And a secret destination. That really irritated him. Two years ago he had gone to the mat with General Hardesty, the Air Force Chief of Staff. It made absolutely no sense, Rutkowski argued, to classify a base so highly that NORAD wasn't aware of its existence. How could his command police the skies if planes were flipping across the continent to some secret base, such as that place in northern Alberta where they were doing some kind of satellite research? Hardesty agreed with him, fought the case through the Joint Chiefs, and won. In early January of the previous year a JCS directive specifically stipulated that any installation, whatever its classification, had to be registered with the commanding general of NORAD if it expected to receive or discharge "flying objects" of any kind. Someone was ignoring-or disobeying- that directive now.
The more Rutkowski thought about this New Mexico business the angrier he became. He had a low boiling point, and his instinct was to pick up the command phone and ask Hardesty in Washington just what the hell was going on. But his years in service had taught him that, angry or not, you do better to stay in channels. The thing to do, he decided, was to call Tommy Hastings at Fort Bragg. Strictly speaking, those troop carriers belonged to the Tactical Air Force, and he ought to call them; but he knew Tommy, and liked him, and might learn more from him. He asked his secretary to place the calclass="underline" "Lieutenant General Thomas R. Hastings, Commander First Airborne Corps, U.S. Army, Fort Bragg, Fayetteville, North Carolina."
Rutkowski stared at the wall map as he waited. When his phone rang, he shifted his cold cigar to the corner of his mouth.
"Tommy? This is Barney Rutkowski. Say, young feller, where the hell are those K-212's out of your place headed for? I'm supposed to keep everything on my board, but those troop carriers of yours are giving my people fits. They all drop out of sight somewhere north of El Paso."
The voice of Lieutenant General Hastings was calm and unruffled. "You got me, Barney. Those babies don't belong to me. They're all Air Force-all yours. All I do is feed and bed down the pilots."
"Oh, I know, Tommy," Rutkowski said. "Don't give me that jurisdictional crap. You sound like a labor leader. You must know what it's all about. After all, they come out of your shop."
"Look, Barney, don't press me on that one, pal. This is a classified maneuver. You've got to go higher up than me for your answers."
"Thanks, buddy," said Rutkowski testily. "Any time I can do you a favor in return, just whistle."
"Barney!" Hastings' tone was wounded.
"Any time, Tommy," said Rutkowski as he hung up.
The NORAD commander stared unhappily at his phone for a moment and then called his C.O.C. controller on the direct line.
"Frank," he asked, "did you say those planes were due at that piss-ant base tonight or tomorrow?"
"Originally they had an ETA of 0700 Saturday, sir," said O'Malley, "but we just got a second message from Biggs pushing it up to 2300 tonight."
"Where do you figure the goddam landing strip is, anyhow?"
"It has to be pretty close to El Paso, sir. The planes leave the Biggs frequency about fifty miles east and turn northwest. They keep coming on that heading for a few more minutes before we lose them."
"Thanks, Frank," Rutkowski growled. He was thoroughly mad now. It galled him to think that a man could wear four stars, hold complete responsibility for the air defense of his country-and still have vital information denied him. The fact that the man was Barney Rutkowski was doubly infuriating.
He didn't bother his secretary for the next call. He got Parker Hardesty himself on the direct Air Force Washington line.
"This is Rutkowski, General," he said. "I got troubles. Some bureaucrat down there figures I can't be trusted with the nation's business."
"Easy, Barney."
Rutkowski could see Hardesty's smooth, unlined face and wavy brown hair. The voice, as always, was serene.
"I mean it," Rutkowski protested. "Some son-of-a-bitch thinks I can run an Air Defense Command without knowing what's in the air."
"How about explaining, Barney?"
"Look, there are about thirty troop carriers coming into some secret base near El Paso tonight, out of Pope Field at Fort Bragg, and we don't get a damn flight plan. What's more, they're blacked out for the last hundred miles."
"Well, now, you don't think they're bandits, do you?"
"Oh, hell, General, that's not the point," said Rutkowski wearily. "Either we run this show by the book or we don't."
Hardesty sought to soothe.
"Of course we go by the book, Barney, but I wouldn't worry about this operation. You know they're friendlies. You know they come from Fort Bragg. If I were you, I'd just swallow those last few miles and forget it."
"Do you know what the hell this desert base is all about?"
Hardesty was silent for a moment. Then he answered in even, careful words.
"I think we'd better just cut it off there, Barney. We all know there are certain levels of classification. We don't like them, perhaps, but we learn to live with them."
"You mean I'm not supposed to know?"
"I didn't say that."
"Well, you meant it, General. If that's the policy, it stinks. I can't do a job for you in the dark."
"I'm sorry, Barney." Hardesty was closing the conversation.
"Okay," Rutkowski said. "Good-by."
By now he was seething, and he squashed his cigar butt in the ashtray with an angry stab. He felt hot, although the thermometer outside his window showed only 67 degrees; he jerked off his jacket and loosened his collar. Hardesty, who got his fourth star only a couple of months ahead of him, was treating him like some kid reserve officer. Here he sat with the third most important command in the Air Force, and Washington was short-circuiting him. He wondered if Ted Daniel, the SAC commander over at Omaha, knew about this base or those flights. He thought of calling Daniel, but decided against it a second later. If Daniel knew, that would only make it harder to take.
God damn. Some of those guys around General Scott spent too much time worrying about politics and international affairs and not enough time running the military services. Rutkowski lit another cigar and leaned back in his swivel chair. That was a funny business, Lyman calling him in for those talks Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. And they were funny talks. Why had the President hauled him to Washington instead of just calling him on the phone? And when he got there, Lyman seemed to be talking all around the subject-whatever it was- instead of leveling with him. That wasn't like him.
But anyway he did the President the favor he had asked for and sounded out Admiral Palmer. And now, for Christ's sake, the President had authorized some kind of secret operation-with his NORAD commander deliberately cut off the need-to-know list. That's a hell of a way to treat a guy, especially when it's something essential to his job. That's the thing, he repeated to himself, it's essential to the job.
Well, if the President could call him in confidence, why couldn't he call the President? Rutkowski disliked end runs and despised officers who didn't have the guts to speak up to their superiors. But this was different. Lyman had obviously set up some kind of secret exercise and had decided himself who needed to know about it. The President was a civilian, and probably just didn't realize what a mess NORAD would be in if it couldn't keep tabs on traffic. It was dangerous as hell. Dangerous? It might be suicidal.
His mind made up, Rutkowski lifted the receiver of the white phone which connected directly to the White House switchboard. In his two years at NORAD he had never used it. The only times it had rung were on equipment tests. Now the answer was instantaneous.