Читать книгу The Deadly Orbit Mission - Van Wyck Mason - Страница 4

CHAPTER ONE

1

There are a number of things about Washington, D.C., at eight-thirty in the morning which arc as predictable as cherry blossoms in April. When you want more hot coffee and you want it now the waitress is still lost in her private world of last night’s date and you can’t catch her eye. The tall, thin lady at the next table leans over and diffidently inquires whether you know where the Washington Monument is located. The morning paper reveals authoritatively that the Federal budget will be either expanded or reduced.

The desk clerk smiles obligingly and tells you there’s nothing in your box even while you’re looking at an envelope under your room number.

The cab driver launches into a discussion on the peculiarities of human nature while cutting off a school bus and narrowly missing two elderly, shaky pedestrians.

Normally, none of these events would even engage the passing attention of Colonel Hugh North, United States Army Intelligence. He grunted when the cab driver paused in his dissertation—a grunt in the right place solves many problems. North long ago had learned to take life’s minor annoyances in stride. He had the compartmented kind of mind that could absorb the details of his surroundings, provide the right words for a necessary conversation and continue to consider a major problem—all at the same time. It he hadn’t been equipped by nature with that kind of brain he would have had to develop one, such being a rock-bottom requirement for one who received the sort of high level intelligence assignments that he’d become accustomed to drawing.

This cloudless early September day, however, was anything but normal for the Colonel. Usually placid, he felt unaccountably jumpy. Ordinarily patient, he was irritated and uneasy. Why had he been pulled out of Vietnam a week ago only to lounge around a Washington hotel awaiting summons to still another pointless conference?

Certainly his recent assignment to duty in that beleaguered Southeastern Republic had been of top priority. Based at Vungtau, near Saigon, he’d been ordered to block Communist sabotage and further penetration of the South Vietnamese government’s forces. Vungtau had been the site of a school where teams were trained to fan into villages and hamlets and secure them against Viet Cong terrorism while teaching the peasants democratic and modern agricultural methods.

After he had cracked a force which had infiltrated the Vungtau headquarters itself he’d been airlifted by helicopter to remote trouble spots scattered from the northern and coastal provinces all the way to the Mekong Delta and the I Corps Area.

Surely it couldn’t have been a slight shoulder wound which had caused this recall? The G-2 officer had been directing a South Vietnamese force toward a Communist hideout when an Asian had put his foot down so carelessly as to detonate a land mine. The Vietnamese had been blasted instantly but only a fragment of splinter had caught North just above his left elbow.

A wry smile appeared beneath North’s close-clipped dark gray mustache on recalling the base surgeon’s expression upon surveying his naked and frequently scarred frame. During tours of duty for Army Intelligence—in the Far East, Near East and in Latin America—Hugh North had been hurt many times but so far he’d managed to escape permanent injury or disfigurement to long, bronze-hued features—rather Indian-like because of high cheekbones, flat ears and thin, slightly hooked nose.

In fact only a short scar running across the left cheek of a roughly handsome, finely chiseled face was visible. His crisp, short-cut hair remained plentiful and retained most of its original brown-black color. Slightly silvered patches showed above his ears.

The man’s body was a different matter; scars caused by a variety of hardware decorated the length of his hard and muscled six-foot frame. Beatings, sluggings and a few encounters with expert torturers had left so many indelible souvenirs that the surgeon, fresh from the States, had followed orders from Washington and at once had ordered him shipped home for a probable medical discharge.

Slitting open the envelope overlooked by the desk clerk, North wondered what it might contain. Nothing reassuring, that was a cinch. For how many years now had he been fighting silently, unglamorously but effectively ever since a long-retired Chief of the General Staff Corps had tapped him for G-2; his successors consistently had refused to let him go.

Almost from the start he’d discovered that survival and victory in Intelligence were not accomplished solely through a quick draw and courses in cryptography, forensic chemistry and judo. This was all right for actors and, to be sure, such knowledge did form a vital part of his own equipment, but quick thinking, eternal vigilance and rugged, sometimes merciless methods were what paid off when important chips were down.

He fingered the letter while his curiosity deepened as to why he should have been ordered to Washington less than a week after his recall from Vungtau, especially because he was well aware that, barring this recent shoulder scratch, he was perfectly fit for field duty.

