“No, it’s not, Abul. It’s perfect.… I’ll be in touch, I gotta take a steam.”
Warren Pease, Secretary of State, was beside himself, in the outer extremes of anxiety. His left eye was at the moment uncontrollable, racing back and forth like a laser blip trying to center in on an elusive target. “What do you mean you can’t find General Ethelred Brokemichael?” he shouted into the telephone. “He’s under my orders—strike that—he’s under the orders of the President of the United States, who expects him to report to this max-classified phone number, which I have now given you at least a dozen times! How long do you expect the President of the United States to wait for a lousy brigadier general, huh?”
“We’re doing the best we can, sir,” said the frightened, exhausted voice from Fort Benning. “We can’t produce what isn’t here.”
“Have you sent out search teams?”
“To every movie theater and restaurant from Cuthbert to Columbus to Hot Springs. We’ve checked his logs, his outgoing calls—”
“Anything there?”
“Nothing productive, but certainly unusual. General Brokemichael placed twenty-seven calls to a hotel in Boston over a two-and-a-half-hour period. Naturally we reached the hotel and asked whether the general had left any messages—”
“Jesus, you didn’t say who you were, did you?”
“Only that it was official government business, nothing specific.”
“And?”
“They just laughed at the name—on four separate occasions. We were assured he wasn’t there and that they’d never heard of him—if such a person with that name existed.”
“Keep looking!” Pease slammed the phone down on his console, got up from his desk, and began pacing angrily about his office in the State Department. What had that damn fool Brokemichael done, where had he gone? How dare he vanish into the military-intelligence woodwork, where there were more cracks and knotholes than in the whole Sequoia National Park! What was he thinking of that permitted him to cut himself off from the Secretary of State?… Maybe he died, thought Pease.… No, that wouldn’t help and might only complicate matters—still, if anything had gone wrong, there was nothing to link him to the eccentric general who had created the lethal machine that was the Suicidal Six. Warren had arrived at the army base with the proper papers, of course, but they were not in his name, and besides, he had worn a short red toupee that covered his thinning hair. As far as the Fort Benning entry and departure logs were concerned, a nondescript lower level accountant from the Pentagon had dropped in to pay his respects to the general.… The red toupee, considered Pease, was really a stroke of genius, as even the political cartoonists made a point of his receding hairline. Where was that son of a bitch?”
The telephone console interrupted his thoughts; he ran to it, seeing that three lines were lighted, then suddenly a fourth. He punched his secretary’s blinking button and picked up the phone, hoping to hear the words “Fort Benning calling on the relay!” His hopes, however, were dashed when after nearly thirty agonizing seconds, the bitch coolly informed him, “You have three, now four, calls that I can only describe as being of a personal nature, Mr. Secretary, as none cares to describe his business and I don’t recognize the names—such as they are.”
“What are they?”
“Bricky, Froggie, Moose, and—”
“All right, all right,” broke in Warren, not only confused but furious. They were, to a man, his social associates—social and then some—from the Fawning Hill Country Club! They were never to call him at his office, that was bible! But, of course, they were not calling; “Bricky,” “Froggie,” “Moose,” and undoubtedly “Doozie” had placed the calls. What in God’s name had happened now that caused them all to reach him? “I’ll take them in sequence, Mother Tyrania,” he said, slapping his head to still his stressed left eye.
“I’m not Tyrania, Mr. Secretary. I’m her youngest daughter, Andromeda Trueheart.”
“Are you new?”
“As of yesterday, sir. The family felt that at the moment you needed extremely efficient service, and Mother’s on vacation in Beirut.”
“Really?” Visions of garter belts filled what air space was left in Pease’s imagination. “You’re the youngest daughter …?”
“Your calls, sir.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll start with the first—‘Bricky,’ right?”
“Right, Mr. Secretary. I’ll tell the others to hold.”
“Bricky, what are you doing calling me here?”
