The Hunt for Danger
Fictional International Thriller.
By
Peter G Bailey
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PUBLISHED BY:-
Peter G Bailey at Smashwords
The Hunt for Danger
Copyright 2011 by Peter G Bailey
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First published in Great Britain by PG Publishing 2011
All characters in this book are fictitious and bear no relationship to any person, alive or dead, known to the author.
A catalogue record for all published eBooks is held in the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-4699-7926-7
Dedicated:-To Joy
Few are qualified to shine like her.
One line Synopsis:- An international political intrigue thriller set in the aftermath of the collapse of Russian communism.
Two paragraph synopsis:- An escaped British political prisoner becomes involved with group of mercenaries formed to eliminate weapons of mass destruction wherever they can be found.
The plot, set against a backdrop of post-communist political unrest in Russia, is complicated by an American President desperate to gain a second term in office at any cost.
Synopsis:-
When Simon Denchfield lands his crippled seaplane on a secluded lagoon on a Pacific Island, near the Marquesas, he never expected to find it inhabited by anyone, let alone the determined people he found there.
Treated with the deepest suspicion at first, Denchfield finds himself accepted when their leader recognises him.
Worried that he is about to be exposed, Denchfield discovers the group are part of a secret organisation dedicated to the eradication of the world’s weapons of mass destruction. He accepts an invitation to join them as one of their leaders and soon finds himself flying into Russia attacking their nuclear arsenals and missile stockpiles.
With Russia weakened and disorganised by the collapse of communism, Denchfield suggests a way the US President can, not only gain himself a second term in office, but also ensure his name is recorded in history as the man who brought peace to the world.
While the president is excited by the idea his military advisers are not. They see the growing accord between the two super-powers as diminishing their own standing and importance. Together with a deputy director of the CIA, General Maxwell and Admiral Freeman arrange to have a US submarine fire a nuclear missile at Moscow on the eve of the disarmament signing ceremony in Geneva.
Alerted to the incident, Denchfield manages to destroy the weapon in flight and so averts a catastrophe.
With the job of world weapon destruction half done, the leaders of the secret organisation find themselves being offered, and taking, important United Nations jobs.
List of Contents:
Chapter One - The Buck.
Chapter Two - Indulgence Island.
Chapter Three - The Snow Geese.
Chapter Four - The Director of Air Operations.
Chapter Five - The World Tour.
Chapter Six - The Tour Goes on.
Chapter Seven - The Pack Ice Stand Off.
Chapter Eight - Alarm Bells Ring in Washington.
Chapter Nine - The Snow Geese Fly North.
Chapter Ten - The Chips Fall into Place.
Chapter Eleven - The Achievement Awards.
The Hunt for Danger
Chapter One
The Buck.
Autumn, Washington
In the crowded Cabinet room of the White House the President of the United States of America, Roland Bannerman sat tense, still and very angry. His left hand gripped the latest edition of Washington’s largest circulating newspaper distastefully between thumb and forefinger as though he had been invited to inspect the contents of the cat’s litter box and did not wholly appreciate what he found there. His tanned face, usually wreathed in dazzling smiles for his public and his more amenable staff, was stiff and pinched about the lips as his eyes flicked disbelievingly across stark banner headline: ‘US nukes friendly country without warning?’ he read aloud in case his listeners remained unaware of the stark message. The newspaper publishers had the courtesy to include a question mark after the over-large black war lettering as though not entirely sure of their facts and the interrogation mark offered a ready-made disclaimer should the dire wording fail to withstand close scrutiny. In making the bold accusation they were flying a speculative kite hoping the evocative statement would bring a swift rebuttal from those at the very highest level in government while at the same time seeking cheap credibility by having its accusation dignified by official rejection comment. It was a dishonest way of claiming credit for forcing an official denial of a horrific suggestion, or obtaining a grudging official acceptance of the truth behind the assertion. The newspaper editor, in equally blazing follow-up headlines, indicated that the administration had something unpalatable to hide and the peoples’ newspaper had touched a raw nerve should the White House maintain a dignified silence.
The President understood the unpleasant hectoring tactic as well as any experienced politician, but coming so soon after the so far unexplained nuclear explosion in distant Afghanistan it was not something he wished to see discussed in quite those pejorative terms. The headline gave the wrong impression to everyone, especially his personal enemies and the enemies of his country, although in his Presidential mind the distinction between the two evil forces remained intentionally confused. Both sought his downfall and both had to be faced with resolution and defiance.
The scurrilous headline amounted to biased treachery he regretted seeing in an American newspaper of note. It also had to be admitted that the editor of the newspaper was no personal friend of his, and judging by the journal’s acidic contents, that unhappy state of affairs looked unlikely to change in the near, or distant, future.
Flicking the paper irritably to indicate his deeply felt disgust Roland Bannerman laid it disdainfully on the long polished table in front of him and smoothed it flat with nervous stroking motions of his open palms. Satisfied with its neater appearance, but not with the state of his politically ink-soiled hands, he raised his frosty gaze from the offending newsprint to look around the cabinet room where he normally met his staff for administrative policy-making discussions. Not many advisers openly returned his gaze, although each occupant of the upholstered square-backed chairs pressed closely around the long table’s edge looked attentively grave as they returned the aggrieved Presidential surveillance with whatever self-assurance they could muster at that time of the morning and in those dire circumstances. Most were bemedalled military leaders interspersed with selected national Security Council advisers and faceless manipulators of administrative power. These were national big hitters gathered to hear the reason for the early morning summons.
The terse Presidential greetings did nothing to explain why the meeting had been called so urgently; nor was an agenda provided to suggest subjects to be discussed. The occupants of the chairs around the table only had a few hazy notions of what stirred their leader’s febrile mind into a state of near apoplexy. Sitting at the head of the table with his back to an unlit open fireplace the President looked far from happy.