The cab turned from Rock Creek Parkway onto the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Virginia and then toward the Pentagon. Hugh North checked his watch and found he had ten minutes left before yet another meeting with Lieutenant General R. D. Anniston, current Chief of G-2, General Staff Corps.

The note inside the blank envelope was brief and to the point:

TO: COL. NORTH

FROM: LIEUT GEN ARMISTON

REPORT AT 9.45 THIS A.M. PREPARED FOR POSSIBILITY THAT YOU MAY NOT RETURN TO YOUR HOTEL.

That was all, but enough. Hugh North pulled down mental ear flaps to drown out the drivers grievances against his fellow men while admitting to himself that, in all probability, he soon would be out-of-pocket for one traveling wardrobe and a set of toilet articles.

He then reviewed the unspectacular events of the past week during which he’d had four conferences with General Armiston—all having to do with Viet Cong problems. Other Intelligence officers had been present during the first three meetings, which in Pentagonese were termed “debriefings,” during which he’d reported in minute detail his Vietnamese observations and experiences—which suggested this information must be for some successor’s benefit. It was clear, in other words, that he would not be returning to Vietnam—at least not for the moment.

General Armiston bad sat quietly through these sessions fondling his bulldog’s jaw and only occasionally interposing a question. But he hadn’t appeared to be fully focused on the subject—which did not greatly surprise Hugh North. The General had Intelligence operations going all over the world so for him to remain preoccupied with events in a single area would have been incredible.

Only the General had been present at the fourth session, yesterday—a high security meeting convened in the General’s inner-ring office at the Pentagon; significantly, all events relating to Vietnam had been dropped. Instead, and without ever saying what was on his mind—the need-to-know code being in force—General Armiston had restricted his end of the conversation to purely technical matters, had interrogated Colonel North as to his knowledge of missiles. That veteran had passed this test thanks to G-2’s continuing program which constantly updated key officers on recent scientific developments.

Once the cab entered the main Pentagon drive North folded General Anniston’s note, set his lighter to it and deposited the charred remains in an overflowing ash receiver. His gesture was placid and, for the first time, he listened to his talkative cabbie.

“That’s right,” he agreed. “People are funnier than anybody.”

He tipped the driver generously and climbed out into the Virginia sunshine. For whatever reason he had been kept in the dark so far, he sensed that this waiting period soon would be over. Somewhere in this mammoth, five-sided structure packed with the top brains of the Armed Services, his assignment must be ready.

Hugh North relaxed for the first time in two weeks. He felt ready, too.

2

The man from G-2 made his way quickly up the first ramp, onto one escalator, then another and finally picked his way along the gray-walled fourth floor to General Anniston’s elaborate suite of offices. Hurrying past a teacher herding along a group of students making an early start on the seventeen miles of the Pentagon’s corridors he entered the outer office precisely on time.

The General’s secretary looked up briskly, glanced at her watch, and stated rather than asked, “Colonel North?” She had known him for ten years but she lived by the book. She pressed a buzzer as she spoke and nodded toward the General’s door.

Hugh entered and stood smartly to attention at the same time noticing to his surprise that a stranger, a lanky civilian in a badly fitting summer suit, was present.

“At ease, Colonel,” the General murmured. He glanced at his watch—which seemed to be a Pentagon habit this morning. “We have exactly a half hour, so suppose we dispense with the formalities. Colonel North, this is Charles Gregory, attached to the Voice of America who has something to do with what we’re presently going to talk about.”

So it still was mystery day at the Pentagon? North shook hands with a tall, thin man in his early thirties. Hugh felt Gregory’s long but strong fingers and smiled into a craggy square lace that was handsome in spite of itself.

“Colonel, Mr. Gregory is here only through accident, but he may prove useful to you. He is the technical director of our Voice of America operation in Tangier and has been in Washington on home leave. He’s got to catch a plane back early this morning which I don’t want him to miss. So we’ll have to talk fast.”

Tangier! Hugh hadn’t been in that squalid but exotic North African city for nearly a dozen years; the occasion, however, remained fresh in his memory. In one of his most demanding assignments, he had beaten the Russian MVD out of the formula for a fog gas which could freeze its victims to death within seconds. The Russians had wormed the secret out of a captive scientist, but when the Colonel left Tangier, the lethal formula had not been added to the Reds’ arsenal of deadly weapons.

