Seven Days in May

Friday, 1:30 P.M.

General Bernard Rutkowski, his cap set at a slightly rakish angle, strode along the tunnel. His short, plump body rolled as he walked, and his chubby cheeks glowed with the exertion. His well-polished buttons and the silver decorations on his cap visor gleamed under the bright overhead lights.

It was 1:30 in Washington, and thus 10:30 in the morning in Colorado. But here, half a mile inside Cheyenne Mountain, it might as well have been midnight. General Rutkowski was making his daily visit to the Combat Operations Center of the North American Air Defense Command. As boss of NORAD, Rutkowski never let a day get by without inspecting the center-the focal point of the nation's air defense-but he tried to stagger the pattern and the hours to keep the staff alert.

Today he had ridden from the outside portal along the curving half mile of main tunnel, wide as a highway, that led to the primary lateral. Then he jumped out of his jeep and walked the rest of the way into the self-contained three-story steel blockhouse that cradled the operations center.

He entered the center as an air police sentry at the door cut away a salute so smart that it almost whistled. There were more guards and more salutes inside as Rutkowski hurried to the long, theaterlike room where some forty people, working in two tiers, kept track of every missile, satellite and aircraft aloft over North America.

The General climbed to a balcony and took up a position behind a desk console rimmed with dials, telephones, switches and buttons. The duty controller, Colonel Francis O'Malley, popped up from his chair and stood at attention beside it.

"At ease, Frank," said Rutkowski. "Any problems today?"

O'Malley turned over his duty seat to an assistant and sank into a chair beside the General. In front of them was a huge screen-some public-relations man had christened it "Iconorama"-which showed everything moving in the air over the continent. An electronic computer, fed by wire, telephone and teleprinter from hundreds of airports and military bases, changed the symbols on the screen every few seconds.

"No problems, sir," said O'Malley. "We had a flap a while ago, when they shot a couple of big ones out of Vandenberg without bothering to cut us in on the countdown. The damn things were off the pads before we knew about them."

"That's inexcusable. Did you chew somebody out over there?"

O'Malley grinned in the half-light of the theater-like room.

"Don't worry, sir. I did. That controller at Vandenberg must have thought he was back at the Springs as a Doolie again."

Rutkowski liked this trim young officer. The earliest graduates of the Air Force Academy were beginning to come into responsible positions now, and Rutkowski rated them, on the average, as far superior to his own age group which had schooled at West Point and then transferred to aircraft. These youngsters, he thought, were all Air Force. They had it drilled into them as shaven-headed "Doolies," or first-year men, at the Academy, where no effort was spared to weed out those who might later decide to give up a military career. They were run, shouted at, and worked until instant obedience was instinctive and the hunger for responsibility, for a chance to prove themselves, was ravenous. They were bright and smart and they loved the service. Rutkowski could ask no more of an Air Force man.

The major who had substituted for O'Malley at the controller's post turned around and beckoned with his head. The colonel excused himself and stepped down to the desk. The major handed him a piece of paper and he brought it back to the General.

"We're getting a little static this week, sir," he said. "I thought I could get it cleared up before this, but the thing is getting to be a headache."

Rutkowski took the slip from O'Malley. It was a dispatch on yellow paper, torn from a teleprinter:

o'malley

coc

norad

transports leave our frequency five zero miles out. destination classified.

THOMAS

OPERATIONS

BIGGS FIELD

"What's this all about, Frank?" asked Rutkowski.

"That's what I'd decided to ask you this afternoon, sir," the colonel said. "Wednesday night we were notified of clearance for twelve troop carriers, out of Pope Air Base at Fort Bragg. They were cleared for Biggs Field at El Paso. But they didn't go there. Instead, they went somewhere north and landed. We had them on the radar maybe ten minutes after they should have landed at Biggs. They dropped off the screens out in the New Mexico desert somewhere."

"What were they?"

"By the size and speed of the blips, the controllers figured they were K-212's," O'Malley said. "And that's what they turned out to be."

"Airborne maneuvers?"

"I suppose so, but dammit, General, we can't have planes wandering around our screens and landing God knows where."

"This ever happen before, Frank?"

"Well, yes, sir. It turns out it has, although I never knew about it until Wednesday night. Single planes have landed and taken off from some place between Biggs and Holloman Air Base. Nobody paid much attention until we got this flight of twelve."

"Did you check it out anywhere?"