‘I hope this guy is sweating in the sin bin, Hugh? Where’s Hugh?’ Bannerman demanded peevishly. He looked around the bland faces trying to pin down the one he wanted.
‘Right here, Mr President. Right here.’
The round smooth features of Hugh Caldwell, his CIA deputy director, thrust forward to gain attention. He was pleased to be singled out so early in the proceedings, and by his Christian name. The President used Christian names if he knew the person addressed well enough; otherwise, it was a vague, hmm, and a pointed finger. The recognition factor carried important personal considerations on Capitol Hill where it indelibly placed the favoured one precisely in the administrative pecking order of those it would be wise not to cross or upset. They undoubtedly had the Presidential ear and that could be an immeasurable advantage in the Washington political jungle.
‘Yes, sir. We have Beamish McCulloch on ice,’ Caldwell happily assured his leader. ‘We’re asking him so many questions he’s forgotten who his mother is and where he lives.’ Caldwell’s manner was neither sycophantic, nor unduly servile, suggesting a respectful familiarity with the holder of the highest position in the land.
‘After writing that anti-American crap, his mother should be sorry to call him son, the arsehole!’ Bannerman grunted disgustedly. ‘He has a history of anti-administration headlines, hasn’t he?’ He looked around the room quizzically as if searching for signs of support or dissent. ‘I guess he must be a Republican sympathiser, or he’s someone who’s had his nuts squeezed by us too often?’
‘I believe he has Republican leanings, sir?’ Caldwell confirmed soothingly. ‘We’ll sweat him for a few hours and then we’ll have to let him go unfortunately. We’re skating on a pretty thin legal line shaking him down as hard as we are; but like you say, he’s a total arsehole, unless he can support what he’s printed, that is.’ He added the last comment to protect himself if a later irate accusation from the ink-stained victim of state oppression should point a heavy and expensively legal digit in his direction.
The President nodded his thanks and coughed lightly into his balled fist. ‘That’s the purpose of this here informal meeting, gentlemen,’ he informed his listeners grandly. ‘To find out what exactly went on in Afghanistan to occasion this goddamned rubbish.’ He tapped the paper and then waved one hand airily around the long narrow room. ‘As you see, there are no stenographers present, and I promise the room is not bugged. I want the truth, and not necessarily the truth you’re going to tell the Senate investigating committee when it meets in a few days’ time; although there should be no difference between the two I hasten to add.’ He grinned wolfishly to indicate that he didn’t care as much for the findings of the Senate Committee as he did about getting the truth from the present meeting. ‘After all,’ he went on plaintively. ‘I have to get up on my hind legs and look the world in the eye and say we know nothing about this thing.’ He tapped the paper again with a stiff reproving forefinger. ‘As a politician I can do that without too much public blushing, but I’d sound and look a damn sight more convincing if I know, in my own mind, that we had nothing to do with that goddamned fireball.’ He paused theatrically, willing their total support; dark penetrating eyes switched restlessly from face to face seeking doubters and supporters. He wanted to know every one of those for future reference. He had a long and vindictive memory for such details and a spiteful reputation for pulling doubters back into line.
‘Now, bearing in mind that the public have had it up to their pelvic regions with news reporters and TV commentators’ version of the event, what have we got?’ He asked the question with raised inquisitive eyebrows, but held up a silencing hand before anyone could respond to the rhetorical question. ‘Before we engage our encephalic gears let’s take some mental pabulum on board. Let’s see what our military intelligence boys have come up with, Major?’ He made a vague sideways sweeping motion of his left hand to indicate the only uniformed officer not sitting at the table.
A young marine Major, sitting quietly and inoffensively by the wall not far from the President leapt to his feet as though catapulted from the chair by a massively coiled spring. In the presence of the senior executive officer of the country and his own most senior service officers anything less in the way of an attentive reaction would be unacceptable. He looked impossibly young to be a Marine Major, smooth faced, confident, hatless and endlessly competent. He wore the dark blue corps dress uniform with creases that could be used as razors for his early morning shave, or they could double as offensive weapons in close quarter combat. Brass buttons down the front of his uniform and on his sleeves gleamed with a lustre nature never intended for so base a metal.
He strode, in highly polished lightweight marching boots, rather than sprinted to an easel placed to one side of the open fireplace. Such casualness seemed a mistaken indulgence in such august company, but his bemused audience scarcely noticed, or cared about the seemingly minute indiscretion. Picking up a rolled presentation pack left propped conveniently against the fireplace he hooked it expertly over the easel and allowed the covered folios to unroll and fall under their own weight. The outside sheet carried, in bold red lettering, the imperative ‘Top Secret’ classification.
‘Thank you, Mr President, sir.’ He acknowledged his civic and military leader with a slight bow of his closely shaved head followed by a single formal heel click in the direction of the military top brass some way down the table. Formal courtesies completed, he addressed the room: ‘In front of you gentlemen, are some briefing folders containing much of what I am about to reveal. They have the highest security classification and your signature certifying that nothing you hear or see for the rest of this meeting will be discussed outside this room will be required before leaving.’
Stepping to one side he adroitly flicked the top cover of the folio over the easel and waited a moment while his audience took in the revealed details. The uncovered sheet showed a large scale, not very informative, black and white aerial photograph of a mountain scene that could have been anywhere in the world, or even the moon, come to that. There were few identifying features and little to commend it as being geographically interesting to anyone even remotely interested in such an arcane subject.
‘This is the actual site of the nuclear explosion mentioned in the newspaper article,’ the major informed them grimly. ‘It’s one of a series taken by a US special reconnaissance aircraft shortly after the event, within fifteen minutes, in fact. There was a reason for its presence in the area that I’m not at liberty to disclose, but the two events were not in any way connected. The pilot of the SRA did not know what was about to happen, nor did Command come to that.’ Having made that disclaimer for the benefit of the President rather than his own senior officers, he turned to face the photograph. ‘The scene shows the area of devastation caused by a nuclear explosion and I particularly want to point out some curious radioactive hot spots not seen at the test sites of other nuclear explosions.’ He carefully overlaid the photo with a transparency showing a number of scattered inked markings. ‘This is an infrared camera shot taken at the same time as the photograph,’ he explained standing to one side to allow his audience time to absorb the details.