Now General Armiston was moving toward the door. “I’ll fill you in on some of this on our way.” He added, “Gregory doesn’t know the whole story.”

As if on cue, Charles Gregory fell back and followed, allowing General Armiston and North to converse privately. Hugh liked the commonsense way he had understood and accepted the General’s point. Without embarrassment he had realized that what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him or, more important, someone else. If it’s really going to be Tangier the Colonel was telling himself, I’m glad Mr. Gregory will be around.

As General Armiston led the way toward the innermost Pentagon ring, he puffed at a briar pipe and spoke in abbreviated sentences.

“Can’t give this to you in a straight line right now. You’ll have to put it together later.”

North nodded. That was the way he usually received assignments—on the double and at emergency pace.

The General checked his watch again. “For a starter, remember the Cuban missile crisis? Well, it looks as it we’re in an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation with the Russkies once more, plus another risk.”

Hugh whistled softly and the General grinned. “Thought that would wake you up.” The smile vanished. “If the Cuban missiles had spelled trouble, this situation smells of disaster. The fact is, that while those were short-range missiles pointing at the Southeastern United States, and without atomic heads, the real thing a hydrogen missile is even now orbiting this country at regular intervals.”

“‘Orbiting!” North’s cheekbones became more prominent.

General Armiston bit the stem of his pipe and the skin crinkled around his hard, brown eyes. “Every hour and twenty-eight minutes, Colonel. Every hour and twenty-eight minutes, the United States of America stands in danger of having a major city blasted off the face of the Earth. The orbit—” He broke off as they passed through the main entrance of the Office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and approached a door carrying the card: National Military Command Center.

The General paused to allow Gregory to catch up. “Now you know the seriousness of the problem, if not the details,” he said. “Next step is to brief you on problems concerning the Hot Line. That’s involved too, or it will be, unless something happens damned fast from the Russian side of this menace.”

Mentally North checked off items of vital importance. A Russian satellite with an atomic or possibly a hydrogen warhead was in orbit and passing regularly over the United States. The United States is in contact with the Russian government about this on the Hot Line, but why?; and at what stage was this threat? Obviously we must be on the brink again. He thought of the cab driver’s preoccupation with foibles of his fellow men, the waitress’s daydreaming, the tall, thin lady looking for the Washington Monument. The words of the Vietnam surgeon: “Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Why didn’t a complacent public realize that there was a war going on all the time, every day?

Well, North bitterly reminded himself, for years his job had been to help make sure that such people retained the sublime right to go on chasing petty personal problems day by day.

As Chuck Gregory caught up, a sergeant guarding the door snapped to attention, saluted General Armiston, and passed the group into the Command Center.

A dozen men were working in shirt sleeves, at desks and around four teletype machines; two had keyboards containing Cyrillic characters of the Russian alphabet. North sensed from the quick movements of the men that some sense of emergency had already penetrated this top-secret Hot Line post even if the technicians probably didn’t yet comprehend the problem’s appalling potentialities.

“These men are highly trained, both as technicians and as translators,” the General explained. “As you see, they’re not going to have time to explain details; that’s why we’re using Mr. Gregory’s few remaining minutes in Washington. He was part of the team which set up this system in 1963. Very well, Mr. Gregory.”

Gregory glanced at his watch. “In a couple of minutes they’re going to go through a routine check of the Hot Line’s facilities, Colonel,” he said. “Every day they transmit from this end to the Kremlin, and the Kremlin sends test material back. We go in English, they come back in Russian. We have Russian translators”—he pointed to two men—“they have English translators on the Moscow end.”

North nodded, imprinting the information on his mind and shifting his eves to take in the technician’s movements.

Gregory stepped toward a desk in a far corner full of clatter. “The test message is never varied,” said he. “Look.”

Hugh was handed a thin sheet of teletype paper carrying the legend:

L-O L-O THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPED OVER THE LAZY DOG L-O L-O TESTING L-O L-O

North returned the sheet, puzzled. Surely messages weren’t sent in straight English, he thought.

He was right. Chuck Gregory reached out and the man behind the desk handed him a fresh sheet of read-out paper, saying, “Today’s.”

“Everything is coded,” Gregory said. “When the Hot Line opened after the near-disastrous communications delays we suffered during the Cuban ruckus, we sent them a batch of codes and prepared decoding tapes. We use a privacy scrambler at this end and they use one at the other end. So while the message remains identical, it never reads the same as transmitted and received.”

