The one now behind the wheel gunned the car down the road and pulled up with a screech of brakes in front of the gate. Clark still could see nothing beyond the fence but more desert and tumbleweed. The driver unlocked the gate, went into the little shack, picked up a field telephone, and cranked it. Now Clark could read the sign: "U.S. Government Property. Restricted. Positively No Admittance."
"Gimme the O.D.," said the soldier at the telephone. "Major? This is Corporal Steiner on the gate. We got a snooper here with Texas plates."
Wednesday Afternoon
The Rock of Gibraltar threw a long shadow on the Mediterranean as the small plane chartered by Paul Girard circled the peninsula to approach the landing strip tucked under the north side of the fortress. It was almost six o'clock, five hours ahead of Washington time, when Girard first sighted the landmark and began to identify the warships of the Sixth Fleet anchored in the Bay of Algeciras. Three carriers lay among the ships dotting the roadstead, but even from the air Girard could pick out the one he wanted-the U.S.S. Dwight D. Eisenhower, the 100,000 ton nuclear-powered warship which flew the flag of the Sixth Fleet commander, Vice Admiral Farley C. Barnswell.
The Italian pilot aligned his trim little six-passenger jet with the end of the runway and nosed down. My God, thought Girard, that field looks like a postage stamp in the middle of a bathtub.
Girard had slept soundly crossing the Atlantic with Vice-President Gianelli in the Buckeye, which Jordan Lyman had offered for the good-will trip. They had landed at Rome's airport shortly before noon. Gianelli had carefully timed his arrival so that he could drive into town when the streets were crowded with lunch-hour traffic, but a crush of photographers and Italian dignitaries, including the Prime Minister, delayed his departure from the airport almost an hour. Girard, hidden behind a locked door in the private presidential toilet, waited until he could see the last car of Gianelli's motor caravan leave the airfield. An Italian ceremonial platoon, guarding the Buckeye, seemed surprised to see one more passenger step off the aircraft an hour after the others, but the captain in command merely smiled and saluted. He made no move to question Girard.
More time was wasted in the red tape over hiring a plane for the run to Gibraltar, although the charter itself presented no problem once Girard displayed a fat roll of United States currency.
There might have been raised eyebrows, however, if the voluble Italian who ran the charter agency had known how Girard acquired the money. Tuesday evening, after leaving the White House, he suddenly realized he would need a sizable amount of cash. He found only $38 in his apartment. He called the President with his "supply and logistics" problem, as he termed it, and Lyman in turn called the president of the Riggs National Bank. The bank official and a teller returned to the financial citadel on Pennsylvania Avenue, drew $2,000 from Lyman's own account, and delivered it by hand to Esther Townsend at the White House. "I not only have to defend the country," Lyman quipped, "but I get stuck with the check too."
In Rome, after Girard hired the plane, another complication arose. The pilot said he wouldn't be able to land at Gibraltar without clearance from British military authorities. Unable to risk using the American Military Air Transport Service office at the field, Girard had to call the British embassy in Rome. A flustered young consular officer drove out to the airport, inspected Girard's White House identity papers and finally made the necessary arrangements after working his way through three echelons of the Royal Air Force. The whole thing took two hours.
Now the charter plane touched down at Gibraltar. Girard stared in disbelief as they rolled past a line of automobiles halted on each side of the landing strip. Apparently there was so little horizontal real estate available that the runway had to be set directly across the main highway.
Girard checked in with the RAF and was courteously remanded to the Royal Navy, which in turn transferred this unexpected caller to the United States Navy. The process consumed another hour, and Girard downed two mugs of milky British tea while he waited.
He bounced into town in a Navy jeep, past the old stone ramparts, soccer field and crowded shops of the lower town. He found that his negotiations had really just begun when he faced the duty officer at the whitewashed building which served as administrative headquarters of the U.S. Naval Facility, Gibraltar. The officer, a spruce young commander, looked through Girard's identification several times.
"This is a bit unusual," the commander said. "We aren't part of Admiral Barnswell's command, you know. We just service him when he's in port."
"Just put me in touch with his flag secretary," said Girard. He had no intention of showing the President's letter until he had to.
The commander surveyed this ungainly man, with his overlarge head and drooping eyelids. Emissaries from Washington didn't just appear unannounced, especially secretaries of the President. Finally, after some hesitation, the officer telephoned the captain in command of the shore base. Good God, thought Girard, by the time they get through, every naval officer from here to Beirut will know I'm around.
The commander listened respectfully on the phone.
When he hung up, he summoned a signalman and wrote out a message for him.
"He'll raise the Eisenhower by blinker," he explained. "The Admiral's aboard this evening."
Girard stood by the window. The signal station for the fleet was housed in a small tower on the roof of the administration building. In a few minutes, he saw a light on the distant carrier winking toward shore through the deepening twilight. There was a long pause-apparently the sailor upstairs had sent his message and was waiting for an answer. Then the light aboard ship began to blink again. Girard made out a G and an E in the Morse code, but the rest went too fast for him. It had been years since his own two-week cram course in code. The signalman returned to the office and handed a message to the commander.
"The flag secretary wants to know whether this is a request for a personal visit," the officer said, "or official government business?"
Girard decided he'd better not underplay his own status at this stage. The prospect of having to swim a couple of miles out to the carrier did not appeal to him.
"I am representing the President of the United States," he said. "The matter is urgent."
This time only five minutes elapsed in the exchange of messages.
"The Admiral's barge is on the way in for you," the commander said, eying Girard with new respect.
A trim launch with three silver stars on its bow slid quietly into the dock where Girard waited. A boatswain's mate met him at the gangplank and showed him into the handsomely appointed cabin. A mahogany desk stood against one bulkhead; leather swivel chairs, brass-fitted to the deck, were spotted around the compartment. There were even crisp little blue curtains at the portholes. Each metal fitting shone like a jewel.
The Admiral's barge made the run out to the looming bulk of the Eisenhower at 15 knots. The huge ship stood out like a mesa in the American Southwest, hardly moving on the gentle bay swells. Behind the ship, Girard could see the glow where the sun was closing fast with the horizon beyond Algeciras. Jet fighters and attack bombers stood in dovetailed rows on the after flight deck. As the barge came into the cool shadow of the Eisenhower, Girard heard the heavy murmur that results from the merged small noises of a large warship preparing itself for the night.