‘I think you’d better go over the background leading up to the explosion for the sake of the White House staff who might be unfamiliar with the details,’ the President interrupted gruffly. ‘I’m sure the military will bear with us.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ The Major again clicked his heels in acknowledgement of his fresh orders and turned to face his audience instead of the easel. ‘At the time of the explosion we believe a convoy of sixty intercontinental ballistic nuclear weapons, loaded on mobile transporters, were driving up the Shah Fuladi valley to a rocket launch site built by the Russians when they were in Afghanistan supporting the communist regime then in power. We don’t know why the convoy was heading in that direction or who was taking them there. A number of possibilities are being evaluated. The front runner, and one we in the military are inclined to support, is the theory that a whole batch of the latest percussive multi-warhead missiles had been acquired from unaccountable Russian sources by a religious sect calling itself the ‘Flaming Sword of Allah’s Revenge’. We believe they intended to launch the missiles at targets in the West, notably at ourselves, Great Britain and at Israel, although once again we’re not sure about that list. Before they could do that, we believe the convoy was ambushed by non-fundamentalist rebels, or even by Afghan government troops trying to acquire nuclear weapons for their own purposes. In the fighting that followed we believe one, or more, of the weapons went critical and exploded.’
‘And we don’t appear anywhere in the frame,’ Bannerman interrupted encouragingly to assure the grave listeners of that critical detail in case they missed that pertinent item. His military advisers glanced at each other and stirred uncomfortably.
‘With respect, Mr President, we did launch two F18s armed with nuclear tipped Tomahawk cruise missiles, and USS Van Buren did launch a Trident,’ Admiral Thomas Freeman interjected quietly before that unpalatable item of information became lost in the euphoria of the moment.
A pregnant silence ensued as Bannerman swung around to face the speaker, his tanned face neutral and feelings well under political control.
‘We can account for those Tom, as you probably know,’ he said easily. ‘We have it on record that both aircraft were recalled before the LRT line and both returned to the USS Eisenhower with weapons onboard. A submarine launched Trident was aborted in flight and crashed into the Arabian Sea and has since been recovered with all nine warheads intact.’
‘That’s right, Mr President. Those are the facts,’ Freeman agreed courteously. ‘I just want it remembered that we did launch two nuclear strikes and it was only the actual nuclear explosion in the designated target area that caused us to abort our missions.’ The admiral shrugged expressively causing his gold encrusted epaulettes to glisten in the subdued light from overhead candelabra. He had no need to elaborate on what the possible consequences might have been had those missile reached their targets.
‘OK, we had the intention, but in the end it we didn’t get there,’ Bannerman agreed affably. He paused to regard the massed ranks of his military advisers with chests loaded with medals on impressively smart uniforms. ‘Unless you’re about to tell me something I didn’t know,’ he added ominously. ‘Like we did launch something else and the weapon was not recalled?’
‘To my certain knowledge Mr President that did not happen. Our weapons have been audited a dozen times since. On that score we’re fireproof,’ Admiral Freeman demurred confidently. He leaned back in his chair in an attempt to slide out of visual range. He had said enough. He had shown fatal liberal tendencies at previous meetings and knew they had been noted. If he read this meeting right the President was shuffling around to avoid fielding any attributable blame should American involvement be proved. In making the point the Admiral was equally concerned that no odium should be off-loaded in his direction, or on to his service. In firing the Trident and in launching the F18s, the Navy had acted on the President’s direct orders and he had the tapes securely locked away to prove it. There was no way Bannerman could dispute that.
Unperturbed by the Admiral’s interjection Bannerman settled back in his chair and turned to nod at the Major standing quietly by the easel. The high level verbal exchange was not something a small creature like himself wanted to become involved in. Appearing to take sides could have a damaging and salutary effect on his rosy promotion prospects, especially as the silver leaf emblem of his next step to Lieutenant Colonel was not all that far away. A good showing in his present White House appointment should easily do the trick. He did not need to be stuck on the anvil of an enraged President and a stiff backed resentful Admiral coming up to retirement.
‘Right, carry on when you’re ready, Major,’ Bannerman ordered brusquely.
‘The infrared overlay clearly shows a number of hot spots,’ the Major went on confidently picking up his story almost from the point of interruption. ‘We can see the area of primary heat emission in the centre of the blast crater, and that you’ll notice, is roughly where the road once ran along the mountainside. It is where we believe the motor convoy was positioned at the time of the explosion. From that knowledge we can infer that the explosion originated somewhere near the vehicles and quite some distance from the launch site, their supposed destination.’
He tapped the overlay in a number of appropriate areas.
‘Also notice these secondary emissions; one hot spot outside ground zero and one overlapping the edge of the originating burst. We’re not sure what they mean, but they are similar to large dense, usually metal objects, that have been subjected to enormous heat before melting and vaporising. The site of such dense matter would retain heat longer than the surrounding base material and would throw up stronger infrared signals. Notice also the string of smaller dots leading from the explosion site and down to the bottom of the valley. We suspect these were individually vaporised missile carriers and their weapons; others seem to be buried in avalanches that occurred before, or after the explosion. Some might be recoverable.’
The young Major turned to cast an enquiring look over his audience to see if they followed his technical dissertation, or if they had any questions. With none forthcoming he pulled a second transparent overlay over the first.
