Pat Frank - Forbidden Area

Smith stirred and growled, rolled over on his back and opened his eyes, and then, surprisingly, sat up in bed without swearing. “Okay, I’ll guess,” he said. “What?”

“Two more Ninety-Nines are gone, and all planes are standing down.”

Smith came out of bed as if his backbone were a bent spring, suddenly released. “We’re standing down? SAC’s standing down?”

“I don’t know. Hibiscus is.” Cusack had never seen Smith move so quickly.

“So there’s been a mutiny, eh?”

Cusack was puzzled. Who in the world ever gave Stan the notion that the aircrews were about to mutiny? Sure, there’d been a lot of griping, but there was griping when nothing went wrong except you served their eggs over lightly when they asked for sunny side up. “No, there hasn’t been any mutiny,” Cusack answered. “All that’s happened is that all missions have been called off for the next twenty-four hours. I hear there’s ape sweat out on the flight line. No off duty for ground crews. They’re practically taking those airplanes apart.”

“Looking for something, I guess. Maybe bombs, maybe sabotage?”

“Yeah,” said Cusack, “maybe bombs. Maybe only a loose nut. How would I know?”

Smith found that he was disappointed. For a moment, there, he had thought his job concluded. He’d thought he wouldn’t have to do another. It was like hearing your number called out in a raffle, only the last digit was wrong. It was a letdown, but still the news was encouraging. It showed the extent of their alarm. To convert alarm to despair or panic, and to ground SAC permanently, perhaps only a few more lost planes were needed. He considered lying low for a while now, and allowing his friends in Louisiana and Texas to finish the job. After all, he had done the bulk of the work, and probably taken most of the risks, thus far. He discarded the thought. Masters, Johnson, and Palmer might not have his freedom of action, and efficiency of operation. He would press on to victory, alone if necessary. The greater his personal effort and risk, the greater his eventual reward. They would make him a marshal of the Soviet Union, no less. He would become the youngest marshal in Russia’s history, perhaps the youngest marshal in all history since Napoleon. With his knowledge of the United States, they might appoint him military governor after the capitulation. He would order the execution of the American war criminals, ride in chauffeured Cadillacs and private planes, possess chic and beautiful women like the one he had seen in the mess with the two majors. He would sit on the Presidium, in later years. If he did his job, and if he lived and received his just reward, he would be at the top, among the rulers. “Phil,” he said, “how would you like Saturday night off?”

“I’d like it fine,” Cusack said. “If I had Saturday night off I’d go to Orlando and get me a girl. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Smith said. “You just take my shift tonight and I’ll work for you Saturday night. Ciocci says it’s okay.”

“It’s a deal,” Cusack said. “I’ve got nothin’ to do tonight. What’s with your Saturday night gal? You got another?”

“Don’t know yet,” Smith said, and winked. “Let you know in the morning.” He shaved, dressed, obtained a twenty-four-hour pass from Captain Kuhn’s clerk, and walked slowly towards the administration building, thinking of his timing. Betty Jo would be home with the car shortly after five o’clock. It was a three-hour drive, at conservative speed, from Orlando to the point on the beach between Ponte Vedra and St. Augustine where the submarine would be waiting according to his original instructions. If he left Betty Jo at ten he would be at the beach at one. That was the best hour. At one in the morning very few cars would be on that road, and nobody on the beach.

Stan Smith walked past the administration building and leaned on the fence separating the flight line from the unrestricted areas of the base. The aircrews and grease monkeys were having a ball, all right. They were swarming over the planes like ants around beetles. Smith smiled. They wouldn’t find anything today. They’d never find anything, never. That crazy American sergeant with the Russian colonel’s epaulets bouncing on his shoulders had known his way into SAC’s bombers, all right. What was his name? Horgan. Smith wondered how long he had been dead. At four o’clock he sauntered over to the bus stop behind administration and left for Orlando.

Within the administration building Brigadier-general Platt had finally whittled out a news release, and edited it until he hoped it would suit Keatton, and appease Congress, the public, and the press. It was a simple statement of fact:

“General Thomas Keatton, Air Force Chief-of-Staff, has ordered a twenty-four-hour halt in operations of the B-99 intercontinental bomber to facilitate search for possible faults in the aircraft. General Keatton emphasized that there is as yet no proof of either structural failure or sabotage. However, B-47 and B-52 type bombers now in reserve are being prepared to replace the B-99 should extensive modifications prove necessary.”

Platt showed the draft to Keatton and said, “Do you think this is all right, sir?”

Keatton read the release. “You are sure it’s necessary?”

“I am, sir. If you’re busting a couple of thousand planes out of mothballs you can’t keep it a secret for long, and news of the stand down will leak, too. So we might as well tell it first, and tell it straight.”

Keatton initialled the release. “I don’t think it’s going to please anyone this side of Moscow,” he said, “but at least it shows we’re doing something. Gives us a chance to breathe.” 6

At eight o’clock that evening PFC Henry Hazen called for Nina Pope. The Pope house was a two-story example of a type of architecture known as St. Augustine Ugly. That is, it was neo-Spanish with New England Victorian influence, its walls pink stucco and its roof red tin. Nina’s father sat in the living room, his head tilted back against the greasy upholstery of the only comfortable chair, his shoeless feet up on an unstable table. Bill Pope’s coat, belt, and holster hung on the walnut clothes tree. His belly protruded over his waistband. I’d like to see that big tub of lard on the obstacle course, Henry thought, but what he said was, “Evening, Mr. Pope. Nina home?”

Deputy Pope didn’t bother to answer. He shifted in his chair and the table creaked under his feet and he looked at Henry with eyes blank and hostile.

Henry smiled. He wasn’t afraid of Pope any more. He imitated the voice of a drill instructor. “I said: Is Nina home?”

“Why don’t you yell upstairs and find out?” Pope said.

Henry called, “Nina.”

“Coming right down,” she answered, and he heard her footsteps on the stairs. They had been out together each night of his leave, and each night she had worn a different dress. This night it was blue organdie, with silver sandals, for dancing.

She said, “Goodnight, Dad,” and she took Henry’s hand and they started for the door.

Pope’s feet hit the floor and he said, “Where d’you think you goin’?”

“Dancing,” she said.

“Where?”

“Jax Beach.”

“You’re lyin’. Every night you’ve been out with this trash you’ve said you were goin’ to the movies—” he mimicked her voice—“or dancin’. Think I’m stupid? Bed full of sand every morning. You’ve been layin’ out on the beach with him.”

“So what’s wrong with swimming?” Nina said.

“Swimming! That’s a new name for it.”

Nina said, “You’re a dirty old man!” For a long time, for years, she had been wanting to say that, and now it had burst out of her.