Condition B was called off long before Alexander came out of his coma. No H-missile attack had occurred, the unidentified objects never reappeared in the sky, and gradually the radar incident was forgotten. Alexander received a letter of recommendation and a boost to major from the Communications Command for his excellent handling of the riot-non-violence, judicious use of sedatives, and so forth. The station personnel were docked two months’ pay, and Julian Bahr was court-martialed out of the Army for striking an officer.
The court-martial was already over when Alexander regained consciousness. He pieced the story together later, when he got his promotion and new assignment to BURINF in New York. Bahr had refused counsel during the proceedings. He made no attempt to deny or refute the charges made by one of the lieutenants (who was soon promoted to captain for his excellent assistance to the investigating body), but sat silent throughout the trial, glaring at the Board of Officers with such open hatred and contempt that only consideration of the extreme circumstances saved him from Leavenworth.
Once out of the hospital Alexander had tried to reopen the case, but there was little official interest. Nothing Alexander could do, they had informed him, could influence the observed facts recorded on Bahr’s permanent Stability Record: that the man was contemptuous of authority and prone to violence, a dangerously unstable personality, and hence a serious Stability risk. Under the basic principles of the Vanner-Elling governmental system, this meant that Bahr would never be allowed to climb above a green-card position in any career he might choose, and that was that. Alexander never knew if Bahr had been informed of this, or whether he even cared.
And now, across the room from him, behind the glaring lights, was the same Julian Bahr, unquestionably a top lieutenant in DIA, the most powerful and mysterious of all governmental agencies, and Alexander wondered, wearily, who had slipped up, and where . . . .
“Now,” Bahr said, stepping around in front of him. “This nonsense has gone on long enough. We’ve given you every chance to help us.”
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Alexander protested. His heart began pounding suddenly as he saw one of Bahr’s men move a small sterile tray within his range of vision. The tray held two syringes and an alcohol sponge.
“You’re lying,” Bahr said. “We know that. We’ve considered the possibility that you may not be lying deliberately.”
“I’m not lying,” said Alexander.
“You’re afraid, aren’t you?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“But what are you afraid of? What are you hiding?” Bahr paused. “All right, start the recorder.”
Alexander had been straining forward against the restraining jacket; now he slumped back suddenly as the recorder began to hum.
“Your first name is Harvey?”
“Yes.”
“You hold the rank of major in . . . .”
“Army. Security Command.”
“Duty station Wildwood Power Project?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you held that post?”
“Six months.”
The routine questions, the endlessly routine questions, step by step, wearing him down. Alexander felt the fatigue and boredom slowing his pulse, blunting his responses.
“What security system was in force when you took command at Wildwood?”
“Standard Army, Class six.”
“Was that system still in effect last night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Alexander felt a sudden respiratory spasm. His pulse started to pound. “Because I ordered it changed.”
Bahr circled in front of him, confident of the shock he had registered. “What plan did you substitute?”
“A modified Bronstock plan.”
“You devised it?”
“Yes.”
“Without authorization?”
“I had the authority to do it,” Alexander said.
“Why did you change the security system?”
“I felt the old system was not good enough,” said Alexander. “Class six is next to no security at all.”
“And your plan was better, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
Bahr leaned down to him savagely. “But it didn’t work,” he said.
Alexander did not answer.
“Why did you change the security system?”
“I told you—”
“Was it blackmail?” Bahr snapped. “Or were you bribed? Did you try to stall us at the plant to hide your own tracks, or was the stall a part of the plan?”
“You’re out of your mind,” Alexander said.
“Didn’t you tell me last night that no U-metal was missing?”
“Yes.”
“Was the U-metal missing?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you try to prevent the investigating team from examining the plant?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tamper with the exit monitors?”
“No.”
“And the monitors would record any radioactive material passing out the gates?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know how the U-metal left the plant?”
“No.”
“Do you know the loopholes in your new security system?”
“There aren’t any loopholes.”
“You mean it’s absolutely flawless?”
“To the best of my knowledge.”
“But the U-metal was stolen.”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t that prove that your security system had loopholes?”
Alexander groped for a way out of the trap. His eyes were burning from the glare of the lamps; his mind wasn’t functioning properly. The gap between questions and answers widened as he fought to shore up his sluggish control.
“Well?” Bahr said.
“There were no loopholes.”
Bahr jerked a chair around in front of him, sat down very close, leaning his arms on the back of it as he faced Alexander. “What was your post before Wildwood, Major?”
“Bureau of Information, New York.”
“Your position there?”
“I was Director.”
“You didn’t like the work?”
“I liked it.”
“Then why aren’t you still there?”
Alexander’s hands clenched the chair arms. “It’s on the record, you can look it up.”
“I don’t have time to look it up. Why were you downgraded?”
