“Thanks,” said Karper. His broad smile was genuine.
“All right,” said MacVeagh, “this morning we’re going to review the financing of the Pentagon’s classified projects.” He inspected a paper in his hand. “I see we have twenty-three of them this morning, so you might as well begin, Mr. Secretary, and take them up in order.”
“Number 1,” said Karper, clearing his throat and studying the top page of a sheaf of papers, is Project AWARE. The annual funding for this is $87 million and there’s no change this year. As you gentlemen know, this involves the delicate recording stations we maintain in cooperation with the Atomic Energy Commission to detect nuclear explosions in Communist countries, or anywhere else for that matter. Our system, while expensive, is worth the money. Last year we detected the fourth big hydrogen blast by Red China in the vicinity of Luho not far from the Tibetan border. Then this February the system identified the fifth so-called dragon bomb detonation, measuring it at 75 megatons, or about 5,000 times the power of the Hiroshima bomb back in ’45. The President was immediately notified and, as you know, the Hollenbach-Zuchek conference in Stockholm later this month is one of the diplomatic outgrowths of our findings—that plus the auxiliary intelligence that Red China now has the missile delivery capability. Our detection system is expensive, but we think it pays off. For your information, we know we measured the Chicom blast within an error margin of one megaton.”
The senators raised no questions, and Karper ran through explanations of six other projects, including a new diving “igloo” for the Navy and support of the secret countersabotage school run in cooperation with the Central Intelligence Agency.
“This brings us to No. 8,” said Karper. “This is Project CACTUS, financed with $250,000 from my own contingency fund. Unfortunately, this project, on which I’d placed so many hopes, came to nothing. It wasn’t money down the drain, for at least we now know what we cannot do in this highly sensitive area. Still, I’m frankly discouraged at the lack of results.”
“I don’t think the committee has ever heard of CACTUS,” said MacVeagh. “Could you go into that a bit, Mr. Secretary?”
Butch Andrate leaned over to whisper to his superior. Karper nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said, “you haven’t heard of this project because it was born and it died since our last report on classified programs to you gentlemen last spring. Essentially this was an effort to improve our command and control of nuclear weapons. You senators know many of the problems of C and C. They are vast.”
After Karper described the establishment and functioning of the committee headed by General Trumbull, the Republican senator asked: “Just what phase of C and C were you trying to perfect, Mr. Secretary?”
Karper hesitated a moment, biting his lip. “Let’s say the human element. The National Command Authorities—or the Big Three, if you will—must consult swiftly within a few minutes should a nuclear response or attack be indicated. While the President has final authority, it’s assumed he wouldn’t go against the combined opinion of myself and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Frankly, I’ve never been satisfied with the safeguards in this system.”
“Why not?” asked MacVeagh.
“Well,” said Karper, “suppose one of the three is ailing and finds it difficult to think clearly at just that moment. My concern is how do we protect ourselves, the country—the world, for that matter—against the possibility that a mind is not functioning properly.”
MacVeagh, who had been slouching in his chair, came suddenly upright. He stared at Karper and, tilting his head, turned an ear toward the Pentagon chief.
“Did you say a mind that’s not functioning properly, Mr. Secretary?” he asked.
“Yes.” Karper’s face registered no emotion.
“You mean,” asked MacVeagh’s fellow Democratic senator, “what happens if one of the men goes berserk?”
Karper nodded. “Well, that would be an extreme case you wouldn’t look for in any of these three men, but one could suffer a sudden stroke or incapacity of some nature. At that point C and C becomes highly vulnerable. Last fall I became concerned and wondered whether there wasn’t some way to insulate the system from ‘human aberrations,’ the phrase I used in setting up CACTUS. But after five months, as the committee reported to me three weeks ago, they could come up with no feasible recommendations. In short, the committee felt we’ll just have to rely on the stability of the three men.”
“Why last fall, Mr. Secretary?” asked MacVeagh. “Did anything special happen that caused you to act at that time?”
