by John Boyd
Somewhat befuddled, the chief rolled down his trouser leg and stood up.
“Stand by in the passageway. Chief,” the captain said, “I want to talk to you, later.”
After the chief stepped out, the captain asked, “Weren’t you reading too much into the Babinski reflex, Doctor?”
“That was a joke, Captain. He pulled my leg. I punched his.”
“Then he could have been lying?”
“Absolutely! But my questions were cross-keyed to establish median attitudes and motives. For my purposes, a lie consistently adhered to becomes a truth… Now, Captain, would you witness an official act?”
“Certainly, Doctor.”
Gresham removed from his briefcase a bright-red folder with TOP SECRET Stamped across its face. Using a plastic ruler, he connected the dots he had made on the graph paper with a black line which zigzagged down the page. “That’s McCormick,” he said, laying the clipboard face up on the desk. He unzipped the red folder. “This little baby you’re going to look at has a security rating a few grades lower than nerve gas. Believe me. Captain, this doll is a triumph of cybernetics, psychology, and literary research. Observe Lothario X, profile of the perfect lover. Pure sex appeal!”
To Hansen, Lothario X was just another squiggly line, this one on a sheet of lucite.
“This profile. Captain, is synthesized from the reconstructed profiles of the Marquis de Sade, on the one hand, and Saint Francis of Assisi, on the other. It matches, incidentally, the reconstructed profiles of Casanova, Rubirosa, and Willie Jefferson. It inspired the first practical utilization of a computer-stored bibliography in researching memoirs and private letters.”
“Do you think McCormick lied about the girl, Doctor?”
“I tend to think not, but you can’t be sure without an affidavit from his paramour, and she might be lying… Now, Captain, we shall test this little baby empirically.”
“What do you mean?”
“If McCormick’s profile matches the chart, we consider that as evidence that the chart is valid.”
“What if they’re both wrong?”
“Ah, a good question. But we’re testing the chart against a known lover. If the pragmatic and the theoretical coincide, the coincidence is too improbable to be coincidental. Ergo, we will have found the perfect lover.”
“If so, then what?”
“My theory is that they want to use him in a Navy training film.”
“To teach sex appeal?” the captain asked.
“Why not? Now, observe, Captain. These holes in McCormick are register marks. I slide them over the spindles, thusly. Next, I take Lothario X, printed on lucite to permit us to watch McCormick, beneath. Now, carefully, carefully, I lower Lothario X… Holy, jumping Jesus! Captain, look at that little darling!”
Profanity was forbidden in officers’ country, and the captain’s quarters were the citadel of that country, but Hansen’s irritation vanished when he looked down at the profile overlaying McCormick’s. The squiggles were so matched that the lines of McCormick were completely hidden by the lines of Lothario X. “That’s my boy, Doctor! That’s my boy!”
Captain Hansen turned to congratulate Commander Morris Gresham, MD, USNR, but Gresham was grabbing the board and stuffing it into his briefcase with his pipe, tobacco, and rubber hammer. “Incredible. Fantastic!” Snapping shut the case, he turned to Hansen. “Captain, I feel like… stout Cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific—silent, upon a peak in Darien.”
“There aren’t any peaks in Darien,” the captain said, but he was talking to the back of the little man who was slithering through the doorway.
Pleased though he was, Hansen was aware that being in on the making of medical history did not hoist “execute” over his orders from the admiral. Truth might be relative for Gresham, but Admiral Darnell wanted facts concerning McCormick’s story. If there was no way to uncover them short of an affidavit from the girl, then he would personally appeal to the girl’s patriotism to get the affidavit. “Orderly, send McCormick in.”
When McCormick entered, the captain said, “Well, Chief, what do you think of all this?”
“He looked a little fag to me. Captain… excuse me, sir. I guess I got a hangover from that interview.”
McCormick’s answer was a breach of naval etiquette.
