Pat Frank - Forbidden Area

Fromburg rose, stretched, and left. When the door shut, Gumol fell across the bed, buried his face in the pillow, and sobbed. After a few minutes he began to claw at the sheets in rage at his own stupidity. 9

That night Katharine and Jesse went out to the flight line to watch her brother’s plane being readied for takeoff. Keatton had ordered an unorthodox emergency mission for six bombers from Hibiscus and thirty more from the other southern bases. Only elite crews were chosen. They were to range far out over the ocean, the Caribbean, and the Gulf, and scan the seas, outside normal shipping lanes, with their radar. The B-99 was not designed or equipped for anti-submarine patrol for it burned fuel at a fantastic rate at the lower altitudes, but it had an important asset—tremendous range. By proceeding to remote search areas at normal altitudes, and then dropping closer to the sea, their radar might, conceivably, find submarines cruising on the surface halfway across an ocean.

The mission was heartening proof to Jesse that Keatton was taking seriously the Intentions Group’s forecast, but he watched the preparations for another reason. He had forgotten how many things went aboard an aircraft in the final hour before takeoff.

There were oxygen tanks. “They look like bombs themselves,” he told Katy. There were flare guns, freshly charged flashlights, map cases, box lunches, thermos bottles, newly inspected rubber rafts with their compressed air cartridges for inflation, bulky cameras, cases of film, fire extinguishers, binoculars, extra radar tubes, first aid kits. There seemed no end to the equipment that could hide a pressure bomb.

Jess said, almost to himself, “But the cabin is pressurized.”

“What’s that?”

“I was just thinking that all that stuff is going into a pressurized cabin, so how could a pressure bomb work? But as soon as I asked myself the question I had the answer. Sea level pressure isn’t maintained in the cabin. They just try to keep it at a bearable level. They don’t even start to pressurize the cabin until they’re over ten thousand. When the Nine-Nine is at twenty-five thousand, pressure inside the cabin is held to about twelve. So if a pressure bomb is sneaked into the cabin, it must be set around there, just a little bit higher than the ones in Italy.”

He would tell General Keatton about it, if he had another chance to see Keatton alone. He would certainly talk about it to Colonel Lundstrom. Of all the security officers now on the base, Lundstrom had been most impressed by his pressure bomb theory. Lundstrom, too, had been in Italy and recalled the tragic legend of the Cottontails.

At eleven the planes were ready. Clint sauntered over to say goodbye. He squeezed Katharine’s shoulder and said, “See you people at breakfast. Or maybe brunch. Depends on our fuel consumption. A Nine-Nine doesn’t like to cruise around and around at under thirty thousand feet.”

“Yes,” Jesse said. “We’ll see you at breakfast.” He tried to make the tone of his voice as casual as the words. It was difficult. All his life, it seemed, he had said casual goodbyes which in a few hours were solidified as permanent, by death. He had lost so many friends. He hoped he would not lose this brother-in-law-to-be, who also promised to be a good friend.

Then Clint was gone. The great engines fired up and Jesse and Katy and the Air Police got off the flight line and found shelter in the lee of a crash truck and shielded their ears against the torturing roar. The mission took off. In the strange hush after, Katharine said, “Do you think he’ll come back?”

Jesse said, “Don’t beat yourself up, Katy.”

“I don’t think you can quite understand how I feel about those big brutes,” she said, “because you’re not a woman. To me, those planes are monsters.”

They walked over to Clint’s car and he helped her inside and he pulled her to him and kissed her. When she responded he knew that she had Clint off her mind, at least for a while. It was an hour before he drove her back to the Greshams’. 10

Since this was his night off, Stanley Smith stayed in Barracks 37 and played poker. To have reported for work in the mess hall when he was not required to do so, or even visited the kitchen, would have caused comment and brought him unwelcome attention. He could wait. He planned to take three of his thermos bottles to work on the following night, and two more Sunday night. That should finish SAC.

(It was not a night off for Masters, on a SAC base near Corpus Christi. Unlike Smith, Masters had never been able to ease himself into a position where he always had access to the flight lunches and coffee containers. Things had been quite difficult for him, and risky. But on this night he was determined to make a big effort, for it was his night of midnight to 0800 duty, when he would have his best chance of planting the booby traps. When he reported at the mess hall he carried a thermos bottle under each arm.)

WHEN SMITH awoke Saturday morning he yawned, stretched, and saw that Phil Cusack was sitting on the other bed, watching him. Cusack was dressed in his best blues, and was wearing his peaked cap. Smith guessed that Cusack had been sitting there for some time, hoping he would awaken. “Say, Stan,” Cusack said, “you know I got cleaned in that game last night.”

“Told you to get out when you were ahead. Table stakes is for men, not boys.”

“How much did you win, Stan?”

“I don’t know. Forty-fifty maybe.”

“How about lending me a couple of bucks? I’ve got my twenty-four-hour pass for Orlando.”

“How much do you owe me now?”

“Twenty-five.”

Smith sat up. “Okay, I’ll let you have another ten. Hand me my wallet. There, on that table.”

Cusack brought the wallet. “Stan,” he said, “I borrowed one of your ties.”

“That’s okay.”

“Stan, do you know you’ve got five coffee jars stacked up in your closet? I thought you ought to…” Cusack stopped. Stan’s face suddenly was like gray stone. “I thought you ought…”

“What about those thermos bottles?”

“Nothing. Except last night Ciocci was beefing. Says he’s shy five thermos bottles because they got lost with them aircraft and now he doesn’t have enough. Maybe I ought…”

“Shut up!”

“I was only going to say maybe I ought to take them back to the kitchen for you.”

“Oh.” Smith forced himself to relax. “You don’t have to worry about it, Phil,” he said. “I’ll take ’em back when I go to work tonight. Only thing is, I don’t like anybody messing around in my closet. You know that, don’t you?”

“Sure, I know it. I was just borrowing that tie.”

Smith opened his wallet and brought out two tens, and handed them to Cusack. “Here’s a little extra dough,” he said. “You’ll need it.”

“Thanks, Stan,” Cusack said, grinning. “Say, you know any girls in Orlando?”

“A few. Why?” He wished Cusack would hurry up and get out.

“I just wondered whether maybe one of your girls wouldn’t know a girl?”

Smith realized that the situation had to be handled. It was necessary that Cusack get off the base, and necessary that he forget all about those thermos bottles in the closet. The way to make him forget was get him a girl. There was only Betty Jo, and Betty Jo wouldn’t go for Cusack. But Betty Jo would know plenty of other girls, and maybe she could find one of about Cusack’s age. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Phil. I’ll give you a note to my girl. Name’s Betty Jo Atkins. Works at the Sea Trout. She’ll get you fixed up.”

Smith got out of bed, found a pad of Air Force stationery, sat down at the table, and wrote the note: “Dear Betty Jo—This will introduce my roommate, Phil Cusack. He’s a good kid. Wants a date. Take care of him, will you? Love, Stan.”