"Yes, sir," said the colonel. "At Pope and Biggs both. I got Pope operations on the phone. They said they filed a flight plan and clearance for twelve K-212's to Biggs Field. They thought that's where they went. Otherwise they didn't know anything about the flight. Then the officer at Biggs operations told me they switched off his frequency some miles out and he didn't know where they went."

"What about this message?" asked Rutkowski, tapping the yellow sheet in his hand.

"This morning, Biggs notified us that thirty more K-212's would be coming in there at 0700 tomorrow. So I asked Thomas at Biggs operations where the planes would be landing. That's his answer."

Rutkowski studied the slip for a moment, then handed it back to the controller. "Probably something ordered out of Washington, Frank. I'll check it and let you know. But you're sure right-we can't have planes disappearing into the desert. Not if we're supposed to be running an airtight defense. I'm glad you hollered about it."

The General resumed his walk around the big room. He stopped for a moment to say hello to the Canadian officer who shared the control desk with O'Malley, then descended to the floor level, made the rounds there and left the center.

Half an hour later he was back in his "topside" office-seven miles from the main tunnel portal, back in Colorado Springs. Barney Rutkowski lit a cigar and ran his eyes across the great colored map of the continent which covered the end wall of his office.

He was annoyed. His professional competence was involved in this thing. According to the book, his command was supposed to be informed-well in advance-of every friendly airplane, missile, balloon or miscellaneous object that might make the airspace over the United States its habitat for any period, however brief. Sure, the regulations had been violated now and then. Little private planes were always hopping from one cow-pasture airfield to another without filing flight plans. But twelve big jets-Air Force jets!

And a secret destination. That really irritated him. Two years ago he had gone to the mat with General Hardesty, the Air Force Chief of Staff. It made absolutely no sense, Rutkowski argued, to classify a base so highly that NORAD wasn't aware of its existence. How could his command police the skies if planes were flipping across the continent to some secret base, such as that place in northern Alberta where they were doing some kind of satellite research? Hardesty agreed with him, fought the case through the Joint Chiefs, and won. In early January of the previous year a JCS directive specifically stipulated that any installation, whatever its classification, had to be registered with the commanding general of NORAD if it expected to receive or discharge "flying objects" of any kind. Someone was ignoring-or disobeying- that directive now.

The more Rutkowski thought about this New Mexico business the angrier he became. He had a low boiling point, and his instinct was to pick up the command phone and ask Hardesty in Washington just what the hell was going on. But his years in service had taught him that, angry or not, you do better to stay in channels. The thing to do, he decided, was to call Tommy Hastings at Fort Bragg. Strictly speaking, those troop carriers belonged to the Tactical Air Force, and he ought to call them; but he knew Tommy, and liked him, and might learn more from him. He asked his secretary to place the call: "Lieutenant General Thomas R. Hastings, Commander First Airborne Corps, U.S. Army, Fort Bragg, Fayetteville, North Carolina."

Rutkowski stared at the wall map as he waited. When his phone rang, he shifted his cold cigar to the corner of his mouth.

"Tommy? This is Barney Rutkowski. Say, young feller, where the hell are those K-212's out of your place headed for? I'm supposed to keep everything on my board, but those troop carriers of yours are giving my people fits. They all drop out of sight somewhere north of El Paso."

The voice of Lieutenant General Hastings was calm and unruffled. "You got me, Barney. Those babies don't belong to me. They're all Air Force-all yours. All I do is feed and bed down the pilots."

"Oh, I know, Tommy," Rutkowski said. "Don't give me that jurisdictional crap. You sound like a labor leader. You must know what it's all about. After all, they come out of your shop."

"Look, Barney, don't press me on that one, pal. This is a classified maneuver. You've got to go higher up than me for your answers."

"Thanks, buddy," said Rutkowski testily. "Any time I can do you a favor in return, just whistle."

"Barney!" Hastings' tone was wounded.

"Any time, Tommy," said Rutkowski as he hung up.

The NORAD commander stared unhappily at his phone for a moment and then called his C.O.C. controller on the direct line.

"Frank," he asked, "did you say those planes were due at that piss-ant base tonight or tomorrow?"

"Originally they had an ETA of 0700 Saturday, sir," said O'Malley, "but we just got a second message from Biggs pushing it up to 2300 tonight."

"Where do you figure the goddam landing strip is, anyhow?"

"It has to be pretty close to El Paso, sir. The planes leave the Biggs frequency about fifty miles east and turn northwest. They keep coming on that heading for a few more minutes before we lose them."

