The shock of Graves’s death, combined with the lack of sleep and now food, made him feel weak, both physically and mentally. A life that had seemed orderly and fulfilling was now in complete disarray. His emotions were in turmoil. Nevertheless, he forged ahead, determined to make the best of it.
“The idea for the creation of NADAT came from … the late Robert Graves,” he began. “In 1961, shortly after the Bay of Pigs fiasco. As you know, the proposed invasion of Cuba was conceived under the Eisenhower administration and it fell to the Kennedy administration to carry it out. At the time, the administration was in a period of transition, and this one was a particularly difficult transition. People who were intimately involved in the Cuban operation were no longer available and new people were not aware of some of the finer points. Granted, the CIA was primarily responsible for the actual invasion, but Mr. Graves’s view was that they were still hampered by the changes that had been made to the original plan by members of the Kennedy administration.
“It was the view of Robert Graves that the Bay of Pigs invasion failed because of its timing. Had it taken place either one year earlier, or one year later, in other words, at a time when everything from conception to actual execution was under the direct control of a single group, it would have succeeded and we would not be faced with the threat that now exists some ninety miles from our border.
“As a result, Mr. Graves proposed that a secret agency be set up that would provide continuity in certain cases involving national security. It would be staffed by civilians and managed by the Pentagon. It would carry out certain sensitive missions unilaterally, and in the event that there was a debacle such as the Bay of Pigs invasion, the administration could, with total honesty, claim no knowledge.
“The idea was rejected. At the time, it was felt that such matters should remain within the province of the administration. However, it was determined that Mr. Graves should form what is now known as NADAT.
“The National Disaster Alert Team was originally conceived as an advisory body. But over the years, it evolved into an agency that was assigned control over specified activities where there was a modicum of vagueness as to which department of the administration had jurisdiction. There were certain cases that involved several agencies and when those agencies were not in agreement as to the course of action that should be taken, it would usually result in costly delays. Sometimes, because of intramural conflicts, no action whatsoever would be taken, when such action was clearly indicated.
“So … over a period of time, NADAT was allowed to broaden its scope and began to carry out tasks that were considered politically sensitive. It received the grudging support of all agencies of the government.
“Eventually, again, because of political considerations, NADAT stopped reporting on its activities except in rare cases. The less people who knew about our activities, the less chance there was of damaging leaks.
“If Mr. Graves acted in an imperious way, it was because he was encouraged to do so. In fact, his performance was similar to that of General Douglas MacArthur during the Japanese occupation. A dictator, yes … but a benign dictator. Able to get things done when they needed to be done.”
President Walsh looked at him with undisguised hostility. Shubert swallowed hard and continued with his briefing. When it was over, some thirty minutes later, the president asked, “Tell me, Mr. Shubert. Have the nuclear devices been ordered?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Do you think the earthquake in California can be prevented by the use of these devices?”
“I don’t know.”
The president glowered at him. “Make a guess.”
“I don’t like to guess, sir. You have the data on the last test. You’ll have to make your own decision.”
“Yes, of course.”
For a moment the room was silent and then the president said, “I want you to order the devices now. You can use the telephone in the anteroom. As soon as you’ve done that, you may rejoin the meeting.”
Shubert turned and walked out of the room. The president turned to the other invited guest, Donald Morgan, and said, “Your turn, Mr. Morgan.”
Donald Morgan held his arms outstretched and asked, “What is it you want of me?”
“I want you to tell the cabinet everything that has taken place since NADAT first became involved with this earthquake situation.”
Donald Morgan was in his mid-sixties, white-haired, overweight, and still grieving over the untimely death of one of his closest friends. A former professor of political science, he’d been with Graves for the last ten years. It was the first time in his life that he’d ever worked with someone with whom he almost always agreed. It was a joy … a reaffirmation of his own opinions and attitudes. And now … it was over.
He leaned forward, placed his hands flat in front of him, and in a deep monotone, began to brief the members of the cabinet. About five minutes into his presentation, Jason Shubert entered the room, handed a note to the president, and took his seat. When Morgan was finally finished, some thirty minutes later, he leaned back in his seat and actually closed his eyes.
The people in the room sat silently, looking at each other and shaking their heads in disbelief.
It was incredible. An agency of the federal government had been allowed to operate, make terribly important decisions involving millions of lives and billions of dollars, and none of them, except for General Howard, had the slightest idea it had been going on. In terms of potential damage to the administration, it was a catastrophe.
President Walsh said, “As I understand it, you have three men who are prisoners. Vance Gifford and Thomas Wilson are in Nevada. And Mr. Davis is in a V.A. Hospital. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Morgan said, his eyes remaining closed.
“And everyone at Dalton Research has been sent off to Guam on some special project?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They have television satellite dishes in Guam, Mr. Morgan. What makes you think these people won’t become aware of what is going on here and start asking questions?”
