by Allen Drury
“But it isn’t inevitable,” Cullee protested. “They aren’t invincible. They must be close to exhaustion, they can’t keep going much longer—”
“Long enough,” Bill Abbott said sadly. “Long enough.…Anyway,” he said, his tone more comforting, “you’ve done your part very nobly, I think. That was a fine speech.”
“I tried to make it that way,” the Vice President said. “I didn’t know how much good it would do, but the President and I thought it should be said for the record.”
The ex-President grunted.
“If there’s even going to be a record.…” He made a wry, unhappy sound. “One man must be happy, though. Freddy Van Ackerman’s got a new parade to lead now.”
“I wonder how far it will take him?” Cullee mused.
“I’m sure he thinks the White House,” William Abbott said. “And he may be right amid the ruins. This is the kind of time when jackals find their rewards.”
But when, a moment later, one of the page boys rushed up to Cullee’s desk with the bulletin—Shelby stabs Van Ackerman, Kleinfert to death, suicides in Connecticut avenue leap. NAWAC heads die in apparent row over race aspects of pro-war policy—neither the ex-President nor the Vice President could really comprehend for a few minutes the reality of the reward the jackals had finally found.
And when Cullee turned over the chair to Powell Hanson and left a Senate chamber beginning to buzz and whisper and exclaim with the news, he still could not realize it.
It was only some time later, after Sarah had called in tears and after he had sat for a long time alone in his office staring unseeing out the window at the winter-bound city, that it finally began to hit him; and it was only some time after that that he suddenly sobbed aloud, put his head in his hands and cried for LeGage Shelby, ex-roommate and ex-friend, whom once he had liked so much and would have liked to have befriended for life had not ’Gage’s ambitions, jealousies and unconquerable inferiorities where he was concerned, made it impossible.
Rufus Kleinfert had an elderly widowed sister and brother living together in St. Petersburg, Florida, who cried for him. But no one at all, as far as could be discovered, ever cried for that flaming young liberal who had come out of Wyoming on the welcoming wings of the media, so long ago in thought if not in time, Fred Van Ackerman.
That night, shortly after the session ended at 10:21, the headlines heralded the coming day:
Speaker, Majority Leader claim sufficient votes to pass Aid-Russia resolution in both houses. Richardson, Swarthman predict “good chance” for overriding Knox veto as Russians continue to fall back in central plains.
Shattered NAWAC pledges continued fight to save western civilization from yellow hordes as new leaders plan mammoth parade and funeral in Washington for fallen Van Ackerman, Kleinfert. Vast outpouring of support swamps headquarters.
White house silent on intervention gains.
But not for long. Half an hour after the first batch of headlines hit the streets another was added:
President announces he will veto Aid-Russia resolution “in best interests of America and the world.”
Half an hour after that he faced three old friends, as desperately tired and strained as he, who had come to the Oval Office on the direct and frantic orders of their superiors.
“Orrin,” Lord Maudulayne said, and corrected himself hastily, “Mr. President—”
“Please,” he said, “if it makes it easier. I don’t mind.” He assayed a small joke, though none of them really felt like humor. “The Protocol Office will never know.”
“No,” Claude Maudulayne said after a second, “I think better not. Because it is truly not in your capacity of old friend but in your capacity as President that we address you.”
“As you like,” he said. “Though,” he added somewhat bleakly, “I should like to think I still had a few old friends.”
“Of course you do, Mr. President,” Krishna Khaleel said with a rush of emotion that brought actual tears to his enormous dark eyes. “Of course you do!”
“Thank you, K.K.,” he said. “At the moment I’m not too sure. Why are you all here?”
“I am authorized to bring you the direct appeal of the President of France—” Raoul Barre said quietly, and paused for his colleagues.
“And I the direct appeal of the Prime Minister of India—” K.K. said with great solemnity.
“And I the direct appeal of the Prime Minister,” Lord Maudulayne said, and added quietly, “and Her Majesty the Queen—”
“That you commit the resources of the United States of America,” Raoul continued, “to the defense of the United States of Russia. And do so,” he added firmly, “immediately, before it is too late.”
He studied their intent faces for a long time, these three whom he had known and liked and argued foreign policy with over so many years in Washington and at the UN Then he asked with a directness to match their own:
“Why?”
“Because you cannot let Europe be exposed to the onslaught of the Mongol tide and let our common civilization be destroyed,” the French Ambassador said crisply.
“The Western heritage rests with you,” the British Ambassador agreed. “We need waste no time on the pretense that any of the rest of us can save it.”
“Neither can you let India and all the wisdom and values of her ancient culture be conquered and destroyed by the same evil force,” the Indian Ambassador asserted stoutly. “We all look to you.”
The President sighed.
“Obviously you do. And how do your principals suggest that I go about this?”
“By an immediate ultimatum to China,” Lord Maudulayne said.
“An atomic ultimatum, if necessary,” Raoul Barre agreed.
“An ultimatum that will make them obey,” K.K. said emphatically, “and obey now.”