"Thanks, Frank," Rutkowski growled. He was thoroughly mad now. It galled him to think that a man could wear four stars, hold complete responsibility for the air defense of his country-and still have vital information denied him. The fact that the man was Barney Rutkowski was doubly infuriating.

He didn't bother his secretary for the next call. He got Parker Hardesty himself on the direct Air Force Washington line.

"This is Rutkowski, General," he said. "I got troubles. Some bureaucrat down there figures I can't be trusted with the nation's business."

"Easy, Barney."

Rutkowski could see Hardesty's smooth, unlined face and wavy brown hair. The voice, as always, was serene.

"I mean it," Rutkowski protested. "Some son-of-a-bitch thinks I can run an Air Defense Command without knowing what's in the air."

"How about explaining, Barney?"

"Look, there are about thirty troop carriers coming into some secret base near El Paso tonight, out of Pope Field at Fort Bragg, and we don't get a damn flight plan. What's more, they're blacked out for the last hundred miles."

"Well, now, you don't think they're bandits, do you?"

"Oh, hell, General, that's not the point," said Rutkowski wearily. "Either we run this show by the book or we don't."

Hardesty sought to soothe.

"Of course we go by the book, Barney, but I wouldn't worry about this operation. You know they're friendlies. You know they come from Fort Bragg. If I were you, I'd just swallow those last few miles and forget it."

"Do you know what the hell this desert base is all about?"

Hardesty was silent for a moment. Then he answered in even, careful words.

"I think we'd better just cut it off there, Barney. We all know there are certain levels of classification. We don't like them, perhaps, but we learn to live with them."

"You mean I'm not supposed to know?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well, you meant it, General. If that's the policy, it stinks. I can't do a job for you in the dark."

"I'm sorry, Barney." Hardesty was closing the conversation.

"Okay," Rutkowski said. "Good-by."

By now he was seething, and he squashed his cigar butt in the ashtray with an angry stab. He felt hot, although the thermometer outside his window showed only 67 degrees; he jerked off his jacket and loosened his collar. Hardesty, who got his fourth star only a couple of months ahead of him, was treating him like some kid reserve officer. Here he sat with the third most important command in the Air Force, and Washington was short-circuiting him. He wondered if Ted Daniel, the SAC commander over at Omaha, knew about this base or those flights. He thought of calling Daniel, but decided against it a second later. If Daniel knew, that would only make it harder to take.

God damn. Some of those guys around General Scott spent too much time worrying about politics and international affairs and not enough time running the military services. Rutkowski lit another cigar and leaned back in his swivel chair. That was a funny business, Lyman calling him in for those talks Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. And they were funny talks. Why had the President hauled him to Washington instead of just calling him on the phone? And when he got there, Lyman seemed to be talking all around the subject-whatever it was- instead of leveling with him. That wasn't like him.

But anyway he did the President the favor he had asked for and sounded out Admiral Palmer. And now, for Christ's sake, the President had authorized some kind of secret operation-with his NORAD commander deliberately cut off the need-to-know list. That's a hell of a way to treat a guy, especially when it's something essential to his job. That's the thing, he repeated to himself, it's essential to the job.

Well, if the President could call him in confidence, why couldn't he call the President? Rutkowski disliked end runs and despised officers who didn't have the guts to speak up to their superiors. But this was different. Lyman had obviously set up some kind of secret exercise and had decided himself who needed to know about it. The President was a civilian, and probably just didn't realize what a mess NORAD would be in if it couldn't keep tabs on traffic. It was dangerous as hell. Dangerous? It might be suicidal.

His mind made up, Rutkowski lifted the receiver of the white phone which connected directly to the White House switchboard. In his two years at NORAD he had never used it. The only times it had rung were on equipment tests. Now the answer was instantaneous.

"White House."

"The President, please," Rutkowski said. That took the heat off. If he had used the code word it would have meant a war emergency. Plain language merely meant "urgent." Even so, it took only a few seconds to get the President on the line.

"What's up, Barney?"

"This is a personal complaint, Mr. President, but I think it's important or I wouldn't bother you. I gathered from what you said the other day you want me to talk frankly."

"I wouldn't want it any other way."

"Okay, Mr. President. Well, here it is: I think you've made a serious military error in setting up this troop carrier exercise without cutting my command in on the security arrangements. And I think you made another one when you put a base with an airstrip out in the desert without letting me know."

There was a pause.

