J. Wheeler - The Krone Experiment

The secretary looked up at his arrival and arched an eyebrow.

“He’ll see you in a moment—won’t you have a seat?”

Without the protective anonymity of the telephone receiver, she seemed pleasant and proper, giving no hint of reflected animosity.

Isaacs replied, “Thank you,” curtly, but remained standing, fidgeting tensely. For five minutes his irritation grew, but then he made a strong conscious effort to calm himself. Obviously, McMasters designed this childish trick, requiring him to cool his heels, to put him in a rash state of mind. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, glanced at the secretary and settled into a chair.

In the next ten minutes he catalogued most of the projects that commanded his direct attention. Tyuratam continued to be the central concern, particularly planning sessions to suggest strategies when the launch occurred. He glanced at the calendar on his watch, June 2, seven weeks since the first laser was destroyed and the Soviets had begun their crash program on the second. Launch was anticipated in two or three more weeks. Surely, there was no ground for attack there where everybody was pitching in on the common goal. They had not spent time on Mozambique and still remained uncertain about the origin of the arms cache. Could that be a weak point? Their lack of progress on some back burner problem? He attained a controlled state of mind, yet was unable to fathom where McMasters would elect to apply pressure.

The intercom on the secretary’s desk buzzed, and he heard the low fidelity rattle of McMasters’ voice though he could not make out the precise words.

“He’ll see you now.”

This time Isaacs caught a note of excitement, a school child announcing a fight on the playground. Despite the imminent confrontation, Isaacs found this droll. He maintained a serious face as he opened the door to McMasters’ office, but just before he stepped through he looked back over his shoulder and gave the woman a broad wink. To his satisfaction, this incongruous act on the part of a respectable, if beleaguered, high official of the organization caught her by surprise. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. Isaacs closed the door behind him.

Several steps took him to McMasters’ desk in the middle of the spacious room. The DDI sat erect, but with eyes focused on a folder on his desk. A hint of pot belly spoiled his medium build. At fifty-nine, short, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair covered his head, the waves shorn short on the side. His face was an elongated rectangle, with pale green eyes that receded into the surrounding folds, giving no access. His aquiline nose suggested the refinement evident in his comportment. He had a habit of holding his chin high so that he literally looked down his nose at people to whom he spoke.

Now he raised his gaze to Isaacs and spoke in a measured, cultured voice, “What—is—this—bull—shit?”

The epithet was delivered slowly, poisonously, reinforced by the contrast to his excessively proper demeanor.

“Sir?” Isaacs said, taken aback despite himself.

McMasters picked up the folder in front of him and gestured with it.

“With the fate of this nation and the free world at stake, you have deliberately chosen to squander the time of yourself and others and the resources of the Agency in an absurd wild-goose chase after Earthquakes that follow the stars! We are not here to do astrology, Mr. Isaacs.”

Isaacs caught a glimpse of the folder. It was labeled QUAKER, the code name for the strange periodic seismic signal. His mind whirled and locked like a magnetic computer tape searching for the appropriate data strip. He felt a certain relief. He was involved in a number of areas of immediate importance where McMasters’ interference would have been disastrous. Apparently, those were safe for a moment. Yet McMasters had chosen shrewdly. Isaacs would be hard put to objectively defend his interest in the bizarre seismic signal that Pat Danielson continued to study when she could spare the time from Tyuratam. There was not the slightest hint that it represented a danger in any way. Nevertheless, his career-honed instinct warned him that to neglect the signal with its true nature still unknown would be foolhardy.

He started in a calm tone, “That signal is unprecedented, I…”

McMasters interrupted him coldly.

“We operate in an environment awash with information, some of it unprecedented and most of it trivial. If we are to maintain our precarious hold on freedom, we must be ruthless in our drive to focus on the crucial and ignore the rest. This is no time to idly follow pet fancies. The monitoring of seismic signals is not even this Agency’s business. I must question your competence in choosing to mobilize the resources of the Agency to chase such a chimera.”

The bald personal attack on his judgment stirred Isaacs’ anger. Tension crept into his voice.

“Sir, we are in full agreement on our goals. We must select the important elements from a flood of information, but my record demonstrates that I am effective in doing just that.”

He had stressed the “my” and McMasters’ ears tinged with red at the riposte.

Isaacs extended a vigorous forefinger at the report on the desk and continued, “There is something profoundly disturbing about this seismic signal. Of course, there is a chance that it is insignificant, but I don’t believe that is the case. I believe we must pursue this thing until we understand it.”

“You believe?” McMasters spoke with anger and mockery. “On what basis? Is there a clear and present danger to the nation?”

“Not clear and present. You can’t expect…” Isaacs began hotly.

“Is there any hint of the slightest bother to anyone, anywhere?” McMasters interrupted.

“Not yet, but…”

“Your concern for this trivial matter is foolhardy.”

Isaacs suffered the second interruption and gritted his teeth.

McMasters continued, “You occupy a position of great authority and the Agency can ill-afford such lapses. I order you to desist totally in your pursuit of this matter. I will draft a memo summarizing your ill judgment. If there is any repeat performance, I will be forced to place that memo in your file and report your case to the Director.”

Isaacs recognized this as part bluff. His record was good, and McMasters could not impugn him recklessly to the Director without endangering his own position. Still, the Director’s reliance on McMasters for advice on internal affairs was well-known. McMasters, in turn, used his favored position adroitly. Isaacs was aware that McMasters could influence the Director in a manner that could damage Isaacs professionally and, worse, could interfere with important Agency operations.

Isaacs gestured with his hands at hip level, tense fingers spread, palms facing each other, an aborted, instinctive reaction to his desire to clutch and shake the object of his frustration.

“For god’s sake!” he shot. “You’re taking me to task for doing my job the best I know how.”

“Perhaps your best is not good enough,” McMasters replied sharply.

Isaacs raised his arms and eyes toward the ceiling in dismay. Then he brandished a weapon-substitute finger at the older man.

“We both know the real reason for this confrontation,” he said, louder than he intended. “The root of it is not my competence, but yours. You’re irritated because I managed to scuttle some of your outdated programs.”

“Don’t raise your voice to me,” McMasters responded with surprising volume. “My competence is not the issue here, whatsoever.”

Outside in the anteroom, the secretary smiled slightly. To this point the conversation within had been entirely muffled. The latter outbursts did not carry clearly through the sound-proofed door, but their tone was clear. The two distinguished gentlemen were, indeed, at each other’s throats.