‘This gives us an even stranger picture,’ he earnestly informed his listeners before returning to the presentation folio slightly puzzled and disappointed by his audience’s passive, almost negative, responses. They were either in agreement with what he was saying, or they were total morons and did not wish to show the depths of their ignorance by asking questions. He was not prepared to classify his eminent listeners under either heading, not openly and not this side of the twice-yearly promotion announcements. ‘This picture shows the areas of highest recorded radiation,’ he went on smoothly. Perhaps he was being too technical and should take it down a couple of comprehension pegs. ‘And once again we can see they correspond exactly, as expected, with the heat emissions shown on the other transparencies. The highest levels are at ground zero. Others follow the string of heat dots along the roadway. We can also pick out smaller emissions amongst the mountain slide debris. We suspect these come from broken missiles on buried carriers.’
‘Can you tell us about the source of the radiation?’ Bannerman interjected. ‘Can we identify ours from other stuff, for instance?’
‘I think you’ll have to ask the Atomic Energy Commission that question, sir. They supply the material for our nuclear weapons and the formula mix is classified, although off the record, I can confirm that it is possible to identify with some confidence the country of origin of nuclear emissions. In this instance we have obtained soil and debris samples from the explosion sites and from areas around them. The Livermore Laboratory confirms that the fissile material was neither Russian nor ours.’ The Major paused as though confused by a second thought that occurred to him. ‘I’d better qualify that! The ground zero blast was not caused by one of our nuclear devices, nor by a Russian one, but some outlying samples, from the missile carrier sites for instance, were definitely Russian in origin. Whatever happened on the day the missile convoy was destroyed, the explosion was nothing to do with us, or with the Russians by way of an airborne strike. The nuclear fusion came from another source entirely.’
‘Was the device sourced from another club member?’ Bannerman persisted. He wanted cast iron irrefutable proof of American innocence. ‘There’s been speculation about Pakistan producing a weapon, or even a Chinese supplied one?’
‘The device could certainly originate from a number of places if transported on one of the vehicles,’ the major reminded him. ‘China has the capability to produce nuclear weapons; Israel too, although we can discount both in this instance, neither would want to be seen collaborating with a Muslim country. India is working to produce nuclear weapons, as is North Korea. Even Iraq may have achieved the unthinkable, despite the close monitoring they’ve been subjected to since the end of the Gulf war.’
When Bannerman fell into a ruminative silence the Major went through the rest of his presentation without further interruption, and without further questions. It was a competent performance from someone who had clearly mastered his homework and knew how to make a difficult subject sound easy. Bannerman nodded his curt thanks as the major retired thankfully to the safety and anonymity of his seat.
‘I think that let’s us out, gentlemen,’ Bannerman said with a relieved full-dentured smile. ‘But how to persuade the rest of humanity that our hands are clean and our intentions wholesome? It’s going to be a tough cookie to pull out of the oven and sell to a world wanting to believe everything bad emanates from us in here in the States, especially if we get unhelpful headlines like this.’ Once again the offending newspaper was favoured with a distastefully prodding Presidential finger. ‘I’d like your comments and suggestions, but if you can’t come up with anything right now, consult your staff and let me have your opinions within three days. We can’t afford to wait longer than that or people will begin to think we’ve something to hide, and if any of you guys are sitting on information that’s going to make us look bad, let’s have it on the table right now and out in the open.’ He looked challengingly around the blank faces. ‘I have to address the United Nations on this subject and I’d like to be able to put hand on heart and say, in all sincerity, ‘We’re lily white’.’
‘It would be nice if we could lay the blame on the real culprit, sir.’ One of the White House aides offered obsequiously. It seemed a banal comment as Bannerman quickly latched on to the possibilities, so quick the comment might have been a cherry planted for him to pluck.
‘Right on,’ he agreed encouragingly without taking advantage of the offered possibilities. He looked down the table to his CIA deputy director. ‘When this meeting’s over, Hugh, I’d like a few words with you in my office, and if the military chiefs of staff would hang on a few minutes after that I’d like their opinions on a possibly related matter.’
An hour later Hugh Caldwell accompanied Bannerman on the short well-carpeted walk from the cabinet room to his office in the west wing of the White House. Once inside, the great man visibly relaxed. This was his terrain. He was the master and for a brief moment free of the need to show a bold, positive but relaxed front to every red-hot crisis handed to him to solve.
He settled his spare frame into the swivel castored seat behind his desk and motioned Caldwell into one of the candy striped armchairs alongside. As he made himself comfortable he was grimly conscious of the huge pile of papers his secretary had left for his signature and action. It needed clearing before he could walk the short distance upstairs to retire for the night.
‘I don’t believe that lot in there,’ he grumbled disgustedly. ‘Half of them are convinced I set the whole thing up. Dammit! I wouldn’t mind defending the position if our weapons did the job. It needed doing.’
‘It nearly was our weapons,’ Caldwell reminded him cautiously. ‘In some respects it’s a pity we found no convincing evidence of the existence of the convoy; apart from the hot spots that seemed to intrigue our chocolate soldier in the Cabinet Room...’
‘But we know it existed,’ Bannerman protested heatedly. He hated his stalwarts drawing attention to weaknesses in his thinking. ‘We have God knows how many thousand witnesses to say it was there and heading up devastation valley, whatever they call it.’
‘Shah Faludi,’ Caldwell reminded him.
