“And another thing,” said Simmons, with a desperation apparent to all of them. “Why have they stopped all outgoing press messages—stopped them completely? That sort of thing hasn’t happened for many, many years. It’s something new, and to me very ominous.”
He looked around the table. The others were rising. McCabe had already drifted away. The under secretary said, “Sorry Simmons,” and turned his back. There was always so much to do, in the Department, and always so little time, particularly on Saturdays, and the worst Saturday of all was the Saturday before Christmas. 4
The matter of time concerned Jesse Price also. He wasn’t seeing Katy Hume often, and when he did see her someone else was always present. What did a man do when he loved a woman, and she him, and both believed their personal world might very well end in less than forty-eight hours? The only sensible thing was to take her away to the safest possible place and enjoy what hours remained. Habit would not permit this. When a department store is bankrupt or a newspaper suspends, the clerks remain at their counters and the reporters at their typewriters until the last bell rings, or the last edition is off the press, although they know their presence is of no possible use to anyone. It is simpler and more comforting that way, for it is habit, even though it enjoys the loftier name of duty. So Jesse Price, when breakfast was done, drove Clint Hume back to the BOQ and then returned to the administration building to see whether Buddy Conklin had any odd jobs for him to do.
Conklin was back at his old desk in the commanding general’s office, and the whole wing of the building seemed subtly different. The atmosphere of high command, with its tensions, was missing. The only star on the base rode Conklin’s shoulder. Conklin called, “Major Price.” Jesse walked over to his desk.
“You never checked out in multi-engined jets, did you, Jess?” Conklin asked.
“I’ve never even flown a jet trainer.”
“Too bad. We could use even one-eyed pilots for ferry duty today.”
“What’s up? Where’s all the brass?”
“Two more Nine-Nines blew out of Texas this morning. By tomorrow night we’re scheduled to bring in reserve aircraft from Arizona and New Mexico.”
“The General’s grounded the Nine-Nines?”
“No. Not yet. He’s on the way to Washington to fight it out. I think he’s beginning to believe in your theory that grounding the Nine-Nine is what the enemy wants. Can’t say that I do. Those two in Texas today—after tearing apart every aircraft in SAC, after all the security. I’ll tell you, Jess, I’m shook. I’ve lost five aircrews out of my division already. That’s enough for me. I hope I never have to ask another man to climb into a Nine-Nine. Not until I know what’s wrong.”
Momentarily, Jesse Price felt a sense of failure, but this was displaced and overwhelmed by the realization of what his intervention with Keatton—others would call it meddling—had accomplished. As certainly as if he had lined them up against a wall and shot them, he was responsible for the death of fourteen airmen that morning. Had it not been for him, the two aircrews out of Texas, had they been up at all, would have been flying in the proved 47’s and 52’s. “If I’ve been wrong—” he whispered, not to Buddy Conklin, but to himself.
Conklin read what he was thinking, accurately. “Don’t ride it, Jess. That pressure bomb idea sounded like the answer to me when I heard it. Just didn’t pan out. Anybody can look good by keeping his mouth shut. Now snap out of it!”
Jesse turned away. It was going to be tough, living with himself, living by himself. If he had been wrong, he no longer would be welcome in this Air Force, or perhaps anywhere.
“Major Price!”
Jesse straightened and faced the desk. “Yes, sir.”
Conklin’s face was bleak, the freckles standing out like orange stains on blank white paper. “Major, you have been assigned to temporary duty on this base and by God I’ve got plenty of duty to do, without time off for mental flagellation or self-pity. My exec is a pilot. I need him on the ferry run. You will relieve him for the time being. Find me some more ferry pilots. Get ’em out of spare crews, wing staffs, anywhere. Arrange for their transportation west. And now.”
“Yes, sir,” Jesse said, his mind working again. Work was what he needed, lots of work. And he knew he still had at least one friend on the base—the commanding general. 5
Phil Cusack waited until after the lunch-hour rush was over before he entered the Sea Trout Restaurant. Five or six waitresses were trotting around, all dressed in sea-green uniforms and hats. He tried to guess which one was Stan Smith’s girl. He couldn’t. To Phil, a shy boy who had never been successful with girls, they all seemed equally pretty, voluptuous, and unattainable. There was an older woman behind the cashier’s counter. He waited for a moment when she was unbusy, and then approached the counter and said, “Is Betty Jo Atkins here?”
The cashier nodded towards the rear. “Last three tables.”
Cusack walked back there, picking out the last girl, admiring her wide hips and heavy, round breasts. In his part of West Virginia, she was the type of girl that men fought over. He caught her attention and said, “Are you Betty Jo?”
“Yes.” She appraised him. He was probably the boy who had left his suitcase in the car. If so, he was lucky. Stan had forgotten to take the suitcase back to the base with him and so she had put it in the luggage compartment of the car, thinking that if Stan didn’t come for it she would take it out to Hibiscus. He had never allowed her to drive him out to the base. He claimed the Air Force didn’t like it. She had never seen the base, and the suitcase might be a good excuse for her to go out there.
“I’m Stan’s roommate. I’ve got a note for you.”
She accepted the envelope eagerly. Probably Stan had got off somehow, or changed his duty hours again, and would be in to see her tonight. It would be awfully lonely, the whole weekend without him. She read the note, her face showing disappointment.
“Gee, I hope it’s not too much trouble,” Cusack said.
She glanced at him again. He was no dream boat. His face was blemished and he had cut himself shaving. He wasn’t old enough to have rank, money, or experience. She would bet he didn’t even have a car. She looked around the room. Two other girls, moving in the short, skipping steps a waitress uses to skirt tables and maintain balance, were watching her, and appraising the boy. “You know this is Saturday night,” she said. “Most of the girls are all dated up Saturdays. They’ve all got steadies.”
“Oh,” he said. That was all, really, he had expected.
“Tell you what,” she said, thinking that she ought to make some effort or it might displease Stan. “I’ll ask around. I’m off at five. You come back here then and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Sure,” Cusack said. “Thanks a lot. I’ll be back here at five.” He left the restaurant and walked slowly towards the center of town. Christmas decorations were strung over the streets. People were fighting their way into the stores like stuff was being given away. Women hurtled into him, and jostled him, and jammed packages into his ribs. He felt lonely, an outsider. He hadn’t bought any Christmas presents for anyone, and he was sure nobody back home had bought any for him. But there’d be quite a Christmas at the base, with a tree in the gym. It’d be the biggest Christmas he had ever seen. He found refuge in the first movie he saw, chewed licorice, and waited for the hours to pass. Since it was Saturday the theater was full of kids, and was showing a Western and a comedy. Phil, hunched back, watched the screen, but he really didn’t absorb what was going on, nor was he disturbed by the kids around him, their holiday excitement bursting out in horseplay and giggling. He was dreaming of a girl, a waitress in a sea-green dress—any one of them would do.