On Deception Watch

by David H Spielberg

  When Lewis finished, Sylvia added, “As for the company’s potential markets, they don’t talk a lot about us because to them we’re a high flier. They like what they hear, but they don’t really believe it. Some don’t even understand it. It’s something in their speculative portfolio of future options. They just don’t have any good reason to discuss this project in detail. Their expectations are low and their interest is purely long-term.”

  Smiling, she added, “So we have been able to advance in relative obscurity. This has been our wish. Dr. Cranshaw is, after all, the crackpot chairman of a half-baked company, right James?”

  Marshall squirmed visibly in his seat as he realized that Cranshaw was a lot tighter with Dick Scully than he thought. He would keep his private opinions more to himself from now on.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, James. That is exactly the image Dr. Cranshaw worked very hard to project, except to those people we choose to show the truth. Why don’t we go into the lab and see what Dr. Lewis has been accomplishing.”

  3

  President Emerson Drummond stood by one of the windows behind his desk in the Oval Office, looking out absentmindedly, troubled by the approaching meeting with General Slaider. Morgan Slaider was a good man. He knew that. He felt comfortable with Slaider. They had even been boyhood acquaintances. He knew quite well, however, that high office changes people and relationships. There is a greater sense of constituency. He felt that keenly, shortly after he took his first oath as an elected official, as he managed his first meetings in a position of power. You know who depends on you and you work to support them. You try to keep a global view, but it isn’t easy, he thought.

  Now, as president, of course, he had different constituencies to address and navigate. And with a chairman of the joint chiefs, it always seemed so much more difficult. Slaider’s own constituency was so well-defined by military priorities that General Slaider had the benefit, if he chose, to make military issues alone his global view. But more than the parochialism of the military view, the president was troubled by military passion. They believed fervently in their duty to defend America, even from itself, if need be. He was not the first president to confront the military view of patriotism, nor was he the first to be frustrated by its relentless sway in high government counsels.

  As a former Navy man himself, Drummond knew the intensity with which he had been trained to destroy the enemy and to obey. How had General Slaider put it when he advised against using military forces to police the party convention? “Mr. President,” he said, “we’re trained to kill the enemy as they come over the hill. We’re not trained to read them their rights. We are not a subtle instrument.” And of course, Slaider was right.

  The military mind will always err on the side of excess. He’d heard their arguments a hundred times by now. “Better safe than sorry. If we’re wrong, we spent some money maybe that didn’t need to be spent. But if we’re right, and we didn’t spend the money, we may be dead, or defeated.” A lot of congressmen and senators subscribe to that argument and vote accordingly. And so do a lot of citizens. And it was not an unconvincing argument. There is a beguiling logic to it that is difficult to resist and that does limit your options, even if you are the president of the United States.

  But damn it, he thought, Slaider was pushing too hard on his death ray project. Yes, the laser work was valuable. Yes, there would be civilian industrial benefits. It was just the wrong way to go politically. It was one thing to use satellite laser weapons to kill other satellites. It was quite another thing, politically, to have the capability of destroying ground targets from space. He thought this project had been killed years ago, but the military, it seems, just can’t and won’t let it go.

  The Europeans, and even India and Brazil were complaining that the technology was not for legitimate self-defense but for political intimidation. With all the unrest right now he didn’t need this complication and the military didn’t really need a new killing machine. There seemed still to be more than enough available to them. Besides, the main problem militarily was how to deal with continuing regional conflicts spilling over into global terrorism. Slaider still hadn’t given him an answer to this problem. The country just couldn’t maintain a policy of knocking off governments. Especially when the cost of that policy can’t entirely be hidden from the public. The taxpayers just won’t tolerate it anymore. “To hell with the remaining dictators of the world” seems to be the voter mood these days, with the cost of gasoline at $8.80 a gallon.

  Drummond turned his head toward the sound of Frank Morrison’s voice coming from the intercom. “Mr. President, General Slaider is on his way over. Do you want me to sit in on this one? He’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”

  “I don’t think so, Frank, but keep close in case I change my mind.”

  Frank Morrison was following a long tradition for chiefs-of-staff. He was much more than the presidential office manager. He was a personal friend and advisor. He complemented Drummond in those areas that were, perhaps, presidential blind spots. In those areas where Drummond felt he was weak, Morrison was strong. Frank was a good detail man. He was a good juggler. He was organized. He scheduled and understood the priorities of every moment of Drummond’s day. And he was unsentimental. He saw every decision in terms of cost, either dollars, or votes, or time, or people, or poll percentage points.

  Drummond sat at his desk to review again the agenda for the meeting with Slaider that Frank had prepared. Death ray. Naturally, that’s what the media calls it. The budget proposal calls it enhanced laser targeting efficiency through multifrequency pumping. And the military has Congress convinced our survival depends on keeping this project alive. They like the idea of a death ray. They think it will be cheaper than bullets. He could not help laughing to himself at man’s endless eagerness to pursue folly. He too probably, he thought. That’s why he had Frank Morrison—to help him minimize his follies.

