Robert Ludlum - Rhineman Exchange.txt

by The Rhineman Exchange [lit]

  Did they think that holding conferences in secluded Georgetown houses would

  help?

  Assesl

  He was oblivious to the rain; it came down steadily, in straight lines. An

  autumn rainstorm in Washington. His raincoat was

  46

  open, the jacket of his uniform damp and wrinkled. He didn't give a damn

  about such things; he couldn't think about them.

  The only thing he could think about was packaged in a metal casing no more

  than seven inches wide, five high, and perhaps a foot long. It was designed

  for those dimensions; it had the appearance of sophisticated technology; it

  was tooled to operate on the fundamental properties of inertia and

  precision.

  And it wasn't functional; it didn't work.

  It faded test after test.

  Ten thousand high-altitude B-17 bomber aircraft were emerging from

  production lines across the country. Without highaltitude, radio-beam

  gyroscopes to guide them, they might as well stay on the ground!

  And without those aircraft, Operation Overlord was in serious jeopardy. The

  invasion of Europe would extract a price so great as to be obscene.

  Yet to send the aircraft up on massive, round-the-clock, night and day

  bombing strikes throughout Germany without the cover of higher altitudes

  was to consign the majority to destruction, their crews to death. Examples

  'were constant reminders . : . whenever the big planes soared too high. The

  labels of pilot error, enemy fire and instrument fatigue were not so. It

  was the higher altitudes.... Only twenty-four hours ago a squadron of

  bombers on the Bremerhaven run had scrambled out of the strike, exacting

  the maximum from their aircraft and regrouped far above oxygen levels. From

  what could be determined, the guidance systems went crazy; the squadron

  ended up in the Dunbar sector near the Scottish border. All but one plane

  crashed into the sea. Three survivors were picked up by coastal patrols.

  Three out of God knows how many that had made it out of Bremerhaven. The

  one aircraft that attempted a ground landing had blown up on the outskirts

  of a town.... No survivors.

  Germany was in the curve of inevitable defeat, but it would not die easily.

  It was ready for counterstrike. The Russian lesson had been learned;

  Hitler's generals were prepared. They realized that ultimately their only

  hope for any surrender other than unconditional lay in their ability to

  make the cost of an Allied victory so high it would stagger imagination and

  sicken the conscience of humanity.

  Accommodation would then be reached.

  And that was unacceptable to the Allies. Unconditional

  47

  surrender was now a tripartite policy; the absolute had been so inculcated

  that it dared not be tampered with. The fever of total victory had swept the

  lands; the leaders had shaped that, too. And at this pitch of frenzy, the

  leaders stared into blank walls seeing nothing others could see and said

  heroically that losses would be tolerated.

  Swanson walked up the steps of the Georgetown house. As if on cue, the door

  opened, a major saluted and Swanson was admitted quickly. Inside the

  hallway were four noncommissioned officers in paratroop leggings standing

  at ready-at-ease; Swanson recognized the shoulder patches of the Ranger

  battalions. The War Department had set the scene effectively.

  A sergeant ushered Swanson into a small, brass-grilled elevator. Two

  stories up the elevator stopped and Swanson stepped out into the corridor.

  He recognized the face of the colonel who stood by a closed door at the end

  of the short hallway. He could not recall his name, however. The man worked

  in Clandestine Operations and was never much in evidence. The colonel

  stepped forward, saluting.

  .'General Swanson? Colonel Pace.'

  Swanson nodded his salute, offering his hand instead. 'Oh, yes. Ed Pace,

  rightT

  'Yes, sir.'

  'So they pulled you out of the cellars. I didn't know this was your

  territory.'

  'It's not, sir. Just that I've had occasion to meet the men you're seeing.

  Security clearances.'

  'And with you here they know we're serious.' Swanson smiled.

  'I'm sure we are, but I don't know what we're serious about.'

  'You're lucky. Who's insideT

  'Howard Oliver from Meridian. Jonathan Craft from Packard. And the lab man,

  Spinelli, from ATCO.'

  'They'll make my day; I can't wait. Who's presiding? Christ, there should

  be one person on our side.'

  'Vandamm.'

  Swanson's lips formed a quiet whistle; the colonel nodded in agreement.

  Frederic Vandamm was undersecretary of state and rumored to be Cordell

  Hull's closest associate. If one wanted to reach Roosevelt, the best way

  was through Hull; if that avenue was closed, one pursued Vandamm.

  48

  'That's impressive artillery,' Swanson said.

  'When they saw him, I think he scared the hell out of Craft and Oliver.

  Spinelli's in a perpetual daze. He'd figure Patton for a doorman.'

  'I don't know Spinelli, except by rep. He's supposed to be the best gyro

  man in the labs.... Oliver and Craft I know too well. I wish to hell you

  boys had never cleared them for road maps.'

  'Not much you can do when they own the roads, sir.' The colonel shrugged.

  It was obvious he agreed with Swanson's estimate.

  'I'll give you a clue, Pace. Craft's a social-register flunky. Oliver's the

  bad meat.'

  6He's got a lot of it on him,' replied the colonel, laughing softly.