North appreciated that this test phrase had been thoroughly scrambled, even to the number of letters in individual words.

“The code is the security heart of this matter,” General Armiston remarked. “So far as we know, it’s safe. But too often we’ve regretted taking things for granted in the past, haven’t we, Colonel?” He puffed hard on his pipe and turned away.

Aware of the skill of cryptographers, no matter what their nationality, the G-2 Colonel decided to learn roughly about how the hookup between Washington and Moscow was made. It was one thing to transmit and receive with security at the terminal points, he knew very well, but quite another matter to maintain security along the thousands of miles stretching between the business ends of the apparatus.

When Gregory on being asked launched into that subject Hugh’s confidence in the lanky technician grew even stronger.

“To start with, normal transmission circuits were through leased commercial cables,” Gregory explained, “starting with a trans-Atlantic cable from here to London. Then the routing went through Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Helsinki and finally to Moscow.”

There must be more to the scheme than this, North surmised: cables are too easily interrupted. He recalled that in the summer of 1966 the Dashava, a Russian freighter, had gone aground on a sand bar near Korsder, Denmark. Another Russian ship had rushed up to free her and had sliced the cable, thus breaking contact between Copenhagen and Stockholm.

“Why so much reliance on wire circuits?” he asked General Armiston.

“Good question. At first the technicians proposed a desk-to-desk radio telephone between the White House and the Kremlin so the Heads of State could talk to each other mouth-to-mouth just by lifting the receiver and using translators. But the President worried about that and finally ruled it out. He was afraid that even with the best translators there was the chance that some words spontaneously spoken could be misinterpreted at either end. The result could be deadly. So we had to settle for the slight delay involved in telegraph wires and the rest of the problems that go with that kind of a system.”

He paused and tamped his pipe. “But we did insist on a back-up radio telephone system and we got it. Eh, Mr. Gregory?”

“Right. Colonel North, the reason I was called in has to do with the fact that I was involved in establishing the original system. I’m in Tangier now, and that’s where the relay for the back-up system is located. In fact I suppose that’s really why I’m in Tangier—anybody could handle my technical duties on the Voice of America transmitter.”

North smoothed crisp dark hair and nodded. Aside from wondering how this crisis had come about in the first place the only question in his mind was how long it would be before he would be starting for Tangier of unhallowed memories. Not very long, he surmised.

“The back-up system is a radio-telegraph circuit,” Gregory informed. “Same codes, same decoding keys, but a flick of a switch at both ends kills transmissions along the cables and swings them through the air. We test that circuit every day, too, and we’ve never had any trouble.”

North could understand that. He knew that Tangier’s “radio power” was legendary. Deservedly it was one of the great wireless crossroads of the world partly because of its location on the tip of the African continent but mostly because of its enviable equable climate. Tangier suffers practically no radio interference; good transmission is possible twenty-four hours a day, twelve months a year. Sundays thrown in free.

All that made the site a Grade A relay point with which to reach virtually every listening target on the European continent, Africa and the Middle East.

“Aren’t RCA and Mackay still operating there, too?” he asked the Voice of America man.

Gregory replied that they were going full blast and complimented the G-2 man on the possession of such obscure knowledge. He checked the time and turned briskly to General Armiston. “My time is up, sir. If there are no more questions I’d like to get going.”

“Just one,” North said. “Where in Tangier is the relay point?”

Gregory chuckled. “You’ll think I’m kidding, but what can I say? It’s in the Casbah or the Medina, which is the same thing. Just where a movie director would place it, but we put it there because of its elevation. I gather you’re familiar with the Casbah?”

“I can assure you the Colonel is,” General Armiston put in. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he renewed his acquaintance with that pseudo sink of iniquity before long, Mr. Gregory, so please be on the alert for his call in Tangier. Thank you for your help.”

Gregory shook hands and departed with a wave to Colonel North. As he disappeared through the door, the General muttered, “Strange fellow. He’s one of those whizzes who’s really brilliant in any number of fields; electronics and communications is only one of his specialities—keeps himself from getting bored in Tangier by conducting special chemical researches for the Defense Department—even operates a little private lab. Nothing very elaborate. He works there on theoretical problems. Seems he started out in chemistry but when he found out how easy it was going to be for him he chucked it and only uses it as a hobby now.”

