by John Boyd
“What is Operation Queen Swap, Mr. President?” Mr. Powers was pleading.
“Our military forces occupy Russia, Mr. Powers, while their military forces occupy the United States. Now, I’m going to call Premier Gregorovitch to ascertain, indirectly of course, if he is truly in control of the military apparatus in his country.”
“Mr. President,” Mr. Powers’ face had reddened visibly, “are you suggesting that we turn this country over to the Russians?”
“It’s more of an exchange of countries,” the President explained. “Both occupying armies can enforce conventional breeding by military means, and the head of neither state is then called upon to violate his country’s constitution.”
President Habersham turned back to his advisers from whom he had asked no advice. “If the premier is not aware that his embassy has been taken over by the monosexists, this will indicate that the Russian feminists are moving inward from an outer perimeter.”
“Sir,” Mr. Powers interrupted brusquely, “while we’re over there being subverted by their women, their men will be over here subverting our women.”
“At the moment, our interests are more fundamental. Mr. Cobb, will you call the premier.”
“If he picks up that phone, I’ll resign,” Mr. Powers said.
“Please reconsider, Mr. Powers. Mr. Pickens, will you turn on the conference switch. I wish to hear every word.”
Secretary Cobb spoke into the phone in Russian when a male voice answered. “He’ll be here, directly,” Mr. Cobb said.
“I resign,” said Mr. Powers.
“Please enunciate clearly, Mr. Cobb. Mr. Powers, since you won’t reconsider, your resignation is accepted. I’ll notify Disbursing to give you a full day’s pay.”
“When I get through with the press…” Mr. Powers began.
State interrupted. “I can hear his footsteps, sir. They seem steady.”
Defense turned on the conference switch and the voice of the Russian premier came into the room.
“Your pay stops at eleven forty-five, Washington time,” the President was saying, even as State commenced to translate.
“How are you, Mr. President, and how are things in Mexico and Canada?”
“Not good, Mr. Premier. Not good in Canada and worse in Mexico. How is Albania?”
“It was never good in Albania.”
“How are things in Moscow, Mr. Premier?”
“Mr. President, I am an old man, but a fire still smolders. The young girls, the beautiful young girls, walk through the Parks of Recreation and Culture, but they are for themselves. In Sevastopol, I have done much for Sevastopol, one would think that they would love me more in Sevastopol…”
State quit interpreting and said, “He seems to be wandering, sir.”
“Just interpret. State. Don’t editorialize,” the President snapped.
“I summer in Sevastopol…”
“After forty years in the bureau,” Mr. Powers said, “I…”
“Mr. Powers, you’re not supposed to be in this room. This is the War Room. Only officials of the government are permitted. Please close the door on your way out.”
Ashen-faced, Mr. Powers rose and staggered for the exit. Hansen thought the President rather abrupt in his dismissal of Mr. Powers, but this mild-mannered President was obviously mild in manner only. Hansen’s attention was drawn back to the flow of Russian and State’s interpreting.
“And the young girls look only at the flowers. They do not look at me, their premier. Mr. President, are you holding a conference?”
“No, Mr. Premier. I’m listening.”
“They have been debating in the supreme council, Mr. President, and they are not yet finished. The decision may not necessarily go in our favor, Mr. President, yours and mine.”
“It’s rather late for a meeting of the supreme council. It’s almost midnight in Moscow, isn’t it, Mr. Premier?”
“Yes, Mr. President. The shoudas are growing longer.
“What’s a shouda, State? Please interpret.”
“Shouda, suh. Thangs seen in daylaht except at hah noon.”
“Admiral, you interpret,” the President said. “Else, I’ll need an interpreter for the interpreter.”
Under stress, the President could be rough, Hansen realized, as the admiral took over, translating smoothly.
“But I do not hate them, Mr. President. My mother was a woman…”
Suddenly, the voice paused. Hansen thought he heard a sob, and when the voice returned he could sense its incredulity through the foreign language: “But their fathers were men.”
