Seven Days in May

Thursday Night

Senator Raymond Clark sat in a sparsely furnished, air-conditioned Quonset hut on the New Mexico desert, almost in the foothills of the barren San Andres Mountains. When he peeked through the lowered Venetian blinds, as he did at regular intervals, he could see a sentry standing in front of the hut. Like all the other soldiers Clark had seen in the past two days on this post, the guard was no boy, but a man with the patiently relaxed carriage of a toughened combat veteran.

Beyond the sentry Clark could see-in the bright light of the rising moon-a few other Quonsets, a half-dozen radio antenna towers scattered over several square miles, a number of windowless concrete-block buildings, and what appeared to be an endless stretch of desert. The last time he had looked out the window, before dark, Clark had seen a convoy of trucks, led by a jeep, rumble past on a gravel road that seemed to go nowhere. He had counted the vehicles and added a few marks to the notes he was compiling on the back of an envelope.

Now, sitting in a folding canvas armchair, Clark reviewed what he had listed:

-Airstrip. Fighters. F-112?

2-Twinjet transports

-Towers. Microwave relay?

-Towers, radio transmitter

-Mobile radio trucks. 7

-Jeeps, command cars. Many

-Armored Personnel Carriers. 16

-Infantry approx 1 Bn

-Hvy cargo planes. Troop carrier? landed Wed Nite

-Trucks, 6x6. 23

Clark put the envelope back in his pocket and lapsed into another review of the events that had put him in this place. Maybe, he thought, I can stretch this playback out until I fall asleep again.

He had been held in the stuffy little shack at the gate Wednesday morning for almost an hour. The corporal-the one who had identified himself as Steiner on the telephone-picked his teeth and looked at Clark sourly. Both he and his companion ignored all Clark's attempts at conversation.

Then a colonel, black-browed and with a scarred cheek, raced up to the shack in a jeep that trailed a rising funnel of dust behind it. Clark could see a look of startled half-recognition on the officer's face as he entered the shelter. Suspecting he had been identified, Clark decided it would be foolish to try to play a role. Instead, he held out his hand.

"I'm Senator Raymond Clark of Georgia," he said. "I suppose you must be Colonel Broderick."

Now Broderick was really surprised, hearing himself identified, but he returned the handshake. "Nice to meet you, Senator," he said. "Nice to meet you. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Your people are a little gung-ho, Colonel."

"Yeah. Let's get out of the sun. I'll take you up to the guest hut, Senator, it's air conditioned and we can talk there. We don't have many visitors."

The road ran straight west over the flat, parched land. Clark, shading his eyes against the glare, could see nothing for miles except the bulk of mountains against the horizon. They drove for perhaps twenty minutes. Then the road dropped down a slope and Clark saw a whole military community spread out ahead: buildings, smaller huts, towers and a wide, single concrete runway which he guessed was at least two miles long. A few jet fighters and transports stood beside the strip.

Clark's inquiries during the drive got little response from Broderick. The colonel's eyes were hidden by his sunglasses and he wore a fixed, somewhat forced smile. He evaded direct answers. The whole base was highly classified, he said. Some of Clark's questions were answered with no more than a grunt.

Broderick stopped in front of a lone Quonset, separated from the nearest building by over a hundred yards. Carrying Clark's jacket for him, he fumbled with a ring of keys, found the right one and unlocked the door. The window air conditioner whirred at full speed and Clark stood by it thankfully as he surveyed the room. There was little to see. Tan bedspreads covered two narrow cots. An unpainted wooden desk and small chair were in one corner. The other corner was occupied by a floor lamp and a folding canvas camp chair. The small bathroom at the rear was barely big enough to hold a shower stall. The rounded ceiling came down to shoulder height on each side of the room.

Broderick stepped to the front window and lowered the blind, then sat down on a bed and gestured to Clark to take the armchair.

"Now, Senator," he said, "what's this all about?"

"Nothing mysterious," Clark said brightly. "I'm just moseying around on a little inspection trip of my own during the Senate recess, so I stopped by."

