The President's Plane Is Missing

by Robert J Serling

  He paused for dramatic effect, and was pleased to observe that all but Sharkey were impressed.

  “You’re referring,” Sharkey said, “to the Security Council’s report on Red China’s willingness to make war. May I remind you, Mr. Vice President, both the Secretary of Defense and myself were present at the Council meeting when that report was submitted to the President more than three weeks ago. You were filling a speaking engagement, if I recall.”

  “Correct.” Madigan smirked. “And the President, unfortunately, did not see fit to brief me on these contents when I returned. Gentlemen, for the benefit of those in this room who also were not privileged to study the report in question, I’d like to give you the gist of its message. Only it is not a message, my friends. I repeat, it’s a damned death warrant.”

  He paused again, the oratorical delay of a politician instinctively waiting for murmurs of intense interest or maybe applause.

  “Before you proceed,” Sharkey interrupted, “I would like to inform the Cabinet that the President fully intended to discuss this matter with all of you upon his return from California. He delayed such discussion on my own advice. There were certain diplomatic considerations involved, considerations I felt were important enough to preclude the revelations of this report even to a closed Cabinet meeting. I say this in the way of an explanation, not an apology. And I might add that the Secretary of Defense concurred in this decision.”

  “If I had been consulted,” the Vice President said importantly, “I would not have concurred. The contents are vital enough to be disclosed to the entire nation, let alone the Cabinet.”

  “But you weren’t consulted,” Sharkey prompted, “and I must remind you, sir, that President Haines agreed with our recommendation to keep the Security Council’s report totally classified for the time being.”

  “That, sir,” Madigan said ponderously but with such intense feeling that several members were impressed, “comes close to impugning the patriotism and judgment of the President’s own official family. The men in this very room.”

  “That was not our intention, I assure you,” Tobin said. “In addition to the diplomatic, uh, considerations which Jim mentioned, the President felt that the slightest leak to the public would result in panic.”

  “In other words,” Madigan sneered, “Haines didn’t trust anybody in this room to keep his mouth shut with the exception of yourself and the Secretary of State. Aside from—”

  “Just a minute,” Tobin protested, but the Vice President charged ahead.

  “—aside from regarding that as an insult to myself, I also regard the President’s attitude as an insult to the rest of the Cabinet. I, for one, trust the common sense and discretion of my Cabinet colleagues. And I intend to transmit to this body the gist of the Security Council report.” His eyes swept the room in a direct challenge. Sharkey opened his mouth, a gingerly, tentative step over the precipice of protest, then shut it.

  “I’ll proceed,” Madigan said triumphantly. “Gentlemen, what the Security Council has issued is a flat prediction that Red China is determined to launch an attack on the United States. I won’t go into the sordid details, but the Council refers to this attack as not only possible but eventually inevitable. I repeat those words, gentlemen. Not only possible but eventually inevitable. Now the reason I’ve called this meeting is to ask you what we should do about it.”

  Labor Secretary Gilbert cleared his throat nervously. “May I ask the Secretaries of State and Defense if what the Vice President has just said actually represents the essence of the Council’s report?”

  “Goddamnit!” Madigan snarled. “Do you doubt my word? Don’t you think I can read?”

  “You read very well,” Sharkey said dryly. “Yes, Nelson, that’s what the Council believes.”

  “Let me read a few of the more pertinent paragraphs from the report,” Madigan chimed in. He had underlined several passages and proceeded to read these to the Cabinet. They drew mumbles of surprise and an occasional horrified expletive. Madigan laid down the document again. “Any comments, gentlemen?”

  “Mr. Secretary,” Gilbert addressed Sharkey. “What did the Security Council recommend to President Haines?”

  “There was no specific recommendation,” Sharkey answered. “It was more of a consensus . . . a meeting of the minds that we should stay on the alert and be ready for instant retaliation.”