As they started down the escalator the General said, “One more stop, Colonel, and probably the most important of all. Don’t be surprised over whom you’re about to meet; we’re about to join some of the most important men in this country. They’ll give you the rest of the story.”

By the time they had reached the concourse level Hugh North realized they were heading for the Pentagon’s most secure elevators before which armed guards always were posted. He was aware also that he was en route to the core of the America’s defense and communications center—far enough underground to be sale from atomic attack—and the site of emergency operations coordination.

“One more thing,” General Armiston added. “This crisis is so new we’re nowhere near estimating all its potentials so please be prepared to listen closely and think fast. These men know of your record and have deep confidence in your ability, but this morning they’re mighty nervous.”

They strode from the elevator through another guarded door and into the nerve center of America’s vast and incredibly complex defense system.

3

Despite General Anniston’s briefing, Colonel North was shaken by the cast of top personalities present in the communications hub. It was not that he was awed by being in their presence but by the fact of their being assembled like this—no question remained that the peril point of this crisis was very near.

At the deep end of a U-shaped table sat the Secretary of Defense. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was to his right. To his left sat the Under Secretary of State and arrayed along the legs of the U were not only the Chiefs of Staff of the various Armed Services but the Chiefs of a number of Intelligence agencies. Decision-making power was assembled in this room, Hugh North realized—and on the highest level.

Cast upon a huge screen from before which a heavy draping was being drawn aside appeared a shimmering translucent Mercator projection of the Earth. As he seated himself beside General Armiston, the man from G-2 noticed a blinking red light traveling across the map.

As the Defense Secretary broke in on this contemplation, North realized that little time was about to be wasted. “That red marker, Gentlemen,” explained the Under Secretary of Defense, “represents the current course of a Soviet satellite. As you see, at this very instant it is entering the airspace above our Western coast line. In a moment it will pass over Los Angeles. Its present orbit to the northeast will take it within the next five minutes over St. Louis. It will pass close enough to Chicago to annihilate that city, and, inside of another five minutes, it will overfly New York City. One hour and twenty-eight minutes later it may repeat that orbit—or vary unpredictably.”

“I believe this puts you in the picture for the moment?” murmured the General.

Hugh North nodded, cold anger swamping his mind. He had been outraged enough when General Armiston had exposed the bare bones of this news threat earlier but now, watching that flickering red light carrying the precise location of the satellite, brought a terrible reality to this crisis.

“As you know,” the Defense Secretary continued in a strained voice, “this satellite very illegally carries a nuclear warhead; we did not know until a few hours ago that this is a hydrogen device. Soon you will be told how it got there.

“Meanwhile, to save time, let me inform you that we already have considered various ways of eliminating this threat. The most effective method, despite the risk of atmospheric contamination, is to launch an atomic missile along the same orbit but in the reverse direction, and thus remove this threat by destroying the device through a head-on contact. We have the mathematical and engineering capability to do this but we do not have a suitably armed satellite vehicle prepared and could not have one readied inside of thirty hours.”

The Secretary cleared his throat, permitted himself an aside: “We do not have a nuclear-armed satellite for instant use because we take our word seriously once it is given, which can’t be said for our Russian friends as has been proved time and again.”

The same old story, Hugh North told himself. Treaties, agreements, commitments. We keep them, the Russians break them. We play it straight, hoping against hope we can discover a foolproof means of assured co-existence only to find that we’ve been double-crossed. He anticipated that the whole problem was about to be discussed and already suspected that there must be something extraordinary about the nature of the Russian involvement which he must attempt to solve. No one yet had used those bitter words which would spell out a clear-cut ultimate confrontation with the Soviet Union.

“You will recall, Colonel North,” the Secretary was saying, “that despite all their protests to the contrary the Russians played a stalling game during negotiations for a treaty to outlaw nuclear weapons in outer space. We know now why they were stalling; they were developing a rocket that could launch a satellite carrying a hydrogen warhead.

“They have now, lamely enough, explained that they went ahead with this development because they felt they couldn’t trust us, but of course the present evidence proves who can be trusted and who can’t.