"It's somewhat irregular, Senator, somewhat irregular." Broderick scratched the back of one of his hairy hands. "I'm sure you know the top-secret classification of this base. Your committee chairman assured us there would be no visits here. We don't want to tip off the location."

"Well, now, that is mysterious, even if I'm not," Clark said. "Colonel, I never heard of this base before in my life."

Broderick looked at him from under his black eyebrows. It was not a friendly look. "Then how did you know where it was?"

"Heard about it in El Paso," said Clark, trying a bland smile. "I was on my way up to Holloman Air force Base and White Sands."

"Who told you?"

"Now, Colonel, I'm the visiting senator. I think I'm supposed to ask the questions."

"Frankly, I don't believe you. Nobody in El Paso knows about this base."

"I don't intend to argue about it, Colonel." Clark stood up. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to call my office and let them know my whereabouts. After that, you can show me around the base and then I'll be on my way."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Senator," Broderick said. "No calls are permitted that would reveal the location of the base. There's only one line out of here, and that's in my office for my use."

Clark pointed to a telephone on the writing table. "What's that?"

"That's connected to the same line, but its use is restricted to me. No one but the commanding officer calls out of here."

"Say now, cousin," said Clark, putting on his Georgia drawl, "y'all ain't so hospitable to strangers out west heah. Now, down home we'd break out the catfish and hushpuppies and treat a feller like he was kinfolk."

"You're wasting your time," Broderick said brusquely, "and mine too. Your committee knows all it needs to about this base already."

"I wouldn't want to call you a liar, Broderick," said Clark, "but nobody on Armed Services ever heard of this base."

"Well, Senator, why don't we just call Senator Prentice in Washington and ask him?"

Clark tried to hide his surprise. "That would be just fine, Colonel. It'll be a distinct pleasure to talk to someone in the outside world."

Broderick picked up the phone. "Sergeant," he said, "get me Senator Prentice in Washington. Try his office first, then his home." Broderick wore the abused expression of a floorwalker trying to handle an unreasonable customer.

Apparently talking to Prentice is a routine thing around here, Clark thought. I wonder how the sergeant makes connections? Maybe that phone line runs to a switchboard terminal in Washington.

"Senator? Hello," said Broderick into the phone. "This is Colonel Broderick. I have a friend of yours here, Senator Raymond Clark. Yes, that's right, Senator Clark of Georgia. He thinks there's something irregular about our base. Yes, sir, I will."

Broderick handed the phone to Clark with an I-told-you-so smile.

"Ray?" It was Prentice's heavy voice. "What are you doing in that hothouse, son?"

"Fred," said Clark, "what the hell's going on? Broderick insists the committee knows all about this place. I never heard of it before."

Prentice chuckled. "I warned you that you'd miss some important meetings if you went back to Georgia so often this spring. The committee had a long briefing on Site Y when you were away."

"It's damn strange nobody ever mentioned it to me," said Clark. "Especially you, Fred. And General Scott didn't say anything about it yesterday. It seems to me if the committee knew all about it he might at least have referred to it when I asked him about communications."

There was a pause at the other end. Oh-oh, Clark thought, I'm not supposed to know this has anything to do with communications. He forced himself not to look at Broderick.

"Now, simmer down, Ray," said Prentice soothingly. "Nothing to get all worked up about. You let Broderick show you all over the place and then you can give the committee a personal report after the recess. Say, put Broderick back on a minute."

The colonel took the phone and listened. "Yes, sir. Of course." He listened some more, nodding. "Yes, Senator. I understand perfectly. Right. Good-by, sir."

"Well, I hope that satisfied you, Senator," he said to Clark. "You just make yourself at home. I've got a few things to attend to, and I'll be back in an hour or so to show you our base. We're mighty proud of it."

"We'll take that tour right now if you don't mind," said Clark.

"That won't be possible, Senator, that won't be possible. I'll see you later. We'll look around when it's cooler, and then we can have dinner."

Broderick unplugged the phone from the wall and tucked it under his arm.

"What the hell gives here?" Clark spluttered.

Broderick merely winked, stepped out and slammed the door. Clark tried to open it. It was locked. When he lifted the Venetian blind a few minutes later, there was a sentry walking back and forth. Well, for Christ's sweet sake, he thought, they've locked me up.

