General Clumb had been assigned to the Pentagon, duty which he detested, two years before his date for retirement. Clumb was a field general, and more specifically a general of cavalry, or, as it is now called, armor. As commander of one of Patton’s regimental combat teams, he achieved the summit of his fame in the sweep across France. He was photographed, just before the liberation of Metz, standing in the turret of a point tank, tommy gun under his left arm, his powerful right hand flourishing an 1870 sabre he had discovered in a French farmhouse. It was a dramatic photograph, seeming to symbolize the union of Custer with a helmeted Superman, widely published, and perhaps responsible for his first star. Clumb remembered World War II with nostalgia and preferred not to think of wars tanks couldn’t win. Oh, he believed that nuclear weapons would work, all right (although not against armor properly dispersed), but he pretended to ignore their existence, in staff discussions, as a gentleman avoids mention of social diseases in mixed company. If pressed, he announced that neither side would use bombs, A or H. “Just like poison gas in the second World War,” he always said. “Both sides had gas but neither used it.”
Clumb was in command of a NATO division when the atomic cannon and Honest John rockets and Matador pilotless jets began to arrive in Europe. Since he could not seem to find a place for such weapons in his formations, Army was forced to make a decision. Either Clumb or the atom had to go, and it was Clumb who was shipped home. Army assured him that duty in the Pentagon, especially in the august company of the Joint Chiefs, would be a fitting close to a glorious career.
He became Chief, Special Projects Section, Planning Division, Joint Chiefs, a post that carried no specific authority. It was an administrative clearing house for studies and functions that the Joint Chiefs believed essential, but which were still of a quasi-military nature. The Pentagon hoped only that General Clumb would keep his desk reasonably clear, and see to it that papers and reports flowed to the sections where they could be useful. At the bottom of his table-of-organization chart was a small box, Intentions of the Enemy Group. He didn’t understand exactly why it was there, but he was suspicious of that little box from the very start.
They were a weird bunch, including a one-eyed pilot and, of all things, a woman. Four of them were civilians, and their senior member was a State Department striped-panty. It was General Clumb’s conviction that civilians should keep their noses out of military matters until they were called up, in due course, by the draft. As to the military members of this organization, none of them had any rank, really, the Army representative being only a reserve colonel. What useful function this group could perform he could not imagine. They churned around a good deal, and some of them seemed to have influential friends whom they consulted, in person, outside proper channels. He had been waiting for months to put them in their place, or erase the troublesome box from his T.O. entirely, and now the time had come. He had devoted hours of study to their so-called forecast, an abominable and cheeky thing, and now he knew he had ’em.
Clumb charged into the conference room and rapped the rolled-up report on the edge of the table. Colonel Cragey, Commander Batt, and Major Price rose, as military courtesy required. The civilians were either rude or totally untrained in military matters. They all kept their seats. “You may be seated,” General Clumb said, his voice rasping like metal tank treads on concrete. “What I have to say isn’t going to take long. In all my years as an officer, this is the most preposterous and outrageous document that I have ever seen. Rejected!” He tossed the forecast on the table, where it slowly unfolded, as if of itself attempting to regain shape and dignity.
Simmons stood up. “General,” he said, his voice controlled, but loud enough to match Clumb’s, “do you mind explaining what you mean by ‘rejected‘?” Simmons had once faced down a Russian marshal. He was not terrified by rank.
“I mean,” said Clumb, “that there will be no distribution of this document under my name. In other words, there will be no distribution whatsoever.”
“We have been working on this forecast for more than a year. It is our opinion—and I am sure that I speak for all of us—that it is of utmost importance, and should be distributed immediately. This thing is not only going to happen, the facts indicate that it is happening this instant.”
“Ridiculous!”
“Not only that,” Simmons said, “but we have been discussing intelligence received by all the departments and agencies we represent—including State and CIA—over the last twenty-four hours. We have reached the opinion that the United States will be attacked, in exactly the manner outlined in the forecast, on Christmas Eve.”
The general was certain that they had lost their collective minds, and that he could now get rid of them, swiftly and with impunity, and he allowed himself to smile. “Do you mind telling me what time?” he said.
Very casually Jesse Price, half slouched in his chair, said, “I should say at the crack of dawn.”
“Are you being insolent?”
“No, General, I am absolutely serious.” Although his manner was undoubtedly insolent, his voice was still subdued, and very grave, “The enemy submarines will surface, pick up bearings, and launch their missiles at first light.”
Katharine Hume had to speak. Psychologically, they were going at it the wrong way. They had to get Clumb talking. Perhaps if he talked enough he might talk himself into changing his mind. Nobody else, under the rank of lieutenant-general, was going to change it for him. “Sir,” she asked, innocently as a college girl asking for clarification of a lecture, “do you mind telling us what your objections are?”
“What they are? Gad, girl! I wouldn’t know where to start!”
Katharine rose. She was the youngest in the room, and the general was more than twice her age, and it would be politic to offer him her chair. “Do sit down, sir, and tell us about it. After all, we realize your experience outweighs ours.”
Uncertainly, as if doubting the tactic, the general sat down. “All right,” he said, “I’ll tell you. Your plan is full of holes. Now I don’t doubt that the Russians would attack us if they could get away with it, but what do you think our NATO forces would be doing while all this was going on over here? I’ve been reading the intelligence summaries also. The Russian divisions, including armor, are pulling back from all the frontiers. Does that sound like they’re preparing for war? No, sir! When you’re ready for war you mass for an attack. You don’t retreat.”
Colonel Cragey shifted in his chair, looking unhappy. “General, NATO is prepared for defensive action—not attack. The Russian divisions are pulling back simply to remove themselves from the range of NATO’s atomic cannon and missiles.”
“And you’re a colonel!” said General Clumb, sadly. “Do you mean to tell me that the Russians are going to leave the NATO armies intact?”
“What good is an army without a country?” Cragey asked.
The general sucked in his breath and straightened. “Colonel, I consider that remark insubordination!”
“Well, what good is it?” Cragey insisted.
The general ignored him. “And another thing. Suppose the Russians were capable of turning two-thirds of this country into a desert—which of course is as preposterous as all the rest of it—how would it benefit them? Wars are won by occupying the territory of the enemy. That’s the first rule of warfare. You take this territory with tanks, nowadays, and hold it with infantry. What would the Russians want with a radioactive America?”