Karper shot a quick, appraising glance at MacVeagh from under his dark brows. MacVeagh thought he appeared startled. “Frankly,” said Karper after a moment’s hesitation, “I had reason to examine myself. I’m in good physical shape, I think, and I believe I’m normal. I work and I play hard. But if you recall, gentlemen, the same thing was thought of Forrestal in 1949. Yet it turned out he was suffering a severe mental breakdown that caused him to take his own life.”
“You mean you had cause to question your own mental health?” asked the Republican senator skeptically.
MacVeagh thought Karper’s quick laugh was forced.
“Not the way I am today,” replied Karper, “or was last fall either, Senator. No. But what of the future? None of us can guarantee his mind’s stability a year from now. So I groped for an answer, perhaps naively. But, at any rate, we’re right where we started. Apparently there’s no workable system of insurance.”
MacVeagh looked closely at Karper, who sat as impassive as an Indian chief. If Karper had questioned his own stability, thought Jim, what had happened to cause him to do so? Was it really himself he was concerned about? Jim had never before seen Karper, usually blunt to the point of embarrassment, so discreet, so guarded, almost like a soldier picking his way through a mine field. Jim stared at Karper, but the Defense Secretary dropped his eyes and toyed with the sheaf of papers before him.
“This is a fascinating subject,” observed the Republican senator. “It’s too bad I’m under the total security rule here, because this year’s election is one where my party could use an unbalanced Secretary of Defense as a target. However, I’m not sure that even that would save us this year.”
They all laughed and MacVeagh added: “How about me? A lot of people are accusing me of being lightheaded for declining to run for vice-president.”
The Republican snorted. “You’re a good chairman, Jim, but you’re not important enough to help us, crazy or not. But Sidney Karper, now there’s a real game fish.”
Karper chuckled, but again Jim had the impression the mirth was synthetic. “My brain tends toward the Democratic party, Senator,” said Karper, “if that’s any indication of a lack of balance.”
MacVeagh rapped his gavel. “We could stay on Project…what was that name again, Mr. Secretary?”
“CACTUS.”
“Yes,” said Jim. “We could stay on Project CACTUS all day, but we’ve got a lot more ground to cover in the sensitive areas, and I suggest we move along.”
“I won’t disagree, Mr. Chairman,” said the Democratic senator, “but I think we ought to devote a whole day to this sometime soon.”
“We’ll consider that another time,” said MacVeagh.
Karper, appearing relieved, took up the next classified item on his list. There were no further questions, and he managed to complete an explanation of all 23 programs just before the bell rang for the noon session of the Senate.
“Right under the wire,” said MacVeagh. “We’ll adjourn for the day and meet here again at 10 A.M. next Thursday, when we’ll try to finish up on the classified programs.”
As the group filed out, MacVeagh drew Karper aside. They stood next to a huge globe beneath the hanging banner of the Marine Corps.
“Have you got time to stop by my office for a moment?” asked MacVeagh.
Karper looked toward And
rate, who stood a few paces away. “What’s my schedule, Butch?”
“You’ve got a 12:30 appointment with the Boeing people at your office,” said Andrate.
“This is very urgent,” whispered MacVeagh.
Karper looked at MacVeagh in surprise, then spoke to Andrate. “In that case, Butch, you keep the group happy for a while. I’ll come over as soon as I can.”
MacVeagh escorted Karper to his own suite in the old Senate Office Building, entering by his private door. He locked it behind him and then crossed the room to lock the door fronting on the outer secretarial offices. He motioned Karper to a chair and then called on the intercom to tell the receptionist he could take no calls from whatever source until further notice. Karper watched these proceedings with a baffled look.
“Mr. Secretary,” said Jim, “I’d like to pursue something here in private. Could you tell me exactly what happened last fall that caused you to initiate Project CACTUS?”