Enlisted men did not criticize officers to other officers, but the ties which bound the captain to the chief, two saltwater sailors of the regular Navy, were stronger than the fluff which linked the captain with the displaced Beverly Hills couchmaster. Hansen let the remark pass with a mild reprimand. “In his own profession, he’s probably adequate, although I have to admit he had a blind spot—he was surprised that we had a telephone to the quarterdeck… But I have a problem: how can we prove that the young lady had relations with you short of asking her to sign an affidavit?”
“Captain, if they’re on strike, her signing something would be admitting she’s a scab.”
“Yes, but we’ve got to get something for the bureau.” Hansen tapped his finger on the desk top thoughtfully. “Something on record.” Telephone. Record. The ideas clicked in his mind. “Chief, would you agree to calling the girl on a conference hookup and letting me eavesdrop just long enough to write my own affidavit?”
“Why, Captain Hansen, that’d do it right nice. I promised to call her, anyhow.”
Outside the telephone booths of the world, Hansen had heard the conversation which followed many times, but listening to both ends gave the call a different dimension.
“Hello, Thelma.”
“Mac, you beast! You woke me up.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I thought you sounded sleepy.”
“After last night, darling, I’m bushed,” the voice purred. “You were more fun than a V-bomb.”
Quickly, Hansen clicked off the conference speaker. He had heard enough. After McCormick had finished the conversation by arranging another date for tomorrow night, Hansen asked, “What did she mean by V-bomb?”
“That’s just a slang thing, Captain. Thelma’s real ladylike with her language. She says v because she don’t want to say ‘vagina.’ ”
“Strange,” the captain mused, “there was an old German rocket called the V-bomb. But the v stood for ‘vengeance.’ Very well. Chief. Thank you, and carry on.”
Hansen felt a vague disquiet as he reached for the phone to dial the Pentagon. V-bombs had been launched from launching pads, and the sign above Joan Paula’s bed had designated it as a launching pad. No, he caught himself. Thelma’s v means vagina, and his daughter was a typical American teenager. J. P. would not indulge in vulgarities. “This is Captain Hansen of the USS Chattahoochee. May I speak to Captain Arnold?”
“Th’nk yo.”
“Harvey, it’s Ben. I checked out McCormick’s story…”
“You’re a little late hoisting ‘execute,’ Ben. The reservist medical officer has already telestated the profile to the admiral and it’s being evaluated.”
“Commend Gresham for me,” the captain said, “but if McCormick’s story is a lie, of what value is the profile?”
Arnold’s voice oozed officiousness. “Well, now, Ben, the way we’ve got the matter plotted in the bureau, it’s almost academic whether…”
Suddenly the operator broke into the line. “Captain Hansen, I have a top-priority call for you.”
“I’ll take it, operator.”
“Ben, call me back if any…”
With acute pleasure, Hansen clicked Arnold off.
He did not recognize the new voice on the line, but he recognized its authority. “Captain Hansen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Darnell of Personnel. Get that chief of yours into civvies. The Norfolk Navy Yard’s vertake is standing by to bring you both to the Anacostia Heliport. Both of you will be assigned quarters overnight. Wait in the foyer of the PX at Anacostia, where you’ll be met at 1530, by Admiral Meriweather Primrose.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
After the click, Hansen hung up, thinking: another improbability. But this one was improbable even in a context of improbabilities. By now Helga had probably left for Anne Johnson’s, so he would have to call Joan Paula and tell her why he would not be home for dinner. Helga was a Navy wife and she would know that whatever had called him to Washington was very big. Admiral Meriweather “Sug” (short for Sugar) Primrose was not merely Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Primrose was also Chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
CHAPTER 4
In the foyer of the post exchange, Captain Hansen waited with McCormick as shoppers hurried in from the misting rain or left with spreading umbrellas. Three-fourths of the crowd were women, standard for a weekday, and the service couples seemed happy enough. Some of the women even cast sidelong glances at the chief, but irregularities in female conduct concerned Hansen less than the tardiness of Admiral Primrose, whose entourage was no doubt delayed by dampened streets. Thinking in terms of limousines, Hansen failed to notice the battered station wagon pull up at the curb until a wizened old fellow in heavy-weather gear got out, a nor’wester flopping around his face, and approached. “Excuse me, sir. Would your name happen to be Hansen?”
