Fade Out

by Patrick Tilley

  ‘Things could be worse,’ said Connors. ‘We could have normal, uninterrupted service on all our tv channels.’

  Charlotte gave him a look that reminded him of his mother. ‘Bob, you’re not fooling me. When I can’t get a straight answer, it means you’ve got trouble. Is something bad about to happen?’

  ‘Nothing’s about to happen, Charly. Nothing bad, and nothing good either. Things are probably going to go on pretty much as they always have.’

  ‘And this you call reassurance?’

  ‘It’s the best I can do.’

  Charlotte knelt down by the side of the bed, took hold of his hand, kissed it, then cradled it against her face.

  ‘Do you think you’d be able to talk to me more if I were your wife?’

  ‘If you were my wife, I probably wouldn’t be speaking to you at all.’

  ‘Yes, but she wasn’t interested in politics. I am.’

  Connors got up and went into the bathroom.

  When he was washed and dressed, he let her help him pack. Then they went out for supper. Connors would have preferred to stay at home, but he knew Charlotte got a lot of mileage out of being seen with him.

  He went along with it because he had decided to be kind and understanding to at least one person in his life. That was what his good half said, and Charlotte had rewarded his attentions in so many ways. His bad half reminded him that her father was into real estate, hotels, and resort development in a big way. Charlotte was not only good company, she was Gucci-shod life insurance.

  Saturday/August 18

  SANTA BARBARA/CALIFORNIA

  Sanford G. Woods was a fifteen-year-old aeroplane buff from Santa Barbara. Every Saturday he would prowl around the airport at Goleta Point, noting down the type, registration number, and owner of every aeroplane he could lay eyes on.

  On the eighteenth, Sanford chained his bicycle to its regular spot on the airport fence, checked the lightplane park, then wandered down the depressingly familiar line of big twins to where an ageing B-26 Invader sat on the rim of its wheels, hanging together in the hope that some handsome Colonel of the Confederate Air Force would come and rescue her. It was then that Sanford hit pay dirt.

  Two big, four-engined C-130 Hercules transports belonging to Thailand Air Freight had been parked over on the west side for weeks. They were still there, only now they bore the chrome yellow and olive-drab trim of the Mineral Research and Development Corporation, and they were being readied for flight.

  With a surge of excitement that only another aeroplane nut could understand, Sanford duly logged the change of ownership and took a photograph of both aeroplanes with his Kodak Instamatic 300. What Sanford didn’t know was that there had not, in fact, been any change in ownership. Thailand Air Freight, which had once been busy in Southeast Asia, and the Mineral Research and Development Corporation were both end links of complex corporate chains forged by the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.

  Set up late in 1958, the ‘front office’ activities consisted of aerial and ground geological surveys, mining and drilling. Its overseas operations had provided bases and cover for several successful CIA assignments in the early sixties. They had also resulted in three useful strikes, two of ore and one of oil, which had been leased off for development.

  For the last few years, MRDC had just been filing tax returns from an address in Fort Worth, Texas, but now it was back in business.

  Its revival was the result of the meeting between Connors and McKenna at the White House on the Monday of the previous week. Wedderkind had sat in on the meeting while they discussed ways and means of containing a landing site within the United States with a minimum of publicity. A lot depended on Crusoe’s manner of arrival, but, unlike Mel Fraser, they had been hoping Crusoe wouldn’t choose Times Square.

  When he had been given his assignment two weeks before, at the Western White House, Connors had sounded out Air Force General Clayson. While he was happy to help, Clayson had baulked at the idea of a direct containment by uniformed units of the Air Force, and had hinted that the use of Army units might present an even greater risk to the secrecy of the project. The CIA, suggested Clayson, was better organized to mount this unorthodox type of operation – and keep it secret.

  There was always the risk that their cover might be blown, Clayson had said, but if the CIA could survive the Bay of Pigs disaster, Chile, the unforeseen collapse of the Shah of Iran and all the other ugly bugs that had crawled out from under the carpet, it could certainly survive any disclosures about its role in the Crusoe Project.