“In any event, the Russians launched this satellite secretly, from a base in the Urals just twelve days ago today. We have been tracking it—as we do all their satellites—and have estimated it as just another in their secret series until two days ago our tracking stations picked up the fact this vehicle suddenly had entered an erratic orbit. Apparently it had been programmed originally to pass almost exclusively over seas or deserts. We might never have known what was in that satellite’s payload if its orbital swing hadn’t brought the device over the United States.”

The Secretary glanced over North’s head to the wall map and all eyes followed his, watched the moving red blip place the satellite near St. Louis. Hugh’s gray-blue eyes remained riveted to the map. His lips tightened as the Secretary resumed.

“The President got on the Hot Line and warned the Russians bluntly that we didn’t appreciate their satellites’ overflying us. It was then that the Soviet Premier confessed. He admitted the situation and said it was even worse than we had realized: a hydrogen warhead is in the satellite.

“The President admitted later that not only was he shocked by this admission but also was astonished that the Russians should so freely admit it. Bluntly he replied that there would be time enough later to talk about why the Russians had elected to violate the treaty, but in the meantime he wanted it clearly understood that if this threat to the United States was not immediately removed he would arm every nuclear warhead in America, Europe and Asia aimed at Moscow and other major Russian cities and then gave them one hour to discover whether he was sincere in this threat.”

North lit a thin cigar and fixed his gaze on the Secretary. Wouldn’t do to miss even the least detail of what he was going to say because it wouldn’t be repeated.

“This brings us to the crux of the problem,” the Secretary’s taut voice continued. “The Russians claim that the shift in orbit was unintentional; that they’ve developed bugs in their guidance control system which altered the planned course and is preventing them from getting the vehicle to comply with ground-directed signals.”

As North glanced around the room he could see that several high officials were wearing skeptical expressions. He must have walked in on a rather brisk exchange of Military Intelligence opinions.

“The President realized within seconds that this was something he couldn’t afford to debate over the Hot Line—we’d have to obtain opinions for him. But he knew he couldn’t take any chances either. So he made a deal: either they locate the bugs and control them within seventy-two hours from last midnight, or they turn over their plans for the satellite flight to our own space scientists. We’ll be invited to figure out corrections to keep that threat away from our soil.”

General Armiston sighed, pushed his coffee cup away, while North wondered which side of the argument he was to be on.

“The Russians grumbled,” the Secretary continued, “but finally agreed. Meanwhile, of course, we’re going ahead with our own missile arming and they know it. We’re not to be caught short.” He paused. “I don’t have to tell you that if either trigger is pulled, ‘long or short’ may not mean much any more.”

The Secretary rubbed silvery stubble along his chin. “I’ll ask General Armiston to bring you up to date on Intelligence findings now. Any questions, Colonel?”

“By your leave, sir”—warily Hugh North settled back—“I’d like to listen.”

General Armiston shook his head. “Nevertheless, please speak, Colonel.”

“Very well, sir. From what you’ve told me, if the Russians aren’t able to correct their own system have they offered to turn over their data to us?”

“Yes. And if we can’t utilize this data?” demanded the Chief of G-2.

“We will launch an atomic missile of our own on a collision course which will detonate this Russian satellite far enough out in space to harm no one—or so we hope.”

“May I ask by what means this Russian information is to be transmitted?” queried the Under Secretary.

General Armiston shot glances at his opposite numbers in the Armed Services.

“You anticipate, sir,” he said, “but you’ve hit on the principal danger of a plan which, at best, has plenty of weaknesses in it. All transmissions are supposed to be transmitted via the Hot Line—that’s the fastest way. You can appreciate we can ill afford to lose a single minute.” He looked again at the flashing red marker on the wall map.

“The trouble is,” he continued, “we can’t be sure the Hot Line itself is any longer completely secure. You know about that Russian freighter in Denmark? Well, we checked that one out very carefully and it was clean. Just a dumb skipper who panicked and accidentally cut the cable. But Stockholm is a different story. We’ve spotted agents moving into Sweden at a rate which can only mean big trouble. The circuit there is quite as vulnerable as it is anywhere else.”

Hugh would have bet his special allowances for the next six months that he could name the nationality of the agents General Armiston was referring to. It came as no surprise, then, when his superior said shortly, “Chinese and from White satellites.”