“Yes,” the captain answered.
“Don’t come to attention and don’t salute. I’m Primrose.”
Small, pink-faced, with bushy eyebrows that almost met above pale-blue eyes, creased on the side by sun squints, the man Hansen shook hands with reminded him more of an undernourished Santa Claus than the top admiral in the fleet. “This is Chief McCormick, Admiral.”
“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen, but I got caught in the turning circle and couldn’t navigate to the curb. I hope you weren’t inconvenienced by the rain.”
“We came equipped for heavy weather, sir. From Admiral Darnell’s words, I assume we have a national emergency on hand.”
In a most congenial manner, the little admiral stepped between them, took their arms, and guided them toward the station wagon. “That’s the second-biggest understatement you’ll hear today, gentlemen. I’m about to utter the first: I am the world’s worst driver.”
The admiral spoke truly. Without a hand salute to the boulevard stop, he pulled onto the street into the path of an oncoming taxi whose driver slammed on the brakes and sent the vehicle into a flat-out spin on the slippery pavement. When the admiral swung left toward the bridge, he was using the center line as a guide-on, and oncoming traffic veered to avoid him. Dying horn blasts and curses nubbed by the Doppler effect forced him back into his lane, but he swerved so quickly that a teenager who gambled his jalopy on a quick roll past him in the outside lane almost crapped out. Far behind them, cars slowed to a crawl, apparently figuring the admiral for a quick reverse. In his panic, Hansen blurted, “Is this woman thing a Red conspiracy, Admiral?”
“You’ll be briefed on the background—Watch it, lady!—but it’s every man to his own interpretation, really. Mr. Powers, of the FBI, thinks fellow travelers are involved—Ti yabot, bazhalista! Curse them in Russian, Captain; that confuses them—but I don’t think so. I spent two years at our Moscow embassy.”
“Right, Admiral!”
As the admiral swerved, he continued. “The Reds couldn’t come up with this one. It’s all woman. Confidentially, we’re at a military stalemate with the Russians. We can overkill the Russians forty-eight times and they can overkill us thirty-six times. We have the advantage, but we’d have to be ghosts to exploit it.”
“Then why the secrecy, sir?”
“For the girls,” the admiral said. “If they figure we’re planning anything, they might speed up their operation.”
Primrose roared over the river and under the mall, skittered up the freeway exit and whirled into downtown Washington at freeway speeds. A panel truck emerged from an alley, the driver misjudging the admiral’s speed, and the admiral slammed on the brakes, slewing the station wagon into the alley. “Well, if you insist,” he said to his vehicle, “we’ll take a short cut,” and he continued driving the wrong way through the alley. Again on a boulevard, he straddled the white line.
“Admiral, sir,” the chief said, “please let me drive. The Navy can’t afford to lose both you and the captain.”
“Nonsense, Chief. You’re worth more to the nation than all the joint chiefs.”
“Then, sir, if I outrank you, I’ll take the con.”
“Very well,” the admiral seemed vexed, “if you wish to pull rank on me.” He slammed the station wagon to a halt, jumped out, and scooted around.
“Where to, sir?” the chief asked, easing himself under the wheel.
“The White House executive office.”
“Where’s that, sir?”
“You volunteered for the job!” The admiral’s voice was a high, incredulous whine. “Oh, very well! Go down yonder and turn left.”
With the chief under the wheel, the captain was able to relax, physically, but inner tension grew as he listened to the admiral. “We’ve got the Russians computed. Trouble with women, they don’t compute. Of course, they have this New Logic, but my analysis of New Logic shows that it applies only to their consideration of men.”
Somehow the admiral’s remarks seemed ominous against his memory of Helga’s recapped figures of Johnson’s worth—Ralph Johnson’s. He had thought something was missing in her conversation, compassion, concern, surprise, but it might well be something had been added—logic. “We’re going to defeat them with their own weapon,” the admiral continued. “Intuitive thinking! We’re going to take off at tangents, weave and squirm, and come up with creative solutions.”