“I suppose you represent the overriding sentiment in the UN, too, don’t you,” he said slowly.
“Overwhelmingly so,” Claude Maudulayne said. “As Ceil must have told you, there is great sentiment for a joint meeting of the Council and the Assembly to pass a resolution appealing to you direct. But”—and he too sighed—“it has been decided that there isn’t time.”
“I have my own resolution to worry about,” he said with the slightest trace of wry humor. “That’s going to be problem enough.”
“Apparently not,” Raoul remarked. “You say you intend to veto it.”
“So I do.”
“Then you would similarly ignore anything from the UN,” Claude suggested.
“I would.”
“But, Orrin—” K.K. protested unhappily. “Mr. President! You cannot abandon us all to the Chinese! They are savages—savages! They will destroy us all!”
“And not least, in due time,” Raoul said in a tone in which worry, fear, disapproval and a certain satisfaction were curiously mixed, “you—yourselves—proud America.”
“My old friends,” he said quietly, “I still do not believe so. I still do not believe this is the end. I still think that the Chinese are nearing exhaustion. I still think that there will be a turning point, and very soon, if the Russians can just hold out a little longer. I think they, and you, and, I am sorry to say, far too many of my own people, are being stampeded by a wave of terror that is rapidly approaching universal hysteria. It must be stopped. It must be stopped. China is almost exhausted—the turning point is coming—it has to come. I beg of you, let us stand firm, and believe that.
“I cannot intervene because I am not sure I could control intervention once it started. And if I did not”—his voice sank to a somber note—“the results then would indeed end the world.”
“You take a fearful risk, Mr. President,” Raoul Barre said.
“You gamble with us all,” Lord Maudulayne said bleakly.
“You will not help us!” Krishna Khaleel cried desperately, as though he had only now begun to believe it. “You will not help us!”
“It has not reached that stage yet
,” he said with a stubborn quietness that they, who knew Orrin Knox, finally accepted as final. “A turning point is coming. Believe me: a turning point is coming.”
But when it came it was not, as he had hoped against hope, the turning point that he and the world’s few other remaining rational men might logically have expected.
2
“Members of the Senate—” Arly Richardson said gravely at 9 a.m. next day, even as Jawbone Swarthman was saying with equal gravity, “Members of the House—”
“I have in my hand a message just received, addressed jointly to the President of the United States of America, to the Majority Leader of the United States Senate and to the Speaker of the House of Representatives, from the President of the United States of Russia.”
There was a gasp of astonishment, a sudden tensely humming silence. In both chambers the television cameras slowly swung from face to troubled face.
“It reads,” Arly said, and in the House Jawbone simultaneously began its transmittal, “as follows:
“‘Distinguished and honorable friends of the West!
“The Russian peoples and their government address you in their hour of deepest peril and greatest need. We appeal to you for help!
“‘As you know, the mongrel hordes of China are at this very moment moving toward Europe across the face of Mother Russia. We have met them on the ground. We have met them in the air. We have bombed their cities and their supply lines. And still they come, in untold millions.
“‘It is so even in the dead of winter.
“‘It is inhuman.
“‘They are no longer people, they are animals.
“‘Many, many of them have died.
“‘And still they come.
“‘In the face of this, as you know, the peoples of Russia have made a determined and gigantic effort to turn the tide. But we are outnumbered two, four, sometimes eight or ten, to one, all along the line. We have tried to hold but we have been unable to hold. We do not apologize for our failure, because we have done our best. In the face of such millions from the alien world of China, it has not been enough.
“‘At the very moment you read this, our government is in hiding. Our peoples are taking tremendous blows. We are returning tremendous blows. But they are not enough, and we are falling back.
“‘We have already retreated almost a thousand miles into European Russia.’”
A groan of dismay, fear, anguish, broke almost unnoticed from many lips in both houses, and from wherever, in America and around the world, frightened men and women listened.
“‘Because of this, the government of Russia faces immense dangers, not only from the Chinese but from some evil elements within our society which seek to profit from our distress. It may not be possible to suppress much longer the outbreak of civil rebellion which could destroy the last vestige of organized control in Russia.
“‘Thus the doors will be opened completely to the onrushing hordes of alien China as they advance inexorably upon all of Europe.
“‘Next will come the Pacific and your own shores.
‘“We have already retreated a thousand miles. We are unable to hold much longer. We hope to regroup and make a further stand at some point further back to be determined by our military leaders. But unless we receive immediate help from you, the great American Republic with whom we have always had such close fraternal bonds of friendship, mutual trust and common culture, we cannot succeed. We cannot win.
“‘We will fail, and with us, you will fail.
“‘Then the yellow hordes of China will sweep over Europe as well. Then they will swarm across the Pacific and eventually to your own shores. Then you, too, will stand outnumbered two, four, eight or ten to one, and there will be no one—no one—to answer your cries for help.
“‘Russia is dying. Europe is dying. Western culture and civilization are dying.