  McKenna, who had been with Connors, and had also survived the triple threat, decided Clayson had intended a backhanded compliment. It was in their subsequent discussions in Washington that he’d come up with the idea of using the Mineral Research and Development Corporation. Now that Crusoe was lying buried under a heap of Montana shale, it seemed like the best idea they had had all week.

  While Connors and Wedderkind had been talking to the Soviet Premier, MRDC was reactivated and hurriedly restaffed with Texas-based CIA front men. Money was pumped into MRDC’s bank account from the Director’s Contingency Fund, and the newly-appointed purchasing officer began hiring drill rigs, equipment and basic transportation. By Saturday the eighteenth, just two weeks after Crusoe had been located in orbit, MRDC was in good enough shape to convince even a hard-nosed panhandler that they were the real thing.

  Saturday the eighteenth was also a big day for some of the hardier weekend fliers. Following the ‘Friday Morning Massacre’ and the government ban on all civil flying, airports across the country had been reduced to expensive parking lots. Exactly a week later, following mounting protest from lightplane owners’ associations and air charter firms, the Federal Aviation Authority rescinded its order. A brief moment of rejoicing by private fliers and nonscheduled operators was terminated on discovering Catch-22, an almost simultaneous announcement by the aviation insurance companies stating that, for the duration of the fade-out, the cover on their aeroplanes and passengers would become invalid the moment their wheels left the ground. The freeze also included cover on third-party claims.

  Despite the sledgehammer caution of the insurance companies, by the week’s end, a surprising number of people had taken to the air in what quickly became known as ‘Suicide Specials’. Depending on one’s point of view, it was either a unique demonstration of faith in the high standard of workmanship of American aeroplane manufacturers, or proof that the pioneer, frontier spirit was alive and well – and airborne.

  GLASGOW AFB/MONTANA

  Connors left Washington early on Saturday and flew to Glasgow Air Force Base in northeastern Montana. They touched down at 08:10 local time, a full two minutes ahead of their ETA. As the T-39 Sabreliner turned off the runway, a ‘Follow Me’ truck pulled out ahead of them and led the way to the base of the tower where a Dayglo-jacketed ground handler wheeled them into line with the other parked aircraft.

  Connors looked out of his window and saw a blue Air Force Chevy pull up alongside. Greg Mitchell, his chief assistant, was up front with the driver. Another man, whom he didn’t know, was in the back.

  Connors had sent Greg on ahead the day before to smooth out any wrinkles. A born fixer, Greg earned every cent of his salary – and probably tripled it on the side.

  Greg took charge of Connors’ thick briefcase while the Air Force driver stowed the two bits of matching luggage in the trunk of the Chevy.

  ‘Good trip?’

  ‘Yes. Where’s Arnold?’

  ‘Over at the Base Commander’s house waiting for you to have breakfast.’

  ‘Do we have time?’

  ‘For a courtesy call, yes. It’s Colonel John Zwickert, by the way. Wife’s name is Margaret.’

  ‘Is he in on any of this?’

  Greg shook his head. ‘He’s just pouring the coffee.’

  ‘Who’s the guy in the back of the car?’

  ‘Lou Weissmann. He’s the Corporation’s lawyer.’


  The Mineral Research and Development Corporation.

  ‘Okay,’ said Connors. ‘Let’s go.’

  The Base Commander’s house was a low-slung stone and weathered-timber duplex with deep overhanging eaves. It sat uncomfortably on a mound of lettuce-green crew-cut turf surrounded by flower beds.

  Connors decided that it probably looked better after a heavy fall of snow. He led the others up the curving stone path. Colonel Zwickert and his wife met them on the porch.

  The living room was cool, clean, and comfortable, and the breakfast table was laid with the family silver and Mrs Zwickert’s grandmother’s table linen.

  Wedderkind was over by the window, keying an eighteenth-century harpsichord back into tune. ‘Isn’t this a beauty? I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  It was long enough for Connors to learn that Mrs Zwickert’s grandmother had brought it over from Leipzig along with the table linen, and that she, Mrs Zwickert, had braved the perils of East Germany to visit her grandmother’s birthplace during her husband’s last European tour of duty.