A half hour later there was a rap on the door and a corporal let himself into the room with a key. He set a brown paper sack on the floor.

"Compliments of the colonel, sir," the corporal said. "He says to make yourself at home. We'll bring dinner over at 1745."

"Look, son," Clark said, "I don't intend to stay cooped up in this room. I'll walk back with you."

"Sorry, sir." The door had shut again, and the corporal was outside.

Clark lifted the two bottles from the paper bag. One was soda water. The other was Old Benjamin, his favorite brand of bourbon. He set the quart of soda and the fifth of whisky on the writing table, then went over to the bed and sat down. He stared at the bottles for perhaps ten minutes. Then he went to the table, drew the cork from the whisky and sniffed it. Old Benjamin, all right.

Clark walked slowly to the bathroom with the bottle. He upended it over the toilet bowl and watched the liquor splash into the water. When the pouring ceased, he shook the bottle. Several last drops ran out. He flushed the toilet. Then, finally, he ran a finger around the inside of the bottle neck and licked the finger.

"Bastards!" he growled. He slammed the bottle to the floor, but it failed to break. He picked it up and started to throw it again, but stopped himself and set it in the corner of the shower stall.

I don't know about Scott, Clark thought, but I'm going to get even with Prentice and Broderick if I never do anything else.

The minutes dragged by interminably. There was no book, no magazine, nothing to read in the room. He found a pamphlet in his coat pocket, a what-to-do-in-El Paso folder that he must have picked up at the motel, and read its sixteen small pages so many times he could almost recite them. He sat in the armchair. He lay on the bed. He tried the floor. He lifted the blind and banged on the window. That merely drew a rebuke from the sentry.

After several hours he began making notes on the back of an envelope. He raised one corner of a slat in the blind and tried to fix each object he could see in his memory. There wasn't much in his line of vision, although he could see the end of the runway and a wind sock far to his right.

At 5:45, as promised, the corporal brought dinner on a tray. A folded newspaper lay alongside the food. Clark again started to argue about leaving, but this time the soldier refused to talk at all. He also kept himself between Clark and the door, watching the senator as he set the tray on the table and backed out. The lock clicked behind him.

The food, at least, was good. After steak, peas, a baked potato, two rolls, peach pie, and coffee-he realized he had eaten nothing since breakfast-Clark felt reasonably at ease for the moment. He stretched out on the bed to read the paper. It turned out to be a day old, however, and except for local items he could find nothing that he hadn't known when he left Washington. Gianelli would depart for Italy. Labor refused to heed the President's plea to end the missile strikes. The West Virginia Rhododendron Queen had been unable to see Lyman, but had been kissed by the Secretary of the Interior instead. A wirephoto of the President talking on the phone in his bedroom, a wide smile on his face, was printed over a bulletin telling of the birth of his first grandchild in Kentucky.

The night seemed almost as long to Clark as those on the line in Korea. Every half hour, he lifted a slat to peek out at the silent base. Once he tried to knock a hole in the tiny frosted window in the bathroom, but it was too thick. He thumped on the walls from floor to ceiling and finally decided that without a sledge hammer or a crowbar there was no way to get out of the hut.

Just as he finally stripped to his shorts to try to get some sleep, he heard the growing roar of an approaching airplane. Through the blind, he watched a big jet, apparently a transport or cargo plane, drop onto the runway and flash out of sight. Other planes of the same type landed at intervals of three minutes; he counted a full dozen. By his watch he noted that the last one touched down at 2:26 a.m. When the whine of taxiing jets died away, he lay down and at last dropped off to sleep.

In the morning Clark had to reach under the cot for the paper to remind himself what day it was. It seemed as though he had been in this room for a month, but this must be Thursday. Yes. This was a Tuesday evening paper. He had arrived in El Paso Wednesday morning, and only one night had passed. Then he saw it.

On the floor, by the door, was another bottle of Old Benjamin. Without hesitation, he carried it to the toilet and emptied it. This time he didn't bother to save a taste with his finger, but merely set the empty bottle beside the other one. Well, Broderick, he thought, we're getting a nice little row of dead soldiers.

