by Pat Frank
In Miami, they breakfasted for the last time together, in a restaurant of antiseptic cleanliness, with walls mostly of glass. Smith felt naked, as if he were eating in a shower room. The eggs, bacon, toast, marmalade, and in particular the coffee tasted different from the same breakfasts in Little Chicago, just as borscht in Kiev might be more flavorful than borscht in Boston. From Miami, Johnson was to go to Louisiana, Masters to Texas, and Palmer to Arizona. Palmer was to take the car, and dispose of it as he wished. As for Smith himself, he could buy another car later, if he found need of one and if a car befitted his station. His first objective, now, was to find a job in a restaurant, start a small bank account, and establish himself as a reliable citizen, suitable for enlistment in the United States Air Force.
3
Of the forty thousand people who went to work in the Pentagon that morning, Katharine Hume was somewhat of an oddity. Genius shows no discrimination of race, creed, sex, or physique when it chooses a body to inhabit. It can lodge in the twisted shape of a Steinmetz, or behind a sightless, soundless wall, as in Helen Keller. It can even pick the body of a young and desirable woman.
Not that Katharine Hume was a classic beauty. She wasn’t. But in a city where a woman’s allure is often measured by the collective influence of the guests she can entice to a party, her position on the protocol lists, or her Civil Service rating if she works, and where it can be undiplomatic to have legs finer than those of your senator’s wife, Katy Hume was a rarity. She had a dancer’s rhythm of movement and sway of hips. Her full lips were usually half open and she had a habit of moistening them with her tongue before speaking. That this was the result of a slight nasal obstruction didn’t make her mouth appear less sensual. Her hair was of an undecided color, so she had tinted it ash-blond, which contrasted with dark eyes, in the Viennese manner. Her flair for style she held in check, for in Washington, especially if you are in a responsible or sensitive position, it is chic to be dowdy. The oddest thing about her could not be seen. In her head was a questing brain equipped with an astonishing memory and capable of the most complicated mathematical acrobatics. Her intelligence quotient was 180, minimal, and she possessed Q-clearance for atomic security. She was by nature warm-blooded and friendly, but she was isolated by her profession and its taboos and secrets. Her profession was war.
She entered the River Gate of the Pentagon, showed a pass, and pinned a badge to her gray linen suit. She was admitted to the central corridor over which is a sign that reads: “Joint Chiefs of Staff—Restricted Area.” She came to a double door, guarded by Military Police, on which was stencilled: “Planning Division—Authorized Personnel Only.” Passing this barrier she walked to the end of the corridor beyond, and stopped at a door unnumbered and unmarked except for the curt notice: “Entrance Forbidden.” If you could go through that door uninvited you were one of seven people, six men and a woman, who comprised what the Planning Division called its Intentions of the Enemy Group, and unofficially its “dirty trick department,” or “private Kremlin.” The guard on duty smiled and opened the door for her. She was the woman. She represented the Atomic Energy Commission.
The conference room was unusual, even for the Pentagon. It was windowless, soundproofed, and devoid of files or safes. Its secrets were held only in the heads of the conferees. Except for the standard government-issue oval table and chairs of bleached oak, the only furniture was a mobile lunch stand, its electric coffee-maker steaming and cartons of milk and stacks of sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper, on its tray. Maps on sliding panels blotted out three walls. The largest was a target map of the United States, marked with every important military installation and industrial complex, every Navy base and heavy bomber field, population and communications centers, areas of nuclear production and research, hydroelectric sites, refineries, bottleneck roads and bridges. Another map showed the polar approaches to the North American continent, pinpointing picket ships, Texas islands, radar webs, Canadian and Alaskan interceptor strips, and anti-aircraft and guided missile batteries. There were smaller maps of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, the Pacific, and Iceland and Greenland. On these maps American Air and Navy bases were indicated. Just such maps, it could be presumed, arrayed the walls of the Soviet central command post, and the war plans rooms of the Red Army, Navy, and Air Force. Over the map of the United States was the group’s slogan: “THINK LIKE THE ENEMY!”