"Could you amplify that a bit, Barney?"

"Yes, sir. In order for NORAD to work, it has to know about every single friendly aircraft or missile or anything else over this continent. You blank us out on just one operation and the whole system is compromised."

"Barney, without taking issue with you on that point, would you mind telling me how you learned about this?"

"Sure. We try to drill it into every duty officer here that he's got to question everything he sees. One of my controllers was watching the first flight Wednesday night. The planes were headed for El Paso, then turned northwest and dropped off our radar screens. He tried to find out about it through channels, and when he couldn't, he took it up with me this noon."

"First flight?" the President said. "Is there another one, you think?"

"Yes, sir, as you probably know. Thirty of the transports were due at this damn classified place at 0700- 7 a.m.-tomorrow. Then I learned that it's been moved up to 2300 tonight."

"Eleven o'clock tonight?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hold on a minute, Barney, will you?" The phone seemed to go dead, and Rutkowski guessed the President had placed his hand over the mouthpiece. Perhaps General Scott or some other officer had been conferring with Lyman on the subject when he called. Rutkowski fiddled with his dead cigar in the ashtray and waited. Several minutes went by. Then the President came back on.

"Barney, something very serious has come up. It has critical military aspects and I need your advice. Could you come down here again-right away?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so. Couldn't be handled on the phone, sir?"

"No. I'd have to have you here in person."

"Of course, Mr. President. But what about these troop carriers?"

"Barney, that's part of my problem. When could you come?"

"Mr. President, with driving time to and from the airports, I could be there in three hours. Is that all right?"

"Fine, fine. No, wait a second." Once more the President went off the line, but this time he was back quickly.

"Barney, the speed is less important than the security. Could you fly yourself down? I mean solo?"

"Sure." He chuckled. "I need the flying time anyhow. I can take one of the fighters, but I'll have to refuel once. Give me four hours."

"That's plenty of time. Now, Barney, I want this really private. Don't tell anyone where you're going, please. And when you land at Andrews, make up some personal excuse. You know, say you're going to see a sick sister or somebody somewhere in Maryland. Anywhere but here. Then take a cab and come to the east entrance of the White House. The guard will be expecting you. Can you wear civilian clothes?"

"Yes, sir." Rutkowski was baffled, but the President offered no further explanation.

"Okay, Barney. See you this evening, then."

"Right, Mr. President."

General Rutkowski took his jacket off the back of the chair and absently slid one arm into a sleeve. "Well, I'll be God-damned," he said, half aloud. He straightened his tie and hurried out the door, whistling tunelessly through his teeth.

Jordan Lyman turned away from the phone and looked toward the three men sitting in his study. He said nothing for a moment. His eyes seemed to be focused on something far beyond them. Ray Clark had never seen his old friend looking so tired, so sad, so remote. Christopher Todd, a tight smile on his face and his eyes triumphant, watched the President closely. Casey, on the other hand, looked away from Lyman's face and concentrated on the bright shaft of the Washington Monument in the sunlight.

A plane droned over the city. A mockingbird flew into the top of the big magnolia tree. Its song, pouring into the room through the open windows, accented the silence inside.

Lyman jammed his hands into his coat pockets and bit his lip. When he spoke, his voice had the weariness of old age.

"I've got to act tonight," he said. "There aren't many hours left."

"We're right with you, Mr. President," said Clark.

"I wish prayer came easily to me," Lyman said. He seemed not to have heard Clark at all. Todd raised his voice as if to break his mood.

"You'll win, Mr. President. You'll come out on top -if we act with precision and speed."

Lyman's smile was one of tolerance and sympathy. He scuffed the rug gently.

"There won't be any winner tonight, Chris. Let's just hope the country stays calm."

The President shook his head, like a man waking from a deep sleep, and lowered himself into his big chair.

"All right," he said, "let's get down to business."

"As I see it," said Todd briskly, "three steps are called for at the start. First, you call Scott over here and fire him. Second, you send a message to all commands over your signature, announcing the resignation and ordering that no troop movements be made in the next forty-eight hours without your express authority. Third, you send General Rutkowski to that base with orders to close it down immediately."

"Jiggs?" The President looked at Casey.

"I'm worried about that override switch, Mr. President, the one that cuts into the TV network programs," said Casey. "I think someone should carry a letter up to Mount Thunder, from you to General Garlock, stating that no interference with commercial programs is to be permitted until further notice from you."

