“She, Madam,” Adams interjected. “What we have to discuss is, ah, a bit above her level, as good as she is. Um, she is an analyst, Madam President,” he concluded, as if that explained everything.
“Proceed, then.”
A satellite image of Spondu and the surrounding area flashed onto the screens, then shifted to a complex a few kilometers from the town.
“This is a former weapons lab Lavager contends he’s converted into an agricultural research laboratory. Agricultural research may in fact be going on in what they so quaintly call the ‘Cabbage Patch,’ but we believe it’s a cover for the real purpose, which is the development of a superweapon that will give Lavager complete control on Atlas and put him in a position to interfere with the economies of the different member worlds in his quadrant of Human Space.”
“ ‘Today Germany, tomorrow the world’?” Long interjected.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Long sank back into his chair, a sour expression on his face.
“It is very important, Madam President,” Adams said, “that the nation-states of Atlas not be unified under the leadership of this man. It is bad enough for the people of Atlas that they have differences of their own that have led to several wars, but if they are unified under the leadership of a man like Lavager, we see a prominent threat to other worlds of the Confederation and that cannot be permitted. Of course,” he added quickly, “what happens among the nation-states of Atlas is not our concern.”
“What evidence do you have that Lavager intends to extend his reach?” Berentus asked.
“His public statements, for one. You may read them on your consoles, but I would like to play only one of them for you now.” Lavager’s image flashed onto the consoles and his strong voice filled the room.
“A people must have room to expand. If we are to be a great people we must not confine ourselves to our cabbage patches and think that by doing so we are preparing this world for our children and their children. No. We must move outward, expand our horizons to other worlds yet unconquered and assure the continued propagation of our people for untold generations into the future.”
“The trailer on this speech says it was given before the Atlean Thirtieth Congress on Land Reform,”
Long said. “How do you get some kind of interplanetary invasion out of something like that?”
“Jay?” Chang-Sturdevant asked.
“We believe that is just what he’s announcing, a master plan for conquest,” Adams answered tartly.
“Dictators, swept up in the power of their own myths, have done that before. Look at Hitler, who laid out his plans in Mein Kampf years before he came to power.” He shot a disparaging glance at Long as he spoke. “Lavager is preparing the Atlean League of Nations for invasion, once he’s totally subjected them to his control. The term ‘Cabbage Patch’ is a cynical joke, Madam President, a reference to the weapon Lavager is developing at that facility.”
“I think you’re stretching it a bit, old boy,” Admiral Porter spoke for the first time. Adams did not bother to respond to Admiral Porter’s remark, but rushed on. “Here is a list of the staff at the Cabbage Patch. Note the explosives and delivery systems specialists on the list.”
“But there are also quite a few agronomists there too, Jay,” Chang-Sturdevant objected.
“That is part of the cover,” Adams responded. “We’ve had all those scientists tailed, and the agronomy specialists spend most of their time on the golf links.”
“So what do you recommend?”
Adams didn’t answer immediately but after a short pause, “Neutralize Lavager,” he answered.
“You mean kill him?” Long blurted, incredulous.
“I mean remove him, Mr. Attorney General.”
“No, you mean assassinate him,” Long shot back.
“I mean eliminate him as a threat to the Confederation.”
“You mean kill the poor bastard. Come out and say it, Adams,” Long thundered. “You’re not with the damned Diplomatic Service anymore, you’re in the dirty tricks business. Tell us what you mean in plain language.”
“You mean assassinate him, don’t you, Jay?” Chang-Sturdevant inquired gently.
“Yes, ma’am,” Adams answered at last.
“Hugyens?” Chang-Sturdevant turned to Long. Long blew out his cheeks and leaned forward. “If he has to be ‘removed,’ then why not let one of those supposed disaffected groups on Atlas do it for us? They’ve tried before—that’s how his wife was killed.”
