Seven Days in May

Friday, 8 P.M.

The President reviewed the arrangements again. On the coffee table, behind the cigar box and out of sight from the chair in which General Scott would sit, was a slip of paper with twenty numbered items written on it in Chris Todd's small, precise hand. In Lyman's coat pocket was the silver cigarette case. Inside it were the two sheets of paper. In a drawer of the writing desk, over against the wall, lay the Segnier tax return. Todd had insisted on leaving it there despite the President's continued refusal even to consider using it. Lyman stood at the window and waited. The evening was serene, the fountain playing steadily on the south lawn,, the traffic thinned out and leisurely. The city's downtown streets were quiet in the twilight pause between day and night. The Irish setter Trimmer, exiled for this evening from the study, loped across the lawn.

But try as he would Jordan Lyman found it impossible to relax. His shoulders and neck felt tight, and he found it easier to stand than to sit. Although he had eaten some of his dinner and had swallowed two glasses of milk, there was a knot in his stomach.

As he looked out across the White House grounds, he saw a black limousine pull up at the southwest entrance, pause while the guard opened the gates, and roll on up the drive. Lyman stepped quickly from the window, picked up a book from the end table and settled himself into his armchair. He would at least appear at ease when his visitor arrived, even though he was alone, as he had to be, always and finally, for the showdown.

Lyman's allies had scattered after supper. General Rutkowski and Colonel Casey left in a White House car equipped with a radio-telephone. They were to wait in the Pentagon parking lot until Esther Townsend informed them that General Scott had arrived in the mansion. Then they would go to the Joint Chiefs' war room.

Todd was downstairs in the Cabinet room near a telephone. Without telling the President or the others, he had assembled agents of the Narcotics Bureau and the Alcohol Tax Unit-both under the jurisdiction of the Secretary of the Treasury-in his office across the street from the White House. More than thirty agents, hurriedly called in by their supervisors at Todd's order, milled around the Secretary's reception room, drinking coffee, playing cards, and trying to figure out what was up.

Ray Clark sat in the Monroe Room, separated from the President by only a wall. His feet were propped up on a sofa. He was reading, carefully, an annotated copy of the Constitution of the United States-something he had not done since law school.

Art Corwin had twenty-four Secret Service agents scattered through the White House and around the grounds. He had told them only that the President might decide to leave that night for either Blue Lake or Camp David, and he wanted to be prepared for a quick move in any direction. Corwin himself stood outside the oval study in the second-floor hall. Across from him sat the omnipresent warrant officer, his slim portfolio gripped between his knees. At the west end of the great vaulted hall, where chairs and sofas were grouped to make a family sitting room, sat two senior members of Corwin's White House detail.

General James Mattoon Scott stepped off the elevator at 7:59 p.m. His tan Air Force uniform, four silver stars glinting on each shoulder, clung to his big frame without a wrinkle. Six rows of decorations blazed from his chest. His hair, the gray sprinkling the black like the first snowflakes on a plowed field, was neatly combed. A pleasant smile softened the rugged jaw as he nodded to Corwin and the warrant officer.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said. Corwin responded politely and opened the study door for the General.

Scott strode purposefully into the room. His smile flashed confidence as he watched Lyman put down his book, stand up and come toward him.

He intends to dominate it from the start, Lyman thought. You've got to be good for this, Jordie. This is the big one.

Lyman gestured toward the couch, then seated himself again in the armchair. They were alone now, under the prim portrait of Euphemia Van Rensselaer. One window was open to the warm May air; through it came the occasional distant sound of passing traffic.

Scott had a map folder with him. He laid it on the coffee table and started to undo the strap holding the covers with their top secret stamps.

"Don't bother about that, General," said Lyman. "We don't need it tonight. We aren't going to have an alert tomorrow."

Scott straightened and stared at Lyman. His face was without expression. Lyman saw no surprise, no anger, not even curiosity. Scott's eyes held his and the President knew at once that this would be a long, difficult night.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. President," Scott said. "You wish the alert canceled?"