Somehow it seemed to Hansen that the admiral was practicing what he was beginning to preach as Primrose veered from his subject. “Of course, we’re handicapped by formal educations. Social adjustment’s all that’s taught. At Annapolis we called it military discipline. Dewey, James, and Freud, the three horsemen of our eclipse, to borrow the words of a priest I know. Now, at Saint Cyr…” With growing unease and awe, Hansen listened as the admiral named by name French professors he’d like to invite to Annapolis, revised the curriculum at the academy, quoted Lin Piao and Mao on the subject of the Chinese character. “We could learn a lot from scarabs,” he concluded.
“Arabs, sir?”
“No, scarabs. Entymology’s a hobby of mine. Your budding officer. Navy, Army, or Airforce, could learn a lot from entymology. Better than a survival course. Grasshoppers make good eating. Some snails.”
He mentioned scarabs at Eighth Street, and McCormick was angling onto Independence before Hansen realized that entymology was the study of insects. If this was the variety of mind it took to fly an admiral’s flag, Hansen decided he’d better start looking for a good cold-water detergent to wash his third repeater in because he would be flying it for a long, long time.
“But, by all means,” the admiral continued, “we should teach diplomacy. In this business, you don’t merely find solutions, you find compatible solutions. My solutions have to satisfy doves, hawks, and dawks.
“Let’s consider the problem before us this afternoon. President Habersham is a dove, with his wings clipped by constitutional law. Cobb, of State, is a hawk tethered by Southern gallantry. State’s best friend is Dalton Lamar, Interior. That boy’s an eagle, but State keeps him in line with the doves. Oglethorpe Pickens, the boy Secretary of Defense, is a hawk. Now, Dr. Drexel, of Health, Education, and Welfare, went to SMU, but that isn’t why they call him a Mustang. Axminister Farnsworth—Can you imagine wasting a name like that on an attorney general?—votes with the President; he was Habersham’s student at Arkansas. Powers of the FBI goes along with Farnsworth, or vice versa. Frumenti, of course, is Labor, and he’s a peregrine falcon. He hails from California. The newspapers were claiming sectionalism in the Presidential cabinet, so Habersham brought in one Northerner.”
“I thought California was out West, sir,” the chief said.
“Technically, you’re correct—Turn right at the next corner—but
all who are not Southerners are Northerners. Incidentally, Senator Dubois will be present. The Veep’s in Puerto Rico on a goodwill jaunt. Defer to Dubois. He’s majority leader, a Republican from Louisiana. He claims to be a Negro—one-sixteenth qualifies you in Louisiana—but I think he’s suffering from terminal satyriasis. Next to the President, Dubois is key man in Operation Chicken Pluck.”
“Operation Chicken Pluck?”
“Up to now, the operation has been top secret, but I’m springing it at this cabinet meeting—Park there. Chief. The President’s assistant, Amos Culpepper, will brief you on the reasons for this meeting. Culpepper has a marvelous knack for simplifying complex subjects—Here we are, gentlemen—but I think history has a way of preparing us for these things. For instance, Johnson’s credibility gap taught us to stretch our imaginations.”
As Hansen emerged from the station wagon, he was almost positive that the admiral was referring to Lyndon Johnson, but he was wary. “Yes, sir,” the captain agreed. “In my own mind, I’ve been stretching the bounds of probabilities to include the improbable.”
“Excellent. Now, gentlemen, both of you must be prepared to accept the incredible. But you’re both Navy. Remember, brave hand in the foray, cool council in cumber.”
Even though Captain Hansen was braced against improbabilities, Amos Culpepper almost delivered the coup de grâce. Behind a huge and completely bare desk, Culpepper’s pink face formed a perfect circle, and his black hair was brushed straight back without a part. Any man concerned with his appearance would have broken the circle by fluffing the hair, but Culpepper had added a pair of pince-nez spectacles as thick as the bottoms of beer bottles and of such magnifying power that they turned his eyes into two pale-blue circles floating out from the center of the larger circle.
“Gentlemen, you wish to know why you are here. First, I would like to ask a question: Are you Christians?”