  Several moments later, General Morgan Slaider was announced. As he entered the Oval Office, Drummond rose to greet him and ushered him to the more informal sitting area.

  Slaider was of average height, though dressed in military uniform, he seemed surprisingly short. The years had been kind to Slaider and though he needed bifocals now, his face retained a kind of boyish shape, his skin was smooth, and he had reddish-brown hair that was trimmed neatly and short. His concession to his years was a growing portliness that added to his personal charm and disarmingly drew attention away from his intent and penetrating eyes.

  “Well, Morgan, how are our nation’s armed forces doing today?” It was a little ritual they always played with each other to help break the ice in often-difficult discussions.

  “Better than can be expected, Mr. President.”

  “And Marion—she’s well?”

  “I’m afraid not yet, Emerson. She’s not coming out of the operation very well. She’s in a lot of pain and very weak. She just seems more fragile than she ever was. I’m worried about her.”

  “Morgan, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, we’ve got Bill Randall handling the medical team. I believe she’s getting the best care we can provide for her. We both have every faith in Bill. It’s just going to take time at her age. Thank you for your concern, Mr. President. I sincerely mean that, Emerson.”

  “Well, you be sure and let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  “So, Frank says here you want to talk death rays again. Is this going to be our usual monthly chat about this subject or have you begun to come around to my way of thinking?”

  “No, Mr. President. That is, no it’s not going to be our usual debate and no I have not come around to your way of thinking. It unexpectedly relates to another matter. And to tell you the truth, I’m glad Frank isn’t in this meeting. I need to talk to you about a matter that only one other person in the world is aware of. I don’t quite know how to handle it or even who should handle it.�
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  “Does this relate to our agenda in any way?” Drummond interrupted.

  “Well, we needed something for the record . . . why we’re meeting. But it’s not about the optical pumping system. It is about laser technology, though. May I continue?”

  Drummond leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for the moment it took him to consider the implications of what Slaider was beginning. Off-the-record discussions with the president by highly placed officials were never good news, always required important decisions, and did not allow for the consultations that Drummond valued. He hated surprises. Then again, he realized, all politicians did.

  His face impassive, he opened his eyes and said simply, “Go ahead.”

  “Five days ago, I received a telephone call from a Samuel Berman. He’s involved with a company in Jersey City called AJC Fusion. They’re doing research on microfusion. Very successful research, they claim. So successful that he believes it can blow the country’s and probably the world’s economies sky-high.”

  “Why did he call you, General? Does their work have weapons implications?”

  “Well, not directly. Our boys at Sandia and Livermore have been struggling for years with microfusion, but it’s small-scale stuff, and they don’t really seem to know why they’re doing it. But specific to your question, this Berman is a finance specialist. He’s not concerned with weapons. He called me because he wants to see you. He was afraid that if he called anyone other than a high-ranking military officer the discipline of secrecy could not be assured, he would have to explain too much, and a leak would probably occur. Secrecy is rather the issue for him. He told me several times that since the national security was at stake the military would best know how to keep a secret.”

  “What is he claiming? That this AJC Fusion has figured out how to control fusion for power generation?” Drummond asked, smiling.

  “That’s it exactly, Mr. President. I did some very discreet checking around. The company exists. It is certified to do atomic research. They have about fifty classified patents on laser optics, microfusion, synthetic methane generation, genetically engineered bacteria. I believe this man believes what he is claiming for his company. Of course, at the moment this is only my opinion. At the moment, your options are not compromised in any way. I’ve avoided getting anyone else involved in this.”

  Emerson Drummond did not react immediately to what he had heard. It seemed so unlikely, coming out of the blue like this. And the implications of what General Slaider was telling him were so vast that he decided his best reaction should be skepticism.

  “Okay. What does Mr. Berman want to see me about? Did he indicate to you whether he will be representing his company or himself if he meets with me?

  “He was very clear on this. He is representing his company. He is no loose cannon on a fishing expedition. At least, that’s my opinion.”

  Drummond got up, and with his hands in his pockets and his head down, he began to pace the office, thinking.

  “What have you got on Berman?” Drummond asked.

  “I did a quick check and he appears to be high-credentialed, rather well-known in financial circles. Affiliated with Columbia University. Chief financial officer of Nova Industries. That seems to be the parent company of AJC Fusion. Graduate of Harvard Business School. Doctorate in international finance. He published about twenty technical articles and about a half-dozen books. The man leaves a pretty high-level paper trail.”

  “If what he says is true, does Mr. Berman have any explanation as to why this AJC Fusion has not made any announcements of their remarkable breakthrough?”

  “I asked him that very question. He said he will only discuss that with you.”

  “I see.” He continued his pacing. Finally, he turned to General Slaider and asked, “Is there anything else about this? Anything else you want to say?”

  “No, sir. That’s it.”

  “What do you recommend, General?”