‘Whatever,’ Bannerman grunted dismissively. ‘Coffee or something a little stronger?’ He pressed a white ceramic bell push near his elbow without waiting for a reply from his guest. Along with his many other talents he had the unsettling ability of changing humour in the blink of an eyelash and all without reason or apology. ‘I don’t know,’ he went on reminiscently. ‘Since that nuke went off it’s made me think how vulnerable we all are to terrorist attacks. Jeez, suppose all those nukes were targeted at us.’ He released a slow breath to indicate the horror he felt for such a proposition. ‘We sure as hell have to get this nuclear disarmament thing sown up as quickly as possible. There’s too much of it lying around Asia now the Soviets have crumbled. Such weapons are too much of a temptation to anyone bearing a grudge against his Aunt Fanny for my liking. We don’t want any more flaky groups with bees in their bonnets obtaining weapons in the armament bazaars and threatening us with them.’ He grunted to show his dissatisfaction with the disorderly way that the rest of the world conducted its armament affairs before another change of subjects. ‘What I wanted to see you about though Hugh is, who or what is this so called ‘White Knight’ vigilante group who reported the movement of this convoy a long time before we knew about it? They seem to have the drop on the nutters before we did? I didn’t mention them at the meeting just now because I think you’ve had a pretty rough trot on this one, and there’s no point handing out bigger shovels for them to throw more shit around, is there?’
Caldwell grinned weakly and nodded his doubtful agreement. The comforting remark could be an oblique opening to a criticising session he did not want to hear and knew would not be fair comment. His security organisation had alerted the President and the National Security Council at least two days before the nuclear explosion and it was his personal warnings to Bannerman that finally placed the American armed forces on world alert and enabled the Navy to get a carrier and a submarine close enough to take drastic action had it been required. The armed services best efforts had been thankfully aborted at the last minute, but none of the blame for the untidy fiasco lay on his doorstep.
‘The term ‘White Knights’ is our department code name for a group of nutters who want to put the world to rights,’ Caldwell informed him bleakly. He eased his just-off porcine frame into a more comfortable position now the audience was to last long enough to enjoy a cup of coffee. ‘I don’t know what they call themselves in polite conversation with the vicar and we haven’t managed to tie them down in organisational shape and numerical strength, but they sure as hell don’t operate in the US of A. We don’t really know how they collect their information or where, come to that, but you’re right, they did seem to be one jump ahead of us.’ He stopped speaking to look across the desk with an aggrieved frown on his smooth pink forehead. ‘We lost at least one agent in that blow out, you know, Mr President.’ The sad reminder came as a convenient afterthought that might deflect some criticism from his department. ‘A female operative code-named Swan. She tipped us off.’
‘Is that in the report?’ Bannerman asked, noticeably perking up. Something good might come out of this after all. ‘I hope you’ve recommended her for a Congressional Award.’
‘Well! No, not exactly. She was a British sleeper we set off on another case, you know ‘Bright Cuckoo’. Somehow she got mixed up in the Afghan affair. How? We haven’t resolved that one yet.’
‘Yeah! I remember,’ Bannerman grunted feelingly. ‘I don’t need reminding about that, although now you have this Professor Robinson guy assumes a greater importance to us by the minute. We need him back in this country, PDQ.’ He stopped as though realising he was becoming sidetracked from his original inspired thinking. ‘Getting back to this Brit; are you sure she’s an alien? Can’t we overlook that small detail? God knows we need some home grown glory out of this. Look, find her an American background to tack on and we’ll give her the highest bravery award we have. We’ll even erect a monument to her bravery. I think she deserves it. Her action undoubtedly saved many millions of American lives and there’s plenty of hardened cement around the country reminding us of people who did a good deal less than she did. Hell, look! If there isn’t an award, let’s invent one and I’ll award it in a South Lawn ceremony.’
‘No sooner said than done, Mr President,’ Caldwell interposed quickly. ‘She was a right smart looking female judging from her photos. Too young to die with her knees welded together, if she did.’
‘So much the better. A young pretty face always tugs at the heartstrings of a maudlin nation. Look at the way they go gooey over that Lassie and ET thing. We might even get her a posthumous film part.’ Bannerman paused reflectively to follow his productive line of thinking, a process that did not remind him that Lassie was a dog and ET a plastic object with an endearing line in unabashed bathos: the two levels of emotional arousal were not exactly comparable, but that was not the point. ‘If we can get the film on general release round about the same time as the nominations for re-election it can only do us good. Hey, that’s a great idea, Hugh. I owe you one for that.’
Caldwell looked at his President with a bemused frown. Was the man slipping? Was the worldwide critical furore following the unexplained nuclear explosion tipping his sense of reality? His re-election for a second term in office wasn’t that uncertain that it needed a murky smultz ‘perils of Pauline’ film line to help it along. The man had done very little wrong in his first term and he made it clear, right from his inaugural address that he was a two-term President who always kept to his promises.
The election time scale not only suited the President it also appealed to the ambitious Caldwell. In his dreams, the cross hairs of his ambitious sights were set firmly on the very seat where Bannerman now casually reclined. In his own opinion he would make a good President. He just needed the extra time to prepare for the great day and he certainly needed no major cock-ups pointing in his direction. If it could be arranged he wanted to appear the natural choice for the succession: the right man for the right job, but he was far from that at the moment. He wasn’t even the director of the CIA, only a deputy, a minor cog but one they all turned to when they wanted shit cleared and embarrassing obstacles removed.
Right now he did not need a President who was cracking up mentally and about to start backing inconsequential self-glorifying popularity schemes to get himself re-elected. His own efficient re-election team, with the not inconsiderable support of the CIA resources and departmental organisation, could go a long way to ensure that. Hadn’t he already dashed the ambitions of three hopeful candidates by releasing small, terminally damaging details of their murky past and current behaviour? In most things Caldwell was not a man to antagonise on the approach to an important election, nor at any other time come to that. Previous Presidents had found bucking the CIA at the wrong moment could be unproductive, even fatal, to their electoral chances.
‘It should be remembered,’ he went on cautiously, ‘the Secretary of State was less than happy about what he saw as this girl’s spoiling interference. He pushed to have the vigilante group side-tracked remember? We don’t want him throwing his big mouth into terminal recall, even if subsequent events prove him right.’
Bannerman frowned darkly and looked away disapprovingly. He did not like being invited to make derogatory comments about one of his most senior and ablest colleagues.
I think we all learnt from that experience,’ he retorted warningly.