"I do. I intend to cancel it."

"May I ask why?"

"Certain facts have come to my attention in the past few days, General," said Lyman. His eyes were locked with Scott's. He forced himself to keep them that way. "I will not waste time by detailing them all now. I will simply say that I want your resignation tonight, and those of Generals Hardesty, Riley and Dieffenbach as well."

The little wrinkles around Scott's eyes tightened. He continued to stare at the President until the silence became a physical fact in the room.

"Either you are joking or you have taken leave of your senses, Mr. President," Scott said in a low voice. "I know of no reason why I should remove my name from the active list voluntarily. Certainly not without a full explanation for such a-shall we say unusual?- request."

Lyman dropped his eyes to the little sheet of notebook paper on his side of the cigar box. "I had hoped we could avoid this, General. It seems redundant to tell you what you already know."

"I think that remark is extremely odd, to say the least."

Lyman sighed.

"It has come to my attention, General," he said, "that you have, without my authority, used substantial sums from the Joint Chiefs' contingency fund to establish a base and to train a special unit of troops whose purpose and even whose existence has been kept secret from me-and from responsible officials of the Bureau of the Budget and members of Congress. This is in clear violation of the statutes."

"Just what unit are you referring to, Mr. President?"

"I believe its designation is ECOMCON. I take it that stands for Emergency Communications Control."

Scott smiled easily and settled back on the couch. He spoke almost soothingly, as he might to a frightened child.

"I'm afraid your memory fails you, Mr. President. You gave me verbal authorization for both the base and the unit. As I recall it, there were a number of items that we covered that day, and perhaps you didn't pay too much attention to this. I guess I just assumed that you would inform the Director of the Budget."

"What was the date of that meeting, General?" Lyman had to struggle to hide his anger, but he kept his voice as even as Scott's.

"I can't recall exactly, but it was in your office downstairs, some time last fall. Late November, I believe."

"You have a record of the date and subject?"

"Oh, certainly. In my office. If you care to make a point of it, I can drive over to the Pentagon right now and get it."

"That will not be necessary, General."

"Well," said Scott casually, "it's really not important anyway. My aide, Colonel Murdock, sat in on the meeting and can substantiate my memorandum of the date and discussion."

Oh, so that's how it is, thought Lyman. There's a witness to corroborate your statements. He wondered if anything he said tonight would catch Scott by surprise.

"As for not informing Congress," Scott continued, "this matter of protecting communications from Soviet sabotage seemed to us so sensitive that we thought it wiser not to discuss it with the committees."

"But you did discuss it with Senator Prentice, General," Lyman shot back. "In fact, you seem to have discussed quite a number of things with him this week, in quite a few places."

The statement had small effect on Scott. He merely hunched himself a bit closer to the table and put his hands on it. Lyman watched his fingers on the edge of the table, the tips going white with the pressure, as though Scott were trying to lock the tabletop with his hands.

"Senator Prentice knows nothing about ECOMCON," the General said.

"When Senator Raymond Clark was at the base Wednesday," Lyman said, "he talked with Prentice on the telephone. He reports that Prentice told him the Armed Services Committee knew all about it."

Scott shrugged. "I didn't know Senator Clark had visited the base. As for differences between members of Congress, I must say I learned long ago not to get involved in that kind of thing."

Lyman would not drop the subject. "Perhaps you can explain why you selected a commanding officer for that unit who is openly contemptuous of civilian authority and who has made statements which come close to violation of the sedition laws?"

"I never in my life discussed an officer's political views with him." Scott's voice had an indignant ring. "The officer in question has an excellent combat record and is one of the most competent officers in the Signal Corps."

Lyman persisted. "He also has an interesting travel record. What was Colonel Broderick doing last night in an outboard motorboat, cruising around my island at Blue Lake, Maine?"

"That's fantastic, Mr. President." Scott looked at Lyman with an odd expression, as though doubting his own ears-or the President's sanity. "Colonel Broderick left Site Y yesterday to come to Washington to confer with me."