“‘Help us, we beg of you! Help us! Help us!
“‘(signed) Shulatov, President,
United States of Russia.’”
At approximately the same moment, Arly in the Senate and Jawbone in the House finished reading. And at approximately the same moment in the Oval Office, the President of the United States of America looked at the Secretary of State and the Secretary of Defense and said grimly, “That does it.”
Yet even then he would not yield, or deviate from what he honestly believed to be best for his country and the world. He would not believe that Russia was really that weak or that the Chinese could possibly still be that strong. He knew the effect Shulatov’s words would have upon the world. He understood the impact they would have upon him personally. But he would not yield.
When the decision came an hour later—
Congress passes Aid-Russia resolution after direct appeal from president Shulatov. Vote narrow but decisive in both houses. Enormous pressure building on Knox to intervene as Russian leader tells world, “Russia is dying. Europe is dying. Western culture and civilization are dying. Help us!”
—he still would not yield.
“The President,” he said in a one-sentence statement issued immediately through the press secretary, “finds in the action of the Congress no reason to change his views on intervention.”
An hour after that, refusing all calls from the Hill, all importunings from the press, all contact for the time being with anyone but Bob Leffingwell and Blair Hannah, he was studying the disposition of American forces and going over such fragmentary intelligence reports as were coming in from the war zones, when there came suddenly a great stir and bustle in the halls. Excited Signal Corps officers hurried in, microphones, screens, tape recorders, transmitters, were set up. Within ten minutes all was completed. Five minutes later, on a blurry signal that faded shakily in and out but remained reasonably clear for the duration of their brief conversation, he found himself face to face via satellite with the man he had last seen a week ago in New York.
Even through the flickering transmission it was apparent that he was desperately tired, strained and tense. But in him, too, there was something unyielding, even in so desperate an hour.
“Mr. President!” Shulatov said. “When will you begin to help us?”
“Mr. President,” he said, “when will you realize that there must be a fundamental change in Russia if we are to do so?”
“It is too late for that,” Shulatov cried with an angry anguish. “It is too late for such bargaining!”
“But it was not too late in Moscow two weeks ago, or at the UN a week ago,” he said in a cold, cold tone. “It was not too late then to save you from what you are undergoing now. Why didn’t you believe me when I warned you then?”
“You wanted to destroy our sovereignty!” Shulatov cried in the same angry, anguished voice.
“I wanted you, I wanted all of us, to modify and curtail it,” he said. “I wanted to destroy it for no one, only to place upon it bounds within which the world could live. You would not do that. You were too arrogant. You had other plans. You were not afraid of war. Well,” he said, and his tone was colder still, “you have war. Are you happy with it?”
“Save us!” Shulatov said, and for a moment a genuine desperation filled his voice. “Save us, save us!”
“I cannot plunge in as you would want,” he said, more calmly. “The situation must become clearer, it must stabilize. I believe it will stabilize. I believe you believe it will stabilize. I believe you want to involve us irrevocably on your side instead of letting us act as I believe we should act, as mediator, peacemaker, stabilizer.”
“You want to rule the world,” Shulatov said bitterly. “You want us to be destroyed so you can rule the world alone.”
“Goodbye, Mr. President,” he said, reaching forward to turn off the transmitter. “Good luck.”
“Mr. President!” Shulatov cried for the last time, on an angry, anguished, upward wail. “Mr. President?”
But the President’s hand went forward and the machine went off. A shaky image of a cont
orted, desperate face lingered for a split second, then was gone.
He found that he was trembling all over with the terrible uncertainties of what he had just done and the things he must yet do; but he still did not honestly see that he had any choice but to do them.
President vetoes Aid-Russia resolution, says he will continue course of “prudent non-intervention until such time as the belligerents again seek our mediation.” Claims this is “only course consistent with my oath, the constitution and the safety and future well-being of America and the world.”
Congressional leaders admit votes insufficient to override veto. Some talk of impeachment.
Bitter outcry breaks over country as Knox pursues unyielding policy while Russia retreats toward possible surrender.
“The situation of Russia has now almost passed desperation,” the Times declared in a front-page editorial appearing in an almost unprecedented extra that reached the streets in early afternoon. “With it has gone, or is going, what may be the last hope of preventing the pagan hordes of China from carrying their alien domination successfully across the map of Europe, and then in due time across the Pacific to our own endangered shores.
“Civilization itself is at stake—that Western civilization which over the centuries has come to carry almost all that men know of dignity, of beauty, of intelligence, of grace. At stake also is the very existence of the Western European nations, all those other nations that generally draw their traditions and culture from the West, and of the United States of America itself.
“In this crisis, the President tragically has once again justified the unhappy suspicions many of his fellow citizens have long harbored concerning his judgment. After a brief period of statesmanship lasting approximately three weeks, he has reverted to type: obstinate, reactionary, destructive of human freedoms and the desire of all true liberals to save mankind—and in the present case, very likely destructive of the life of the planet itself.