Katharine Hume saw that all six of her colleagues were there before her. The attendance and punctuality, unusual for a Saturday morning, reflected the news, not critical news, or even unexpected, but as interesting as the first bold commitment of the queen in a championship chess match. Quietly, she slipped into the vacant chair. Clark Simmons, a spare, balding man who was senior in the group and who represented State, was speaking. “. . . two questions to answer. First, is the Russian announcement true? Recall that in February of ’fifty-five Molotov made a somewhat similar boast, although not quite so explicit. At that time the AEC decided it wasn’t true. Secondly, if true, why a public announcement of H-Parity, and why at this time?” As usual, as he spoke Simmons kept his eyes on the white scratch-pad in front of him and doodled. He raised his eyes to acknowledge Katharine and said, “We waited for you, lady. We’ve just started.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I stopped off at my shop on the way.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d do,” Simmons said. “Get anything?”
Katharine removed her glasses. They were necessary only when her eyes tired from reading, but she wore them most of the time. She was twenty-nine, an age considered immature for strategic planning. By wearing glasses, adopting a severe hairdo, using little makeup, and choosing clothes of neutral shading, on occasion she managed to look over thirty. “I think I can answer your first question,” she said. “In the past three days there has been intensified radioactivity in the upper air currents over Alaska and northern Canada, and some fallout on Hokkaido. Analysis and seismographic reports indicate that the Russians blew two thermonuclear devices or bombs on Tuesday and two more on Wednesday.”
She rose, went to the side of the room, slid out a map of Asia, and ran her fingers along a loop of the Yenisei River, in Siberia. “I should say about here. The bombs—I believe they were bombs rather than devices—were of four distinct types. Two were rigged with U-238.” She hesitated for a moment, and looked down at the others to invite absolute attention. “The yield of one of these explosions—the last—exceeded thirty megatons.”
Jesse Price, the Air Force major newly assigned to the conference, pretended he was about to duck under the table. Price was a large, loose-jointed man with a black patch over his right eye and an arrow-shaped burn scar that ran from the patch to his chin. He talked flight jargon and behaved with the insouciance of a hot pilot. Katharine had wondered why the Air Force assigned him to the Intentions Group until she looked up his record. This record included graduation from the National War College after Korea, two years as Air Attaché in Moscow, another year as observer in Indo-China, and later service with SHAPE Air headquarters in Fontainbleau. In addition, she reflected that the Air Force would never keep a one-eyed pilot unless he had much else besides. Now that Price saw she was looking at him, he straightened and said, “Are you sure?”
“Very sure, Major. The AEC is now ready to admit that they have maximum capability.” She took her seat. For these men, no further explanation was necessary. Thirty megatons meant the equivalent of 30,000,000 tons of TNT. A five-megaton bomb could kill Chicago; ten, New York. Maximum capability was a phrase newly in use. It meant the capacity to utterly destroy any enemy. It meant all the bombs necessary.
For a moment, each was silent with his private thoughts. Four of the men were married and had children, and for them it was impossible to banish concern for their families from their considerations. Simmons had just bought a home in Chevy Chase, a somewhat overpriced Colonial, a bit extravagant for a Foreign Service career officer without independent income. He a
nd his wife and three children, in the event of trouble, were trapped by an inexorable mortgage within blast radius of a primary target city. Commander Stephen Batt, Navy, was thankful for his cottage on the Severn. Annapolis was by no means safe, when you contemplated the danger of fallout. His whole family could die, horribly, because of a bomb on Washington or Baltimore. But it gave him maneuvering space. Colonel Philip Cragey, Army, had been planning to move his family from Charlottesville, where they would be about as safe as you could get on the eastern seaboard, to Washington. At that instant he decided they had better think it over. Felix Fromburg, the quiet little lawyer who represented the FBI, also made a decision. If the international situation tensed up again, he would talk to that real estate agent who had been trying to sell him a farm in Warrenton. A thirty-megaton bomb was beyond all reason.