"The description given by my caretaker fits Colonel Broderick quite closely. Black brows, swarthy complexion, tough face and all."

"Thousands of men could be mistaken for Broderick."

"And the scar on his right cheek?" asked Lyman.

"Didn't you say this was at night, Mr. President? I'd say your man can't see very well in the dark."

"It was not yet dark, General," said Lyman flatly.

"Mistaken identity, obviously," said Scott. He offered nothing more.

"Well, General, perhaps you also have an explanation for the detention at Site Y of Senator Clark?"

"I would say such a charge is somewhat reckless, Mr. President. As I understand it, the senator from Georgia has some ... ah ... personal problems and might be inclined to imagine things under certain circumstances."

Lyman flared. "I think you'd better withdraw that statement, General. Ray had nothing to drink at your base-no thanks to Broderick, who put two bottles of whisky in his room."

Scott's voice was emotionless but hard. "I think that if Senator Clark told you any such story, the fantasy of it is plain on its face. I can't imagine any court in the land accepting that kind of testimony."

"Are you implying that there is going to be some kind of trial?"

"Of course not, Mr. President." There was a patronizing overtone in Scott's voice. "I just think that here again we have Clark's word against Colonel Broderick's, and, frankly, we have no evidence that Clark was ever on the base."

"You deny that Senator Clark was there?"

"I don't deny it or affirm it. I don't know one way or the other. I do know that Broderick didn't mention it to me last night."

Lyman glanced at his list again.

"Now, General, there is the matter of the arrest and present detention in the Fort Myer stockade of Colonel William Henderson," the President said.

"You mean the deputy commander at Site Y?"

"You know very well whom I mean, General."

"This case I do happen to be familiar with," Scott said. "Colonel Broderick informed me this noon that Colonel Henderson was apprehended for deserting his post of duty and for striking an enlisted man with the barrel of the man's rifle."

"And did Broderick tell you where Henderson was picked up?"

"The military police picked him up on a downtown street here in Washington, as I understand it."

Lyman shook his head in impatience. "General, Colonel Henderson was kidnapped. He was taken forcibly from Senator Clark's home in Georgetown."

Scott threw back his head and laughed.

"Mr. President, let's get back to earth. I don't know who's providing your information, but he has a vivid imagination."

"We will go to another subject," said Lyman coldly.

"Before we do, Mr. President, would you mind if I had one of those excellent cigars from your box?"

Lyman had no intention of letting the General relax in a cloud of easy cigar smoke.

"I'm sorry," he lied, "but Esther must have forgotten to fill it today. I looked just before you came in."

"Well, then." Scott unbuttoned his jacket and reached into a shirt pocket. "I trust you don't mind if I have one of my own."

"Not at all." Lyman felt that he had been outmaneuvered.

Scott lit the cigar and watched reflectively as the first few puffs of smoke rose toward the ceiling. He settled back on the couch and smiled.

"There was something else, Mr. President?"

Boy, this is a tough customer, Lyman thought. The muscles between his shoulder blades hurt, and he could feel the strain in his face. He hoped he looked half as confident to Scott as the General did to him.

"Indeed there is," Lyman said. "I would like an explanation of your wagering activities, in particular your betting pool on the Preakness."

"Oh, come now, Mr. President. Certainly you do not intend to try to pillory me for making a bet?"

"I would like an explanation, General."

"There's really nothing to explain," Scott replied. "Oh, I know all-service radio isn't supposed to be used for personal traffic of that kind. But the chairman traditionally has been granted small courtesies."

"I understand you transferred a young naval officer who talked about the betting messages."

"Cryptographic officers are not supposed to talk about any messages," Scott snapped. "And I see that Colonel Casey has been talking about my personal affairs as well. Frankly, Mr. President, I am surprised and disappointed."

"How do you know I've been talking to Colonel Casey?" Lyman's voice was sharp.

"I didn't say you had. I merely said Colonel Casey had talked to someone. He came to you, then?"

"If you don't mind, General," Lyman said, "I'll ask the questions. Why did you excuse Casey from his work for four days this week?"