  “A course,” said Madigan, “which in my opinion amounted to drawing up the blueprints for a second Pearl Harbor.” He was pleased to hear two or three murmurs of agreement.

  “I couldn’t tell from what you’ve read whether the Council considered an attack imminent,” Harvey Brubaker said. “The time element seemed to be vague. Is ‘imminent’ too strong a word?”

  “Imminent is apropos in the sense that China would strike the moment she thought she could win what amounted to an overnight war,” Sharkey replied. “When that moment might occur is a matter for debate. Nobody’s sure.”

  “Exactly!” explained the Vice President. “Nobody’s sure. Now, what I want to know again is what the hell are we going to do about it? Sit on our fannies and wait for their missiles?”

  “Just what do you propose doing about it?” Sharkey had dropped all pretense of formal protocol or even simple courtesy. He could not bring himself to say “sir” to the Vice President.

  “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” Madigan answered, “I don’t propose to preside over a country decimated by atomic war. And I don’t believe the oath of office I took said anything about letting this country sit helplessly by while our enemies choose their own sweet time for starting a war.”

  “I’ll ask you again,” the Secretary of State repeated. “What can we do other than what’s already been done? SAC is on a war alert. We’re ready for instant retaliation. So we’ll sit on our fannies, as you so succinctly phrased it, and be ready for the worst. Do you have any alternative?”

  “Yes,” said Madigan.

  The Cabinet froze, minds and tongues collectively chilled into realization and anticipation of what the Vice President was about to say.

  “And your solution?” Sharkey asked the question, already knowing the answer.

  “Preventive war, I believe, is the correct expression,” said the Acting President of the United States.

  Gunther Damon headed out Constitution Avenue, over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge and up the George Washington Memorial Parkway. It was the same route he drove to and from work, so familiar that he could travel it almost automatically as if his car were on rails and his only task was to keep the accelerator pedal depressed. At this time of the afternoon there was relatively little traffic and he could indulge in some mental gymnastics. First he thought of Malcolm Jones and wondered if the White House reporter had, indeed, lied to him about finding Camp David deserted that night. Maybe. But there also was a chance Jones merely had not sniffed hard enough. He could have turned back too soon, without really trying to pierce the heavy security guard that Damon felt must be there if the President were in residence.

  The news superintendent had been to Camp David once before, for a stag picnic at the invitation of President Johnson shortly before LBJ left the White House. He remembered his first impression had been that of a series of drab wooden structures with all the individuality and warmth of barracks. The buildings were painted a dullish gray-green and only the restful beauty of their wooded surroundings saved them from the cold impersonality of a typical military installation.

  Which figured, because Camp David was a military installation, administered by the Navy, staffed by Navy personnel and guarded by the Marine Corps. It had begun life as a Civilian Conservation Corps camp in the days of the New Deal, but was turned into a presidential retreat in 1942 when Franklin Roosevelt wanted a secluded place in which he could relax. The spot fitted FDR’s needs eminently and was a happy choice as far as the Secret Service was concerned. Hyde Park was considered too far away for a wartime President and FDR supplied the s
ubstitute asylum with its first name, “Shangri-La,” after James Hilton’s Tibetan city of seclusion and peace. Truman used it under the sobriquet but Eisenhower renamed it Camp David after his grandson and his successors retained that name.

  Damon recalled his first sight of the President’s quarters, when he had walked over a small stone bridge that straddled a placid pond and led to the large building that bore the sign “Aspen Lodge.” Johnson had shown the newsmen through the lodge and Damon remembered being impressed by the quiet simplicity of the place, particularly the huge picture window that overlooked the lush green Catoctin Valley.

  It wouldn’t be peaceful now, Damon reasoned. Not if his hunch was right. He could imagine and relish in advance the inevitable experience of being stopped by the sentries, businesslike carbines slung over their shoulders, probably commanded by no less than a captain or even a major. And that was all he needed for confirmation. A definite indication of activity, of stricter-than-normal security precautions. He had no idea how close he could get. But he didn’t need to get too close.