“Is he drunk?” the President whispered.
Primrose spat something in Russian, and the President barked, “I’m asking you, not him!”
“I’m asking him,” the admiral snapped back, “because he’s a tippler and he and I both know it.”
“He calls everyone comrade when he’s drunk,” State said.
“No, Mr. Cobb,” the voice of the premier came soddenly in English. “Not my wife.”
“I’m sorry, Ivan,” the Secretary of State said, in English.
“Let me talk!” the President shouted.
“Yes, I’m drunk with sadness,” the premier continued in Russian, “for the tears I cannot shed would create another Volga. But I don’t blame you, Mr. President. We treated them as equals over here, too. But they are not our equals. They are our…”
There was a loud report followed by sudden silence. As the men in the bunker looked at each other in surmise, the voice of a woman, lilting, speaking English with an Oxford accent, filled the room.
“Maria Katerinovna, h’yo! I am to inform you that the new premieress of all the Russias is Ailya Ailyanovna. Henceforward, would you direct communications through diplomatic channels. Our embassy in Washington will assist you in transmitting messages.”
There was a click and total silence.
“They shot him,” the President said.
“Sir,” Admiral Primrose said, “may I call your attention to the fact that ‘Ailya Ailyanovna’ means Ailya, the daughter of Ailya. They’ve removed the father’s name from the surnames.”
Helga might have been incorrect in assuming the movement was purely local, Hansen thought. Unless it was a coincidence, female attitudes were the same all over the world, for Joan Paula’s letter had said, “If we were logical, I would be Joan Paula Helgasdotter.”
The President stood up. “Gentlemen, the Sino-Russian bloc has fallen. Once more, the United States is the last great hope of earth, and the last great hope of the United States is the McCormick-Dubois ticket. Let us go and replay the tape.”
Following behind the President, they walked out of a War Room which was useless now, forever, except as a storage bin, but from force of habit, the Secretary of State locked the door.
Walking toward the elevator, the President remarked, “Such petty defiance. Mr. Powers left the door open.”
As they squeezed into the elevator. Defense turned to State. “Acworth, Dalton Lamar asked me to ask you to tender his resignation to the President. He has gone to hunt yeti.”
State turned to the President. “Mr. President, the Secretary of the Interior has resigned for urgent personal reasons.”
“Just when I need to worry about appointments least!”
Despite his turmoil, Hansen admired the calmness which permitted these men to observe the chain of command in a crowded elevator and after such terrifying news. Even so, he thought Mr. Powers had been rather shabbily treated by all present, and the President’s remark about the door had been unfair. If Mr. Powers had wished to spite the President, it would have been far more inconveniencing to leave the elevator topside rather than send it back down, as Mr. Powers had done. Leaving the door open had not been an act of defiance.
Hansen’s assumption was correct. Mr. Powers had never left the War Room. Nauseated by the President’s footsy-playing with the Reds, he had rushed to the lavatory. When the light went out and the door c
licked shut, Mr. Powers was locked in the War Room eighty feet beneath the White House. His only means of communication with the outside was a telephone to Soviet Russia.
CHAPTER 13
Upstairs, as they gathered in the office to play back the tapes, a red light glowed on the President’s desk console. He flicked on a switch and Mr. Powers’ voice came clearly into the room, “… directing you to call the President of the United States and tell him to check the basement.”
“One moment, Mr. Powers, the premieress would like a word with you.”
“Dear me, Mr. Powers.” The voice was lilting and friendly, without an accent. “Did they forget and lock you in the War Room?”
“That’s classified information. Who are you?”
“Ailya Ailyanovna, premieress of all the Russias. You knew me as Ailya Halapoff when you detailed John Pope to woo me.”
“Oh, yes. I recall. Pope always spoke highly of you.”
Hansen caught the significance of her remarks. The premieress was speaking to an old friend, off the record and informally. A security break of major proportions had been dropped into the President’s lap.
“He spoke highly of you, Mr. Powers.” Her voice grew suddenly gentle. “How is John?”