"He was tired."

"And why did Admiral Barnswell refuse to join the wagering pool?"

"I really have no idea, Mr. President," said Scott. "I guess some men just don't like to gamble. I love it." He was expansive. "It's one of my many failings."

Lyman eyed Scott closely. There was no indication that he knew of Girard's trip or that he had talked to Barnswell. The President waited a moment, hoping the General would say something more that might offer a clue on the point, but when Scott spoke after several contemplative puffs on his cigar his voice was even and natural.

"If I might ask just one question, Mr. President, what is the purpose of these inquiries about my little Preakness pool? Surely you're not indicating that I am being asked to resign because I sent a personal message?"

"Of course not, General," Lyman said. "Now, on another point. Will you please explain why you and the Joint Chiefs scheduled the alert for a day when Congress will be in recess and its members scattered all over the country?"

"No better way to throw the field commanders off guard," Scott said quickly. "If you recall, you yourself said as much when you approved the date."

"Was Admiral Palmer present at the meeting when the time was fixed?"

"No-o." For the first time, Scott seemed just a trifle taken aback. "No, he wasn't."

"His deputy?"

"No, as I recall," said Scott slowly, "the Navy was absent that day."

"And there have been several other recent meetings when neither Admiral Palmer nor his deputy was present?"

"Well, yes. Now that you mention it, there have been."

"Isn't that highly unusual?"

"Unusual, perhaps, but not highly. The Navy just couldn't make it the last few times. Admiral Palmer, as I understand it, has been preoccupied with some special problems in his missile cruisers lately."

"That's not what Admiral Palmer says, General. He was not notified of certain meetings of the Joint Chiefs. That is certainly highly unusual."

"I gather that Admiral Palmer, as well as Colonel Casey, has been voicing complaints. The Navy and Marines seem to be doing some talking out of channels-from lieutenants junior grade clear up to flag rank."

Lyman offered no response to this, but went to the next point on his list. Scott waited tranquilly.

"You and General Riley made a visit to General Garlock's home Tuesday night," Lyman said.

"Yes, we did. We wanted to make sure everything was in shape at Mount Thunder for the alert."

"And to make arrangements for bivouacking some special troops there Saturday?"

"I take it I have been followed all week." Scott ignored Lyman's question.

"I'd like an answer, General."

"First I'd like to know why the President of the United States feels it necessary to follow the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff like a common criminal," Scott said.

"You will answer my question, General."

"Not until you answer mine, Mr. President."

Scott stood up, towering above the seated President. He held his cigar between thumb and forefinger and pointed it accusingly at Lyman.

"I don't propose to stay in this room and be questioned any further." Command authority rang out like a chisel on granite. "I will not resign and I will answer no more questions. But I intend to say a few things, Mr. President."

Lyman felt inadequate and puny sitting under this tall, imposing officer who held a cigar pointed at him like a weapon. The President stood up and took a step forward, putting the two men on more equal physical terms as they stood facing each other, no more than two feet apart. Scott kept on talking.

"The information put together yesterday morning by the National Indications Center, and reported to both of us by Mr. Lieberman, substantiates all the misgivings of the Joint Chiefs," he said. "We told you time and time again that the Russians would never adhere to the spirit of the treaty. And we emphasized until we were blue in the face that it was folly to sign a document which left a clear loophole-namely, that one country or the other could assemble warheads in one place as fast as it took them apart in another under the eyes of the neutral inspectors. The United States, of course, would never do that. But the Russians would-and they are doing precisely that."

"I know all that as well as you do, General." Lyman began to feel old and tired again, as weary as he had been all week until Henry Whitney's sudden appearance that afternoon.

"I must say further, Mr. President, that it borders on criminal negligence not to take some immediate action. If you persist in that path, I shall have no recourse as a patriotic American but to go to the country with the facts."

"You refuse to resign, but you would do something that would assure your removal," Lyman commented. Scott said nothing.

"Well," the President went on defiantly, "I have moved. But something just as important to this country-perhaps more important-has to be settled first."