He gave Adams a look that suggested he thought the CIO might have been involved. Adams sniffed, “They are not reliable. Yes, they’ve tried before and, as the attorney General pointed out, look what happened when one did try to kill Lavager. Our assets are much more efficient, I assure you. And they will not talk.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t have upset anybody out at Hunter if they had gotten Lavager’s whole family, as long as they got him, eh, Adams?” Admiral Porter said.
“Surely, Admiral, you as a military man understand the unfortunate incidence of collateral damage in certain operations,” the DCIO replied impatiently. He saw where this meeting was going and regretted the presence of the other councillors. He’d been very disappointed when he learned others besides the President would be in attendance.
Long leaned back. “Sanctioned assassinations have been done, ma’am. It’s not illegal if it’s done for the right reasons. Which, of course, is what the DCIO is saying, to protect the lives and interests of member worlds. But it can only be done via presidential authority. And if you’re asking for my advice, no! ” He slammed a fist down on the table, making the image on his console jump crazily. “The DCIO hasn’t presented convincing evidence for an assassination operation against Lavager and if you agree to this, Madam President, you’ll be guilty of ordering a murder.”
“Mr. Long!” Berentus exclaimed.
“That’s my opinion, Madam President, and I don’t give a damn who knows it! I believe in the due process of the law.” Long shrugged but glared ominously at Adams and Lowell.
“Oh, yeah?” Lowell responded, his face reddening, “I suppose that’s what you mean, ‘due process,’
when you ship some poor bastard off to Darkside without a trial? Your hands are just as dirty as ours, Long.”
“Goddamnit, that’s different!” Long shouted back.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Chang-Sturdevant held up her hands. “Thank you, both of you, you’ve finally come straight to the point. Gentlemen,” she nodded at the Director of the CIO and his deputy, “the answer is ‘no.’ Come back when you have more concrete evidence than you’ve presented this morning. Admiral Porter? Confer with the service chiefs and prepare a plan for a military intervention on Atlas. Be prepared to present it when DCIO comes back here with more evidence. We very well may have to ‘neutralize’ Lavager, but as I see it now we’ll do it the old-fashioned way—legally and in full public view.” She stood up, indicating the meeting was at an end.
“Madam, may I just mention two other things?” Adams asked as he rose to his feet. “One, weapons research isn’t something new on Atlas. A few years ago one of the other nation-states, a South Solanum, developed a laser rifle for military use.”
“A laser rifle!” Long barked a laugh. “That’s old technology, nobody’s used laser rifles in a couple of centuries.”
Marcus Berentus nodded solemnly. “Armies stopped using lasers because the technology to deflect and disperse the beams became inexpensive, making the lasers ineffective as military weapons.” He paused and looked around the room. “Nobody uses that deflection and dispersal technology anymore, either, so that makes lasers viable military weapons again.”
Inside, Chang-Sturdevant made a face, but didn’t show it to the people in the room. “What’s the other last thing you wanted to mention?” she asked Adams. The DCIO gave her a smug smile. “Two, Madam, we have a very reliable agent on Atlas who will be making a report soon. That report should con
vince you our option is justified.”
Chang-Sturdevant felt a mighty surge of anger, but her long years of experience in public life allowed her to suppress it. How, she raged inwardly, could Adams know the report would convince her to authorize an assassination before it had even been submitted to the CIO for evaluation? “Well, Jay, let me see it, then, when it’s fully evaluated,” she responded coolly and swirled out of the room.
“Madam,” Berentus closed the door to Chang-Sturdevant’s private office behind him, “did you hear what old stuffed-shirt Porter said? Because of the weather he had to call for a starship to get over here this morning?”
Chang-Sturdevant looked at her Minister of War blankly for a moment and then burst into laughter. They both laughed. “Marcus,” she exclaimed, slapping her thigh, “the old boy does have some life in him after all! Now,” she plopped into the nearest chair, “I’ve some free time before I meet with the,” she waved a hand vaguely, “the Great Wazoo of Tubegador or whomever, so let’s have a cuppa java.”