  ‘There are hot pancakes, syrup, ham rolls, orange juice, coffee, cream for those who want it, and milk for those who don’t. I guess you gentlemen will want to talk so I’ll leave you to help yourselves.’

  The Colonel and his wife withdrew, the Colonel to the base, his wife to a red alert in the kitchen.

  Connors poured himself a glass of orange juice. He saw Greg poised with a plate. ‘Just a roll and coffee. Black, no sugar.’

  ‘Coming up. Lou?’

  Lou Weissmann was already helping himself to two of everything. Wedderkind inspected the food on the table and settled for a cup of coffee. He sat down opposite Connors and stirred in four spoonfuls of sugar. Connors tried to keep a straight face.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing, Arnold.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Wedderkind. ‘If I want ham, I eat ham. Only ham I don’t feel like. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Connors. ‘You tuned her piano. Ask her for a chicken sandwich.’

  Wedderkind gave him an owl-eyed look of reproach.

  ‘Are you all set up on Crow Ridge?’

  ‘No,’ said Wedderkind. ‘They’re still at Wright-Patterson.’

  ‘What the hell are they doing in Ohio?’

  ‘Well,’ said Wedderkind. ‘Some of them are playing chess and the others are considering the cutout zone and what preliminary conclusions can be drawn, if any, from Crusoe’s choice of landing site.’

  ‘And what about Clayson’s private army?’

  Greg swallowed hurriedly. ‘That’s coming together. Clayson is expected in later today. I guess he’ll tell us then who he’s putting in charge of the fire engine.’

  ‘Who have you got up on Crow Ridge?’

  ‘Well, nobody right now, Bob. We’ve kind of run into a little problem on that.’

  ‘What kind of a problem?’

  ‘Well, primarily one of access.’

  ‘You mean we can’t get our equipment up there on the existing routes?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Got it. You can’t get anything to function in the magnetic field around the crater.’

  ‘No, it’s not that either,’ said Greg. ‘Crow Ridge is owned by a guy called Bodell and – ’

  ‘The son of a bitch won’t sell,’ said Weissmann. He jabbed a forkful of syrupy pancake at Connors.

  Connors looked at Wedderkind. ‘Hell, I never thought about that.’

  ‘Well, think about it,’ said Weissmann. ‘He damn near killed one of the Air Force guys that went in to clear that wrecked helicopter. They had to call in a couple of deputy sheriffs to hold him off.’

  ‘Now hold on, Lou,’ said Greg. ‘You’re way over the top there. The only guy that got killed was the crewman from the chopper. The only point Bodell was trying to make was that people should ask him before they start swarming all over the place. The man knows his rights. After all, it is his land – ’

  ‘His land?’ Weissmann stuffed his mouth full of pancake and waved the empty fork at Connors and Wedderkind. ‘The goddamn state gave it to him in 1945!’

  ‘For two hundred and fifty dollars.’

  Weissman looked disdainfully at Greg Mitchell. ‘Four sections, at ten cents an acre! They gave it to him. It’s fronted by the ranch road on one side and Highway 22 on the other, and Crow Ridge is stuck right in the fucking middle!’

  ‘He did win the Congressional Medal of Honor,’ said Greg.

  ‘Who didn’t?’ said Weissmann. His jaws seemed to be endowed with perpetual motion. He began to work through his two ham rolls. ‘I checked the lease. It’s watertight. Ain’t no way to break it.’

  ‘Did that cover mineral rights?’ asked Connors.

  ‘Everything. It’s deeded land.’

  ‘How about getting it under the law of Eminent Domain?’ asked Connors.

  ‘We can’t – at least not without blowing our cover so far as everyone else is concerned. MRDC is a private company.’

  ‘Hell, yes, of course… did you try for exploration rights?’

  ‘No deal.’

  ‘How much did you offer him?’

  ‘Fifty thousand for a year’s lease on the ridge plus twenty-five per cent, gross, off the top, of any subsequent exploitation.’

  ‘Not that there’s anything down there,’ said Greg.

  ‘Then why twenty-five per cent? Why not give him fifty?’

