At this writing, that “something new” is taking the shape of Julian Bahr.
Bahr has seized the alien crisis as his chance for power. This is hardly surprising. I predicted it, you recall, when Project Frisco was first launched. What I could not predict was the simple fact that Bahr has run headlong into the DEPCO restraint system and broken the restraints one by one. Ironically, the DEPCO philosophy, which aimed at controlling and inhibiting men like Bahr, is inadvertently guaranteeing his success. If he succeeds in destroying DEPCO, there are no strong men at the top in Federation America to oppose him.
I think it is most important to realize this early. If Bahr succeeds, there will surely be very strong central control emanating from a single point, and no chance for us to encourage internal schism as we have in Asia and USSR. Nor would it then be safe to think of replacing him with a puppet if he were deposed or in some way removed from power.
It is my considered opinion that if Bahr is allowed to reach that point, we will have lost everything we have been working for. Unfortunately, we have needed him badly, and right now we continue to need him. I believe that Englehardt will support Bahr at all costs in order to get the Space Project in operation. I will talk to Carl personally about this as soon as possible, but I have very little hope of dissuading him.
Meanwhile, it is imperative that we be ready to cope with the political and economic changes which I think are about to begin; ultimately we must be in a position to cage Bahr or destroy him. Bahr may have considerable information on our activities, so we must be alert to a purge of some kind. He is very abrupt and direct in his actions; with the alien threat to justify him, he may move without warning at any time.
I wish I could be more optimistic, but I honestly think it is all as bad as I have outlined. I think things will be a bit tricky for quite a while, and I may have to move quickly without clearing through you or Arthur. There is one item of genuine promise, the matter of the elusive major that I mentioned before. Here is a man who has successfully thwarted Bahr, and he still remains at large. Indications are that he can be extremely useful to us . . . or extremely dangerous to us. I am bending all efforts at present to locate him. Saunders had his trail in St. Louis, but lost it. I will have more to report on this at a later date.
Meanwhile, if you see some brilliant chess move that will put us back in a position of advantage, contact me without delay through Talbot. Repeat, night or day.
Chapter Thirteen
At one a.m. the phone jangled insistently, and Bahr, still sleepless, reached over and seized it. “Bahr,” he growled.
“Abrams, Chief. I just wanted to co-ordinate with you on discontinuing the search.”
Bahr sat upright, suddenly tense. “On what?”
“The drag . . . for Alexander. I just wanted to advise you I was dropping it. I’m checking out the field units now . . . .”
“Scrambler,” Bahr said. “Four-three-nine. Baker.” He punched the scrambler buttons on his own phone and tested. Then: “What in hell are you talking about, dropping the search? Did I give you orders to drop it?”
A long silence. “No . . . but . . . .”
“You get those field units back into operation in three minutes, or I’ll greencard you so fast . . . .”
“But, Chief, didn’t you hear? He’s been picked up.”
“Where?”
“East St. Louis. They booby-trapped a motel room. I’d lost him an hour before, just picked him up again two hours ago and then they landed him. Another DIA unit. Didn’t you get the report?”
“Must have been a slip-up in the tracer relay,” Bahr growled. “They’re probably trying to locate me now.” Then, cautiously, “Which unit was it picked up the major?”
“They didn’t sign through the roadblocks as a unit,” the man said. “It was on a personal chit. Only I didn’t know you had any informal units working this drag with us.”
“Whose personal chit?”
“Carmine’s. But I don’t see why they didn’t notify us they were shadowing, too. I mean, it’s customary. Unless you . . . .”
“You’re certain it was Alexander they picked up?”
“Positive, Chief. There’s no mistake.”
“Okay, drop the search. I’ll pick up the story from this end. And thanks for the call.”
Bahr hung up, flipped the scrambler off, and dialed the locator relay. “Bahr speaking. Any calls come in for me?” He knew before he asked that there had been no call.
“No call, sir.”
“Where can I locate Frank Carmine, DIA-43P”
He heard the whir of the locator file on the other end. “He’s in transit now. Destination, Red Bank, New Jersey. Field Unit HQ there. Planned arrival two A.M. Shall I try to make contact when he arrives?”
“Just deliver a message. Tell him to meet me at two-thirty at the Red Bank Ground Terminal. There won’t be any answer. I’ll be leaving shortly for that same destination number.”
He was resetting the scrambler when Libby sat up, turning up the light. “Trouble, Julian?”
“Go back to sleep,” Bahr said. “I’ve got to take a little trip.”
“But you’ve got the prelim tomorrow.” She glanced at her watch. “This morning!”
“I’ll be back. It’s only over in Jersey.”
“You can’t take the prelim on no sleep. The suggestions won’t cue in properly if you’re too tired. We can’t risk all the work we did this afternoon.”
He continued placing his call, and motioned her to silence as it came through. “Bahr speaking. Get one of the dummies ready. Tell him to take a ’copter to Rahway, and a ground train from there to Red Bank Ground Terminal. Tell him to get there at two-thirty. No, nothing else, just report back afterwards. And,” he added, “tell him Condition B when he hits Red Bank. Use his stunner if he has to.
Double A security on this, too. And see that his stride is right. I take big steps. Okay, see you.”
“Sending a dupe?” Libby asked.
Bahr nodded as he disconnected the alarm from his Markheim stunner on the knee table, hefting the sleek, surprisingly heavy weapon thoughtfully.
“What is it, Julian? Aliens?”
“Maybe,” Bahr said, dressing hurriedly. “Maybe . . . .”
“Are you taking a ’copter unit with you? Are you sure you’ll be back in time for the prelim?”
“Where are the keys to your Volta?”
“On the sill. But what do you want the Volta for?”
“If anyone calls, I’m on my way to the ground terminal. Don’t mention the Volta.” He tucked the stunner into his shoulder holster.
“You’re not going there alone! Julian!”
The door closed quietly behind him.
2001, the fourth year of the crash that had staggered North America and most of the rest of the world, a year of desolation, a year of retrenching and finally coming to grips with the horror of the crash, when some semblance of order was pounded, often quite unmercifully, out of chaos. Federation America, a broken nation . . . a nation without jobs or purpose, without the stability of money, with broken-down communications and impossible transportation and the imminent, momentary, endless threat of war.