thank God you’re there,” he said. “Now listen to me, and do as I tell you. That lieutenant commander from the Third District, the one who gave us the money. Get hold of him and ask him to come out and stay with you. Tell him to bring a gun. Until he gets there call the hotel’s security and say I telephoned and insisted you be taken to the dining room. There are crowds there; stay in the dining room until he arrives. Now, do as I say.”
“Of course I will,” said Alison, sensing his panic. “Now tell me why.”
“We’ve been followed. I don’t know for how long.”
“I understand. Are you all right?”
“Yes. Which means, I think, they’re following us to see where we lead them. Not to harm us.”
“Are you leading them somewhere?”
“Yes. But I don’t want to. I don’t have time to talk, just do as I tell you. I love you.” He hung up and walked back to the table.
“Is she there?” Brown asked. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. Someone’s coming to stay with her. Another friend of the general’s.”
“He had a lot of them. I feel better. As you surmised, I’m fond of that, girl.”
“I surmised.”
“You’re a lucky man. She passed on me.”
“I’m surprised.”
“I wasn’t She didn’t want anything permanent with a uniform. She pictured it on you even when—What are we going to do?”
The abrupt shift would have amused Peter any other time. “How strong are you?”
“That’s a hell of a question. What do you mean?”
“Can you fight?”
“I’d rather not. You’re not challenging me, so you must mean our friend outside.”
“There could be more than one.”
“Then, I like the prospects less. What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t want them following us to Ramirez.”
“Neither do I,” Brown said. “Let’s find out if it’s a ‘them’ or a ‘him.’ ”
It was a “him.” The man stood leaning against a sedan at the far end of the parking lot, under the branches of a tree, his eyes focused on the front entrance. Chancellor and Brown had come out a side door; St. Claire’s man did not see them.
“Okay,” Brown whispered. “There’s only one. I’ll go back inside and walk out the front You’ll see me swing the car around. Good luck.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“It’s better than fighting. We could
lose. Just hold on tight. I only need a second.”
Peter remained in the shadows by the side door until he saw St. Claire’s man push away from the hood of the sedan and walk quickly around to the tree side, out of sight. The chauffeur had spotted Brown coming out of the front entrance. Why didn’t the man get into his car? It was curious.
Several seconds passed. Brown sauntered casually across the parking lot toward the Triumph under the restaurant’s floodlights.
Peter moved. Crouched, he made his way along the border of the paved area, hidden by the parked cars, toward St. Claire’s man. The ground beyond the border consisted of unkempt shrubbery and uncut grass. When Chancellor was within thirty feet of the chauffeur, he stepped over the curb and into the foliage. As quietly as he could, he crept nearer, counting on the sounds of the Triumph’s engine to cover whatever noise he made.
In the parking lot Brown backed his car out of its slot and pointed it toward the exit; then he suddenly yanked the gears into reverse and gunned the motor furiously. The Triumph lurched backward toward the tree.
Chancellor was within fifteen feet of St Claire’s chauffeur, hidden by darkness and the shrubbery. The man was confused, astonishment seen clearly on his face. He ducked beneath the windows of the sedan; he had no other choice. Brown had slammed on the brakes of the Triumph within inches of the sedan’s front bumper and climbed out The chauffeur stepped back, his concentration totally on Brown.
Chancellor sprang out of the shadows, his hands outstretched toward St. Claire’s man. The chauffeur heard the sounds from the darkness to his right. He whipped around, reacting instantly to the attack. Peter grabbed his coat, swinging him around against the metal of the sedan. The chauffeur’s foot lashed out, striking Chancellor’s kneecap. A sharp punch caught Peter in the throat An elbow crashed into his chest, the pain excruciating; a knee hammered into bis groin with the swift, harsh impact of a piston.
In the sudden, stinging agony Chancellor found himself pitched into a frenzy. He could feel outrage welling up inside him. There was only the violence, the brute force he hated remaining to him.
Peter clenched his right fist; he kept his left hand open, a claw soaring in to grab flesh. He threw his weight against the thrashing man, crashing him into the steel of the sedan, his fist pummeling the chauffeur’s stomach and below, hammering the man’s testicles. His open hand found the chauffeur’s face; he dug his fingers into the man’s eyes, his thumb ripping up into a nostril. He yanked with all his strength, sending the skull sideways, smashing it into the roof of the automobile. Blood poured out of the chauffeur’s mouth, eye sockets, and nostrils. Still he would not stop; his fury matched Chancellor’s.
The Chancellor Manuscript Page 44