When his doorbell rang at eight-fifteen Frank was there, turned out as he had never seen him before, in well-cut sports clothes, very much the man about town. For just a moment Hewlitt wondered if the ladies who were to entertain would all be on film or not.
The cab, as usual, was outside. Frank ushered him in back and dropped the flag as he was pulling away from the curb. “That’s just for show,” he explained, “in case somebody gets nosy.”
Twenty minutes later they pulled up in front of a rambling old house in a neighborhood which was living on its memories. As he climbed out, Hewlitt noted the preponderance of Negro faces in the vicinity.
The man who admitted them was unusually tall, very slender, and urbane; a pencil-line mustache set off his features.
“Davy,” Frank said, “meet Mr. Hewlitt.”
The tall Negro smiled his welcome and held out his hand. “Please come in,” he invited. “I’m very glad you could make it. Frank has told me about you many times.”
Hewlitt liked him. He expressed his pleasure as he shook hands and followed his host inside. “Frank tells me that you’re an electronics expert,” he said.
“Expert is a rather strong word, Mr. Hewlitt,” Jones said. “I make my living fixing radio and TV sets, and do a little dabbling on the side. One thing: after what’s been going on, you might like to know that this house is free of listening devices — I can guarantee that.”
“Good,” Hewlitt acknowledged. He followed Jones down a short hallway and into a living room where four more men, all Negro and all moderately well dressed, were gathered. He was introduced around and offered a drink by a volunteer bartender. He would have been a little more comfortable if he had not been the only Caucasian present, but the warmth of his welcome was evident and he responded to it.
Someone turned on a stereo and presently the voice of a blues singer filled the room. Drink in hand, Frank rejoined him and led him to a corner where they could talk. “Mr. Hewlitt…” he began.
“My friends call me ‘Hew.’ ”
Despite his complexion, Frank appeared to flush slightly. “Thanks, I really appreciate that, Hew. I’m Asher.”
7
The initial crews of workmen who were brought in to blast out the underground headquarters for Thomas Jefferson were told, by means of some carefully planted rumors, that they were preparing a storage area for nuclear weapons. The need for strict secrecy was stressed and observed; the job was done with almost no leakage of information. Those who came after them understood that the facility was to be a supersecret alternate command post for NORAD, to be ready in case anything happened to the well-known installation near Colorado Springs. The men who installed the living quarters and all of the complex communications equipment were also worthy of the trust reposed in them; when they left the isolated mountain area the local people knew only that something had been going on. Since there were many classified defense projects in that part of the country, very little interest or discussion was generated. And since the visible traffic to and from the facility was very limited, it was assumed from the start that it was not of major importance.
From the beginning Admiral Haymarket had applied some ideas of his own toward maintaining the secrecy of the project. In the entire Pentagon there was not one scrap of paper which supplied any information whatsoever concerning Thomas Jefferson. The necessary communications facilities were both inconspicuous and protected by fail-safe, auto-destruct devices set to function the moment that the equipment was opened or a call attempted without first dialing a code number known, just prior to the start of the surprise conflict, to four men. The funding was handled by the President himself with dollars which were never knowingly appropriated for the purpose by the Congress.
During the time that the headquarters had been under construction the admiral had been busy reviewing the records of hundreds of individuals in whom he had had a preliminary interest. He weeded ruthlessly, not always following the guidelines which had been in use for some time to decide who would be trustworthy and who not. In particular he chose one newsman whose capabilities were extraordinary and through General Gifford approached him about serving his country without giving the least indication as to what the duty would entail, where it would be located, or the duration of the time involved. Shortly after that conference had been held the editorial employees of a major national publication were told that one of their colleagues had been diagnosed as having a serious lung condition; there was genuine concern and sincere regret when he left for Arizona and an indefinite period of recuperation. Not long after his departure the word filtered through that his illness had worsened to the point where he was being kept in absolute quiet without visitors or communications by mail. Eventually some Christmas cards were sent to him, but none were received in return.
The admiral also knew of, and got, a former Marine major who had been mustered out of service when he recovered from battle injuries incurred in Vietnam with part of his left hand missing. A retired industrialist quietly disappeared from the golf club where he had been spending much of his time; it was understood that he had interested himself in some mineral resources project located in northern Alaska.
An Air Force search and rescue pilot whose physical bravery and devotion to duty were legendary was relieved of his command and assigned to “classified duty”; his colleagues knew better than to ask where he had gone.
The most spectacular addition to the team the admiral was so carefully assembling was a circus performer whose death-defying high dives had terrified spectators throughout Europe and America. The admiral had had to go to the President himself to get him since the Central Intelligence Agency had had no intention of relinquishing one of its best men.
When they were finally assembled, they constituted the best that the nation had available. Gradually, other personnel were selected to support them and to carry out the field operations they would direct, if such action became necessary. To these other people the invisible men who constituted the heart and brains of Thomas Jefferson were known by a code name of their own invention. The admiral liked it and adopted it officially; from that time forward they were called the First Team.
As the admiral had watched the inauguration of the new President on television he had given silent thanks for the foresight of the man who was being replaced. The new President, he had felt with reasonable confidence, would go along with what had already been established, but it was quite doubtful that he would have been willing to fund and develop something like Tom Jefferson on his own initiative.
It had not been long after that that the President had been compelled to flee Washington and, invisibly, the First Team had moved to the center of the stage.
The thought of what they were up against was in every member’s mind as the team met around the functional conference table on the same day that the funeral services for Admiral Haymarket had been held earlier, by permission of the occupying forces, in
Arlington National Cemetery. It was a grim and sober time; so much so that the very walls seemed to reflect back the gravity which pervaded the room.
One minute before the time at which the meeting was formally scheduled to begin, the door to the residential section opened and Admiral Haymarket entered the room. He sat down briskly at the head of the table, rested his forearms on the top, and nodded his greetings. “We seem to be off to a good start,” he said. “Every report I’ve had on our initial effort has been most encouraging.”
“Yes, sir,” the Marine major said. “The operational team that handled it did a first-rate job.”