"Meaning what?"

"I think you know, General."

"I have no more idea of what you mean by that than I have concerning a dozen other things you have said tonight."

Lyman stared quizzically at Scott. "General," he asked, "what would you have done with Saul Lieberman's information if you had been President yesterday?"

"I said I would answer no more questions."

"This has nothing to do with what we were talking about before," Lyman said. "Frankly, I'm curious. A President needs all the help he can get, and you're a resourceful thinker, General-to put it mildly."

"I would never have signed that treaty."

"I know that. But suppose you became President after one was signed and ratified. How would you have responded yesterday?"

Scott had turned as if to go to the door, but now he paused and looked at the President, apparently searching Lyman's face for a clue to his sincerity. The General gripped his right fist with the palm and fingers of his left hand. Obviously intrigued with the problem, he frowned in concentration.

"Are you serious, Mr. President?"

"I have never been more serious, General."

"Well, then." Scott's grip on his fist tightened. Clearly all the other arguments of the evening were erased from his mind for the moment. He stood in silence.

"First," he said slowly, "I would have contacted the Russians and demanded an immediate meeting with Feemerov."

Lyman smiled for the first time in half an hour. When he had conceived the idea of a confrontation with the Soviet Premier, the thought had taken almost precisely the same number of seconds to form in his mind.

"It may surprise you, General," he said, "but I've already done that. The Secretary of State, at my request, has ordered our embassy in Moscow to set up a session with Feemerov. I propose to meet him at the earliest opportunity next week."

Scott's face showed genuine surprise, but he shook his head.

"I'm not sure I can believe that, Mr. President," he said.

"There's the phone," said Lyman, pointing to it. "You are welcome to call the Secretary and check it with him if you like."

Scott shrugged off the suggestion in the manner of one gentleman willing to take the word of another. "And what do you plan to do when you meet him?" he asked.

"No, General," Lyman said, "I'm the one who needs the advice, remember? What would you do at such a meeting?"

It was apparent that, however distasteful Scott found the line of inquiry into which Lyman was pushing him, his mind was eager to cope with the problem. The little net of wrinkles around his eyes pulled together.

"My course," he said, "would be simple and direct. I would demand to visit Yakutsk. If the Communist refused, I would go before the United Nations and denounce him as a fraud and a cheat. Then I would start assembling more warheads for the Olympus."

Lyman burst into laughter, surprising himself almost as much as Scott.

"You regard that line of action as funny?" asked Scott.

"Not at all, not at all." Lyman tapered off into chuckles and shook his head. "It's just the irony of the situation, General."

Scott bristled. "I fail to see the humor in it."

"Sit down, General." Lyman, with his awkward gesture, indicated the couch. "I want to tell you something about the office which you apparently intended to seize tomorrow."

"That's a lie."

"Sit down."

Scott hesitated a moment, then seated himself. Curiosity, thought Lyman, is a wonderful thing. The President sat down again in his armchair.

"What struck me as funny," he said, "was that you proposed almost the same steps that I've contemplated myself-at least up to a point. I intend to try to use this Yakutsk business as the lever to force Feemerov to accept a foolproof inspection system-for assembly plants as well as the dismantling sites. Now that we've caught him in the act, we can make him choose between being exposed as a traitor to civilization or letting the inspectors go anywhere in Russia. At any rate, I'm going to try it before I go to the UN or start assembling more Olympus warheads."

Scott said nothing, though his face reflected disbelief.

"So," continued Lyman, "if you were charged with directing the foreign policy of this country you would start out on this thing about the way I'm starting. And I'm sure that if you had my responsibilities you'd make that last try to get really thorough inspection controls, too. So you'd act pretty much as I am going to. And yet you want to dislodge this administration. Doesn't that strike you as-well-somewhat odd, General?"

"I deny the allegation," Scott said angrily. "And I must say most of this conversation seems odd to me."

Lyman crossed his legs in an effort at relaxation and the big feet stuck out like misplaced logs in a woodpile. He felt tense and tired, but he struggled to make himself understood.