Breakfast came at 7:30. Again the orderly hastily slipped it onto the table, retrieved the tray from the night before, and left. Clark didn't try to talk to him. The morning, it seemed, would never go by. The air conditioner droned on without pause. Another sentry paced out front. Clark watched the tiny lines of light that came through the blind inch their way across the floor as the sun moved higher in the sky.

A new man brought the soup, sandwich and milk that made up lunch. He wouldn't talk either.

The first faint hint of panic settled down on Clark. He had never known fear and could never recall a time when his nerves had failed him. But now a gnawing frustration made it increasingly hard to concentrate. What should he do if he ever got out of this room? Where was his car? How would he get off the base? He found it difficult to pursue a line of thought through to its finish. Instead, his mind jumped from subject to subject. Girard should be back by now. Would he have something in writing? Let's hope so, for God's sake. What did Lyman think had happened to his old buddy Ray? Was that skeptic Todd still in doubt about Scott's venture? If he was, Clark wished he could change places with him. Could the others block this crazy operation without him?

He paced the room, counting his steps. He did deep knee bends and push-ups. He counted the rivets in the metal arch of the hut. He thought of his wife and how he had missed her since her death three years ago. He wondered what Scott would do with Congress if he succeeded on Saturday. Or with Russia, for that matter. He washed out his undershirt in the bathroom, hung it up to dry in front of the air conditioner, then took a shower himself. He was sweaty-and he needed something to do.

Propped on the bed once more, he vowed to read through the newspaper, but it slipped from his hands as he dozed off. When he woke he knew it was evening, for the little bars of light had marched to the edge of the floor and partway up the wall, and they weren't nearly so bright as before. Once more he lifted a slat. The only thing that had changed was the shadow from the mountains, now reaching out across the desert. Dinner arrived, and Clark forced himself to eat it. Later, in the twilight, a line of trucks appeared, in convoy, with a jeep in front. He counted them and made a few more marks on the envelope.

Clark's rambling review of his troubles was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Senator Clark?"

Clark didn't recognize the voice. Since the newcomer was making no effort to enter, as had his other visitors, he said, "Come in."

An officer wearing the eagles of a full colonel on his open-necked shirt stepped into the room. He had a round, red face, curly black hair and jug-handle ears.

Clark's heart beat heavily. This must be Jiggs's friend Henderson, he thought. At least he fits the description.

"I'm Colonel Henderson, sir," said the officer, putting out his hand and smiling a bit sheepishly, "acting C.O. in Colonel Broderick's absence."

Absence, thought Clark. Ray ol' boy, this is your chance to prove you could have been the best salesman in the whole state of Georgia if you had wanted to.

"Glad to know you," the senator said. "What's the matter with Colonel Broderick?"

"Orders, sir," said Henderson. "He's been called away for a day or so. I'm awfully sorry about having to ask you to stay in this hut, Senator. Frankly, I can't understand it, but the orders are specific."

"Aw, it's not your fault, Colonel." Clark decided to play this one slow and easy. "Just some misunderstanding, probably. We can win wars, but we can't get rid of the peacetime snafu."

Henderson grinned. "That's about it, Senator, but I am sorry I can't do anything about it."

"Forget it and sit down a minute," said Clark. "Say, your pal Casey is a good friend of mine. Thinks a lot of you ... Mutt, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. How do you know Jiggs?"

"Call me Ray, Mutt," Clark said, as cheerfully and confidently as a man who had recently sweat his undershirt into a stinking mess could say it. "Oh, Casey has been up before our committee a lot. Matter of fact, he did a helluva favor once for a friend of mine in Atlanta. I guess we're kind of whittled off the same broom handle-you know, we may not be brilliant, but we mean well."

Henderson relaxed a little. He had no idea why this senator was locked up, but he seemed like a nice guy anyway, and there weren't many of them at Site Y.

"Anything I can get for you, Senator?" he asked. "How about a drink?"

Clark eyed Henderson sharply, but could see only innocent hospitality in his face. Well, he thought, we might as well start right now.