  His mind raced over the many intriguing possibilities that lay ahead, all pointing to the news beat of his career.

  He was so occupied by this daydreaming that he nearly missed the turnoff from the parkway to the Washington Beltway. He crossed the Cabin John Bridge into Maryland and bore to the left on U.S. 70S as it branched off the beltway in a slight dogleg. He passed a road sign reading, “Frederick, 32 miles,” and he murmured aloud, “Camp David and Mr. Haines, here I come.”

  A couple of jittery coughs provided the only break in the tense silence that followed the Vice President’s pronouncement. It was the Secretary of State who finally bestirred himself.

  “You can’t mean that,” Sharkey said. “You couldn’t sell Congress or the American people on a preventive war, let alone this Cabinet. It’s unthinkable. Diabolical.”

  “If the American people and Congress knew what was in this document,” Madigan proclaimed, “they’d demand a preventive war. You asked me for an alternative. You supply me with one, Mr. Sharkey. You hand me an alternative to letting our enemies strike the first blow, destroy at least part of our capacity to retaliate, and kill hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens in a surprise attack. Maybe millions. You tell me what choice this nation would make between certain victory and possible defeat.”

  “There is no such animal as a certain victor in an atomic war,” Sharkey said. “There is no guarantee that our armed forces could destroy China in one surprise attack. There still would be great danger of her own retaliation.”

  “The bastards wouldn’t be throwing as much at us if we did clobber them first,” Madigan said curtly. “Dammit, all I’m saying is that if war’s inevitable we must have the initiative or we could lose it. Isn’t that so, General Geiger? You military boys agree with me, don’t you?”

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs rose to his feet, impressive in stature and bearing, his gray hair reflecting like steel in the brightly lit room. “Mr. Vice President, while there are unquestionably high-ranking military personnel who’d buy the concept of a preventive war, I assure you, sir, I am unequivocally opposed to that concept as criminally insane. And I speak for the rest of the Joint Chiefs.”

  “It would be criminally insane to let the Communists hit first,” Madigan insisted. “General, let me ask you . . . haven’t you already prepared a list of priority targets within the Chinese mainland?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You have enough bombers and missiles to strike every one of these targets?”

  “We might not have enough to wipe out both China and Russia.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. We’re talking about China, not Russia.”

  “You can’t eliminate the Soviet Union,” Sharkey broke in. “The first nation that pushes the button for a limited atomic war stands an excellent chance of starting World War III. If we jumped China, Russia might—”

  “The Security Council says Russia probably would sit out a U.S.-Chinese war,” Madigan interrupted. “It’s down here right in this report.”

  “The Security Council’s analysis,” Sharkey said calmly, “is that Russia probably would remain aloof if China attacked us. It says nothing concerning the Soviet Union’s intentions if the United States pulled the trigger against China.”

  “I would assume,” the Vice President said positively, “that Russia’s intentions would be identical in either case. So I’ll ask General Geiger again, do we have enough hardware to hit every essential target in Red China in a single attack?”

  “It would depend on many unknown factors,” Geiger replied. “The efficiency of the Chinese anti-missile system, for example, of which we know comparatively little. If that system is halfway effective, we couldn’t complete the job in one attack. And that would mean exposure to retaliation, not only from the Chinese but from the Russians if they—”

  “Suppose you just give me a simple answer to a simple question, General,” Madigan said peevishly. “Do we have sufficient force to destroy all these priority targets in China? Never mind the ifs and buts. I want a yes or no.”

  “I can’t give you a yes or no reply,” Geiger said.

  “Please answer my question theoretically, then. In theory, provided all these super-cautious, hypothetical factors you cited did not come to pass, could we knock out China with one attack?”

  Geiger looked at Tobin, seeking support that was not forthcoming. The Defense Secretary was frowning unhappily, as if the weight of Madigan’s persistence was pressing down on his skull.