‘Whatever happens I think we have a runner with this one, sir,’ Caldwell hastily corrected himself. He was quick to pick up on mood changes and even quicker to alter tack when the situation demanded it. This one did. ‘You showed you were prepared to take positive action in defence of American lives and the voters aren’t going to forget that in a hurry. They’ll remember that you stood between them and a turkey roasting session. You’ll see your popularity index’ll shoot through the roof in the next few days.’ He paused as a young man brought in a tray of cups, plated biscuits and a silver coffee and milk jug and laid them fussily on a convenient desk corner.
Bannerman, not a noted coffee connoisseur, drank whatever was placed before him without comment. In lighter moments he laughingly admitted to having his taste for the beverage forever destroyed during his service stint in Korea many years earlier. The coffee there, he chortled as a standard party piece, was indistinguishable from the bottom of the nearest river, except that the river water was warmer and tasted better.
After the young man poured the steaming dark liquid into two cups and handed them to the two men he departed, with respectfully lowered eyes, as silently as he appeared. It was not his job to listen to the conversation of the big league players, only to be unobtrusive, invisible and helpful.
‘You might be right, Hugh. I sure hope you are. Still every little helps, especially a little subliminal soft focus advertising.’ Suddenly the President grinned in recollection, showing impossibly white teeth that contrasted attractively with his open tanned features. ‘Yeah! Bright Cuckoo! That’s what I want to talk to you about.’ He lifted his coffee cup to his lips to give himself more thinking time. ‘After our last conversation on the subject in the National Security Council I’ve come round to your way of thinking, Hugh. You might be right! This Professor Maynard Robinson might well be hiding out in that Antarctica snow hole.’
Caldwell nodded in agreement. More oblique praise and on this occasion well deserved.
‘Our two agents in Camp Gento were convinced that he’s tucked up down there somewhere,’ he agreed guardedly. ‘They haven’t seen him personally, but they have convincing verbal evidence from those who have. The problem seems to lie in getting close enough to lay rough hands on the man. I don’t think he’d physically resist arrest, he just seems to be surrounded by several hundred dedicated workers who might. We don’t want a bloodbath if we can help it. It’s a real mystery what the hell they’re doing down there they can’t do in a warmer more congenial climate.’
‘What exactly is it they do and who are they?’ Bannerman asked with a puzzled frown designed to disguise his ignorance of the subject.
‘Knowing who they are is easier than finding out what they do,’ Caldwell grunted disgustedly. He would have preferred this particular case to be conducted in a more climatically civilised part of the world than the distant unfriendly southern polar latitudes. It was a well-known service truism that field agents’ reliability, and his own administrative control over them declined in direct proportion to their distance from Washington. The ones around him in Washington jumped with agreeable alacrity whenever he snarled, while those stationed elsewhere scarcely obliged him by opening a bleary whiskey sodden eyelid to read his urgent dispatches. In Antarctica there had been no agents until he dispatched two to help the ill-fated Swan with her project. Unfortunately, she flew out before they arrived leaving them kicking their heels impotently at a nearby US Army research base without guidance ever since.
‘As far as we can make out,’ Caldwell went on warming to the task. ‘The site is leased from the Norwegian government by a concern calling themselves the International Mining, Mineral and Exploration Company. They have, as their name doesn’t suggest, worldwide interests in mining, shipping, manpower services and experimental laboratories and quite a bit else. They run a mixture of diverse businesses in fact, and judging from their revenue returns, very profitably. They have branches in the US, but they’re registered for tax purposes, they say, in Liberia and in the Cayman Islands. Their shipping interests are split between passenger tourist traffic and freight, most of which seems to shuttle between the rest of the world and their Antarctic base. Their mining interests are all over the place. They’re even into China I see from recent reports. It’s a very close organisation in a ‘difficult to find anything out’ sense, although having said that, they do have some well-respected international figureheads on their company notepaper. They even hold board meetings here in the States and they occupy registered offices in New York and in various towns and cities where they’ve set up their Manpower Services interest.’
‘Just your average good ole American trading company,’ Bannerman interposed dryly. ‘Doing nothing wrong, but leaving plenty of suspicions around that they might be, huh?’
‘That just about sums them up, Mr President. They pick up slices of mineral exploration rights just about everywhere a shovel is poked into the ground. They even have contracts with most treaty obligation Governments to explore and record what minerals can be found throughout Antarctica.’
‘What’s the idea of that?’ Bannerman demanded suspiciously. ‘They ain’t never going to get permission to exploit whatever they find down there. Ain’t that wrapped up in some international treaty we co-signed a while back?’
‘I think so, but I understand their reports will go on file for future generations to pick at if needed. If our great-grand children want to start mining whatever the rest of the world is short of they can make the decision then. We’ll be well outside the objection frame by then, thank God.’
‘So we got no justification for going in heavy on the moral card, I mean they ain’t upsetting the penguins, or being unkind to helpless plankton?’ Bannerman asked hopefully.
‘No sir, but then I don’t think we need any moral justification for taking a looksee around the place. If we go for an Antarctic stroll and find a nice deposit of Robinsons laying around, then I think we can mount a good case for a snatch job, providing we lift him straight out of Antarctica and land him on American soil without touching down nowhere else.’ Caldwell paused for a calculated interval to let the scene sink slowly into the over-occupied mind of his listener. ‘We don’t want a legal punch-up with any sovereign state where we have to land to refuel, for instance,’ he added shrewdly. ‘I was thinking perhaps - a carrier task force meandering down that way? We don’t often stray in that direction with a flat top and the exercise would give our navy boys a chance to play in the snow and slide about on ice floes.’
‘It needn’t be a carrier group though,’ Bannerman objected with a deep frown. He liked his carrier strike forces under his direct control and south of the equator was too far away from where they might be needed for any action against known enemies.