"That's one goddam thing I don't need," he said. "Come here."

Clark led Henderson into the bathroom and showed him the two empty bottles.

"Your commanding officer was kind enough-or rather bastard enough-to provide me with those. I poured it down the can."

Henderson was puzzled. "I don't follow you, Senator. Why two bottles? And why did you throw it all away?"

"I got a little drinking problem, Mutt," Clark said, "and your boss knows it. Or at least he knew it after he talked to Senator Prentice."

"Prentice?"

"Yeah, Prentice. My chairman." Clark's voice was sarcastic. "Broderick called him from this room. After they finished talking, he took the phone away, and I got the whisky-and a prison number too, I guess."

It was plain from Henderson's look that he was now suspicious as well as confused. He edged toward the door of the hut and muttered something about pressing duties. But Clark held his elbow.

"Look, Colonel, don't go. My mind's sound, in spite of the fact that I've been cooped up in this place for two days. How about having the mess send over some coffee? There's an awful lot I want to tell you, and you've got to hear it."

Henderson, somewhat reluctantly, agreed. He opened the door and spoke to the sentry, then came back and sat down again. This time, however, he chose the chair nearest the door.

"Mutt," Clark asked, "how much do you trust Jiggs Casey?"

"You name it and he can have it," Henderson said. "Why?"

"If Jiggs told you something in complete seriousness, would you believe him?"

"Sure."

"All right. Do you know," said Clark slowly, "that when you told Casey about ECOMCON on Sunday he had never heard of it before?"

Henderson was startled, and could not hide it.

"How do you know about my seeing Jiggs on Sunday?"

"He told me," Clark snapped, "and he told some other people, too. He never heard of it."

"Really?" Henderson was frowning and his round face was troubled. "But he sounded like he knew all about it."

"He was faking," Clark said. "When he got back to his office after having lunch with you, he went through all the JCS orders for a year back. He couldn't find a thing about ECOMCON or anything like it. What's more, President Lyman had never heard of this base. Neither had I."

"I can't believe that, sir," said Henderson. "Colonel Broderick goes to Washington all the time to brief the brass."

"Some of the brass, maybe, but not the Commander in Chief. Mutt, you listen to me now. I'm going to tell you the God-damnedest story you ever heard in your life."

Clark began by recounting everything that Casey had encountered on Sunday and Monday. A sergeant knocked at the door, entered and put a tray with two mugs of coffee on the little table. As the two men sipped, Clark described Casey's first visit to the White House in minute detail, trying to impress Henderson. Then he sketched the meeting in the solarium on Tuesday, told of Girard and Casey's missions, and explained how he had made his own way from El Paso International Airport to the gates of Site Y.

Henderson was not convinced.

"That's pretty hard to believe, Senator, all of it. Why, General Scott has flown in here several times in the last few weeks with other members of the Joint Chiefs, and there was never the slightest hint that this was anything ... anything it shouldn't be."

"Was Admiral Palmer ever here?" asked Clark quickly.

"No, but-"

"And my being locked up? And two bottles of my favorite bourbon to get me drunk? Do you people usually put a fifth of whisky inside the guest hut before breakfast?"

"No, sir, I admit it's awful strange, the whole thing, the way you put it together."

"That's the only way it fits together, Colonel. And it's worse than strange." Clark was deliberately harsh. "It's a planned, premeditated attempt to overthrow the government of the United States, in violation of the Constitution. And that, my friend, is sedition, and it's mutiny, and anybody who does it or helps someone do it can get twenty years in the penitentiary."

Henderson looked lost and irresolute, not at all the hearty officer of an hour before. "What do you expect me to do about it, Senator?"

"When will Broderick be back?"

"Sometime tomorrow, he said."

"Then you've got to get me off this base tonight. And I want you to fly back to Washington with me."

Henderson shook his head. "Senator, you know I can't do that. I'm an Army officer under orders. I've never disobeyed or ignored an order."

"Never, Mutt?"

"Never."

"Well, I'm ordering you now, by direction of the Commander in Chief, to get me out of here and to come to Washington with me."

