The next sound he heard, almost an hour later, was that of a car pulling up outside. "That'll be all for tonight, sergeant." It was Henderson's voice. "You're relieved. I'm taking the civilian in my custody. You can go on back to barracks."
Henderson put his head in the door. "Get your coat and let's go."
Clark's rented Ford was outside. Henderson motioned the senator behind the wheel and gave directions as they drove off. The night was cool, almost cold, now that the sun had been down for five hours. Clark's wrist watch, still on Washington time, showed 2:30. That makes it 11:30 here, he thought.
Henderson said nothing, merely pointing out a turn whenever one was required. They soon reached the flat, straight road that cut across the desert to the chain-link fence. The air felt wonderful; Clark realized that two days of air conditioning was about all that a man could take at one stretch. The land rolled out flat and bare except for the tiny shadows of the tumbleweed under the moonlight.
"You won't have to call the President for me," Henderson said abruptly.
"I'm a man of my word, Mutt," Clark replied.
"No," said Henderson, "once I'm off this base, I've had it if you're not telling the truth. Even the President couldn't help much."
Clark peered at him in the dark, realizing almost for the first time the true breadth of the gulf between a politician and a military man. For Clark, an order was merely a statement of opinion, something to be analyzed and questioned, contested at the most, compromised at the least. For Henderson, it was something absolute, rocklike, immutable. Clark sighed.
"I've got to call him anyway," he said, "if we have time. We may be pushed to get a plane out of here."
At the gate a sergeant came out of the hut, saluted Henderson, and peered across him at Clark.
"I'm sorry, Colonel," the soldier said to Henderson, "but I have orders that the civilian is not to leave the base, sir."
"That's all right, sergeant," Henderson answered. "I'm acting C.O. now, and I'm escorting him into town."
"Colonel Broderick said 'no,' sir." The sergeant was emphatic. "He stopped here when he left this afternoon and said that under no circumstances was the civilian, or anyone else, to leave the base." The guard stood beside the car, his rifle held in front of him, his face impassive.
Without warning Henderson reached through the window, grabbed the stock of the rifle and slammed the barrel against the soldier's cheekbone. Almost in the same movement, he opened the car door and jumped out as the soldier reeled backward. He wrenched the rifle out of his hands, ejected the clip and threw the weapon as far as he could.
Then keeping the dazed guard covered with his own .45-Clark wondered where Mutt had been carrying that-Henderson unlatched the wire gate and pushed it open. My God, thought Clark, once this guy makes up his mind he means business.
Clark drove through the gate, then halted for Henderson. The colonel still kept his pistol pointed at the sentry. "Step on it, Senator," he said. "There won't be any more like him now. We pull them all inside the fence at night."
Clark gunned the Ford down the macadam road. He drove as fast as he could all the way to the main highway, then turned right and sped through the moonlight toward El Paso.
Friday Morning
Clark and Henderson drove sleepily into Washington from Dulles Airport. As they crossed Key Bridge, the clock on the dashboard of the senator's convertible showed one minute past eight o'clock. Clark, fighting exhaustion, had kicked off his right shoe in hopes that the engine vibration transmitted through the accelerator pedal would help keep him awake. Henderson, mouth open, slumped in his seat. He had fallen asleep almost the minute Clark unlocked the door of the car at the airport parking lot.
As he fought the morning rush-hour traffic streaming over the bridge toward the Pentagon and other federal agencies in Virginia, Clark felt as if some personal antagonist had pumped grit under his eyelids. It had been a long night. Racing to El Paso airport in the rented sedan, they had decided not to risk interception by showing themselves in the commercial terminal. Henderson pointed out that although Site Y might be nonexistent on paper, any officer from the base could order M.P.'s to arrest him and detain Clark. So they bypassed the terminal and drove to a far hangar where, after a jittery half hour, Clark was able to charter a small plane. He telephoned ahead, to Dallas for seats on a commercial flight to Washington, and the charter pilot got them into Dallas with minutes to spare.
Even Clark's "sunshine bit," as President Lyman termed his talent for turning on the full warmth of his Georgia charm, failed to relax his companion's nerves on the flight to Washington. Mutt Henderson was a soldier undone. He was assailed by second thoughts. Long periods of moody silence were punctuated by feverish questions directed at Clark. The senator tried jokes, but Henderson sometimes failed to manage even a routine smile. At last it became obvious to Clark that only the voice or face of Jiggs Casey could restore Henderson to normal. He was a man who had made his decision-and rued it. The nearer the plane came to Washington the nearer drew the inevitable court-martial-or so Clark surmised that Henderson was thinking. He was almost thankful that Henderson had finally fallen asleep in the car.
Clark pulled up in front of a white-painted brick house in Georgetown that was only a foot or two wider than the little car was long. Henderson followed him groggily across the sidewalk and waited while Clark fumbled with the doorkey.
"Well, here we are," said the senator. Books, old newspapers and magazines littered the couch and floor of the small living room. A sweater hung from a corner of the mantel and gray rings marked tables where too many highball glasses had been left overnight too often.
"The maid comes once a week," Clark said, by way of apology. "Sit down and I'll see if I can get Jiggs on the phone."
He found Casey's home number in the book and dialed it while both men remained standing. Henderson's normally ruddy complexion was dulled by fatigue and tension.
"Jiggs?" said the senator. "This is Ray Clark. Yeah, you're telling me. I'm lucky I'm not still stuck in the middle of the desert. Listen, I've got a pal of yours with me. He looks awful. Either he just swallowed a green watermelon or he thinks he picked the wrong side. Give him the word, will you? His name is Mutt Henderson."
Henderson's face slowly relaxed as he listened on the phone. He grinned weakly. Finally he laughed and hung up.
"Jiggs says to take off my girdle and have a good cry," Henderson said happily. "He can't say much because Marge is there, but he says he'll see us soon. I'm supposed to do whatever you tell me."
"Right now you're going to bed," Clark said. He pushed Henderson up the stairs ahead of him and showed him into a back bedroom.
"Now it's your turn to be under house arrest," Clark said, "except we don't have armed guards around the place. We get along without strong-arm men in Washington. But no phone calls, and don't leave the house until I come to fetch you. If you're hungry when you wake up, you can find something to eat in the kitchen. The coffee is in the cupboard over the stove."
Henderson was already untying his shoelaces when Clark closed the bedroom door. The senator went down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and called Esther Townsend at the White House.
"Senator!" He had seldom heard a woman's voice so relieved. "Where are you?"
"At home, honey, where all good boys should be at breakfast time."
"Can you get here right away?" she asked, her tone quickly serious. "He's in trouble and he needs you."
"On the way," he said.
Clark drove into the back driveway at the White House and parked by the big magnolia tree at the entrance to the ground-floor reception room. Guards "-id White House police nodded to him. The Georgia senator needed no identification; his face was his passport here. He strode into the mansion and took the little walnut-paneled elevator to the second floor.