  “Well, for starters, Mr. President, I recommend getting this thing the hell out of my hands as fast as you can. I do recommend though, if you decide to see him, that you see him quickly. It sounds like something is about to blow pretty soon. He said there was no time to go through rings of advisors first before seeing you. He suggested tomorrow. He gave me this phone number to reach him. He advised against calling for him at Nova.” General Slaider handed the president the note with the telephone number.

  “Right. Thank you, Morgan. I appreciate the way you’ve handled this. Please continue to speak with no one about this matter. I will take it from here. Give my love to Marion and, again, let me know if there’s anything I can do for her.”

  “Thank you, Emerson. I think we just have to wait and see what happens. But thank you, again.”

  After the general left, Drummond sat at his desk for several minutes, entering notes in his daily journal. He then called Frank Morrison to his office. He would want Frank’s advice on this.

  Compared with Drummond’s almost six-foot stature, portly physique from perhaps too many political dinners, and severely receded hairline, Frank Morrison was a slim man of medium height with a thin, angular face and straight, thick hair. His round, horn-rimmed glasses and mustache suggested the clerk rather than the scholar. He almost never wore a jacket and his shirts seemed to drape over his body, much as a cotton cloth drapes over furniture in a house whose residents are on vacation—covering without revealing or enhancing the shape underneath. As for his eyes, they were focused with intent. There was very little that they missed.

  “Sit down, Frank. I need to talk one over with you. Morgan just dropped a hot potato in my lap and I need to do some brainstorming with you.” Quickly he informed Morrison of his conversation with General Slaider.

  Morrison let out a soft whistle when the president had completed his briefing. After thinking for several minutes he began. “Interesting problem, Mr. President. There are three possibilities. Either Berman is a quack, which he doesn’t appear to be; or he is telling the truth about what AJC Fusion has accomplished, which is arguable; or he is mistaken about what AJC Fusion has accomplished, which I believe is the most likely.”

  “On what basis, Frank?” the president asked.

  “On the basis that high-tech companies are always announcing things before they happen because they’re positive that it will happen. And then they don’t happen, or the timetable is nowhere as optimistic as they first thought, or it doesn’t turn out exactly as they anticipated. It’s not that unusual, Mr. President.”

  Morrison made some notes in his pad and then continued.

  “For the moment, though, a discussion of possibilities is not as important as the decision of whether to meet Berman or not. I think you should let me call him and have him meet with me first. If he passes muster, then I can bring him to see you. We’ll leave thirty minutes on your schedule. If he doesn’t pan out, I wanted Doc Randall to come in and check your blood pressure anyway. I don’t like your color lately. We’ll slip him in the same time slot if it’s available.”

  “Stay with me, Frank. We need to talk some more about this. What are the criteria you are going to use to decide to pass him on to me? That he’s not crazy? That’s not good enough. Don’t underestimate this problem, Frank. I’ve got a feeling about this one.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. President. I didn’t mean to sound dismissive. And I’m also seriously concerned about the way you’ve been looking lately. Of course, you’re right about knowing the basis for my evaluation of Berman. May I suggest that first, I need to hear him and decide whether he has anything verifiable and of interest. I’ll make a judgment if you allow me. If his story seems real, and verifiable—I think that’s the key—and significant, I would then want to determine whether he’s buying or selling. If he’s selling, is it something we want? If he’s buying, what is it he wants us to sell him, and can we sell it, are we authorized? I won’t let him past me unless I get satisfactory answers to these questions. If it still seems interest
ing, I’ll pass him on to you.”

  Drummond thought for a moment, considering Frank Morrison’s proposal, trying to visualize the events as they might occur tomorrow. He was satisfied, so far. “Good, Frank. Now let’s say you pass him on to me. Then what? I don’t want to sit there like a goose for the plucking with him calling the shots. I want to know about your meeting before you pass him on to me.”

  “Of course, Mr. President. If the meeting uncovers a significant issue, I can meet with you for the first fifteen minutes of the scheduled thirty. If it is important, we can extend either his or your portion or both. If it all turns out for nothing, I’ll have Dr. Randall in the wings to check your pressure. Deal?”

  “All right. All right,” Drummond said, laughing at his old friend’s persistence. Yet he was unable to resist pursuing the recitation of possibilities.

  “Frank, suppose for the moment that what AJC Fusion claims is in fact true—that they have a process for controlled nuclear fusion. Why wouldn’t they announce it?” the president asked.

  Morrison thought for a moment. “Homeostasis, Mr. President. I believe, if what General Slaider believes they are claiming is true, they’re afraid of homeostasis.”

  “Come on, Frank, I’m not in the mood to play games. What are you talking about?”

  “Homeostasis—the self-regulating process that any system worth its salt uses to maintain a state of equilibrium, especially when confronted by life-threatening changes. For the Middle East, for the oil companies, this could easily turn into a life-and-death situation. If what Nova is claiming is true, they need to get some muscle behind them before they come out and make themselves targets.”