"But-"

"And if you're worried about it," Clark went on, "you don't need to be. Look, if Casey and the President and I are wrong, and there's nothing to this, I'll guarantee that you'll get a letter for your C.O., or for your file, or for whatever you want, from the President of the United States. And if we're right, you won't need any excuses-if you get me out of here. Now how about it?"

"That's not what I mean," said Henderson, plainly disturbed and even angry at being caught between two fires. "I got an order from my commanding officer not to let you out of this hut. I guess the President could countermand that, but you can't, Senator."

"Colonel, if you persist in that argument, you can throw your country right down the drain all by yourself."

Henderson merely shook his head again. Clark tried a new tack, arguing that Casey had already done far more than he was asking Henderson to do. Casey had gone to the President on his own, risking a long and proud career in the Marines. He had gone-Clark spoke as persuasively as he knew how-because he knew in his heart it was right.

"Yeah," said Henderson. "But maybe Jiggs is all wrong, even if you're quoting him right."

Clark kept on, for he thought he detected signs that Henderson was weakening. He felt sorry for the officer, knowing the conflict that must be churning inside him, but he could not let up. He argued his side of the issue with a determination he wished he could bring to Senate debate.

"Why all these bully-boy troops?" he demanded, his voice filling the room. "You know you've got the hardest bunch in the Army here. Why has it been kept a secret from the President? Why would Scott give command of it to a man who is openly contemptuous of civilian authority? Just what the hell do you think is going on here, Mutt, if it isn't an attempt to overthrow the government?"

Henderson sat studying his hands, clasped on his knees. His round face, usually cheerful, wrinkled in thought and his big ears heightened his forlorn appearance. When he spoke, there was a dogged quality to his voice.

"Gee, Senator, for antisabotage work, you want 'em tough."

"Antisabotage? Mutt, wasn't it you who told Jiggs you thought it was strange that you spent more time training to seize things than to protect them, or something like that?"

"Yes, but-"

"And why a man who says right out that he favors a dictatorship as the commanding officer?"

"Colonel Broderick's pretty conservative, I guess you'd say, but - "

Clark flashed in again. "Conservative, hell, Mutt. He's an out-and-out Fascist and you know it."

Henderson brought his eyes up to meet Clark's.

"Look, I'll level with you, Senator," he said. "I admit I've had some doubts about this outfit, and Broderick, but your story is pretty far out. How do I know you're not up to something?"

"You mean, off my rocker?"

"No, sir, not that, but maybe some kind of trick. You know, maybe General Scott sent you here to test our security."

"Even if that were true, which it isn't, what would you lose by leaving with me?"

"I'd just be a deserter, that's all." Henderson's tone was moody. "In wartime they can shoot you for that. In peacetime-in this outfit-it would be good for maybe twenty years in jail."

"Leaving with a United States senator?"

"You're just a civilian. It all boils down to that. I can't take orders from you."

Clark tried to ignore the flutter of anxiety in his stomach. "If we could get Casey on the phone, would you listen to him?"

"Sure. Well, at least I think I would."

Clark knew at once he had made a mistake. It would be folly to try to put a call through to Casey. What was the switchboard setup in Washington? Probably every call had to be reported to Scott or Murdock. He improvised hastily.

"All right," he said. "Obviously we can't use the base line, so let's just go off the post long enough to find a coin booth and call Casey. You have my word I'll come back with you if you're not satisfied."

Henderson shook his head. "You still don't understand, Senator. My orders are to keep you here."

"And you still don't understand, either. I have a verbal directive from the Commander in Chief to order you."

Henderson shook his head doggedly. Clark tried again.

"Look, Mutt, how about this? We go off this base and drive toward El Paso until we hit the first phone booth. Then you drop in the dime and ask the operator to give you the White House collect. When they answer, I'll go on the line and get you the President. You explain the situation to him and ask for instructions. Christ, man, that ought to satisfy anybody in uniform. I don't care what his rank is."