  Swanson took off his raincoat. 'If you hear gunfire, colonel, it's only me

  fooling around. Walk the other way.'

  'I accept that as an order, general. I'm deaf,' answered Pace as he reached

  for the handle and opened the door swiftly for his superior.

  Swanson walked rapidly into the room. It was a library with the furniture

  pushed back against the walls and a conference table placed in the center.

  At the head of the table sat the whitehaired, aristocratic Frederic

  Vandamm. On his left was the obese, balding Howard Oliver, a sheaf of notes

  in front of him. Opposite Oliver were Craft and a short, dark, bespectacled

  man Swanson assumed was Gian Spinelli.

  The empty chair at the end of the table, facing Vandamm, was obviously for

  him. It was good positioning on Vandamm's part.

  'I'm sorry to be late, Mr. Undersecretary. A staff car would have prevented

  it. A taxi wasn't the easiest thing to find.... GentlemenT

  The trio of corporate men nodded; Craft and Oliver each uttered a muted

  'General.' Spinelli just stared from behind the thick lenses of his

  glasses.

  'I apologize, General Swanson,' said Vandamm in the precise, Anglicized

  speech that bespoke a background of wealth. 'For obvious reasons we did not

  want this conference to take place in a government office, nor, if known,

  did we wish any significance attached to the meeting itself. These

  gentlemen represent War Department gossip, I don't have to tell you that.

  The absence of urgency was desirable. Staff cars speeding through

  49

  Washington - don' t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down - hav
e a

  tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?'

  Swanson returned the old gentleman's veiled look. Vandarrun was a smart

  one, he thought. It was an impetuous gamble referring to the taxi, but

  Vandamm had understood. He'd picked it up and used it well, even

  impartially.

  The three corporate men were on notice. At this conference, they were the

  enemy.

  'I've been discreet, Mr. Undersecretary.'

  'I'm sure you have. Sball we get down to points? Mr. Oliver has asked that

  he be permitted to open with a general statement of Meridian Aircraft's

  position.'

  Swanson watched the heavy-jowled Oliver sort out his notes. He disliked

  Oliver intensely; there was a fundamental gluttony about him. He was a

  manipulator; there were so many of them these days. They were everywhere in

  Washington, piling up huge sums of money from the war; proclaiming the

  power of the deal,the price of the deal, the price of the power-which they

  held.

  Oliver's rough voice shot out from his thick lips. 'Thank you. It's our

  feeling at Meridian that the ... assumed gravity of the present situation

  has obscured the real advancements that have been made. The aircraft in

  question has proved beyond doubt its superior capabilities. The new,

  improved Fortress is ready for operational combat; it's merely a question

  of desired altitudes!

  Oliver abruptly stopped and put his obese hands in front of him, over his

  papers. He had finished his statement; Craft nodded in agreement. Both men

  looked noncommittally at Vandamm. Gian Spinelli simply stared at Oliver,

  his brown eyes magnified by his glasses.

  Alan Swanson was astounded. Not necessarily by the brevity of the statement

  but by the ingenuousness of the lie.

  'If that's a position statement, I find it wholly unacceptable. The

  aircraft in question has not proved its capabilities until it's operational

  at the altitudes specified in the government contracts!

  :It's operational.' replied Oliver curtly.

  Operational. Not functional, Mr. Oliver. It is not functional until it can

  be guided from point A to point B at the altitudes called for in the

  specifications.'

  'Specified as "intended maximum," General Swanson,' shot back Oliver,

  smiling an obsequious smile that conveyed anything but courtesy.

  50

  'What the hell does that meanT Swanson looked at Undersecretary Vandamm.

  'Mr. Oliver is concerned with a contractual interpretation.'

  'I'm not.'

  'I have to be,' replied Oliver. 'The War Department has refused payment to

  Meridian Aircraft Corporation. We have a contract. . . .'

  'Take the goddamned contract up with someone else!'

  'Anger won't solve anything.' Vandamm spoke harshly.

  'I'm sorry, Mr. Undersecretary, but I'm not here to discuss contractual

  interpretations.'

  'I'm afraid you'll have to, General Swanson.' Vandamm now spoke calmly.

  'The Disbursement Office has withheld payment to Meridian on your negative

  authorization. You haven't cleared

  'Why should I? The aircraft can't do the job we expected.'

  'It can do the job you contracted for,' said Oliver, moving his thick neck

  from Vandamm to the brigadier general. 'Rest assured, general, our best

  efforts are being poured into the intended maximum guidance system. We're

  expending all our resources. We'll reach a breakthrough, we're convinced of

  that. But until we do, we expect the contracts to be honored. We've met the

  guarantees.'

  'Are you suggesting that we take the aircraft as is?'

  'It's the finest bomber in the air.' Jonathan Craft spoke. His soft, high

  voice was a weak exclamation that floated to a stop. He pressed his

  delicate fingers together in what he believed was emphasis.

  Swanson disregarded Craft and stared at the small face and magnified eyes

  of the ATCO scientist, Gian Spinelli. 'What about the gyros? Can you give

  me an answer, Mr. Spinelli?'

  Howard Oliver intruded bluntly. 'Use the existing systems. Get the aircraft

  into combat.'