“You old fox, Peasie,” said Bricky, the New England banker, oozing subterranean charm. “I’m going to make you the most honored alumnus at our class reunion.”
“I thought you said I couldn’t go.”
“That’s all changed, naturally. I had no idea what that incredible mind of yours was conjuring up. You’re a credit to our class, old chum.… I won’t keep you, I know you’re busy, but if you ever need a loan, the amount no object, just pick up the phone. Talk soon and let’s have lunch—on me, of course.”
“Froggie, what the hell is going on? I just heard from Bricky—”
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, you Midas incarnate, old sport, and certainly not on this phone,” replied the blond-haired cynic from Fawning Hill. “We’ve all talked, and I want you to know that Daphne and I hope you and your dear wife will be our guests at the Debutantes’ Cotillion in Fairfax next month. You’ll be the guest of honor, of course.”
“I will?”
“Naturally. Can’t do enough for one of our own, can we?”
“That’s very kind—”
“Kind? The incredible kindness is yours, sport. You’re simply mahvullous! Be in touch.”
“Moose, will you please tell me—”
“Goddamn, Pisser, you can play at my club anytime you like!” cried the president of Petrotoxic Amalgamated. “Forget what this dumb jackass said before, it’d be a privilege to swing a six iron with you.”
“I really don’t understand—”
“Sure in hell you do, and I sure in hell know why you can’t talk. Just let me say, my old good buddy-frat tie, you’re number one in my social register, never forget it.… Gotta go; just appointed myself chairman of the board, but if you want the job, it’s yours.”
• • •
“Doozie, I’ve just spoken with Bricky, Froggie, and Moose, and I must say I’m bewildered.”
“I understand, old chummy-chum-chum. There are people in your office, right? Just say ‘yes,’ and I’ll speak accordingly.”
“I say ‘no,’ and you can say whatever you like!”
“What about taps on your phone?”
“Absolutely prohibited. The office is ‘swept’ every morning, and lead shields are externally positioned to block electronic surveillance.”
“Good-o, chummy, you’ve really got a hold on things down there.”
“Actually, it’s standard procedure.… Doozie, what the hell is going on?”
“Are you testing me, Pisser?”
The Secretary of State paused; since nothing else seemed to work, perhaps this was the way to go. “Maybe I am, Doozie. Maybe I want to make sure you all understand.”
“Let’s put it this way, Mr. Secretary, old boy. You are the most creative thinker our crowd has put forth since we crushed the unions in the twenties. And you’ve done it through sheer imagination, not a shot fired against a rotten socialist or a left-wing congressman!”
“I must press you, Doozie,” said a stunned Warren Pease haltingly as the perspiration formed on his receding hairline. “How exactly have I done that?”
“The UFOs!” exclaimed Doozie. “As that socially unacceptable Ivan Salamander put it—very confidentially, of course—we’ll now have to arm the entire world! Brilliant, Pisser, absolutely brilliant!”
“UFOs? What are you talking about?”
“Top-drawer, chum, really top-drawer.”
“UFOs …? Oh, my God!”
The Rockwe
ll jet carrying the Hawk landed at the airport in Manchester, New Hampshire, roughly ten miles south of Hooksett. The decision to bypass Boston and fly directly to Manchester had been Sam Devereaux’s, his reasoning being that Mac had been picked up previously by someone’s surveillance at Logan and it could happen again, so why chance the risk? Also, things were coming to a fast boil, and if an hour or two of driving could be saved, do it. Mac’s next move was to diffuse the Suicidal Six, who, according to Desi the First, were in total disrepair, thanks to Desi the Second’s culinary talents; the rest was up to the Hawk’s persuasive powers.
Paddy Lafferty, his chest bursting with pride and hero worship, picked up the general in the Pinkus limousine and, wonder of wonders, the great man himself chose once again to sit in front with Paddy.
“Tell me, Gunny,” said the Hawk as they sped north toward Hooksett, “what do you know about actors, I mean real ones?”