Clark pulled out his wallet and handed Henderson a dozen identification cards: credit, reserve Army officer, honorary Georgia Highway Patrol officer, driver's license. Six or seven identified him as a United States senator. Henderson studied one intently. Embossed in gold, it was titled "For Lyman Before Chicago Club" and listed Lyman as president, Clark as vice-president, and half a dozen prominent Democrats as incorporators. The card was signed with Lyman's unmistakable flourish and carried on its back a handwritten inscription: "For Ray, the man who made it possible, Jordie."

Henderson toyed with the card, inspecting both sides. As he did so, Clark returned to his philosophical gambit. He spoke eloquently of the American system, of Lyman's high esteem for the military, of values handed down untarnished from generation to generation. He was trying to repeat, word for word, Lyman's moving dissertation in the White House solarium on Tuesday afternoon. He talked for almost fifteen minutes without interruption from Henderson. When he finished, there was silence.

Henderson, who had stood up and walked around the room as Clark lectured him, stopped pacing and stared at the senator for a minute. Then, finally, he stepped to the door.

"I'll go over to my quarters and get a few things and give a few orders," he said, almost in a whisper. "Don't worry, I'll be back."

Clark threw himself down on the bed, emotionally exhausted. God, I'm used up, he thought. Henderson's admonition not to worry didn't help. Clark began to wonder whether he'd ever see him again-or whether Henderson would come back with a doctor and a strait jacket.

The next sound he heard, almost an hour later, was that of a car pulling up outside. "That'll be all for tonight, sergeant." It was Henderson's voice. "You're relieved. I'm taking the civilian in my custody. You can go on back to barracks."

Henderson put his head in the door. "Get your coat and let's go."

Clark's rented Ford was outside. Henderson motioned the senator behind the wheel and gave directions as they drove off. The night was cool, almost cold, now that the sun had been down for five hours. Clark's wrist watch, still on Washington time, showed 2:30. That makes it 11:30 here, he thought.

Henderson said nothing, merely pointing out a turn whenever one was required. They soon reached the flat, straight road that cut across the desert to the chain-link fence. The air felt wonderful; Clark realized that two days of air conditioning was about all that a man could take at one stretch. The land rolled out flat and bare except for the tiny shadows of the tumbleweed under the moonlight.

"You won't have to call the President for me," Henderson said abruptly.

"I'm a man of my word, Mutt," Clark replied.

"No," said Henderson, "once I'm off this base, I've had it if you're not telling the truth. Even the President couldn't help much."

Clark peered at him in the dark, realizing almost for the first time the true breadth of the gulf between a politician and a military man. For Clark, an order was merely a statement of opinion, something to be analyzed and questioned, contested at the most, compromised at the least. For Henderson, it was something absolute, rocklike, immutable. Clark sighed.

"I've got to call him anyway," he said, "if we have time. We may be pushed to get a plane out of here."

At the gate a sergeant came out of the hut, saluted Henderson, and peered across him at Clark.

"I'm sorry, Colonel," the soldier said to Henderson, "but I have orders that the civilian is not to leave the base, sir."

"That's all right, sergeant," Henderson answered. "I'm acting C.O. now, and I'm escorting him into town."

"Colonel Broderick said 'no,' sir." The sergeant was emphatic. "He stopped here when he left this afternoon and said that under no circumstances was the civilian, or anyone else, to leave the base." The guard stood beside the car, his rifle held in front of him, his face impassive.

Without warning Henderson reached through the window, grabbed the stock of the rifle and slammed the barrel against the soldier's cheekbone. Almost in the same movement, he opened the car door and jumped out as the soldier reeled backward. He wrenched the rifle out of his hands, ejected the clip and threw the weapon as far as he could.

Then keeping the dazed guard covered with his own .45-Clark wondered where Mutt had been carrying that-Henderson unlatched the wire gate and pushed it open. My God, thought Clark, once this guy makes up his mind he means business.

Clark drove through the gate, then halted for Henderson. The colonel still kept his pistol pointed at the sentry. "Step on it, Senator," he said. "There won't be any more like him now. We pull them all inside the fence at night."

Clark gunned the Ford down the macadam road. He drove as fast as he could all the way to the main highway, then turned right and sped through the moonlight toward El Paso.