Morgan swallowed hard and said, “We offered them tremendous financial incentives to take on the project. They were told they would be completely isolated for at least a month. They accepted the terms and won’t be a problem.”
“I see. And what were your plans for them … actually all of these people, after the exercise?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Graves didn’t discuss that with me.”
President Walsh snorted and said, “I’ll bet he didn’t.” Then he said, “You’ve managed to have several witnesses appear at a hearing in California giving perjured testimony.”
Morgan kept his eyes closed, avoiding the hard looks being given him by those around the table.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“Just what did you plan to do with them once this was over?”
Morgan took a deep breath and finally opened his eyes. “In the event the project was successful, we felt we would be able to convince all of those affected that what we did was necessary. Mr. Graves was sure they would agree to live out the rest of their lives much like those in the witness protection program.”
“And if the project was unsuccessful?”
“Mr. Graves never considered that possibility. At least, if he did, he never discussed it with me.”
“I see. And you managed to prevail upon local police officials and members of the FBI to assist you in this cover-up. How did you manage that?”
“We … Mr. Shubert can best answer that.”
The president turned to Shubert. “Well?”
“It wasn’t a case of covering anything up, sir. We were under the impression that the national security was at stake here and presented our position from that standpoint.”
The president shook his head slowly. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he said, “Your note says that the devices have been ordered.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Will they be a
vailable in time?”
“That is my understanding.”
“Very well. I want you and Mr. Morgan to step outside and remain within this building while the cabinet discusses this matter. General Howard … I want you to join them.”
Byron Walsh stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Gentlemen. I want this clearly understood. All three of you are to remain inside the building. If you are entertaining any thoughts of leaving the building, reconsider. I have already given the Marine guard instructions that you are not to do so. Please don’t embarrass us further.”
“Are we under some sort of arrest?”
It was Morgan, looking like a man whose world had come to an end.
“I haven’t decided yet,” the president said. “I want to consult with my cabinet first.”
The three men stood up and left the room.
President Walsh sat down, spoke to someone on the telephone for a moment, and then brought his attention back to those in the room.
“Well,” he said, his eyes dark with barely concealed rage. “As you can see, we are in one hell of a spot. Once Congress gets hold of this, there’ll be hell to pay. And they’ll find out, sooner or later.”
He took a deep breath and said, “I’d suggest that we not spend too much time wringing our hands over what has happened. Rather, I think we should address ourselves to the immediate problems. One: Can we be sure there is going to be a big earthquake in Los Angeles on May twenty-seventh? Two: If we are, and I think we’ll be able to dispense with much argument on that, do we evacuate? The other questions that need to be addressed are these: Do we use the nuclear devices in an attempt to prevent the quake? Do we make public the attempt?
“We have a plateful, gentlemen. Who’d like to get the ball rolling?”
Before anyone could speak, there was a rap on the door and the president’s personal secretary entered the room and handed him several sheets of yellow paper. He looked at them for a few moments and then carefully placed the sheets on the table. His face became ashen and all of the air seemed to go out of his lungs. He slumped in his chair, his body almost lifeless, the spark in his eyes gone, replaced by a glazed look of shock. He looked like he’d aged five years in five minutes.
For a moment, no one spoke. Clearly, whatever was written on those pieces of paper was terrible news.
Finally, Walsh pulled himself together. “This,” he said, tapping the pages on the table, “may influence your thinking. It’s a story coming over the wire service right now. The Los Angeles Globe, in this morning’s edition, is claiming that Los Angeles is about to be struck by a great earthquake. They’ve devoted several pages to articles supporting their contention. One of the articles concerns ‘Operation Move.’ Their analysis of that little adventure is presented as proof that the government knows about the coming quake. Another makes reference to the oil wells that they’re using as probe sites. They’ve not only found them, they’ve found the people who supplied the equipment. A third article discounts everything that has gone on at the Sacramento hearings, claiming that it’s a put-up job. Their analysis of that fiasco is quite sound.”
He ran a hand over his eyes and said, “They’re advising everyone in the city of Los Angeles to leave immediately.”
He leaned forward and stared at the sheets of paper. “The city is in a flat panic even as we speak. And it’s only six in the morning out there. The Globe is being quoted by every radio and television station in the city. Once everybody’s awake, God only knows what the hell will happen. The governor has called out the National Guard to keep order. He’s trying to get through to me to find out if there’s any veracity to the story. So is the mayor of Los Angeles. They are both demanding an immediate statement from me.”
The president’s eyes moved erratically as he sought to make contact with each and every person in the room. “Naturally,” he said, “the press is also screaming for a statement.”
The room was thrust into an atmosphere of deep gloom.
“Does anybody in this room,” the president asked, his voice almost a whisper, “have the vaguest idea what I should tell them?”
