Lyman was standing by the tall window, swinging his glasses by an earpiece and looking out toward the lonely, dim figure of Jefferson in his rotunda down by the Tidal Basin. His shoulders seemed to droop with fatigue.
"That's right, Chris," he said softly. "You just reminded me of something. Good night, gentlemen."
My God, thought Casey as he left the room, he isn't even talking sense any more. He felt sudden exhaustion in his own neck and shoulders. If Lyman feels the way I do, he thought, he's done for.
But Jordan Lyman, though physically exhausted, was not done for, nor was he done with that day's work. As the door closed behind his three guests, he picked up the phone.
"Esther? Please get me the Secretary of State."
The Secretary was on the line in less than a minute. Apparently Esther had reached him at his home.
"George?" This is the President. I'm sorry to bother you, but this ought to be taken care of tonight, I think. I want to meet with Feemerov no later than the end of next week. That's right. Well, I don't care where-maybe Vienna again-but I want him there. Can you get a cable off to Moscow and have the ambassador go to the Foreign Ministry first thing tomorrow? No, he can't tell him why, but you know. Our friend from Detroit talked to you today, didn't he? I've got an idea that I think might do it. I'll go wherever Feemerov suggests, but tell them to put it to him hard. All right. Thanks very much, George. I'll explain it all to you as soon as I can."
Lyman hung up. It's got to work, he thought, because Chris is right: it takes only one administration to throw the country away. And it isn't going to be Jordan Lyman's administration if I can help it.
His eye fell on the liquor bottles on the tray by the wall. Where, he thought, where is Ray Clark?
Thursday Night
Senator Raymond Clark sat in a sparsely furnished, air-conditioned Quonset hut on the New Mexico desert, almost in the foothills of the barren San Andres Mountains. When he peeked through the lowered Venetian blinds, as he did at regular intervals, he could see a sentry standing in front of the hut. Like all the other soldiers Clark had seen in the past two days on this post, the guard was no boy, but a man with the patiently relaxed carriage of a toughened combat veteran.
Beyond the sentry Clark could see-in the bright light of the rising moon-a few other Quonsets, a half-dozen radio antenna towers scattered over several square miles, a number of windowless concrete-block buildings, and what appeared to be an endless stretch of desert. The last time he had looked out the window, before dark, Clark had seen a convoy of trucks, led by a jeep, rumble past on a gravel road that seemed to go nowhere. He had counted the vehicles and added a few marks to the notes he was compiling on the back of an envelope.
Now, sitting in a folding canvas armchair, Clark reviewed what he had listed:
-Airstrip. Fighters. F-112?
2-Twinjet transports
-Towers. Microwave relay?
-Towers, radio transmitter
-Mobile radio trucks. 7
-Jeeps, command cars. Many
-Armored Personnel Carriers. 16
-Infantry approx 1 Bn
-Hvy cargo planes. Troop carrier? landed Wed Nite
-Trucks, 6x6. 23
Clark put the envelope back in his pocket and lapsed into another review of the events that had put him in this place. Maybe, he thought, I can stretch this playback out until I fall asleep again.
He had been held in the stuffy little shack at the gate Wednesday morning for almost an hour. The corporal-the one who had identified himself as Steiner on the telephone-picked his teeth and looked at Clark sourly. Both he and his companion ignored all Clark's attempts at conversation.
Then a colonel, black-browed and with a scarred cheek, raced up to the shack in a jeep that trailed a rising funnel of dust behind it. Clark could see a look of startled half-recognition on the officer's face as he entered the shelter. Suspecting he had been identified, Clark decided it would be foolish to try to play a role. Instead, he held out his hand.
"I'm Senator Raymond Clark of Georgia," he said. "I suppose you must be Colonel Broderick."
Now Broderick was really surprised, hearing himself identified, but he returned the handshake. "Nice to meet you, Senator," he said. "Nice to meet you. I've heard a great deal about you."
"Your people are a little gung-ho, Colonel."
"Yeah. Let's get out of the sun. I'll take you up to the guest hut, Senator, it's air conditioned and we can talk there. We don't have many visitors."
The road ran straight west over the flat, parched land. Clark, shading his eyes against the glare, could see nothing for miles except the bulk of mountains against the horizon. They drove for perhaps twenty minutes. Then the road dropped down a slope and Clark saw a whole military community spread out ahead: buildings, smaller huts, towers and a wide, single concrete runway which he guessed was at least two miles long. A few jet fighters and transports stood beside the strip.
Clark's inquiries during the drive got little response from Broderick. The colonel's eyes were hidden by his sunglasses and he wore a fixed, somewhat forced smile. He evaded direct answers. The whole base was highly classified, he said. Some of Clark's questions were answered with no more than a grunt.
Broderick stopped in front of a lone Quonset, separated from the nearest building by over a hundred yards. Carrying Clark's jacket for him, he fumbled with a ring of keys, found the right one and unlocked the door. The window air conditioner whirred at full speed and Clark stood by it thankfully as he surveyed the room. There was little to see. Tan bedspreads covered two narrow cots. An unpainted wooden desk and small chair were in one corner. The other corner was occupied by a floor lamp and a folding canvas camp chair. The small bathroom at the rear was barely big enough to hold a shower stall. The rounded ceiling came down to shoulder height on each side of the room.
Broderick stepped to the front window and lowered the blind, then sat down on a bed and gestured to Clark to take the armchair.
"Now, Senator," he said, "what's this all about?"
"Nothing mysterious," Clark said brightly. "I'm just moseying around on a little inspection trip of my own during the Senate recess, so I stopped by."
"It's somewhat irregular, Senator, somewhat irregular." Broderick scratched the back of one of his hairy hands. "I'm sure you know the top-secret classification of this base. Your committee chairman assured us there would be no visits here. We don't want to tip off the location."
"Well, now, that is mysterious, even if I'm not," Clark said. "Colonel, I never heard of this base before in my life."
Broderick looked at him from under his black eyebrows. It was not a friendly look. "Then how did you know where it was?"
"Heard about it in El Paso," said Clark, trying a bland smile. "I was on my way up to Holloman Air force Base and White Sands."
"Who told you?"
"Now, Colonel, I'm the visiting senator. I think I'm supposed to ask the questions."
"Frankly, I don't believe you. Nobody in El Paso knows about this base."
"I don't intend to argue about it, Colonel." Clark stood up. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to call my office and let them know my whereabouts. After that, you can show me around the base and then I'll be on my way."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Senator," Broderick said. "No calls are permitted that would reveal the location of the base. There's only one line out of here, and that's in my office for my use."
Clark pointed to a telephone on the writing table. "What's that?"
"That's connected to the same line, but its use is restricted to me. No one but the commanding officer calls out of here."