Not downgraded, Alexander’s mind screamed. Re-evaluated. Reassigned. Too much pressure, they had said. Too much aggression breaking through. BURINF can’t risk any instability in its personnel, Major. You can understand that. The nation depends on BURINF for stability.
“There was a routine stability check,” he said hoarsely. “I was re-evaluated, and reassigned.”
A cold smile crossed Bahr’s face. “Your position in BURINF was an important one, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“It gave you considerable national prominence, considerable power?”
“Yes.”
“And then they dumped you in a sludge-pot like Wildwood.”
“They couldn’t do anything else,” Alexander protested. “I was getting shaky. The psych-men had no choice but to reassign me.”
“You mean you approved the reassignment?” Bahr said incredulously.
“No. I mean, I didn’t like it, but . . . .”
“Who bribed you, Major? What was the loophole in your security system at Wildwood?”
“There wasn’t any loophole.”
Bahr threw up his hands. “We’re getting nowhere. You admit your security system broke down. There must have been loopholes. You won’t tell us what they were. We’ll just have to stimulate your memory.” He pulled the syringe tray toward him.
“You can’t use that,” Alexander protested. “I have not been charged with any major crime or espionage. I have no legal counsel here. And only qualif
ied therapists in DEPCO can use drugs, after a case has been properly reviewed.”
“He’s right,” McEwen said wearily from the side of the room. “He’s on sound legal ground.”
Bahr turned to the older man. “This is an emergency, and you know it. The man is obviously lying.”
“We can’t help that.”
“Mac, Project Frisco itself may hang on the information he has. This is the first real break we’ve had . . . .”
“The law is the law, Julian,” McEwen said, “Project Frisco or no Project Frisco. You can’t deep-probe this man.”
Alexander felt like yelling with relief. Bahr’s eyes glittered, and for a moment his heavy, impassive face started to twist with rage. Then he shrugged.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re the boss. We’ll just hold him, and try to clear it through Washington. We’d better check the teletype and see if anything new has turned up.”
Together Bahr and McEwen started for the door. Bahr looked back, nodded to his assistants. “See that the major is taken care of,” he said.
When Bahr was gone they took off the pressure bandages, the per-plates and salivators, the respirator and the restraining jacket. A man began winding up the long spool of polygraph tape. For Alexander the relief was almost shock-like; some inner tension that had been holding him together began to give way, and he sagged weakly when he tried to stand up. One of Bahr’s serious-faced young men wheeled in a mobile stretcher and they lifted him onto it gently, in spite of his protests that he would be all right in a moment.
“Cigarette, Major?”
He nodded, inhaled gratefully. Like many people of ability and imagination who had battled feelings of guilt and insecurity all their lives, and had gained enough insight to recognize them for what they were, Harvey Alexander feared more than anything else the psychologically abhorrent process of having his brain picked by strangers. Now, having escaped it, he was almost dizzy with elation and departing fear, hardly noticing the skillful hands that were attending him, until he felt an itching in his nose, and went to scratch it.
His wrists were bound.
He strained and thrashed, and found his ankles strapped too. A huge light was being lowered from the ceiling. Above him, like serious, pale, eager-faced gargoyles, were Bahr’s young men.
He shook his head desperately, pleadingly as the amphetamine and curare needles were flashed before his eyes, and he was suddenly violently sick, bound and helpless.
There was a sudden sharp pain in his thigh, and hopelessly, he screamed.
Chapter Three
It was a break; to Julian Bahr there was no question of that, it was the break he had been waiting for since the very beginning of it eleven months before, and now, at last when there was something for him to grab hold of, John McEwen had decided to put on the brakes. It was at that moment that Julian Bahr made the decision he had known all along was coming: John McEwen was through.
“I don’t like it,” McEwen was saying now, deliberately avoiding Bahr’s eyes as the big man paced the DIA teletype room. “I don’t like any part of it. I’ve been liking it less and less, and this thing puts the lid on it. Julian, I’ve given you a free hand; I’ve backed you right from the start of this thing, but I can’t do it any more. We’re out of our depth. We’re dealing with something we can’t handle by ourselves . . .” His voice quavered and he spread his hands helplessly.
Bahr smashed his fist into the palm of his hand, trying to choke down the anger and impatience. He liked McEwen. In the early days of his DIA work he had liked him thoroughly, and felt a powerful obligation to this fatherly, impeccably honest older man who had salvaged him from the drunken, thwarted existence he had sunk into after his court-martial from the Army.
But McEwen had changed. Since the beginning of Project Frisco, Bahr had watched him crumbling, bit by bit, until it seemed incredible that this sick-looking creature could be the same man that he had known before.
Bahr remembered the morning five years before “when Libby had come to get him at his dingy third-story flat over the New Jersey waterfront. She had taken in the stacks of filthy dishes in the sink and the half-empty whiskey bottles on the floor at a glance, and with one disgusted shake of her head, started packing a bag for him. She got him sober with coffee and thiamin, and made him shower and shave. “Quickly,” she had urged. “We’re driving to Washington.”