‘No, no, a training carrier and a few escorts and auxiliaries should do the trick,’ Caldwell interposed hastily. ‘Nothing too brutal and bullying, just persuasive flag waving.’
‘Who has the treaty mandate covering where he is?’
‘Norway, sir, but they owe us a few markers and we can always square them off by saying we’ll support some of their fishing and whaling concessions if they feel frisky and raise objections. I’ll put out some feelers to find out their likely reaction. I have contacts I can use. There’s only one thing though...’ Caldwell paused speculatively.
His listener waved an impatient hand. ‘What’s that? Something I need do, a discreet diplomatic phone call?’
‘No, nothing like that, sir. You remember our boy soldier mentioning those two anomalous heat and radiation emission areas on his map overlays?’ When Bannerman nodded vaguely, he went on. ‘Well, I think they come from the wreckage of some of these.’ He carefully extracted a folio of sharp print photographs from inside his jacket pocket before standing up to walk behind the desk to lay them face up before the seated, but now acutely attentive, President.
After a few moments of thoughtful frowning Bannerman looked up with a puzzled expression.
‘Just what the hell are these contraptions?’ he demanded sourly.
‘We don’t know for sure,’ Caldwell admitted without being too shamefaced in displaying his ignorance. ‘For a long time we’ve picked up traces of aerial movements emanating from somewhere in Antarctica and darting off to all points of the globe, even here. Some cross our borders and we presume they’ve landed somewhere in one of the States. At first, we thought they might be some government backed experimental projects, but everyone denies anything to do with them. They’re interested as all get out in the photos but they deny ever seeing anything like them in real life. I don’t think they’re lying, but to be sure I carried out my own enquires. What we have here is a flying machine powered by the very engines Maynard Robinson heisted from the Atomic Energy Commission when he lit out.’
‘Ah!’ his listener articulated understandingly and looking down at the photographs with greater interest. They made more sense now. ‘They’re sure ugly,’ he announced at last, disappointed that the missing American scientist he had been chasing almost from his first few days in office should have produced something so unattractive and ungainly as the machine shown in the photographs. The man left his experimental post and skipped the country in a hurry three years earlier taking all the experimental data, computer print outs and the prototype engines he was supposed to have been testing. The latter were supposedly lost at sea in a shipping accident. Sunk in the bottomless Nares Deep trench, an Atlantic hole reputed to be over twenty-two thousand feet deep. Nothing was ever found of the missing scientist, nor the fruits of his labours. This might be the first hard evidence, although his signature did not appear anywhere, nor did his fingerprints.
‘They’re not pretty, right enough, but they’ve enormous sustainable power and go like bats out of hell. We’ve nothing to touch them,’ Caldwell informed the President reluctantly. This was not information Bannerman wanted to hear.
‘With no wings, or tail?’ he objected dubiously. ‘That don’t make no sense.’
He was not sure how to take the photographic evidence on his desk. They could be part of a joke of course. He toyed with the idea of calling his military assessors in for their opinion but changed his mind when Caldwell went on: ‘The agent crisped in the nuclear explosion told us about them in her last signal. We sort of overlooked the details at the time because the nuclear threat seemed more important. Now, I think the blobs we saw on the transparent overlay are the nuked remains of at least two of these machines. She said three of them were hunting down the missile convoy. The third could be in the centre of the blast, or it could even have been the cause of the blast. Let’s face it, the motors driving these things were nuclear, and that’s exactly what Robinson dabbles in. One of the power plants could have gone critical and popped its cork.’
Bannerman sat back thoughtfully. ‘That’s interesting,’ he conceded, not knowing what else to say. He didn’t quite know what to make of what he could see, nor what connection the better-informed Caldwell was trying to make. Nothing seemed to tie into any known conspiracy theory that he knew about. Doubtless Caldwell had some ideas or he wouldn’t be hovering around bouncing on the balls of his small feet waiting to lob his next bombshell into the conversation. ‘But I’m not sure I like the idea of something being out there that we can’t touch and which has a head start on us technologicalwise. That makes me shiver, especially after Afghanistan. What’s to stop one of these things sliding in and depositing something nasty and explosive on our front lawn if you say they’ve been here already.’
‘I don’t think it’s as bad as that, Mr President. If this machine came from where we think it does, it’s one of Maynard Robinson’s little gems, and he’s one of us, even though he’s sort of temporarily exiled.’
‘Is he a Republican?’ Bannerman asked dubiously. These things mattered to a suspicious Democratic President who saw things in rather starker terms once he took over the highest position in the land. From personal experience he knew how much manipulation, arm-twisting and general horse-trading went in to get him elected not to be too sanguine about the political opposition building up against him. The same seditious meetings and subversive plotting that got him elected were going on at that very minute in the offices of every hopeful Presidential candidate around the country. He shuddered nervously. Even as he sat talking to a member of his administration trying to solve a desperate world-menacing problem someone out there was cold-heartedly plotting to remove him from administrative loop. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but it would be wonderful when he turned the tables on the plotters and had the last laugh, as he would, come the Presidential election. The candidate who proved to be the most successful at conniving and skulduggery would be the one sitting in his chair come November, and Bannerman was determined the occupant would still be him.
Caldwell shrugged uncertainly. ‘You know, Mr President, I don’t think the man even voted. Leastways, he never spoke about politics, only work.’
‘Why can’t everyone be like that? Why can’t everyone get on with their jobs and let me get on with mine,’ Bannerman sighed discontentedly. He leaned forward to pick up a fresh photograph. ‘Just where do you think this machine came from, Hugh?’
‘We can’t exactly stick a pin in it, but I fancy they come from the same Antarctic base where Robinson is holed up.’