“Outside of Sir Henry, not a hell of a lot, General.”
“Well, he’s kinda special, I gather; he’s got a track record. What about the ones who don’t?”
“From everything I’ve read in the papers and them magazines that Mrs. Pinkus leaves in the car, they’re all waitin’ to be discovered so they can get track records. Maybe that’s not so bright, but it’s what I figure.”
“It’s very bright, Paddy. That’s the answer.”
“To what, sir?”
“To get certain people to change their minds without thinking too much.”
Eight minutes later the Hawk walked into the ski lodge. It was a bright summer’s afternoon, and Desi-Two had just served a very late brunch; the results were all too apparent. The lethal members of Suicidal Six were as close to zombie-land as corpses were to coffins. They sat around the lounge staring into their own personal horizons as upright dead fish might on a New Bedford dock. The single exception was Sir Henry Irving Sutton, who had obviously been around that block several times before, and was as disgustingly alive as a cawing black crow intruding on a massive collective hangover.
“Come, gentlemen!” cried Sir Henry, gently slapping several faces and prodding rib cages as he walked around the room. “Our multidecorated general from the North African campaign has come to speak with us!”
“Well said, Major,” said the Hawk approvingly. “I won’t take up much of your time, men, just enough to bring you up to date.”
“To date?”
“What date?”
“You got a date, Marlon?”
“I don’t know what he means.”
“Who is he?”
“Give him a lollipop, baby.”
One by one, the wide eyes of six intrepid fish focused on Hawkins, who walked to the staircase, climbed two steps, and addressed the members of the antiterrorist unit. “Gentlemen,” he began in his best stentorian tradition, “and you are gentlemen, as well as outstanding performers and soldiers, my name is Hawkins, MacKenzie Hawkins, the retired general who you were sent out to find and take into custody.”
“My God, it is!”
“He looks like the photographs—”
“Somebody move …!”
“Forget it.”
“My legs won’t work, pilgrim.”
“Hold it, men!” exclaimed the Hawk. “Although I don’t think that order’s really necessary, from what I can see before me.… I’ve just returned from Benning, having conferred with my good friend and long-time comrade in arms, General Ethelred Brokemichael, your commander. He sends you his congratulations for another job well done, along with new and concise instructions.… This mission is canceled, aborted, dropped into a shredder.”
“Whoa, pilgrim!” said The Duke, rapping his knees to no effect. “Who says so?”
“General Brokemichael.”
“Why doesn’t he call us—us—us himself, himself, himself?”
“You must be that Dusty fella.”
“I’m not, ya motha!” said Sly menacingly. “You stand there like a poor excuse for Rosencrantz at Elsinore, but why and how come and for what reason should we believe you, huh, huh? Why don’t he call us his-self?”
“He—we—tried repeatedly from Fort Benning. The phones aren’t working here.”
“How come, baby?”
“The storm?”
“What storm, dear boy? I recall no harsh winds or cracks of thunder across the moors.”
“Sir Larry …?”
“Don’t give me or Stella no crap, we got ’nuff problems!”
“Marlon …?”
“The point, pilgrim, is why should we believe you? In-juns play them games all the time. The war drums stop and you figure you got a break, then the bloodthirsty savages attack. That’s when you gotta go for the slaughter.”
“You should work oh that, Duke. I met the real one when they did that movie about me, and y’know something, he didn’t have a hostile bone in his body.”
“You met The Duke …?”
“Just listen up!” roared the Hawk, startling the men of Suicidal Six with his harsh command—at least sufficiently so as to catch their undivided attention, such as it was. “General Brokemichael and I not only arrived at an honorable truce, but we reached a firm conclusion. In short words, men, we were both duped by corrupt politicians who were using your unique abilities to further their own ambitions. As you know, nothing is ever written down concerning your max-classified operations, your objectives delivered orally, and, in line with that policy, I have been authorized by my good buddy, Brokey the Deuce—that’s an affectionate term, incidentally—to tell you that this mission is canceled, and along with that order, and in light of your superb record over the past five years, he’s arranged for all of you to be transferred to suites at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel in New York.”