Karper sat, blank, with folded arms. Once again the big head, imposing beak, and coppery tint of the skin gave Jim the impression that he was facing an Indian chief. Karper did not reply.
“Before you answer,” said Jim, “let me tell you something. Two things have struck me rather forcefully. If there had been just one, I’d say it was coincidence, but two makes it startling to me.”
Leaning forward on his desk and eying Karper closely, Jim told the Secretary of his call for the full presidential disability file and of his later request for the Korean service record of President Hollenbach.
“In both cases,” said Jim, “I find that you have the material.”
Still Karper said nothing. The two men sat staring at each other in silence. Jim had a strange, intuitive feeling that Karper was duplicating his own thoughts. He experienced an odd sense of shared awareness, as though they were two persons each recognizing in the other an old acquaintance after many years.
At last Karper spoke quietly, his eyes still fixed on MacVeagh’s. “Let me ask you a question, Senator. Why did you want to see the President’s service record?”
Jim felt his heart beating faster. “My excuse,” he replied, “was that I’m doing a biography of him and I needed all available data.”
“You say ‘excuse,’ ” Karper was wary.
“Yes,” said Jim. “I’m not writing such a book.”
A crinkling of the flesh about Karper’s eyes was the only movement in his face. “And what about your call for the file on the presidential disability question?”
Jim still held Karper’s eyes with his own. “I had no excuse,” he said, “but I have cause to believe that the subject of presidential disability is of vital concern right at this moment.”
There was a heaviness of suspense in the room, yet Karper’s face showed only a flicker of emotion.
“It’s time,” said Jim, “to be completely candid, Mr. Secretary. I had cause to doubt the mental stability of a high government official. Did you too—last fall?”
“I did.”
“Was it…was it the President?”
“It was,” said Karper.
There was momentary shock in the air, as though a shell had burst. Then Jim felt a sensation of vast relief, and he thought he detected a similar reaction on Karper’s face.
“Have you told anyone else?” asked Jim.
Karper shook his head. “I couldn’t.”
“Perhaps,” said Jim slowly, “in view of the circumstances, I ought to tell you first what I know.”
And while Karper sat immobile, but with an expression of dawning understanding, MacVeagh told the whole story once more. Karper slumped in his chair, his great head resting on pressed fingertips, but not once did he take his eyes from MacVeagh. When Jim finished, Karper smiled sadly.
“Senator,” he said, “or I’d prefer to call you Jim, if you don’t mind—and please call me Sid—I couldn’t help thinking during your recital what a curiously involved and compartmentalized government we have here in Washington. You and I know how this town works, but what ordinary citizen could believe that two officials could suspect what you and I have without ever meeting to share their views?”
“I’ve thought the same thing, Sid,” said MacVeagh. “But, actually, how could we know? You don’t shout this kind of thing from the housetops.”
“No, you don’t,” replied Karper. “You know, it may sound heartless under the circumstances, but your story lifts a great burden from me. I’ve been struggling with this thing alone, losing sleep, going back and forth over a scene with the President, until, like you, I’d begun to doubt myself. What an upside down world, to think that corroboration of a President’s mental troubles could actually make me feel good. But it does. Jesus, I’m not seeing phantoms, after all.”
“Make that two of a kind,” said Jim. “Sid, I felt as if I was dropping into a deep well of mist, losing all contact with reality. The nights have been frightening, some of them pure torture. But now let’s hear your side of it.”
Karper rose from his chair, his big body towering in the room. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced about. Then he resumed his seat, put a quill toothpick in his mouth, and blew through it as though it was a boatswain’s pipe.
“Let me see if I can tell it precisely as it occurred,” said Karper. “Last October the President summoned me—late at night—to the White House. I was in bed asleep when the white phone rang. He said it was urgent and that I should come right over. Of course I thought an invasion had started somewhere. We met in that oval sitting room right off his bedroom on the second floor in the family quarters. As he did with you, he turned off the only light. But this night there was no moon whatsoever, and we were in almost total darkness, except for the street lamps beyond the iron fence on the south lawn and the red lights at the top of the Washington Monument.
