On the floor, by the door, was another bottle of Old Benjamin. Without hesitation, he carried it to the toilet and emptied it. This time he didn't bother to save a taste with his finger, but merely set the empty bottle beside the other one. Well, Broderick, he thought, we're getting a nice little row of dead soldiers.
Breakfast came at 7:30. Again the orderly hastily slipped it onto the table, retrieved the tray from the night before, and left. Clark didn't try to talk to him. The morning, it seemed, would never go by. The air conditioner droned on without pause. Another sentry paced out front. Clark watched the tiny lines of light that came through the blind inch their way across the floor as the sun moved higher in the sky.
A new man brought the soup, sandwich and milk that made up lunch. He wouldn't talk either.
The first faint hint of panic settled down on Clark. He had never known fear and could never recall a time when his nerves had failed him. But now a gnawing frustration made it increasingly hard to concentrate. What should he do if he ever got out of this room? Where was his car? How would he get off the base? He found it difficult to pursue a line of thought through to its finish. Instead, his mind jumped from subject to subject. Girard should be back by now. Would he have something in writing? Let's hope so, for God's sake. What did Lyman think had happened to his old buddy Ray? Was that skeptic Todd still in doubt about Scott's venture? If he was, Clark wished he could change places with him. Could the others block this crazy operation without him?
He paced the room, counting his steps. He did deep knee bends and push-ups. He counted the rivets in the metal arch of the hut. He thought of his wife and how he had missed her since her death three years ago. He wondered what Scott would do with Congress if he succeeded on Saturday. Or with Russia, for that matter. He washed out his undershirt in the bathroom, hung it up to dry in front of the air conditioner, then took a shower himself. He was sweaty-and he needed something to do.
Propped on the bed once more, he vowed to read through the newspaper, but it slipped from his hands as he dozed off. When he woke he knew it was evening, for the little bars of light had marched to the edge of the floor and partway up the wall, and they weren't nearly so bright as before. Once more he lifted a slat. The only thing that had changed was the shadow from the mountains, now reaching out across the desert. Dinner arrived, and Clark forced himself to eat it. Later, in the twilight, a line of trucks appeared, in convoy, with a jeep in front. He counted them and made a few more marks on the envelope.
Clark's rambling review of his troubles was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Senator Clark?"
Clark didn't recognize the voice. Since the newcomer was making no effort to enter, as had his other visitors, he said, "Come in."
An officer wearing the eagles of a full colonel on his open-necked shirt stepped into the room. He had a round, red face, curly black hair and jug-handle ears.
Clark's heart beat heavily. This must be Jiggs's friend Henderson, he thought. At least he fits the description.
"I'm Colonel Henderson, sir," said the officer, putting out his hand and smiling a bit sheepishly, "acting C.O. in Colonel Broderick's absence."
Absence, thought Clark. Ray ol' boy, this is your chance to prove you could have been the best salesman in the whole state of Georgia if you had wanted to.
"Glad to know you," the senator said. "What's the matter with Colonel Broderick?"
"Orders, sir," said Henderson. "He's been called away for a day or so. I'm awfully sorry about having to ask you to stay in this hut, Senator. Frankly, I can't understand it, but the orders are specific."
"Aw, it's not your fault, Colonel." Clark decided to play this one slow and easy. "Just some misunderstanding, probably. We can win wars, but we can't get rid of the peacetime snafu."
Henderson grinned. "That's about it, Senator, but I am sorry I can't do anything about it."
"Forget it and sit down a minute," said Clark. "Say, your pal Casey is a good friend of mine. Thinks a lot of you ... Mutt, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. How do you know Jiggs?"
"Call me Ray, Mutt," Clark said, as cheerfully and confidently as a man who had recently sweat his undershirt into a stinking mess could say it. "Oh, Casey has been up before our committee a lot. Matter of fact, he did a helluva favor once for a friend of mine in Atlanta. I guess we're kind of whittled off the same broom handle-you know, we may not be brilliant, but we mean well."
Henderson relaxed a little. He had no idea why this senator was locked up, but he seemed like a nice guy anyway, and there weren't many of them at Site Y.
"Anything I can get for you, Senator?" he asked. "How about a drink?"
Clark eyed Henderson sharply, but could see only innocent hospitality in his face. Well, he thought, we might as well start right now.
"That's one goddam thing I don't need," he said. "Come here."
Clark led Henderson into the bathroom and showed him the two empty bottles.
"Your commanding officer was kind enough-or rather bastard enough-to provide me with those. I poured it down the can."
Henderson was puzzled. "I don't follow you, Senator. Why two bottles? And why did you throw it all away?"
"I got a little drinking problem, Mutt," Clark said, "and your boss knows it. Or at least he knew it after he talked to Senator Prentice."
"Prentice?"
"Yeah, Prentice. My chairman." Clark's voice was sarcastic. "Broderick called him from this room. After they finished talking, he took the phone away, and I got the whisky-and a prison number too, I guess."
It was plain from Henderson's look that he was now suspicious as well as confused. He edged toward the door of the hut and muttered something about pressing duties. But Clark held his elbow.
"Look, Colonel, don't go. My mind's sound, in spite of the fact that I've been cooped up in this place for two days. How about having the mess send over some coffee? There's an awful lot I want to tell you, and you've got to hear it."
Henderson, somewhat reluctantly, agreed. He opened the door and spoke to the sentry, then came back and sat down again. This time, however, he chose the chair nearest the door.
"Mutt," Clark asked, "how much do you trust Jiggs Casey?"
"You name it and he can have it," Henderson said. "Why?"
"If Jiggs told you something in complete seriousness, would you believe him?"
"Sure."
"All right. Do you know," said Clark slowly, "that when you told Casey about ECOMCON on Sunday he had never heard of it before?"
Henderson was startled, and could not hide it.
"How do you know about my seeing Jiggs on Sunday?"
"He told me," Clark snapped, "and he told some other people, too. He never heard of it."
"Really?" Henderson was frowning and his round face was troubled. "But he sounded like he knew all about it."
"He was faking," Clark said. "When he got back to his office after having lunch with you, he went through all the JCS orders for a year back. He couldn't find a thing about ECOMCON or anything like it. What's more, President Lyman had never heard of this base. Neither had I."
"I can't believe that, sir," said Henderson. "Colonel Broderick goes to Washington all the time to brief the brass."
"Some of the brass, maybe, but not the Commander in Chief. Mutt, you listen to me now. I'm going to tell you the God-damnedest story you ever heard in your life."
Clark began by recounting everything that Casey had encountered on Sunday and Monday. A sergeant knocked at the door, entered and put a tray with two mugs of coffee on the little table. As the two men sipped, Clark described Casey's first visit to the White House in minute detail, trying to impress Henderson. Then he sketched the meeting in the solarium on Tuesday, told of Girard and Casey's missions, and explained how he had made his own way from El Paso International Airport to the gates of Site Y.