“What’s there?” asked Marlon without the slur.
“Why?” said Dusty without repeating himself.
“That’s a pleasurable wrinkle,” added Sir Larry.
“It’s really very simple,” said the Hawk. “Your terms of enlistment are up in six months, and considering your extraordinary contributions to the military and the lessening of world tensions, General Brokemichael has arranged for all of you to interview the heads of several studios flying in from Hollywood. They’re anxious to make your story into a motion picture.”
“What about me?” shouted a distraught Sir Henry.
“I suspect you’ll play General Brokemichael.”
“That’s better.”
“Goldang, I’m speechless, pilgrims,” said The Duke.
“It’s everything we’ve ever wanted,” said Marlon in perfect English. “Everything we’ve dreamed of!”
“It’s sensational …!”
“Stupendous …!”
“We’ll play ourselves …!”
“And be together …!”
“Hooray for Holl-eee-wood …!”
Like a pride of wounded lions delivered from torrential floods in the African veldt, the men of Suicidal Six struggled to their feet and unsteadily lurched toward one another, forming a less than perfect circle. And like weaving, disjointed marionettes, they started to dance around that imperfect circle, bodies colliding amid great if painful laughter. In the lounge of the former ski lodge, they created a hora born of a tarantella with generous portions of a drunken miners’ camp thrown in for good measure. Crescendos of triumph filled the room as Desi the First walked to the staircase and spoke to the Hawk.
“Chu are really a great man, Heneral! Look how happy they are—chu make them feel so wunnerful!”
“Yeah, well I’ll tell you something, D-One,” said MacKenzie, removing a mutilated cigar from his pocket. “I don’t feel so wonderful myself. I feel about as big as a sewer rat and ten times dirtier.”
For the first time since their initial encounter in the men’s room at Logan Airport, Desi the First looked disapprovingly at the Hawk. Long and hard.
Warren Pease flew down the stairs of his moderately elegant house in suburban Fairfax in hi
s pajamas. He raced across the living room in the wash of the hallway light, misjudged the door to his study and crashed into the wall, recouped in panic and ran inside to his blinking telephone. He punched three buttons until he found the right one, fumbled for his desk lamp and, turning it on, fell into the chair screaming.
“Where the hell have you been? It’s four o’clock in the morning and no one’s been able to find you all day and night! With every hour we’re closer to catastrophe and you disappear. I demand an explanation!”
“It started with a tummy ache, sir.”
“What?” shrieked Pease.
“Stomach trouble. Gas, Mr. Secretary.”
“I don’t believe this! The country’s facing disaster and you have gas?”
“It’s not something you can control—”
“Where were you? Where’s that goddamned unit of yours? What’s happening?”
“Well, the answer to your first question is directly related to your second and third.”
“What did you say …?”
“You see, my acidity—the gas—was brought on by my not being able to raise the unit in Boston, so I went undercover to find them.”
“Undercover where?”
“Boston, of course. I hitched a ride on an air force reconn out of Macon and got there around three o’clock this afternoon—actually yesterday afternoon. Naturally, I went immediately to the hotel—it’s a very nice hotel—”
“I’m so happy to hear that. What then?”
“Well, I had to be very careful, of course, because we wouldn’t want any official linkage, I think you’ll agree.”
“With every destroyed nerve in my body!” roared the Secretary of State. “For God’s sake, you didn’t wear your uniform?”
“Please, Mr. Secretary, I went undercover. I wore a civilian suit, and just in case I ran into any of our retired Pentagon procurement personnel working in the area, I had a splendid idea. I went through my unit’s paraphernalia and found a wig that fit nicely. A touch too red for my taste, but with gray streaks—”
The Road to Omaha: A Novel Page 43