Major Price scratched his face at the white border of the scar, and Katharine could see that he was still not satisfied. “They announced they had parity,” he said. “How would they know? How would they know how many bombs we’ve got?”
“I don’t think they know and I don’t think it matters,” Katharine said. Sometimes Major Price flew slowly. He would not proceed until everything on the navigation chart was clear in his head, even the most obvious landmarks. “Force, like space and time, is relative,” she continued, trying not to talk like a schoolmarm. “If they have enough bombs to destroy us, they have maximum capability, which means parity, because we can’t do anything worse than destroy them. Now I’ll make an assumption. For every bomb they blow in tests, they have stockpiled thirty to fifty. They aren’t quite as profligate as we are. Their resources aren’t quite as large. They don’t have tritium and deuterium to burn.”
Raoul Walback, of Central Intelligence, said, “I’ll buy that. As you know, all our reports from escapees show stepped-up production in the past eighteen months. Particularly in the Angara River area near Irkutsk, where their new hydroelectric plant is operating. There’s another new plutonium complex on the Ob, near Novosibirsk. Big. Real big.”
They absorbed Walback’s words with respect. Raoul was Princeton, had served in Paris headquarters of the OSS during World War II, and rejoined the government during the Korean War, after OSS became CIA. Espionage and intelligence on a high level were more fascinating to Raoul than finance. It had been easy for him to make easy money. He was unmarried, but he too had personal considerations. He was a rich and thoroughly civilized man, a perfectionist in his manner of living, and he hoped to remain that way.
They talked through the lunch hour and into the afternoon. They brought into their discussion every fact—military, political, and economic—known in their departments. They had been chosen for this job because of imagination plus background. Because they were all young, as years are now measured, they were sometimes considered brash in a military community where a ripe age is often mistaken for wisdom. Their forecasts at times had proved uncannily accurate—so accurate as to embarrass certain of their elders and superiors with contrary views. They received encouragement and backing from a few ranking officers, a few aggressive and inquisitive members of the congressional Armed Services committees, and, on rare occasions, from the White House itself. Their powerful friends regarded them as a useful catalytic agent in a compound that preferred to settle down in an orderly and comfortable manner, the way a military organization should. The group dreamed up logical moves for the enemy to make, and stirred Washington to meet them. When the enemy made such a move, military or political, the Pentagon was already alerted. Sometimes the Kremlin crossed them up, and the Intentions Group was branded a wild-eyed crew of sensationalists, soothsayers, and worse. Yet their prophecies were reliable enough so they could not be ignored.
At last they talked themselves out, and Simmons, his face lined and weary, said he would try to sum up their conclusions. The Russian announcement, coming after several unusual years of peace, indicated another shift in policy, and perhaps a reshuffle of command. Russia’s tactics changed, but strategic objectives always remained the same. One group, while in command, might steer the Soviet ship-of-state on the tack of peace while other leaders, in the background, planned war. When progress towards world hegemony was no longer possible on the peace tack, the second crew took over and changed course. This was nothing new. It had happened before. The announcement indicated such a change. The H-bomb tests, probably unnecessary for scientific reasons, simply emphasized the warning, as when an angry man pounds the table. The warning, sinister as a rattlesnake’s whir, was to Britain, France, Italy, Japan, and Germany. It said: “Stand clear!” At the same time it was designed to spread fear and doubt in the United States, and encourage appeasement and dissension.
“But most important,” Simmons said, “is its effect on the Russian people. For a long time—ever since December of ’fifty-four when they cut down on civilian goods and increased the production of guided missiles and aircraft and nuclear weapons—it has been tough on the Russian people. Now they are heartened, and at the same time they are steeled for what is coming. They are told that this is what their sacrifices have accomplished. Now they need fear no one, and an end to their austerity is in sight. Since all their efforts and sacrifice have been for war production, the end can only mean an enforced peace, with the collapse of the Western alliance—or victory by arms.”
Simmons made two small marks on the pad before him, and crossed one out. “Since we haven’t knuckled under, not at the Summit or anywhere else, and since the alliance stands, they must proceed towards the other alternative.”