  Weissmann pointed half a roll at Connors. ‘I once made that mistake in Ecuador. When the ink was dry we found we were sitting on a lead mountain. That’s when we started recruiting geologists. You have to structure these deals right. Give too much away and you blow it. This guy isn’t interested in money.’

  ‘Did you try just the one time?’

  ‘Twice. I waited till he drove out, then went back to talk to his wife. She’s dumber than he is, and the place – I can’t tell you… a hovel. I’m thinking of having my clothes burned. Anyway, I’m listing all the good things in life she can buy with the money when Bodell walks back in through the door and pulls this shotgun on me.’

  ‘You’re still in one piece,’ said Connors.

  ‘Just,’ said Weissmann. ‘The raggedy-assed son of a bitch pumped five slugs into the trunk of my car. Twelve-gauge BB, clean through. Bastard. You can never match the fucking paint.’

  ‘It’s the pigments,’ said Wedderkind. ‘They’re unstable.’

  ‘Where did Bodell win his Medal of Honor?’ asked Connors.

  ‘Okinawa. Got a Purple Heart with cluster, too.’ As usual, Greg had done his homework.

  ‘The Japs should have killed him,’ said Weissmann.

  ‘I think I know how we might be able to get to him,’ said Connors.

  ‘So do I,’ said Weissmann. ‘Get them both on the southbound lane of the highway and have a northbound Mack truck cross over the centre line. It never fails.’

  Connors’ solution was just as effective, but not so messy.

  One of Greg’s assignments had been to set up a direct telephone link with the White House. Connors called the President, outlined the Bodell situation and his proposed solution, then got Greg to type a letter on his portable Smith-Corona. They used a sheet of the pale blue paper with the Presidential seal and the words ‘From the office of the President’. Connors always carried a few sheets around in his briefcase.

  ‘Who’s this supposed to be from?’ asked Greg.

  ‘The President,’ said Connors. ‘Just type his name and I’ll sign it.’

  Greg eyed him for a second, then finished the letter. Connors added a passable forgery of the President’s looping signature. Greg folded the letter and sealed it in the matching envelope.

  ‘Let me take it up there,’ he said.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Connors. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’

  CROW RIDGE/MONTANA

  Officially, Volkert was still on sick leave that Saturday, but the sheriffs office in Forsyth pulled him in to
drive Connors up to see Bodell. ‘Seein’ as how you two is almost kin,’ the Sheriff had said. It was true that Volkert was one of the few people outside Broken Mill Bodell had spoken to during the last twenty-odd years.

  When Volkert had called at his shack with the two pilots from the crashed helicopter, Bodell had surprised him by offering them a lift to Broken Mill without being asked. His conversation on the way there had consisted of no more than a dozen words, eked out one at a time, yet as he sat watching him gulp his Adam’s apple up and down, Volkert had the feeling that Bodell’s throat was stuffed full of words like fish in a pelican’s beak – but that, like the pelican, Bodell preferred to swallow them rather than open his mouth and risk giving something away.

  Volkert met Connors’ helicopter at Broken Mill. He offered Connors a back seat but Connors took the front. They set off down the dirt road west of the highway. It ran in a straight line for three long, empty miles before dipping out of sight. Fifty yards ahead of them, a hawk flapped prudently off a fencepost and skimmed away on curling, loose-fingered wings.

  Beyond the rise, another stretch of straight road narrowed towards the next horizon. Volkert forked left on to an even rougher road that snaked up into some low buttes.

  ‘This man Bodell,’ said Connors. ‘Does he give you a lot of trouble?’

  ‘Hell, no,’ said Volkert. ‘It’s them Air Force boys of yours that’s doing that. What in hell’d they go and drop up there – some new-fangled kind of bomb?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Connors. ‘It’s not really my department.’

  ‘Well, whatever it was, it damn near burned the hide offa me.’ Volkert grinned. ‘If I’d gone any blacker, they’d’ve run me out of town on a rail.’

  Connors glanced at Volkert’s peeling face. ‘Must’ve been pretty painful. Did anyone say what might have caused it?’

  ‘No. But I’ve had at least eight people telling me the whole thing’s classified, so you’d better forget I said that.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Connors. ‘I will.’