Джон Болл - The First Team

However, one American who clearly was not afraid to face the administrator callSd that same morning; the office of Senator Solomon Fitzhugh came on the line. The senator wanted to know, via his secretary, when it would be most convenient for Mr. Zalinsky to see him.

“Put him on,” Hewlitt said, and waited.

In a few moments the senators well-known voice came to him over the wire. “To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Hewlitt, senator. Raleigh Hewlitt.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, sir, weve never met. I’ve been on the White House staff for some time as a language specialist; now Mr. Zalinsky has assigned me this job.”

“You’re an American, then.”

“Absolutely, senator. I understand that you want to see Mr. Zalinsky.”

“That is correct, yes.”

“Hold the line, sir, and I’ll see what I can do.”

For the first time he made contact with the administrator without having been summoned first; he pressed the intercom button and the man inside answered almost at once. “Mr. Zalinsky,” Hewlitt said, “I have Senator Solomon Fitzhugh on the line. You know of him?”

“You are wishing to insult me?”

“Of course not, sir. Senator Fitzhugh would like to know what time it would be most convenient for you to see him today.”

“I have no wish to see him,” Zalinsky answered, and hung up.

Hewlitt turned to the other phone. “Fm sorry, senator, Mr. Zalinsky has just informed me that he has no time available.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“Senator, I regret this very much, but he made it clear that he didn’t wish to see you at all. Might I suggest a letter, sir.”

“No you may not, Mr. Raleigh, or whatever your name is. He can’t treat me this way and he knows it, I know his boss too well. I intend to see Zalinsky in the immediate future and you can give him that message for me!” The line abruptly went dead.

Hewlitt typed up a memo slip. Mr. Zalinsky: Senator Fitzhugh was very upset by your decision. He asked me to inform you that he intends to see you in the immediate future. He added his initials and then put it aside; he would decide later whether to deliver it or not. If it got Fitzhugh into trouble, it would be the senator’s own fault for not waking up to the realities.

Ever since it had been forcefully, and ruthlessly, reorganized by the enemy, the Pentagon complex had been like a graveyard. The few people who remained on the job were largely clerks who were familiar with the files and a small number of junior officers whose level of responsibility had been limited.

One of the first of the enemy’s planes that had set down at Andrews Air Force Base had contained the Pentagon Reorganization Team and it had gone to work immediately with a vengeance. The initial occupying forces had had the buildings blocked off, and when the team arrived it was equipped with full sets of plans showing every office and facility together with its function or purpose. Supposedly secret information was found to have been hopelessly compromised, with the likelihood that some of the people who had cried “security” the loudest had been responsible.

Office by office, section by section, the Pentagon and adjacent buildings had been gone through. Some secret files had already been burned, some safety precautions had proven effective, but still a vast accumulation of data had fallen into enemy hands — enough to amount to uncounted tons of paper. When the job had been completed a few individuals had been selected to stay on while the enemy’s sentries constantly patrolled the corridors, likely to appear anywhere at any time to be sure that no one did anything other than what he had been specifically directed. Stunned, the skeleton staff of the Pentagon did the enemy’s bidding and silently prayed for help.

Things were therefore in order, by the enemy’s standards, when a very hard-faced man whose pudgy nose and squared-off jaw revealed his Slavic origin entered the Bureau of Naval Personnel with a pass which was immediately respected at the entrance. Once inside the building he did not require any direction; he walked rapidly to the precise area he desired and entered an office where the records for flag officers were stored.

A thin, nervous-appearing yeoman in white uniform took one quick look at his visitor and got to his feet as rapidly as he was able.

“The file on Admiral Haymarket,” the man demanded, his almost brutally direcf voice matching the cold hostility of his face and the demanding tension in his body.

“The admiral is retired,” the yeoman stammered.

The visitor jerked his arm back, then whipped it forward, smashing his palm across the face of the slender young sailor. The yeoman went reeling and fell, his body sliding several inches after it hit the floor. Silently he picked himself up and, avoiding looking at the man who had hit him, went to a row of filing cabinets, searched briefly, and extracted a folder.

Before he could turn around it was yanked out of his hand. It was a very thick service record, but the intruder had no interest in the accumulation of promotions, citations, and awards of decorations that it contained. He opened it from the back, found what he wanted, and extracted a regulation fingerprint card. Holding it in one hand he threw the rest of the papers with savage force across the room so that they were scattered widely among the desks and chairs. After that he stalked out.

At almost precisely the same time, in a small town in the western half of Colorado, the local mortuary had an unexpected visitor at a quite early hour. For a moment or two the manager who answered the door was concerned that the obviously foreign gentleman who had rung the bell was in a very upset frame of mind. He was quickly disillusioned; in poor, but understandable English, the visitor stated, “I wish to see a body.”

The manager was politely considerate. “I’m very sorry, sir, but our slumber rooms have not been prepared as yet. If you could return…” He stopped when he saw the look on the face of the man to whom he was speaking; for the first time he grasped that this was one of the enemy.

The man quickly pushed his way inside and looked once about him. “Where is the workroom?” he demanded.

Despite his mounting concern, the manager immediately became firm. “That is impossible, sir, the state law prohibits it. No one is ever allowed — ” A hand against his chest pushed him aside, then the unwelcome visitor began opening doors and peering inside. He discovered a showroom with several empty open coffins on display, a small chapel, and then the door he wanted. Although there was a firmly-worded notice posted on it, without hesitation he opened it and went inside.

The embalmer at work looked up, startled, and knew in a moment what the intruder was. He was a veteran of the Vietnam conflict and he had seen that kind of man before. He also knew which of the four bodies in the room would most likely be of interest to him.

The cadaver of Admiral Haymarket lay covered by a sheet; the nature of his fatal injuries had dictated a closed coffin service from the beginning. Close by the body, leaning against the wall, was a fine enlarged portrait of the admiral showing him at the height of his career; the impressive array of decorations above his left breast pocket matched by the neat row of four stars displayed on the right side of his collar. It was intended for display next to the sealed coffin and the flowers which would be placed around it so that those who came to pay their last respects would feel the presence of the man they had come to honor. The portrait had been flown in from Coronado and had been delivered only a short time previously.

The intruder pulled the sheet off the body. He looked at it for a moment and then began to change color; the embalmer waited to see if he would keel over.