Now North perceived why the President had been inclined to credit the Kremlin’s excuse of a malfunction and their offer of cooperation in neutralizing its own illegal satellite. Whatever the Russians came up with later it was sure that they weren’t inviting a show-down at this moment. And it was no less a certainty that this was exactly the kind of a provocation that Mao Tse-tung and his regime would delight in. It would not only stir international tensions but such a confrontation also would remove considerable internal heat from the Chinese Red boss.

General Armiston nodded to the Defense Secretary whose controlled voice took over.

“Colonel North, whatever we do here to contain this threat and prepare for the worst will be of no avail it the Hot Line fails to remain secure. Understood?”

North nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I understand that in the past you’ve successfully handled some extremely delicate assignments. This one may well test your ability to the limit.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hugh North stood up, aware that he was being told to get going in one Hell of a hurry.

“General Armiston will accompany you, Colonel,” the Secretary arose and circled the table to offer his hand. “He will have a few final instructions.” He grasped North’s hand, shook it warmly. “A lot of people are counting on you, Colonel, though they don’t know it; uncounted millions of them.”

Colonel North saluted, about-faced and made for the door. General Armiston would be following. He could well guess what those final words from the Defense Secretary portended.

Back in the elevator, the General stoked his pipe and drawled, “Pretty obvious what we’ll have to do, isn’t it, Colonel?”

North inclined his dark, narrow head. “I’d venture you’re going to ignore the cable line through Europe.”

“Exactly. We’ll use said cable only for testing purposes, and sending a lot of misleading information—just to keep up appearances before the Chinese. The real material will go by radio telephone relayed through Tangier. I’ve already assigned more agents than you could count to England, Denmark, Sweden and Finland where they’re fairly swarming around the cable relay points. Expensive decoys but worth it. They’re going to raise all sorts of dust to keep the Chinese distracted and guessing. Meanwhile, you’re to protect the really strategic relay point.”

North summoned a wry smile. “Is that all? What’s the next step?”

“You leave at noon today and pick up your ticket and credentials at Dulles International. All arrangements have been made. I don’t want you to return to your hotel; you’ve been checked out already, so shop about and pick whatever you’ll need for Tangier and get cracking.”

North shook hands and walked away without looking back. Even so, he heard General Armiston’s soft, “May God go with you.” The words trailed him as he cut through the beautifully landscaped central courtyard and toward the Pentagon’s outer ring.

Hugh North appreciated what the Secretary of Defense discreetly had said through General Armiston. It amounted to this: Get this job done at all costs. Be diplomatic at all times except when you can’t afford to be. Be most discreet and take care not to involve the State Department so they won’t make trouble for the Defense Department.

The Colonel stopped at the armorer’s quarters long enough to check out a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38, a single clip of cartridges and a chamois skin shoulder holster. Later he shopped for a couple of dark-colored lightweight suits and a few other necessities before boarding a taxi for Dulles Airport. With luck, he should arrive in Tangier before the sun rose again.

Had Hugh North even suspected what he would discover in North Africa he’d have put in for an extra ration of luck.

4

A day earlier—quite by coincidence had anyone been interested—the cultural attaché of the Albanian Mission to the United Nations abruptly decided that he must be running short on his particular interpretation of American culture which might explain why a short, stout, almost bald man with an olive complexion flew from New York to Washington to observe some of that Capital’s sights—the architecture of Hugh North’s hotel for example. The little man was studying its lobby at the very moment the man from G-2 was hailing a taxi to report to his superior.

And then there was the celebrated Pentagon to be visited. Equipped with a map obligingly supplied to tourists at a lobby desk he appeared to be in search of a men’s room on the fourth floor at the moment Colonel North was entering General Armiston’s office.

Had Mr. Gregory been perceptive about such matters he might have noticed the fat little man’s heavy breathing behind him while following the General and North down the escalators. The little man in the baggy suit also found the private, well-guarded elevators a most interesting cultural fact. He didn’t need a new necktie, but bought one while North reappeared to select a new wardrobe.

And finally the man from Albania became deeply interested in Dulles International Airport which never before had appealed to him. Nothing like it in Tirana, was there?

Early in the afternoon while Colonel North was cruising at 35,000 feet over the Atlantic aboard a 707 Air France jet the little fat man was busy in Washington at the Embassy of an East European satellite reporting on his recent observations of the American scene.

And an hour later said observations had been coded and were being transmitted overseas. Only in America, thought the little man, could one so freely transact such delicate business. It really was remarkable.