  “Theoretically,” the general said with sullen reluctance, “yes.”

  The Vice President leaned back in his chair with an air of total vindication. “I submit, gentlemen, that hitting our sworn enemies before they decide to hit us involves far less of a calculated risk than the prospect of having our own retaliatory power crippled before we ourselves can start punching. To put this in its simplest terms, we stand a far better chance of winning a war that’s certain to come if we seize the initiative, than if we wait for the enemy to surprise us. A better chance, with fewer casualties and less damage to our own people and facilities.”

  “It makes sense,” Harvey Brubaker said. He tossed a glance of admiration in Madigan’s direction and was rewarded by the Vice President’s tight, somewhat forced smile.

  “It makes no sense,” the Secretary of State said. “Mr. Vice President, assuming you’d call in the congressional leaders for consultation before deciding on such action, do you honestly believe you’d get their support?”

  “I would certainly weigh their views with great care,” Madigan said. “But in the end the decision must be that of the President, or should I say the Acting President. I would take full responsibility for that decision, Mr. Secretary. And I am confident that it would have the blessings of the American people.”

  “I am confident,” Sharkey said, “that you would go down with Adolf Hitler as the most irresponsible official in the history of any government. For God’s sake, man, you’d still have to get congressional approval for a declaration of war. And you can’t—”

  “As Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces,” Madigan intoned, “I have the authority to take whatever action I deem necessary for the security and safety of the United States. I don’t have to ask Congress for a declaration of war.”

  “You’d actually attack China without warning?” Sharkey asked incredulously.

  “This document, which Haines apparently didn’t think important enough for me to see, provides ample justification for our pulling the surprise instead of them. It’s either them or us, Mr. Sharkey. And if I have anything to say about it, it’s going to be them.”

  The car sped along U.S. 70S, past the Rockville and Gaithersburg exits. Damon found himself inspecting the landscape, a pleasant canvas of rolling farmland, gleaming white dairy farms and an Occasional tacky housing development interrupting the placid rustic scene like warts on an otherwise smooth complexi
on. He came abeam of Frederick and picked up U.S. 15. A sign, “Thurmont, 16 miles,” flashed by and Damon could not prevent his heart from pounding a little bit harder.

  The road narrowed to three lanes and then dwindled to two ribbons of asphalt. Ten miles beyond Frederick the Catoctin Mountains hove into view. It was not a high range but the mountains looked bigger than they actually were because of their proximity to the highway. They were topographical fleabites compared to, say, the Blue Ridge chain south of Washington. But at this distance they provided a scenic illusion of surprising grandeur.

  The car purred through the tiny town of Catoctin Furnace and Damon slowed down. He was almost to Thurmont when he spotted the road sign marked “State Rte 77.” He turned right and a few hundred yards past the turnoff he crossed a one-lane wooden bridge, his tires producing a resounding “clump-clump-clump.” This was where he expected to see the first Marine sentries, but there were none.

  He continued up a bumpy, winding road furnished with sufficient curves and dips to satisfy an inveterate lover of rollercoasters. Now he was at a ranger station and he remembered the sign that said, “Visitor’s Center.” No activity here either, and the first splinter of doubt sliced into his thoughts. He turned sharply to the right and headed up a smaller, narrower but still paved road for two miles, breaking to a stop at another sign reading “Camp 4.” Still no sentries. Hell, could Jonesy have been telling the truth?

  Camp 4 was Camp David’s general area, he knew. He turned right again, and through the foliage lining the gravel road, just beyond a posted warning, “Federal Property—No Trespassing,” he could see three rows of barbed-wire fencing. Jones had once told him the wire was electrified, not enough to kill but capable of stunning an intruder.

  There was the sentry box he remembered from that other visit, directly ahead of him. A small booth built out of logs, and alongside a long pole suspended above the road like a barrier at a railroad crossing. A lone Marine stepped out of the booth as Damon stopped the car and rolled down his window.