“John’s dead.”
“John Pope is dead? For heaven’s sake! How?”
“He was killed trying to make love to a gorilla.”
“My goodness! Where on earth did he find a gorilla?”
“It was a human gorilla. A goon.”
“A male?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That John Pope! He’d try anything. But you, Mr. Powers. You are calling me, asking me to deliver a message to your President, yet you often called me a Commie rat.”
“Well, you’re a friend of John Pope’s, and you understand. Miss Halapoff, that…”
“Premieress Ailyanovna, if you please, Mr. Powers.”
“Premieress Ailyanovna, you understand, there was nothing personal in my calling you a Commie rat.”
“Of course, I understand, Mr. Powers.” Her voice was low and gentle, almost motherly. “But, just a moment, Mr. Powers, I want you to hear something.”
There was a silence, and then a sound, far away and muffled, reminding Hansen of Brother Johannis’ alarm clock, and the voice returned, pleasant, cultivated.
“There! I’ve just executed the second squad of Company B, Second Platoon, of the Kremlin Guard. I had nothing personal against a single man in that squad, or in the whole company which has gone before.”
“Are you telling me, Premieress, that you’ve overthrown the Reds?”
“Definitely.”
“Russia is not Red anymore?”
“Except in spots, Mr. Powers. The Kremlin courtyard, for instance. Males are being liquidated to conserve grain better fed to pigs. For that reason, I must let you starve, Mr. Powers.”
“Now, hold on, Premieress. If Mother Carey wins this election, you and she are going to be at sword’s point, and I’ve dug up a lot of dirt on Mother Carey.”
“Mr. Powers, I am a friend of Mother Carey.”
“What about her opposition? They’re going to run McCormick and Senator Dubois against her. McCormick hasn’t been around long enough, but I’ve got plenty on Dubois. Premieress Ailyanovna, I’ve got two dossiers on Dubois. He’s pushing Medicare for unwed mothers because he’s got seventeen illegitimate children, and, get this, Premieress, he’s not a Negro. Now, I’m not blowing smoke, Premieress. He’s not a Negro, and I’ve got documented evidence on him in the secret files.”
The President leaned over and picked up the red phone.
“Mr. Powers, Admiral Primrose and Captain Hansen will be down to release you. Thank you, Premieress.”
When the director, still pale from his ordeal, stood before the President, the President poured him a bourbon and water.
“Mr. Powers, through an incredible juxtaposition of events, you were thrown into a classical position of vulnerability to the Communist brainwashing technique. The woman recognized it immediately. You were alone, without friends, stripped of your dignity and self-respect, impotent, and completely dependent upon her. It was an ordeal few men are called upon to experience in the whole of history. Here, this drink will help you recover your composure.”
Mr. Powers had to hold the glass with both hands to keep it from sloshing, but he managed to get the drink down in a series of gulps.
“President Habersham, I was scared down there in that hole. I’ve got this touch of claustrophobia, and I’m afraid of rats because when I was little we lived in a tenement in Boston and my father used to punish me by locking me in a closet where the rats came and I was frightened of rats because my baby sister had been killed by them and her face half-eaten off in her crib, and my mother just gave up and died when that happened and I was eight and I couldn’t understand it when they put her in that hole because we’re Catholics and don’t believe in cremation, and so I could never marry because I couldn’t bear loving anyone I knew would die and be buried in a hole because I loved my mother and I love the bureau because it won’t die, but I didn’t have the bureau anymore when I was fired and I was down there in that dark hole and I have this touch of claustrophobia—but I told you about that—and those rat thoughts kept coming out of the dark and I was dying in a hole where the rats were and I wouldn’t have told that woman anything but her voice seemed so sweet and gentle and it was the only thing I had to hang onto and I didn’t want her to hang up and leave me down there alone in that hole and I would have drained the Potomac for her if she didn’t hang up because I have this little touch of claustro…”
“Now, now, Mr. Powers,” the President said, “I’m not going to let anyone put you back in that hole, and I’m not going to let any rats bother you because you are an outstanding American patriot, and it’s not dishonorable to be frightened. You are in a room filled with terrified men, and we are turning to you for help. I’m asking you, Mr. Powers, not to resign as our director because the country needs you.”