Thirty
* * *
It was upon him again, the nightmare. Visions of death and destruction rocketing through his brain unchecked, blending with another, more ancient phantasmagoria that had plagued him for years, like some exotic disease that refused all manner of treatment.
Los Angeles was being destroyed again. And in the middle of the rubble stood a man, his hands holding a small, green metal box festooned with a big, red button. He looked at Ted, his face wreathed in smiles, and said, quite calmly, “Don’t worry. As soon as I push this button, it will all be over.”
Ted wanted to scream at the man. More than that, he wanted to kill the stupid bastard. But before he killed him, he wanted to tell him that it was already happening. That the earthquake had struck. That they were too late. That it was insane to be standing there in the middle of all that destruction and pretend that it could now be stopped with the push of a button.
But again, he was transfixed. Unable to speak or move.
“Ted!”
He heard his name being called. It wasn’t the man. It was someone else. Someone who was pushing him. Shaking him. Or was it the earthquake?
“Ted!”
He opened his eyes and looked into the bloodshot eyes of Frank Leach. The very concerned eyes of Frank Leach. The man was still wearing the stupid wig and the crazy shirt. Behind him stood Glenda Wickshire, clutching a cotton housecoat to her throat. Above her, in the ceiling, in a position almost at eye-level with Ted, the air conditioners roared loudly.
For a moment, he didn’t realize where he was.
And then, in a rush, it all came back to him.
He looked at his watch. It was 6:30 in the morning. He’d had exactly two hours of sleep.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
Frank held up a hand. “We’ve got some problems.”
Ted leaned toward the edge of the suspended bed and rubbed his eyes. “What problems?” he asked.
Frank looked to his side at Glenda Wickshire and then back at Ted. “I couldn’t sleep when I got back to the hotel,” he said. “I was watching the news and they announced that some civilian attached to the Pentagon killed himself. They gave his name as Robert Graves. I phoned some people in D.C. and it’s the same guy.”
“Jesus!” Ted exclaimed. “What the hell does that mean?”
Leach shook his head. “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet. About an hour ago, they came out with the news that one of the L.A. newspapers has broken this thing wide open.”
Ted was instantly awake. “What?”
Frank nodded. “Yeah. L.A. is coming unglued. That’s why I rushed over here. President Walsh is going on the tube in a few minutes.”
Glenda Wickshire said, “I’ll make some coffee.” She switched on the television set and started preparing the coffee.
Terry, wrapped in a blanket, approached the bunk and asked, “What is it? What’s going on?”
Frank Leach threw his hands in the air and said, “Somebody talked. I don’t know who. But somehow, the L.A. Globe put it all together. They know about the quake, the probes … even the fact that the hearing was a set-up. They printed a warning to everyone in Los Angeles to get out of town. Fast. The place is going nuts. Already, the freeways are jammed solid. People are shootin’ each other just tryin’ to get outta town. Walsh is going on the tube in a minute or so to make a statement. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say.”
Ted struggled into a pair of trousers and climbed down from the bed. Bending over to avoid striking his head on the ceiling, he clamped both big hands on the shoulders of Frank Leach and stared into the man’s eyes.
“Did you …?”
Frank Leach looked into those eyes and what he saw made him tremble. Never had he seen such anger in the eyes of Ted Kowalczyk.
“So help me God!” Frank screamed. “Not a word! I sw
ear!”
“What about Fraser?” Ted asked, the voice cold, hard … almost vicious.
“No! I was with him every minute. It wasn’t possible, Ted. They did this without us! You’ve got to trust me, babe! Jesus Christ! This thing is tearing you apart!”
For a moment, Ted continued to stare at him, the lids stiff, unblinking, the mind almost audible as it churned. Then, he released his grip and slumped into a chair.
Already, the television picture was focused on the lectern at the front of the White House press room, the presidential seal almost glowing in the bright light. An announcer was bringing everyone up to date. Interspersed with the picture of the unmanned lectern were scenes of the panic taking place in Los Angeles, the pictures being beamed from the top of one of the tall downtown buildings.
The streets were filled with cars and trucks, some of them loaded down with chairs and mattresses and cardboard boxes that had been hastily strapped to their roofs. Nothing was moving, except for the people on foot, hordes of them, running blindly in all directions, all of them carrying suitcases or paper bags filled to overflowing. Or both.
A cacophony of sound was being picked up by the sensitive microphones at the transmission site. Car horns blared, blending with the shouts of people in full flight. Then the scene switched to some unidentified news room where the announcer, normally the evening news anchor, looked into the camera and said, “That was a live shot of Los Angeles, where, clearly, a panic of major proportions has the city in complete turmoil. If you’ve just joined us, we’ve been reporting for about the last thirty minutes or so that the Los Angeles Globe, a newspaper not renowned for its pursuit of the truth, has printed a story … oh … I see that the president is ready …”
The Big One Page 28