‘These are the reason you want the carrier task force down there, aren’t they?’ Bannerman suggested as a suspicious thought crossed his mind. ‘Robinson wasn’t the reason at all, was he? You want to get your hands on these. You’re a crafty old dog, Hugh. I see I’ll have to wear belt and braces when you’re around.’ He laughed when Caldwell looked slightly disconcerted at the truth of that semi-jocular comment. ‘Still, it would kill two Chipmunks with one paving stone, so to speak. Yep, I think I’ll go along with this one.’ Bannerman paused to regard Caldwell as he returned thankfully to his seat and his coffee. His eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘Are you telling me these things are dangerous and likely to blow to pieces at badly chosen moments? If they are, we don’t want to nuke ourselves in the foot by hauling one of these brutes all the way from Antarctica to have it explode on us when it reaches the San Francisco Navy Yard. We’d look a mite silly if that happened.’ Then, as Caldwell opened his mouth to speak, he went on: ‘Nor do I want to find, when we get down to the frozen wastes of the south pole, that these things can knock our flyboys out of the sky for a pastime. Hugh! That would not look good coming up to nomination day.’
‘I couldn’t agree with you more, sir. That’s why we need to poke a stick around down there and see what comes running out.’ Caldwell glanced out of the window behind the seated President. The President’s gentle ribbing had been just a little too close to the truth to be comfortable. Outside the chilly grey autumn day promised the first flurries of winter snow by nightfall. ‘Also, I’m not sure we could get a fleet down to the southern oceans before the end of their summer. As I recall, the sea around that place sort of freezes over for three hundred miles or more off the coast and can lock a ship in for the whole winter. That much ice would mean keeping the carrier task force too far from the action ashore. The choppers would be at full stretch if they needed to carry marines ashore and back in one hop. I was thinking of asking the Air Force to put up a surveillance satellite over the southern ocean. That way we’d know what traps we’re likely to trigger and find out more about these Antarctic Yetties.’ Caldwell looked down at one of the photographs he still had in his hand. ‘We know the carcasses of these flying gadgets and some of the wiring looms are made in J’pan so if we can get copies of their specifications it’d get us some way towards finding out what they’re about.’
Bannerman chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘Next year?’ he mused disappointedly. ‘We start the Presidential campaign on Labour Day and voting takes place in November you reckon we can get a positive result out of this before then? I sure as hell don’t want no body bags turning up on front door steps round about the time I’m telling the voters what a splendid fellow I am.’
‘If there’s any danger of that, Mr President, we can call the whole thing off any time. The carrier task force will only be going down there to broaden our blue boy’s deep sea experiences. Remember, they normally only operate in sunny skies and warm waters: God Dammit, they’re crying out for a more varied and interesting naval careers.’
Bannerman grinned wryly. He wasn’t without a sense of fun. ‘Perhaps we’ll book you a passage on the same trip so you can listen to their hymns of gratitude, Hugh. My feeling says sailors like nothing better than cruisin’, boozin’ and wenchin’ in warm sunshine, and the hotter they all are the better, except for the beer. I don’t think you can make it with a penguin though, although I’m sure someone will try.’ He remained silent for a moment, deep in thought. ‘OK! We’ll run with this. Let’s get the brass in and we’ll tease it around.’ He looked at his watch as a second thought struck him. ‘I ain’t got much time now though. I got an EEC trade delegation in twenty minutes. I can put that back a little while though. They’re probably only grovelling for more trade tariff concessions, but I can tell them right here and now they’re getting zilch from us until they stop featherbedding their own industries and start letting more of our stuff in.’
He pressed a button on his desk. ‘Oh, and you’d better get Beamish McCulloch released before his mother comes crying to have her son back.’ They both laughed sourly. ‘And you’d better let me look at your proposals for tightening up our warning routines on mislaid Russian nuclear weapons.’ He paused with a doubtful frown. ‘I suppose ours are safe. There’s no danger of any of our stuff disappearing in the direction of Cuba or Haiti?’
Caldwell paused nervously, uncertain if the President was joking.
By nature Bannerman was a courteous man and dearly loved to devote the time and attention that each problem presented to him deserved, but he had a dichotomy to solve. To his American voters, he needed to appear on top of his important job of looking after their single nation interests and of answering their concerns with consideration and largesse. To Europeans, he did not wish to appear more concerned with domestic issues than he was in their affairs, although where the line appeared on some issues God alone knew. Afghanistan was foreign right enough, but the issues surrounding the subject became totally domestic and very pre-occupying when nuclear missiles were about to be lobbed in the direction of American backyards from there. That foreign affair consideration concentrated the mind rather more fiercely than whether pampered European Union farmers should continue to be protected from cheaper US imports of rapeseed oil by the imposition of high import tariffs.
Caldwell usually found the company of high-priced military men irritating beyond human endurance and his next meeting proved no exception because they had no great fondness for him or his office either. On this occasion they resented the time they were kept waiting and vented their venom on him as the nearest convenient government official they thought they could intimidate and cajole. In their opinion they were important people and deserved better treatment since, after the President, no one was more important in the country than the top brass of the nation’s armed services and to make matters worse Admiral Thomas Freeman and the impressively multi-medalled and blunt speaking General Grant Maxwell held long running and deep seated grudges against the CIA in all its manifestations. The grievances took many forms from the highly personal to a myopic tendency to detect malignant agency bias against their particular service in every contact made. The US Army asserted that the intelligence agency frequently withheld important political data that they needed, or nearer the truth, thought they needed. They considered the agency carried altogether too much influence with a President over-dosing on persecution mania. They also secretly suspected many of the distorted and one-sided stories of military high-handedness and shady misdemeanours abroad were carried back to the State Department in diplomatic bags with the finger prints of the local CIA agents all over the sealed classified envelopes. More than one high-ranking officer had been recalled from a plush location abroad and re-appointed laterally to a hard-lying home billet without explanation. Such unheralded moves often meant the frustration of a promotion and in some cases it presaged early retirement. For those reasons relations between the two Departments of State had not been very cordial since, well, not since the CIA began covert international operations just after the Second World War.