J. Wheeler: The Krone Experiment

“Nothing the DCI and I couldn’t handle. You’ve just come from the meeting?”

Her voice hinted at a question that Kathleen had not quite intended. Despite security there was always scuttlebutt. They both knew that Kathleen was discreetly aware of many issues that were formally beyond her ken. Documents had to be typed, and with that responsibility came necessary access. Kathleen and her cadre were too bright not to put two and two together on occasion. In this case she had heard nothing and that had caught her attention and natural, if unwarranted, curiosity.

Isaacs perceived her questioning tone and the basis for it. The worse the emergency, the tighter the security. A grimace passed briefly over his face. “Yes,” he affirmed, “I need you to set up a meeting with the crisis team at,” he glanced at his watch, “ten-thirty.”

Kathleen nodded and continued, “Bill Bans wanted some time. I suggested two o’clock and that seemed okay, unless you want to see him this morning.”

Lord, thought Isaacs, something in Africa again.

“This afternoon would be better,” he said, confirming her judgment. “I have a present for you, just to keep you out of trouble.” He plopped his briefcase on her side table, reached for his keys and unlocked it. He extracted and handed her a fat, black-clipped, typed manuscript. “These are the corrections for the Bulgaria report. I’ll need it Monday morning.” He enjoyed her mock groan, confident the job would be done quickly and exactly.

He stepped into his inner office, deposited his case and hung his jacket on the rack. Circling his desk, he cranked open the blinds to expose the blue sky and thickly treed surroundings. His thoughts passed briefly from the carrier crisis to the Sunlit morning, to Alice Lavey’s neckline, and back, and he turned as Kathleen entered with a stack of intelligence summaries and a steaming cup of black coffee.

He smiled “thanks” as he settled into his chair. She returned the smile, gave a breezy “you’re welcome” and slipped out, closing the door. He waited until the door clicked, then leaned back and propped his feet on his desk. Bad for the posture and image, but good for concentration, he thought, as he reached for the bound folder stamped “Orbital Visual and Infrared Reconnaissance Survey — Top Secret” and arranged the coffee within easy reach.

He read quickly but thoroughly, skipping over familiar facts, pausing to sip coffee and ponder and assimilate new data. There was no question that the laborious analysis that had revealed the crucial infrared signal of the mobile launchers continued to be superlatively valuable. Each of the mobile stations had moved in the last week, and not only were the three new stations revealed, the movements of each of the old ones were uniquely determined.

Satellite identification was still proving a difficult task. The launchings could be predicted over a week in advance and followed simply. Once in orbit the reconnaissance net was sufficiently dense that each satellite could be tracked, but a few escaped classification into the offensive, defensive, or reconnaissance categories.

He finished the first report and started on the aircraft reconnaissance, continuing with desultory sips of his cooling coffee. The Chinese were beginning the reprocessing plant for their new reactor. The Warsaw Pact troops had interrupted their war games with the onset of the current crisis. He noted that two of the previously identified high speed tanks in Poland had been reclassified as older, slower models.

He glanced at his watch as he finished with this report. 10:23. Time to start on the signal intelligence before his team assembled.

He read along, stopping at an item already covered in the other surveys, the Soviet low tonnage underground event at Semipalatinsk. The satellite photos had shown the surface activity involved in setting up the experiment, and the infrared trace had indicated when the explosion occurred. This report outlined the results of monitoring the data links, both those uncoded and those for which the code had been broken. The result was that the Agency experts knew nearly as much about the test as the Russian scientists who performed it.

The summary noted that the nature of the explosion was confirmed by the associated seismic signal. That statement caught Isaacs’s eye, and he stared at the ceiling, momentarily trying to recall a related tidbit of information he had filed away. As usual, the seismic reference was added simply for completeness since the Agency was not directly involved with the seismic monitoring system. He snapped his fingers and leaned forward to punch the button on his intercom.

“Kathleen?”

“Yes?”

“Would you have — let me see, who might be available? — would you have Pat Danielson stop in just after lunch?”

“Yes, sir. Time for the meeting.”

“Right.” Isaacs swung to his feet and headed out of his office, flipping a goodbye sign at Kathleen. As he walked the short distance to his conference room, he began to sort out tactics for turning up clues to the fate of the Russian carrier. The meeting, frustrating and unproductive, lasted to noon and beyond.

Temper lengthened Pat Danielson’s stride. Weasel, she thought. What garbage, lunch to discuss my report! Put a damn run in my stocking with his hangnail! She slowed her pace as she turned into the last hallway. How’s a person to get any credit? He probably didn’t even read it. Sure glad Isaacs is reasonable, knows I’m a woman, but listens. Hope this is good news.

When she entered Kathleen”s office, the two women exchanged greetings. They were cordial to one another, but not close. Although they worked for the same man and Kathleen was only a few years older, the difference in their positions, secretary and professional, created a practical barrier. Kathleen waved the young woman into Isaacs’s office and followed her with a quick eye skimming the details of dress, hair, carriage before turning once more to her tasks as the door closed.

Isaacs looked up as Danielson entered his office, her wide smile of greeting reminding him of his ebullient mood on the way to work this morning, a mood battered but not yet dead.

“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Pat,” Isaacs replied. “Please sit down.” She seated herself in the chair across from his desk, a bit too tall and big-boned to be graceful, but with good control of her body, not gangly. Isaacs watched her sit and cross her legs. He caught a quick flash of a run before she reversed her legs to cover it up. He regarded her for a moment. Good worker, even disposition under everyday hectic conditions, but no real test yet. Some spine, but not bitchy. Attractive in a wholesome sort of way, wide face, high cheekbones, a vague sprinkling of freckles to complement the reddish tinge in her hair. His evaluation of her work did not depend on her appearance, but he was honest enough to admit he preferred a good-looking competent woman to an ugly one. She looked at him expectantly.

“How’s your work going?”

“Fine,” she replied, but he caught the hint of distress that passed over her face.

“I can’t keep tabs on everything as much as I would like to. I called you because I have a small project I’d like you to take on, but if you’re having some trouble, we have a chance to talk now.”

“No, no trouble,” she said quickly, then hesitated, and fixed him with a gaze. “My work is satisfactory, isn’t it?”

“Very much so,” he said seriously. “There are some excellent data coming from the new satellite; you’re doing your part.”

“Doing my part,” she repeated quietly to herself. “May I say something?”

He nodded. There was something she wanted to get off her chest.

“I really like this job. I think I’m doing something to help my country.” She paused. “But there are times when I wonder whether I’m getting due credit.” She straightened up and adopted a sterner tone. “The fact is, somebody made a pass at me at lunch, and I’m still upset. I don’t want to name names, but first he complimented my work too much, and then afterwards he said some unkind things.”