7: The Well-Read War Plan
THE CITY WAS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY QUIET as the exodus from the capital was all but complete for the Friday holiday. A few stayed in the sweltering heat and humidity of the middle of the torpid summer. After lunch, the President was talking to his two favorites in his Brains Trust—Harry Hopkins and Rex Tugwell, seconded for the next six months from his day job working for the Little Flower in New York City. The discussion moved to Japan and the possible actions the Japanese might take.
Professor Tugwell was describing how he had just re-read Senator Beveridge’s 1900 speech.
“That old GOP war horse?” the President snorted.
“Yes, Mr. President, but his views are actually close to your own.”
The President’s always-moving eyebrows rose.
“Do tell, Rex.”
“There is a copy here for you. I’ve underlined in pencil the more important passages.”
“Rex, I am a politician. I talk, I don’t read; you tell me why that old codger’s speech is important, and get me a drink while you’re up.”
Tugwell proceeded to do both, after giving the President a dry martini; it was his third for the afternoon.
“Beveridge’s gist is that the Pacific is the ocean of commerce, the most important ocean in the world, and as such is critical for the U.S. to dominate. The loss of control or even the impingement of control of the Pacific would be a disaster for this country. As Beveridge stated, ‘the Pacific is the ocean of the commerce of the future. Most future wars will be conflicts for commerce, for example for oil. The power that rules the Pacific, therefore, is the power that rules the world.’ I have to admit that is astounding prescience for something written over 40 years ago. With the current situation, his words ring true.”
Roosevelt said nothing for a moment, then impulsively he picked up the telephone.
“Have Johnston come in, please. OK, then send him in.”
There was a knock on the door and a man entered. It was Johnston’s junior that all three knew by sight.
“Send over WPR please.” the President said.
The man nodded and left.
Tugwell and Hopkins looked at each other, it was clear neither knew what the President had just requested.
In retrospect, it was hard to say if it was the martinis or just the President’s natural impulsiveness with all things, from the national economy to the government’s Hyper Secrets.
The President smiled,
“By rights, I should not be showing either of you this material as it is graded HS, but I think in the current circumstances it is justified.”
Both men knew that Hyper Secret, or “HS” as the President called it, was a rare grade of document above Top Secret. Both were secretly thrilled to see this document as neither had seen a Hyper Secret before.
After the President’s request, the duty officer called B3 of the Archives and requested WPR be sent to the White House immediately.
The request caught the archivist by surprise as requests for Hyper Secrets were rare.
The archivist in turn called the transport pool and spoke to the officer in charge,
“I need a Locked Wrist to go to 1600.”
The transport officer swore under his breath—he and Hoffmann were the only two Locked Wrists on duty, and he sure as hell was not going to do it; for one thing, a Locked Wrist was duty bound to stay at the White House until the President was finished with the document, and he still remembered the time in ’37 when he was the Locked Wrist and the President had forgotten to return the document and had gone to bed—he waited all night at the White House until 9 a.m. the next morning.
“Hoffmann, you’ve got a LW for 1600. Go to B3 and get the documents. Here, take this.”
The officer passed Hoffmann the key to the wrist bracelet.
“Obviously, keep this hush hush as I should not be giving you the wrist key, but these Locked Wrist assignments are a huge pain in the ass.”
Hoffmann knew as the officer often regaled him with the horror of the night in ’37 and how the briefcase locked to his wrist had been a millstone when he tried to relieve himself—“God, it’s like having one arm cut off” the officer had told Hoffmann. Hoffmann nodded.
Hoffmann locked the bracelet to his wrist, dropped the key into his left-hand pocket and departed.
On the way out, Hoffmann dialed a local Washington telephone number and let it ring three times.
Those three rings electrified the man hearing it. The special phone had only rung twice in the past year. The man jumped up and ran down the hallway.
“Sir, we just got a three-ring.”
Schneider, the cultural attaché of the German embassy, looked up.
“We are very lucky today,” he said with a smile.
“Alert the team and have Louise come to see me.”
The man nodded.
Louise Koch’s title was Deputy Assistant Cultural Attaché and, like her boss Schneider, she was a security agent—a polite word for spy.
While Schneider was starting to run to fat, Louise personified the German ideal of womanhood: tall—in sling backs she was half a head taller than Schneider, blonde with blue eyes. But all men’s attention was drawn to her body—her legs were model-thin but her chest was a breath-taking 36 with a C cup that actually was closer to a D. And her breasts were uncommonly firm and taut—she wore a brassiere not, as most women do, for support, but rather to tone down her appearance.
For this assignment there would be no brassiere and under her skirt just a garter belt and stockings—“commando” was Schneider’s term. Only 24 years old, her judgment was surprisingly good, and she knew how to control just about every man. Schneider was an exception and she liked him a great deal for his professionalism, which was just another term for his organizational and training skills.
When she had first arrived at the embassy, he had spoken to her in depth about controlling the men who were her targets, and they both had enjoyed the “training” in his office—she loved the feel and smell of men and she liked to be able to combine this pleasure with the training with Schneider. He had shown her a few secrets that she had already put to good use. However, his training on responses to accidents was the most useful. She herself had never thought about—and was thus embarrassed by—accidents; she did not know what to say. He had taught her how glib and superficial most men are and how just a few choice words were all that were needed: for an early completion: “Oh my God you made me come so hard, please stop now or I will have an attack of the heart;” for a very small man, “that’s too big for me;” for a fat man, “thank God you’re not all skin and bones;” for a skinny man, “thank God you’re not fat—I hate it when a fat man is on top of me and often I cannot feel him inside me.”
They both laughed when she had recounted to Schneider how these lines of flummery were perfect—“they always work,” she said, surprised.
She was proud of her body and found it exhilarating to use it. Even as she walked into Schneider’s office she was already excited and aroused; her nipples broadcast as much.
“This is a big one, Louise, so take your time. It is Washington, so it is a safe and simple town. The standard approach.”
And as an afterthought,
“And do enjoy yourself, you can tell me all about it later.”