Raoul Walback was impatient. Walback often thought Simmons as prissy as an old maid aunt. “Why don’t you say war?” he challenged.
Perhaps because of his baldness, his weariness from the long session, Simmons suddenly looked sixty, rather than forty. “I hate the word!” he said. Simmons had spent all his adult life in study of Eastern Europe, which meant study of Russia principally. He had served two tours of duty at the embassy in Moscow. He explained, “You cannot know a people very well—any people—without finding much to admire in them. I hate to say war between my country and Russia but I have to say it. War. Oh, they haven’t made the decision yet. They’d much rather have us appease them. But that we’ll never do and so they move towards war. I don’t know why this insanity, just when things seemed to be shaking down.”
“If we’d had another depression,” said Walback, “war wouldn’t be necessary. I think they counted on a depression. We cut down on production of aircraft and guns, but we built roads and schools instead. We fooled ’em.”
Fromburg, who as usual had said little, and who was so inconspicuous it was hard to remember whether or not he attended meetings, spoke up. “I want to ask a question.” Fromburg was their skeptic. While others concocted adventures, military and political, for the enemy to attempt, Fromburg decided whether such moves were feasible. “Just one question—why war now?”
“I think I can answer that,” said Jesse Price. “It’s now—or never.”
Katharine Hume was surprised. The Air Force major had been sitting in with them for a month, but this was the first positive opinion he had volunteered. He had asked and answered questions, made statements of fact, but he had offered no opinions. The major kept three pipes on the desk in front of him and smoked them in rotation. Now he picked up number three, filled it, and continued. “‘Never’ will come on the day we have perfected the ICBM, and enough of them are emplaced and aimed so that our retaliation will be automatic—and nothing can stop it.”
ICBM meant Intercontinental Ballistics Missile. Speed: 8,000 miles an hour. Range: 5,000 miles with a thermonuclear warhead. Its aim could be pre-set, like that of a cannon, or it could be guided by radar stations on its path. Eventually its more intelligent siblings would take their own star sights and solve their own navigation problems. All of them, there in the conference room, knew that a prototype had been tested at Patrick Air Force Base on Cape Canaveral. It had soared up and out into spac
e, down the range of islands, past San Salvador, past the Dominican Republic, past Puerto Rico, even past Ascension Island, the rock with an airstrip carved through its middle in the distant South Atlantic. This first ICBM had carried no payload, and like all new weapons it doubtless had bugs. But the bugs would be eliminated, and the ICBM, whose German mother was named V-2, was on the way. Katharine Hume couldn’t help asking, “How soon will never day come?”
Jesse Price frowned and his teeth clamped down on his pipestem as if determined to dam any careless flow of words. “I know,” he said hesitantly, “that all of us here are cleared for Top Secret and most of you have Q-clearance to boot, and yet I’m not going to give you an exact answer. Anyway, all I could tell you would be the target date of our research and development people. I’m not going to do that without their permission. I can tell you this, though, Miss Hume. Your never day can hardly come sooner than eighteen months, and I hope not later than five years.”
Katharine was instantly angry. This was the first time that a fact had been withheld from the conference, and since she had asked the question she felt that the rebuff was aimed at her. While other girls were getting married and having babies and settling down to homes, she had been absorbing and storing and even creating secrets. She had never been indiscreet. Her clearances meant not only that her patriotism, loyalty, and discretion were above suspicion, but her past and present personal life spotless. It meant that she had never been arrested, befriended a person of bad character, or joined a questionable organization. She had no close relatives on the wrong side of the curtain. Her drinking stopped after the first cocktail, and she always paid her bills. She didn’t gamble, associate with homosexuals, and she was not a drug addict. She neither gossiped, nor was gossiped about. Her neighbors in Georgetown had attested to her rectitude. Her personnel files and report cards, back to grammar school, had been scrutinized for any trace of unstable behavior. None had been found. She said, “That isn’t much of an answer, Major.”
