"Well, one thing I sure could do, Mr. President, is stop those planes from leaving Pope." Rutkowski looked at his watch. "If they've got an ETA in New Mexico at 2300 mountain time, that means they'll be leaving Pope about the same time by Eastern Daylight."
"You mean eleven our time?" Lyman asked.
"Yes, sir." Rutkowski grinned. "That's slicing the salami pretty thin for you, I know. But don't worry. It'll take them another hour to load in New Mexico, at least, even if they get in there."
"Would you take the job?" Lyman asked.
Rutkowski smiled again. "I take any orders the Commander in Chief gives me. It's strictly no sweat, Mr. President. If you have to fire Scott and Hardesty, and you make me chief of staff, we'll shut things down tight in half an hour."
"But apparently there's only one telephone line out of Site Y, connecting with some private switchboard in Scott's office-or somewhere else around the Pentagon."
"You leave all that to me," Rutkowski said. "Just give me a couple of guys with good legs to run errands around midnight."
Clark looked at the General with a puzzled air.
"You don't seem surprised, General," he said. "Aren't you a little thrown by this thing?"
"I did a lot of putting two and two together on the way over here, Senator. People always say it can't happen here, and I'm one of those people. But all of a sudden I figured out I was wrong. Given the right circumstances, it can happen anywhere. And don't quote me in the Senate, but the military has been riding awful high-wide-and-handsome in this country ever since World War II." He showed his teeth once more in his confident grin. "I ought to know, too. I've been doing some of the riding. But that's thirty years-and that's a long time."
Lyman pulled off his glasses again and chewed an earpiece. "You know, although I never thought about it from that angle, it's true. We never had so much military for so long before. But the idea still staggers me, Barney."
Rutkowski lifted his hands as if to say that he had no further answer. "Maybe my-pardon the expression -my boss, General Scott, will explain it all tonight."
"I wish he could," said Lyman unhappily. "I wish he could."
The President asked Clark to wait, then took Rutkowski to the third floor and showed him to a guest suite. He called the kitchen, ordered dinner for the General, and told him to relax until 7:30.
When he returned to the study, Esther Townsend was standing in the fading light with Clark.
"Mr. President, there's one thing you have to do right now," she said, holding out some papers. "Tonight's the deadline for you to act on that Social Security bill."
Lyman took the documents and riffled absently through them, trying to force himself back to routine.
"I never did talk to Tom Burton, did I?" he mused. Then, more crisply, he asked Esther, "What about the Budget Bureau?"
"Their report's in there, Mr. President. They raise some questions about interpretation and administration of the new sections, but they recommend approval."
"All right," Lyman said, sitting down and spreading the papers out. "They can work that out with Tom and his people." He scribbled his name on the bill. Esther scooped up the papers and disappeared.
"Ray, it's going to be a long evening," Lyman said. "Let's get a quick swim in before we eat."
"You're on, Jordie."
A few minutes later, the two old friends were cavorting in the basement pool that Franklin Roosevelt had installed to exercise his crippled legs. Clark spouted like a whale, swam underwater and demonstrated what he called "the Lyman crawl"-a mere flutter of the hands on the surface, but a powerful kick underwater. The President, sticking to a more sedate breast stroke, swam methodically up and down. They wound up, breathing hard, hanging on the drain trough at the shallow end of the little pool.
"Listen, Ray, I want you next door in the Monroe Room when I talk to Scott. I may need some help."
"Jordie," said Clark, "you know I'm always right next door."
Friday, 8 P.M.
The President reviewed the arrangements again. On the coffee table, behind the cigar box and out of sight from the chair in which General Scott would sit, was a slip of paper with twenty numbered items written on it in Chris Todd's small, precise hand. In Lyman's coat pocket was the silver cigarette case. Inside it were the two sheets of paper. In a drawer of the writing desk, over against the wall, lay the Segnier tax return. Todd had insisted on leaving it there despite the President's continued refusal even to consider using it. Lyman stood at the window and waited. The evening was serene, the fountain playing steadily on the south lawn,, the traffic thinned out and leisurely. The city's downtown streets were quiet in the twilight pause between day and night. The Irish setter Trimmer, exiled for this evening from the study, loped across the lawn.
But try as he would Jordan Lyman found it impossible to relax. His shoulders and neck felt tight, and he found it easier to stand than to sit. Although he had eaten some of his dinner and had swallowed two glasses of milk, there was a knot in his stomach.
As he looked out across the White House grounds, he saw a black limousine pull up at the southwest entrance, pause while the guard opened the gates, and roll on up the drive. Lyman stepped quickly from the window, picked up a book from the end table and settled himself into his armchair. He would at least appear at ease when his visitor arrived, even though he was alone, as he had to be, always and finally, for the showdown.
Lyman's allies had scattered after supper. General Rutkowski and Colonel Casey left in a White House car equipped with a radio-telephone. They were to wait in the Pentagon parking lot until Esther Townsend informed them that General Scott had arrived in the mansion. Then they would go to the Joint Chiefs' war room.
Todd was downstairs in the Cabinet room near a telephone. Without telling the President or the others, he had assembled agents of the Narcotics Bureau and the Alcohol Tax Unit-both under the jurisdiction of the Secretary of the Treasury-in his office across the street from the White House. More than thirty agents, hurriedly called in by their supervisors at Todd's order, milled around the Secretary's reception room, drinking coffee, playing cards, and trying to figure out what was up.
Ray Clark sat in the Monroe Room, separated from the President by only a wall. His feet were propped up on a sofa. He was reading, carefully, an annotated copy of the Constitution of the United States-something he had not done since law school.
Art Corwin had twenty-four Secret Service agents scattered through the White House and around the grounds. He had told them only that the President might decide to leave that night for either Blue Lake or Camp David, and he wanted to be prepared for a quick move in any direction. Corwin himself stood outside the oval study in the second-floor hall. Across from him sat the omnipresent warrant officer, his slim portfolio gripped between his knees. At the west end of the great vaulted hall, where chairs and sofas were grouped to make a family sitting room, sat two senior members of Corwin's White House detail.
General James Mattoon Scott stepped off the elevator at 7:59 p.m. His tan Air Force uniform, four silver stars glinting on each shoulder, clung to his big frame without a wrinkle. Six rows of decorations blazed from his chest. His hair, the gray sprinkling the black like the first snowflakes on a plowed field, was neatly combed. A pleasant smile softened the rugged jaw as he nodded to Corwin and the warrant officer.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. Corwin responded politely and opened the study door for the General.
Scott strode purposefully into the room. His smile flashed confidence as he watched Lyman put down his book, stand up and come toward him.