For today was the start of his real assignment, what he’d been primed for, maneuvered into. Today was when he was to begin bringing back concrete information to his superiors at Defense.
He’d known it all along, of course. He realized at the beginning that he hadn’t been selected as Trevayne’s liaison because of any outstanding qualifications. He had none for that type of work. He knew, further, that the constant but innocuous questioning he’d received to date was only a lead-in to what had to follow. His superiors weren’t really interested in such mundane matters as: How are things going? Are the offices satisfactory? Is the staff up to snuff? Is Trevayne a nice fellow?… No, the colonels and the brigadiers had other things on their minds.
Bonner stopped by the steps and looked up. Three Phantom 40’s, their jetstreams sharply defined in white against the blue sky, streaked west at an enormous altitude. There was no sound, only the barely visible outlines of three tiny triangles gracefully, like miniature silver arrowheads, piercing the air corridors of the horizon.
Strike force—bomb and rocket tonnage capable of obliterating five battalions; flight maneuverability—complete mastery of dynamics from ground zero to seventy thousand feet: speed—Mach three.
That’s what it was all about.
But he wished it didn’t have to happen this way.
He thought back to the morning, a brief three hours ago. He’d been sitting in his office trying to make sense out of some Light-colonel’s appraisal of new installations at Benning. It was nonsense, the summation more concerned with the officer’s egotistical evaluation of his own observations than with the equipment. The request had been for eighty-percent replacement; said request a put-down of the previous officer in charge. It was an Army game played by second-raters.
As Bonner had scribbled his negative recommendation across the bottom of the page, his intercom rang. He was ordered to report immediately to the fifth floor—«Brasswares,» as all below the rank of colonel called it—to Brigadier General Cooper. Lester Cooper, a white-haired, tough, facile-tongued exponent of the Pentagon’s requirements. An ex-commandant of West Point whose father had held the same position. A man of and for the Army.
The Brigadier had spelled it out. Not just what he was to do, but without using the specific words, why he was selected to do it. As most military strategies, it was simple—simplistic?—and to the point. Paul Bonner, for the sake of military necessity, was to be an informer. In the event any impropriety was charged, he was expendable.
But the Army would take care of him. As it had taken care of him once before in Southeast Asia; protected him once before and showed him its gratitude.
It was all a question of priorities; the Brigadier had made that clear. Ordered it to be clear.
«You must understand, Major. We support this Trevayne’s efforts. The Joint Chiefs have requested that we cooperate in every way and we have. But we can’t allow him to cripple vital production. You of all people should see that… Now, you’re on a friendly basis with him. You’ve …»
It was during the next five minutes that Brigadier General Cooper nearly lost his informer. He alluded to several get-togethers between Bonner and Trevayne that the Major had not listed in any report or spoken of in the office. There was no reason to; they were entirely social, in no way related to the Department of Defense. One had been a weekend he’d spent with the Trevaynes in Connecticut at High Barnegat. Another was a small dinner party Bonner’s current mistress, a divorcée in McLean, had given for Andy and Phyllis. Still another, an afternoon of horseback riding and a fall barbeque in the Maryland hunt country. None was remotely connected with Trevayne’s subcommittee or Bonner’s liaison assignment; none was paid for with government funds. The Major was annoyed.
«General, why have I been under surveillance?»
«You haven’t. Trevayne has.»
«Is he aware of it?»
«He may be. He’s certainly aware of the rotating patrols from Treasury. White House orders. He takes damn good care of them.»
«Do they act as surveillance?»
«Frankly, no.»
«Why not … sir?»
«That question may be beyond your province, Bonner.»
«I don’t wish to disagree with the General, but since I’m delegated to … act very closely with Trevayne, I think I should be informed of such matters. It was my understanding that the guards were assigned by ‘1600’ for precautionary measures. Since they’re in a maximum position for surveillance but they’re not being used—at least not by us—and we assign additional personnel, it strikes me that we’re either duplicating or at cross-purposes.»
«Which means you object to my reading off information you haven’t given this office.»
«Yes, sir. That information had nothing to do with this office. If there was surveillance, I should have been informed. I’ve been placed in an unreasonably prejudiced position.»
«You’re a hard-nose, Major.»
«I doubt I’d’ve been given this job if I wasn’t.»
The Brigadier got out of his chair and went to a long briefing table against the wall. He turned and leaned against it, facing Bonner. «All right, I’ll accept ‘cross-purposes.’ I won’t pretend that we have a solid working relationship with everyone in this administration. Nor will I deny that there are a number of people surrounding the President whose judgments we find lacking. No, Major, we’re not about to let ‘1600’ control our surveillance … or filter it.»
«I understand that, General. I still think I should have been told.»
«An oversight, Bonner. If it was anything else, my telling you now eliminates that, doesn’t it?»
The two officers stared at each other briefly. The understanding was complete—Bonner was at that moment accepted into the highest echelons of Defense.
«Understood, General,» said Bonner quietly.
The erect, white-haired Cooper turned back to the long table and opened a thick, plastic-bound notebook with huge metal rings. «Come here, Major. This is the book. And I mean the book, soldier.»
Bonner read the typed words on the front page: «GENESSEE INDUSTRIES.»
Bonner entered the glass doors of the Potomac Towers and walked on the thick blue carpet toward the elevators. If he’d timed everything right, if his telephone calls had resulted in the correct information, he’d arrive at Trevayne’s office at least a half-hour before Trevayne himself returned. That was the plan; over in the Senate Office Building, where Trevayne was in conference, others were also watching the clock.
He was such a familiar sight in Trevayne’s suite of rooms that he was greeted now with complete informality. Bonner knew he was accepted by the small civilian staff because he seemed to be an anomaly. The professional soldier who possessed few of the unattractive military trappings; whose outlook, even his conversation, seemed easygoing, with a continuous undercurrent of humor. When civilians found a man in uniform—especially the sort of overdressed uniform required daily at the Pentagon—who seemed to contradict the accepted manifestations of his profession, they warmed quickly. It was standard procedure.
It would be no problem at all for him to wait in Trevayne’s inner office. He would take off his tunic, and stand in the doorway, and joke with Trevayne’s secretary. Then he might wander into one of the other rooms—his tie undone, his collar unbuttoned—and pass a few minutes with several of the staff. Men like Mike Ryan or John Larch. Perhaps the bright young attorney, Sam Vicarson. He’d tell them a couple of stories—stories which ridiculed a pompous, well-advertised general or two. Finally, he’d say he was going to stop bothering them and read the morning paper in Trevayne’s office. They’d protest in good humor, of course, but he’d smile and suggest a few drinks after work, perhaps.