“It was the most bizarre scene in all my years in Washington. The President had no small talk at all. He immediately began striding up and down the room, in small, jerky steps, and his speech was running along so fast it was hard to follow him. It took some time to get the drift.
“He was raging against Carter Urey. He said that Urey was running the CIA like a separate empire, that he was insubordinate, paid no attention to the President’s directives, and that he was trying to grind out a foreign policy of his own. When a break came, I asked why, if he felt that way, he didn’t fire Urey. He said he couldn’t for political reasons. Urey had too many friends on the Hill, the President said. He said Urey seduced congressmen by his lavish off-the-record dinners and his practice of filtering out secret information to flatter the congressmen. He contended Urey was power mad and that he was out to supplant him, Hollenbach, as head of the government.”
“My God,” interrupted Jim, “Urey has positively no political ambitions. He hates Washington. He’s told me privately that he longs to chuck the whole thing and go back to Kansas City.”
“Exactly. It was a fantastic charge,” said Karper. He was leaning forward now, his elbows resting on his knees. “Urey is the soundest, least power-conscious man in Washington for my money. I know. I deal with him all the time. He’s one fellow who’s dedicated and selfless.
“Anyway, there was no containing the President. I disagreed with him and tried to defend Urey, but he’d have none of it. He raged on, in that spooky gloom, not a light in the place. Finally I asked what he wanted me to do. He said he wanted the Secretary of Defense to take over direction of the Central Intelligence Agency and said he’d hand me a directive giving me authority over Urey. I said that made no sense, that I wasn’t equipped for the job, and that Congress would never approve it. He said—and he was furious—that he didn’t care what Congress thought, that he’d issue a secret directive. Nobody had to know, not even Urey, except the President and myself.
“ ‘Great Jesus, Mr. President,’ I said, ‘you’re talking like a madman.’
With that, he stopped dead still beside a little writing desk. Although it was dark, I could hear him breathing hard and I could make out his hand closing about an object on the desk.
“ ‘Karper,’ he said in a voice like a steel ghost, ‘you’re another one. You want to destroy me too, don’t you?’ I said nothing. He raised the thing—I saw it was an inkwell—and he pulled back his arm as if he were going to throw it at me. I took a couple of steps and wrapped my arms around him—I’m pretty strong, you know—very firm, but as gently as I could. ‘Now, Mr. President,’ I said quietly, ‘put that thing down.’ He was rigid for a moment, but all at once he went limp. I released him and he put down the inkwell. Then he kind of sank into a chair and said nothing for a while. Needless to say, there was ink all over the rug.
“When he spoke, he was very calm and actually he didn’t say much. He just said that perhaps we both ought to sleep on the problem, and we could come up with an answer in the morning. He took me to the elevator and told a Secret Service man in the hall that he was very tired and was going to bed, and to please ask his valet, Bob, not to wake him early the next morning. I said good night and went home. Naturally, I was damn glad to get out of there, but also, naturally enough, I didn’t sleep much that night.
“Next morning, about nine, just as I was leaving for the Pentagon, he called. He was cheery and very full of command and authority, like his regular self. He told me to forget what he’d said the night before, that he was upset and had said the wrong things. Don’t mention it again, he said, as he’d find a way to work with Urey. He apologized for overstating the case. Urey was basically all right and he’d just have to learn to cooperate, or something to that effect. He was as bright and chipper as a squirrel.
“But the scene plagued me. Command and control of nuclear weapons has always bothered me and I got to thinking: What if we’d had a nuke decision—the big one—before us that night? Then I thought of Woodrow Wilson and Forrestal, and so—well—in three or four days, I’d written the directive for CACTUS. I checked it with the President, although of course I didn’t mention the mental thing to him. I just called it a study to improve the command decision mechanism. Sure, he said. Fine. Go ahead.
Night of Camp David Page 26