Henderson was not convinced.
"That's pretty hard to believe, Senator, all of it. Why, General Scott has flown in here several times in the last few weeks with other members of the Joint Chiefs, and there was never the slightest hint that this was anything ... anything it shouldn't be."
"Was Admiral Palmer ever here?" asked Clark quickly.
"No, but-"
"And my being locked up? And two bottles of my favorite bourbon to get me drunk? Do you people usually put a fifth of whisky inside the guest hut before breakfast?"
"No, sir, I admit it's awful strange, the whole thing, the way you put it together."
"That's the only way it fits together, Colonel. And it's worse than strange." Clark was deliberately harsh. "It's a planned, premeditated attempt to overthrow the government of the United States, in violation of the Constitution. And that, my friend, is sedition, and it's mutiny, and anybody who does it or helps someone do it can get twenty years in the penitentiary."
Henderson looked lost and irresolute, not at all the hearty officer of an hour before. "What do you expect me to do about it, Senator?"
"When will Broderick be back?"
"Sometime tomorrow, he said."
"Then you've got to get me off this base tonight. And I want you to fly back to Washington with me."
Henderson shook his head. "Senator, you know I can't do that. I'm an Army officer under orders. I've never disobeyed or ignored an order."
"Never, Mutt?"
"Never."
"Well, I'm ordering you now, by direction of the Commander in Chief, to get me out of here and to come to Washington with me."
"But-"
"And if you're worried about it," Clark went on, "you don't need to be. Look, if Casey and the President and I are wrong, and there's nothing to this, I'll guarantee that you'll get a letter for your C.O., or for your file, or for whatever you want, from the President of the United States. And if we're right, you won't need any excuses-if you get me out of here. Now how about it?"
"That's not what I mean," said Henderson, plainly disturbed and even angry at being caught between two fires. "I got an order from my commanding officer not to let you out of this hut. I guess the President could countermand that, but you can't, Senator."
"Colonel, if you persist in that argument, you can throw your country right down the drain all by yourself."
Henderson merely shook his head again. Clark tried a new tack, arguing that Casey had already done far more than he was asking Henderson to do. Casey had gone to the President on his own, risking a long and proud career in the Marines. He had gone-Clark spoke as persuasively as he knew how-because he knew in his heart it was right.
"Yeah," said Henderson. "But maybe Jiggs is all wrong, even if you're quoting him right."
Clark kept on, for he thought he detected signs that Henderson was weakening. He felt sorry for the officer, knowing the conflict that must be churning inside him, but he could not let up. He argued his side of the issue with a determination he wished he could bring to Senate debate.
"Why all these bully-boy troops?" he demanded, his voice filling the room. "You know you've got the hardest bunch in the Army here. Why has it been kept a secret from the President? Why would Scott give command of it to a man who is openly contemptuous of civilian authority? Just what the hell do you think is going on here, Mutt, if it isn't an attempt to overthrow the government?"
Henderson sat studying his hands, clasped on his knees. His round face, usually cheerful, wrinkled in thought and his big ears heightened his forlorn appearance. When he spoke, there was a dogged quality to his voice.
"Gee, Senator, for antisabotage work, you want 'em tough."
"Antisabotage? Mutt, wasn't it you who told Jiggs you thought it was strange that you spent more time training to seize things than to protect them, or something like that?"
"Yes, but-"
"And why a man who says right out that he favors a dictatorship as the commanding officer?"
"Colonel Broderick's pretty conservative, I guess you'd say, but - "
Clark flashed in again. "Conservative, hell, Mutt. He's an out-and-out Fascist and you know it."
Henderson brought his eyes up to meet Clark's.
"Look, I'll level with you, Senator," he said. "I admit I've had some doubts about this outfit, and Broderick, but your story is pretty far out. How do I know you're not up to something?"
"You mean, off my rocker?"
"No, sir, not that, but maybe some kind of trick. You know, maybe General Scott sent you here to test our security."
"Even if that were true, which it isn't, what would you lose by leaving with me?"
"I'd just be a deserter, that's all." Henderson's tone was moody. "In wartime they can shoot you for that. In peacetime-in this outfit-it would be good for maybe twenty years in jail."
"Leaving with a United States senator?"
"You're just a civilian. It all boils down to that. I can't take orders from you."
Clark tried to ignore the flutter of anxiety in his stomach. "If we could get Casey on the phone, would you listen to him?"
"Sure. Well, at least I think I would."
Clark knew at once he had made a mistake. It would be folly to try to put a call through to Casey. What was the switchboard setup in Washington? Probably every call had to be reported to Scott or Murdock. He improvised hastily.
"All right," he said. "Obviously we can't use the base line, so let's just go off the post long enough to find a coin booth and call Casey. You have my word I'll come back with you if you're not satisfied."
Henderson shook his head. "You still don't understand, Senator. My orders are to keep you here."
"And you still don't understand, either. I have a verbal directive from the Commander in Chief to order you."
Henderson shook his head doggedly. Clark tried again.
"Look, Mutt, how about this? We go off this base and drive toward El Paso until we hit the first phone booth. Then you drop in the dime and ask the operator to give you the White House collect. When they answer, I'll go on the line and get you the President. You explain the situation to him and ask for instructions. Christ, man, that ought to satisfy anybody in uniform. I don't care what his rank is."
Clark pulled out his wallet and handed Henderson a dozen identification cards: credit, reserve Army officer, honorary Georgia Highway Patrol officer, driver's license. Six or seven identified him as a United States senator. Henderson studied one intently. Embossed in gold, it was titled "For Lyman Before Chicago Club" and listed Lyman as president, Clark as vice-president, and half a dozen prominent Democrats as incorporators. The card was signed with Lyman's unmistakable flourish and carried on its back a handwritten inscription: "For Ray, the man who made it possible, Jordie."
Henderson toyed with the card, inspecting both sides. As he did so, Clark returned to his philosophical gambit. He spoke eloquently of the American system, of Lyman's high esteem for the military, of values handed down untarnished from generation to generation. He was trying to repeat, word for word, Lyman's moving dissertation in the White House solarium on Tuesday afternoon. He talked for almost fifteen minutes without interruption from Henderson. When he finished, there was silence.
Henderson, who had stood up and walked around the room as Clark lectured him, stopped pacing and stared at the senator for a minute. Then, finally, he stepped to the door.
"I'll go over to my quarters and get a few things and give a few orders," he said, almost in a whisper. "Don't worry, I'll be back."
Clark threw himself down on the bed, emotionally exhausted. God, I'm used up, he thought. Henderson's admonition not to worry didn't help. Clark began to wonder whether he'd ever see him again-or whether Henderson would come back with a doctor and a strait jacket.