Strangely, the President was speaking in a low monotone which seemed to help Mr. Powers get a grip on himself. But Powers spoke, suddenly. “She has taken my conspiracy, Mr. President. That woman has taken my Red conspiracy.”
“There is no end to conspiracies, Mr. Powers,” the President soothed him. “Dr. Carey has given you a nice sex conspiracy. And we are depending on you, Mr. Powers, to unearth this lethal technique they used to make Mr. Pope so rigid in death. You and I had our little policy disagreement over Operation Queen Swap, but that has been settled in your favor. So I’m asking you to stay on as director because I need your administrative genius and your abilities as a detective. Now, you’ll stay on for me, won’t you, Mr. Powers? Because I’m your friend and your friend needs you.”
“Mr. President,” Mr. Powers said, “I’ll do anything you ask, and I’ll serve as director as long as I live.”
Mr. Powers was so touched by the President’s kindness that he was weeping.
“Your emotional condition, Mr. Powers, is understandable, but try to control your tears. This tape of your conversation with the premieress could cause great harm to the image of the bureau, so I think it should be safeguarded in your secret files. Don’t you agree, Mr. Powers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, your indiscretion has compromised our Vice Presidential candidate, and we Democrats are pledged to support Senator Dubois. However, there are four Republican senators who form a majority of the nominating committee. Will you give Mr. Powers a list of their names, Mr. Culpepper? If we knew more about these gentlemen, their hobbies and interests, perhaps we might persuade them that it is against the national interest to vote for Senator Dubois. If your information becomes public, our ticket would lose the Negro vote.”
Culpepper handed Mr. Powers the list, and the President shoved the telephone across his desk to the director. “Mr. Powers, would you do this for me: Would you call your dossier clerk. Sena
te Division, and have him send me these four dossiers over immediately, by special messenger?”
“Mr. President, I love you. I’d do anything for you.”
It was the most amazing example of compassion in high places Hansen had ever witnessed. After the dossiers were delivered and Mr. Powers left with the tape, the President continued in his praise. “Mr. Powers is an administrative genius who communicates his zeal. Every man in his organization has a hatred of rats.”
“Didn’t he know that the hot line was officially monitored?” State asked.
“He had been told, but he did not believe,” the President said, “so the hot line is, also, unofficially monitored. In his very understandable panic, Mr. Powers forgot that, too.”
Oglethorpe Pickens must have had a premonition, for he said, “He who lives by the tap will die by the tap.” Then he lifted his glass. “To the soul of Mr. Powers. May God in Her mercy grant him conspiracies of angels.”
CHAPTER 14
If a man had a taste for madness, Naval Plans and Operations was interesting work, and Hansen was cultivating the taste by osmosis. During his four-day leave, he moved his family to a rented house in Georgetown and resumed his new tour of duty with such gusto that he began to bring some of his projects home with him.
Helga had been rather pleased by the manner in which the Russian women had given comeuppance to a High Command which had attempted to seduce them, but Hansen was pleased for a different reason—Russia was eliminated as a nuclear threat. Against such a background his own planning seemed pointless, but orders were orders.
Primrose assigned him targets by geographical areas which amounted, in many instances, to one bomb per state. Arizona was easy to nuke. Oregon presented problems with its conifers, deciduous trees, mountains, and eastern grasslands.
Helga, who had a talent for plans and operations, lent a hand with his homework. She could whip out a slide rule and figure a math problem faster than a computer, and she devised a rule of thumb for the optimum blast altitude of a nuclear device of any given megatonnage, which got a lot of comment around the office. Name her a state and she could adjust for the flash point of green deciduous wood and snap right back with the optimum altitude. Once the flash point of hardwood in May was reached, conifers and grass went along for the ride.