“That is very presidential of you—Suelee,” Berentus smiled, taking a seat opposite Chang-Sturdevant. She smiled at him, deciding she liked having Marcus call her by that name, then said, “One final thing, old friend. That analyst. The one who knows this Lavager. Find out who she is for me, would you? For her I might grant a private interview.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Office of the Director, Central Intelligence Organization, Hunter, Earth
J. Murchison Adams cursed so foully once they were back in the privacy of his office at CIO headquarters that Palmer Lowell actually winced. When Adams was upset he resorted to gutter language using words not even the crustiest drill sergeant would employ with the dumbest recruits. Where he’d learned to curse so eloquently was a mystery to Palmer, considering the DCIO’s upbringing by people who wouldn’t have said “garbage” if they’d had a mouthful of it.
“That rotten sonofabitch, useless goddamned—” Adams paused to catch his breath.
“Well, Gustafferson’s report will clinch matters for us, old boy,” Lowell volunteered, hoping to calm the director down.
Adams gasped and wiped his forehead. He was quiet for a moment, trying to get a grip on himself. Then his face reddened again and he slammed a fist onto his desk. “And that goddamned bitch!” he screamed.
“I asked for a private meeting and she went and brought in those, those—” He broke into a fit of coughing.
“Ah, you refer to our illustrious Madam President Chang-Sturdevant and her advisors, old man? Quite distressing, the whole affair, I must admit. Have some of this Paté Munchausen, old chap? Settle you down a bit.”
“Goddamnit, I don’t want any Paté Munchausen!” Adams shouted, but he made a visible effort to get a grip on himself. He drank a mouthful of the Club Klinko ’76 the servo had just poured. “Who ordered this vinegar?” he asked, then said, “Pretty good for vinegar, though.” He drained the glass and the servo poured another. He was getting back in control of himself now. “Gustafferson. Yes, Palmer, quite, quite. He’s on to something out there, you can bet on it. Yes, his report will be decisive.” He spooned up a bite of the Paté Munchausen. “Umm. Very good, Palmer.” He activated the intercom on his desk. “Get Somervell in here, would you?” he ordered his secretary. As he entered the director’s private office, Somervell P. Amesbury, CIO Chief of Staff, exchanged a rapid glance with Lowell, who shook his head ever so slightly, indicating the blowup was over and didn’t concern anyone at Hunter. The rest of the director’s immediate staff had heard the row coming from his office and everyone was walking on eggshells. Good people were known to have been summarily fired when the director got into these moods.
“Somervell, old boy,” Adams began, “what’s the name of that analyst, the one who served on Atlas and knows Lavager personally? Odd sort of name. You know her?”
“Yes, sir. Anya Smiler. She’s been with us a long time and is a very good—”
“Yaass, I’m sure. Have her taken off the Atlas desk, would you? Assign her somewhere else. When the next agent report comes in from Atlas, I want it sent directly to me. I don’t want anyone else messing with it. Particularly not her. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, sir,” Amesbury nodded. “Will there be anything else, Jay?” He did not need to ask how the meeting with the President had gone.
“No, no. Take care of that little matter at once and then join us back here for lunch, will you? You really should sample this Paté Munchausen. Delightful.”
“Palmer,” Adams began after Somervell departed, “I am not going to let this go. Lavager is a threat to the Confederation, pure and simple. This government’s policy must rigorously follow the rule of balkanizing certain member worlds into nation-states so they can pose no threats to the Confederation’s vital interests. I do not understand why this woman cannot see that.”
“Well, Gustafferson’s report will swing things our way, I’m sure.”
“Yaass,” Adams drawled. He finished his wine and refilled his glass. “But if it doesn’t?” He held his hands out toward Lowell.
This was no rhetorical question and Lowell knew what the answer was his chief wanted, but he paused before answering. “If it doesn’t, then, um, ah, we do it on our own?”
Adams smiled broadly and leaned back comfortably. “You said it!”
Analysis Directorate, CIO Headquarters Anya Smiler sat at her console, reviewing incoming intelligence reports. They were voluminous and full of detail, mostly analyses submitted by agents on the scene reporting the latest political gossip, changes in government personnel and policy, economic statistics, evaluations of military force structures and so on. But over the years she had learned how to winnow out the important material in these reports and to condense it into a few succinct paragraphs that would give busy intelligence bureaucrats what they needed to know. She and her colleagues were always available to give full briefings if asked for more details.