Then she told him why.
“McEwen!” He sat bolt upright on the bed, staring at her. He had heard about the DIA . . . plenty and enough to make him stiffen with alarm. “What does he want with me?”
“He has a spot open. You’ve been recommended. An old friend of yours said you could fill it.”
“I don’t have any old friends.”
“You’d be surprised. And even if you didn’t, you’ve got a new one, whether you like it or not.” She had stared at him, pleading. “Julian, won’t you trust me this much? What are you going to do, just rot here? You’ve got to give this a chance.”
He had driven the girl’s sleek imported Sonata onto the Washington Speedway, pushing it up to 300 and flashing past the trucks and casual traffic. Libby had been tense at first; finally she relaxed and leaned her head against his shoulder. An hour later they rolled into McEwen’s parking channel. The very distinguished-looking DIA Director was there to greet them; and then, inside, grinning at the surprised and baffled look on his face, he saw Frank Carmine . . . .
There were others there, half a dozen of his closest friends from Fort Riley, veterans of the 801st and now high up in DIA. With McEwen, Bahr was stiff and reserved; then Libby got the director out of the room for a moment and he and Carmine began to pummel each other. The rest of the 801st boys joined in, and they were laughing and singing and more than a little drunk by the time Libby’s high heels came click-clicking down the hall at them.
Later, they had talked, and Bahr liked the way McEwen looked at him when he talked, and said what he meant without a lot of double-edged words. Gradually Bahr’s violent bitterness toward everything disciplined and governmental began to soften, and he would talk. “I’ve got a green card,” he said. “They gave me that after the court-martial. They told me I was dangerously unstable, and you know what that means these days when it comes to finding work.”
“I know,” McEwen had said. “Do you think that you’re unstable?”
“I’m like a rock,” Bahr said flatly.
“All right, then I don’t think we need to worry about your official Stability Rating too much. With a little pressure on DEPCO from this end, we can swing it. Anyway, you’ve got an inside track with your therapist.” He smiled at Libby.
“I can handle the details at DEPCO,” she had said. “If you’ll co-operate a little.”
“Hell, I’ll co-operate,” Bahr said.
They had shaken hands on it, and when he had Libby a safe distance away in the parking lot, Bahr had grabbed her and hugged her until she gasped. They drove back to New Jersey slowly, and he felt that the past was falling sharply away, the future bright before him.
After that, his rise in DIA had been no accident. With his bottomless energy, his genius for organizing, and his ability to command the fierce loyalty of the men around him, Bahr had forged the DIA into a rock of efficiency such as McEwen had only dreamed of. When Project Frisco arose, McEwen had dropped it in Bahr’s lap.
Something out of the ordinary had been going on. There was nothing tangible: a dozen tiny little incidents that nobody could explain, completely unrelated to each other, except that they did not fit any reasonable pattern of normal occurrence.
They had been nebulous things, at first: the theft of a commercial codebook reported from a San Francisco office; scattered unexplained radar pickups fanning across the midwest over six months time, without identification of target; the hijacking of a thermite truck on the New York-Chicago Expressway, followed a week later by six simultaneous thermite fires in a pattern over a hundred mile area, photographed by chanc
e by a passing jet liner; the disappearance, under questionable circumstances, of several dozen men in key scientific and government posts . . . .
No pattern, no relevance to the occurrences, but something was going on. The presence of any imponderable in the delicate social and economic machinery of the country under the Vanner-Elling eco-government was not tolerable. The balance of power between the Federation Americas in the West and the Sino-Soviet bloc in the East was far too treacherous to permit unexplained incidents to remain long unexplained. That balance had teetered once, in 1965, and the world still bore the scars of that brief, bitter war. After the violent economic crash that had engulfed the world in 1995, a different sort of balance had been forged, but still the balance was there.
It was clear that whatever was behind the occurrences had to be discovered. Project Frisco, under Julian Bahr’s diligent direction, had thrown the entire striking power of the DIA into a swift, silent search for a pattern behind the occurrences. And Project Frisco, until now, had failed.
For eleven months they had run up against a blank wall. A thousand leads traced down, led nowhere. A thousand blind alleys were carefully explored. No clue to the enemy’s intentions, nor even to the enemy’s identity. Only the constantly growing conviction that somewhere in the pattern, there was an enemy . . . .
And now, Wildwood. For the first time, a chink in the armor, a possible break . . . .
And John McEwen was afraid to go on.
“Listen to me, Mac,” Bahr said. “This is the time to move in, not the time to sit on the fence and worry. We’ve got something here at last that we can get our hands on. This major . . . .”
Weakly, McEwen shook his head. “The DIA has its limits, Julian. An atomic theft . . . this is out of our hands.”
The Invaders Are Comming! Page 4