  . 'No!' Swanson could not help himself. His was the roar of disgust, let

  Undersecretary Vandamm say what he liked. 'Our strategies call for

  round-the-clock strikes into the deepest regions of Germany. From all points

  - known and unknown. Fields in England, Italy, Greece ... yes, even unlisted

  bases in Turkey and Yugoslavia; carriers in the Mediterranean and, goddamn

  it, the Black Sea! Thousands and thousands of planes crowding the air

  51

  corridors for space. We need that extra altitude! We need the guidance

  systems to operate at those altitudes! Anything less is unthinkablel ... I'm

  sorry, Mr. Vandamm. I believe I'm justifiably upset.'

  'I understand,' said the white-haired undersecretary of state. 'That's why

  we're here this afternoon. To look for solutions . . . as well as money.'

  The old gentleman shifted his gaze to Craft. 'Can you add to Mr. Oliver's

  remarks, from Packard's vantage pointT

  Craft disengaged his lean, manicured fingers and took a deep breath through

  his nostrils as if he were about to deliver essential wisdom. The executive

  font of knowledge, thought Alan Swanson, jockeying for a chairman's

  approval.

  'Of course, Mr. Undersecretary. As the major subcontractor for Meridian,

  we've been as disturbed as the general over the lack of guidance results.

  We've spared nothing to accommodate. Mr. Spinelli's presence is proof of

  that. After all, we're the ones who brought in ATCO. . . .' here Craft

  smiled heroically, a touch sadly. 'As we all know, ATCO is the finest - and

  most costly. We've spared nothing.'

  'You brought in ATCO,' said Swanson wearily, 'because your own laboratories

  couldn't do the job. You submitted cost overruns to Meridian which were

  passed on to us. I don't see that you spared a hell of a lot.'

  'Good Lord, generaW exclaimed Craft with very little conviction. 'The thne,

  the negotiations ... time is money, sir; make no mistake about that. I

  could show you. . . .'

  'The general asked me a question. I should like to answer him.'

  The words, spoken with a trace of dialect, came from the tiny scientist,

  who was either dismissing Craft's nonsense, or oblivious to it, or,

  somehow, both.

  'I'd be grateful, Mr. Spinelli.'

  'Our progress has been consistent, steady if you like. Not rapid. The

  problems are great. We believe the distortion of the radio beams beyond

  certain altitudes varies with temperatures and land-mass curvatures. The

  solutions lie in alternating compensations. Our experiments continuously

  narrow that field. ... Our rate of progress would be more rapid were it not

  for constant interferences.'

  Gian Spinelli stopped and shifted his grotesquely magnified

  52

  eyes to Howard Oliver, whose thick neck and jowled face were suddenly

  flushed with anger.

  'You've had no interference from us!'

  'And certainly not from Packard!' chimed in Craft. ~Welve stayed in almost

  daily contact. Our concerns have never flagged!'

  Spinelli turned to Craft. 'Your concerns . . . as those of Meridian ...r />
  have been exclusively budgetary, as far as I can see.'

  'That's preposterous! Whatever financial inquiries were made, were made at

  the request of the ... contractor's audit division. . . .'

  'And totally necessary!' Oliver could not conceal his fury at the small

  Italian. 'You laboratory ... people don't reconcile! You're children!'

  For the next thirty seconds the three agitated men babbled excitedly in

  counterpoint. Swanson looked over at Vandamm. Their eyes met in

  understanding.

  Oliver was the first to recognize the trap. He held up his hand ... a

  corporate command, thought Swanson.

  'Mr. Undersecretary.' Oliver spoke, stifling the pitch of his anger. 'Don't

  let our squabbling convey the wrong impression. We turn out the products.'

  'You're not turning out this one,' said Swanson. 'I recall vividly the

  projections in your bids for the contract. You had everything turned out

  then.'

  When Oliver looked at him, Alan Swanson instinctively felt he should reach

  for a weapon to protect himself, The Meridian executive was close to

  exploding.

  'We relied on subordinates' evaluations,' said Oliver slowly, with

  hostility. 'I think the military has had its share of staff errors.'

  'Subordinates don't plan major strategies.'

  Vandamm raised his voice. 'Mr. Oliver. Suppose General Swanson were

  convinced it served no purpose withholding funds. What kind of time limits

  could you now guaranteeT

  Oliver looked at Spinelli. 'What would you estimateT he asked coldly.

  Spinelli's large eyes swept the ceiling. 'In candor, I cannot give you an

  answer. We could solve it next week. Or next year.'

  Swanson quickly reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew a folded page of

  paper. He spread it out in front of him and spoke swiftly. 'According to

  this memorandum ... our last communication from ATCO ... once the guidance

  system is perfected,

  53

  you state you need six weeks of inflight experimentation. The Montana

  Proving Grounds.'

  'That's correct, general. I dictated that myself,' said Spinelli. 'Six weeks

  from next week. Or next year. And assuming the Montana experiments are

  positive, another month to equip the fleets.'

  'Yes.'

  Swanson looked over at Vandamm. 'In light of this, Mr. Undersecretary,