Anya was involved in a report from the station chief on Wyndham’s World about the sexual escapades of various members of a prominent Wyndhamian religious sect when her console bleeped that a very important, highly classified message was being relayed from the communications center. Her screen went dead and then the incoming message flashed across it. It was from the station chief at the embassy in New Granum on Atlas. It was a verbatim transcript from a report filed by Gus Gustafferson and it concerned the Cabbage Patch, the alleged weapons facility. Anya caught her breath as she read it. She had just gotten to the last paragraph, a standard element in these messages where the local station chief added his own interpretation of his agent’s report, when she sat bolt upright at what was written there. Impossible! They hadn’t lost an agent since—The screen went dead again and then the following message flashed across it, COMMUNICATION WITHDRAWN. ACCESS DENIED. SPA
“SPA” were the initials of the CIO Chief of Staff, Somervell P. Amesbury. “What the—?” Anya muttered. She knew that the recent meeting with the president over the Atlas situation had not gone the way the director had wished. Some things just weren’t kept secret around CIO headquarters. She also knew how the director would use this report. She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.
Office of the Chairman, Combined Chiefs of Staff, Fargo
“Gentlemen, I give you the staple of the North American peasant for centuries—the hot dog!” Admiral K. G. B. Porter announced, holding a steaming sample of what naval personnel called “tube steak” on his fork. He popped it into a bun, doused it with condiments, and took a huge bite. “Umpf!” He shook his head with pleasure and chewed vigorously. The other three officers, members of the Combined Chiefs, unenthusiastically regarded their plates as the Chairman swallowed and followed the mouthful with a long draft of ale. “Come on, come on, eat up! It’ll be a long afternoon, gentlemen!”
White-garbed messboys stood at attention around the small dining room, the Chairman’s private mess. He refused to use servo-robots but instead employed
selected navy ratings as stewards to attend his meals.
“I prefer the cheeseburger,” Army Chief of Staff Blankenship remarked, taking a tentative bite of his “hot dog.” “Umm, well, not bad,” he said.
“Cheeseburger?” the chairman exclaimed. “Capital idea! Sibuco,” he turned to the senior messboy, a first-class rating, “put cheeseburgers on the menu for tomorrow’s lunch, would you?”
“I like spaghetti,” General Anders Aguinaldo, the Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps said.
“But hot dogs are good too.” He took a bite of his.
“They’re a bit, um, ‘plebian,’ though, aren’t they, General?” Admiral Sela, who had replaced Porter as Chief of Naval Operations, said.
“Everything I like is,” General Aguinaldo replied. “That comes from living on field rations most of my life.” The other officers laughed politely.
“Gentlemen, the hot dog has a venerable history. Actually, they were originally a sausage called ‘Frankfurter’ or ‘wienerwurst’ in German. Some referred to them as ‘dachshund sausage,’ after a breed of dog with short stubby legs and an elongated body, because the animal somewhat resembled the hot dog, but also because Americans, with their zany sense of humor, implied the sausages were actually made from canine meat, ha, ha. But the Americans of the early twentieth century liked them. They became the ‘national meat dish,’ if you will. They were actually made of pork and beef, though.”
“What are these made of?” Aguinaldo asked. “I’ve eaten dog meat. When I was a corporal, on Katusa. These sure don’t taste like dog.” He stuffed the remainder of the roll into his mouth and smiled around it.
“Those Katusas really know how to slice and dice a dog for chow. Ummm.” He winked at the army general.
The two admirals quickly put down their utensils and reached for their beer. “Well, Commandant, ah, these hot dogs are vegan, actually. If you want hot dogs with real meat in them you’ll have to go some place like Atlas, where they have vast herds of meat-producing ungulates. And that brings me to the subject of our meeting with the President this afternoon. You’ve all been furnished read-ahead reports on the situation there. Comments?”
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