Deep Cover

“Maybe they’ll give you a star.”

Ryan snorted. “I don’t expect to get another promotion before World War Four.”

“Why not? You’ve got a good record.”

“As a pilot, buddy. As a pilot. But I started in P-51’s and that’s the kiss of death; now I’m overage and I’m just an embarrassment to have around. They take people like me and shuffle us around from one boondock job to another until it’s time to retire us gracefully and forget us. I’m just sitting around waiting to be put out to pasture; but by God I hate being thrown out like an old shoe. I hate it. Do you know what I am down here? A pencil pusher. They’ve got a SAC wing commander to run operations and an ICBM wing commander to run the silos and all I do is take care of the real estate for them.”

“You’re not an old man. You can do anything you want. A new career with your retirement pay for a cushion. Look at all the retired officers who’ve made successes of themselves.”

“Doing what? Figureheading some corporation with hot defense contracts? Playing politics with the old buddies in the Pentagon to keep those contracts up? Not me. I’m an airplane jockey and that’s all I’ve ever been. You know that last Pentagon tour of duty cooked my goose. If you’re a colonel in this business and you want to be a general you’ve got to charm the generals’ wives and when it comes to that I’m about as adroit as a bull in a china shop. I hate every bit of it—I always have. Always having to choose your friends by rank. You can never win a game of golf or a game of bridge against a superior officer but you’ve always got to know how to play well enough to make it look good. You can’t get mad if a drunken superior starts to paw your wife. You spend your whole life going to drinking parties where nobody’s got anything to say and you watch them turn your wife into a rank-conscious drunken bitch.”

Ryan took the cigar out of his mouth. He had bitten it in two. He spat the stub into his hand and hurled it over the patio wall into the night.

“Look, buddy, do me a big favor. Forget everything I just said. Once a year a guy has a right to get maudlin but I didn’t mean to dump it all over you. I swear I won’t do it again. Now let’s talk about what you came up here to talk about. I saw you on the TV last night—that little speech of yours must’ve shook the striped pants off some diplomats.”

“Did it shake yours off?”

“I’m on your side. I think the fat cats are too fat. About time somebody talked about trimming some of it off.”

“What do you know about the Phaeton system?”

“Enough.”

“How much is enough?”

“Buddy, I am bound by Title Eighteen of the National Security Act.”

“I’m cleared for Top Secret information. Do I have to show you my clearance?”

Ryan flushed. “Of course not, Senator.”

“Don’t do that. I didn’t come up here to muscle you.”

“Exactly what did you come for?”

“Two things. First, where do you stand on Phaeton?”

“Personally? I just told you. I think the damn thing’s a waste of time, a waste of money, and a potential catastrophe.”

“Will you testify to that effect in front of a Senatorial hearing?”

“No.”

It made him sit up. “No?”

“Maybe if I had three stars I could get away with something like that. Just maybe. But I don’t have three stars. Just a pair of scrawny turkey buzzards on the shirt collars of my uniforms.”

“You’re a front-line operational officer, Bill. You’re in command of a strategic base. You’re more closely in touch with the immediate problems of this kind of thing than anybody else. Why shouldn’t your word carry weight?”

“Because in my business we’re not allowed to have public opinions unless they happen to coincide with the official line of the department. Even the liberal politicians insist on keeping military types out of politics. If I open my mouth in public hearings there’ll be nothing left of me but a small wet spot on the pavement.”

“You’re not trying to tell me they’d court-martial you.”

“What do you think they cashiered Billy Mitchell for?”

“For God’s sake, Bill. That was more than forty years ago.”

“And you think they’ve changed any in that period of time, the big boys with the omelettes on their hats?”

“Come on, Bill. You’ve got to do better than that.”

“It’s a taut community. People don’t like to hear any questions about anything at all. They particularly don’t like to hear questions from snot-nosed junior officers. Mitchell was a brigadier, Alan. I’m not even that high on the totem pole. Maybe they wouldn’t court-martial me but they’d make it so life wasn’t worth living, in or out of the service. They’d see to it I couldn’t get a job doing so much as grease-monkeying a cropdusting plane anywhere in the country. You better believe it, buddy. Rank Has Its Privileges, and among those privileges is the good old blackball. One twitch of a government digit and my head rolls—that’s all it takes. No. You don’t get me to testify. And I won’t use this as an excuse but I’ll mention it for what it’s worth—even if I did testify for you I’d do more harm than good. They’d scrape up enough embarrassing items from my record to discredit me as a reliable witness and they’d probably throw in eight scientists and fourteen four-star generals to counteract my testimony anyway. You think about that, because this little job you’ve picked is about as easy as trying to mate a chimpanzee with a porcupine. No way, buddy, no way.”

Ryan sank his teeth into the remains of his cigar and blew a rancid cloud of smoke. “Now what was the second thing you came for?”

There was no arguing with him, he had the stubbor

“I want to inspect the missile complex.”

“Why not? That’s your privilege—you’re on the Military Affairs Committee.”

“This isn’t just a junket for the benefit of the press. I want to go through the whole system with a fine-tooth comb.”

“What for?”

“Holes in the system.”

“You won’t find any. There’s no leaky radioactivity and you won’t find any loose buttons lying around where some kook could set them off.”

“I know all about the fail-safe systems. I have a feeling they can be cracked.”

“What do you mean by cracked?”

“Any security system can be breached.”

“Who by? What for?”

“The country’s crawling with extremists at both ends of the spectrum. You don’t have to look too far to find a crowd of jokers with wild-eyed notions—how many officers have you got on this base right now who belong to right-wing fanatic groups, the ones who see Communists under every rock? Look at the equipment they’ve got here at their finger tips.”

“Nuts. If the command doesn’t come down from the top the system doesn’t fire.”

“Right now it doesn’t but I can’t believe a security system that tight can be applied to anything as complex as the Phaeton. Rednecked right-wingers or left-wing activists or sheer accident—it doesn’t matter what triggers it off. The system’s just too unwieldy.”

Ryan shrugged elaborately. “I hope you’re wrong. I’ll get in touch with Fred Winslow, he’s the Deputy ICBM Wing Commander—we’ll get passes for you to inspect the setup. When do you want it?”

“As soon as you can. I’ll want to bring a couple of people along—one of my staff people and a scientist.”

“They cleared for Top Secret?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s the scientist?”

“Moskowitz.”

“He was on the Titan development program, wasn’t he? What makes you think he’ll play along?”

“I’ve talked to him.”

“Who’s the other one?”

“Jaime Spode.”

Ryan beamed. “Top Spode? He still around?”

“Still around, still the best.”

Ryan nodded. Evidently he had run out of things to say. Forrester got to his feet. “If you like I’ll come to your office next time—I didn’t mean to upset anything for you and Alice. I know this is awkward.”