Lyman thought a moment. "I don't think we need to send Barney back to New Mexico," he said to Todd. "I'd rather have him right here. There are a hundred and one details of command communications procedure he could handle for us. I'm not even sure what they all are."

"That's right," Clark said. "And I'd have Rutkowski order those troop carrier planes to stay on the ground at Fort Bragg-under penalty of court-martial, if he thinks he has to go that far."

"Of course," said the President, "we've got to tell Barney everything. The way he sounded on the phone, I don't think he'll need much persuasion. The facts are too glaring to be ignored by anyone now."

Casey ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Mr. President," he said, "I don't like to say anything against a general officer, but you'd be in a lot firmer position if you dismissed General Hardesty too and turned his command over to General Rutkowski. Then he could issue orders with authority."

"I've already decided to do that, Jiggs," Lyman said. "And of course I'll have to announce everything to the country."

"But not tonight, Jordan," cut in Clark. "Save that for tomorrow. Besides, Frank Simon will probably faint dead away when you tell him you've fired Scott."

"Poor Frank," said the President. "I haven't been very good to him this week, have I?"

Casey was still concerned. "Mr. President, if I may say so, I think you'd do better to call General Hastings yourself, down at Fort Bragg, and tell him none of those planes are to leave the ground. I'm not sure he would obey General Rutkowski."

"I thought instant obedience was the lifeblood of the military," said Todd, his voice edged with sarcasm.

Casey flushed. "It is, sir. But the response to command gets kind of shaky when there's a big upheaval at the top all of a sudden. You've got to give each officer a little while to adjust to the change. Otherwise he's not sure who does have the authority. Besides, Hastings is Army and Rutkowski is Air Force. But if it's the President, there's no doubt about it."

"I don't see why we have to worry about that goddam ECOMCON bunch tonight," said Clark. "If Broderick doesn't have any planes, he can't get his people out of there."

"But he does have twelve planes already," Todd pointed out. "You saw them land."

"I think we can take Barney's advice on that one when he gets here," Lyman said. "Obviously, nothing is scheduled out of there until midnight at the earliest."

"If I could suggest one more thing, Mr. President," Casey said.

"Please."

"I think it would be wise if you called each one of the field commanders listed in General Scott's 'Preakness' message. Just tell them that the alert has been canceled and that they are to stand by until further notice."

"That'll jar 'em," Clark said with a grin. "The Commander in Chief canceling an alert that they don't know he knows about and that they aren't supposed to know has even been scheduled."

"I think Casey's right again," Lyman said. "Chris, are you making notes on all this?"

The answer was obvious. Todd, his face wreathed in busy satisfaction, was scribbling on his big yellow pad.

"Well," Lyman said, "we finally come up to what I hoped would never be. I must say I have absolutely no faith that we can succeed. I'm afraid the country may be on the verge of rebellion by Monday. Can you imagine Scott on television?"

"That reminds me," Clark said. "One more thing for your list, Chris. The President has got to call up the head of RBC and get him, as a personal favor, to cancel out MacPherson's time tomorrow."

"That's right," said Lyman. He stood up again and walked over to the windows. Once more he seemed to drop a curtain between himself and the others in the room.

Why, he thought, did this have to happen to me? Even Lincoln had an easier decision-the other side fired first. This thing looks so simple to the others, but it just won't work. Scott will tell the country that the Russians are building a stack of new warheads, and he'll say I failed to protect the country. What's my answer? If I get into a shouting match with him, we might wind up in a war with Russia. If I don't answer him, the House will pass a bill of impeachment. There isn't a man on the Hill who could stop it. And who's the winner then, Mr. Todd?

Lyman's eye ranged across the Ellipse and over the Tidal Basin to Jefferson's columned portico, and he thought: Wasn't it Jefferson who said, "I tremble for my country"? Well, now I know what he was talking about. If we'd got the evidence of this plot in writing, I could have pulled it off, forced Scott out quietly, used the treaty fight as an excuse, and the country would never have known. But this way? This way we have one chance in a thousand of succeeding. Todd and Casey, even Ray, don't understand that. But they can't. Only the President can, and you're it, Lyman, and there isn't any choice now.

Oh, quit playing wise old man, Jordie, and get on with the job.

He was still standing by the window when a loud rap on the door startled them all. Esther Townsend came in.

"Excuse me, Mr. President," she said, "but there's a man downstairs who insists he has to see you right away. His name is Henry Whitney." The secretary's voice, trembled. "He's our consul general in Spain."