"It's really too bad, General. We could have worked so well as a team, with each of us exercising his proper and traditional responsibility. Your answers to my questions show how much alike we think. Actually, you know, there isn't really much that a man with average intelligence can overlook in this job. And there isn't much that another man could do differently -no matter what the cut of his clothes."

"Is that intended as some kind of slur on my uniform?"

"Oh, good God, no," Lyman said. "No, I'm just trying to say that the great problems of this office, so many of them really insoluble, are not susceptible to superior handling by--let's say-the military rather than the civilian. The problems, General, remain the same."

"Some men act. Others talk," Scott snapped.

Lyman shook his head sadly. "General, you have a real blind spot. Can't you see how close together we are on this thing? Can't you now, really?"

"Frankly, Mr. President, I think you've lost touch with reality. And I think this kind of rambling self-analysis proves it."

Scott's words came out harshly. Fatigue again engulfed Lyman. I can't get through to this man, he thought, I just can't get through. He felt a sudden knot in his stomach, and he could see a mist drifting- years ago-across a Korean ridge.

"Listen, Mr. President." Scott spoke softly, but his voice seemed to hammer at Lyman. "You have lost the respect of the country. Your policies have brought us to the edge of disaster. Business does not trust you. Labor flaunts its disdain for you with those missile strikes. Military morale has sunk to the lowest point in thirty years, thanks to your stubborn refusal to provide even decent minimum compensation for service to the nation. Your treaty was the act of a naïve boy."

"That's ugly talk, General." Lyman's voice seemed weak by contrast.

"Those are facts," said Scott. "The public has no faith in you. The Gallup Poll may not be exactly accurate, but it's pretty close. Unless the country is rallied by a voice of authority and discipline, it can be lost in a month."

"And that voice is yours, General?" The way Lyman said it, the question was almost a statement of fact.

"I didn't say that," Scott replied. "But certainly you cannot expect me to pretend that I would act as you would, and so assume at least partial responsibility for the bankruptcy of the Lyman administration."

This man is immovable, thought Lyman. I simply cannot make him understand. Has my administration failed in the same way to explain itself to the country? Is that the meaning of what he's saying? Is he right in saying the time for talk is past? Doesn't anyone understand what's at stake here?

He felt faint, and the mist rose again in the mind's eye, drifting across the rugged, treeless ridges.

I've got to talk to Ray, he thought. Yes, Ray. Where is he? I've got to see him. Why, he's right next door, in the Monroe Room. I can just walk in there and talk to him. He'll know what to do.

Lyman sat still, staring at Scott, but his mind swung erratically. He ought to get into the Monroe Room, get to Ray, get his help, get the strength he could always draw from his friend. Hadn't Ray saved his life -and his pride, his courage, his self-respect-on the ridge in Korea? Couldn't he do it once more, just once more, to help him get over this ridge too? He felt, and wanted to feel again, Clark's open hand across his face, driving strength back into him.

But that was twenty years ago, Jordie, and you weren't the President of the United States then. It isn't going to do any good to get slapped now. You may lose this without someone else's help, but you can only win it that way too. You've got all you need if you know how to use it.

As if to reassure himself, Lyman rubbed his hand across the front of his suit coat. He felt the hardness of the object in the pocket inside, and confidence began to flow back into him like a turning tide, floating his spirit. It had come at last to the memorandum. He had been blissfully optimistic to think that he could avoid using it. Chris and Ray had been right.

He had been staring at Scott as he thought it out. The General was sitting as still as he, and his face had not moved as he waited. Now Lyman searched that face again, with his mind as well as his eyes focused on it.

And, finally, he saw something in the face. The complex of tiny wrinkles around the eyes had shifted into a different pattern. No other muscles in the face had moved, but there was a change, a new attitude. What was it? Was it wariness? Concern? Uncertainty?

Uncertainty. Yes. Lyman's mind shouted the word at him. Uncertainty. Why, this man was unsure of himself. He had seemed so sure all evening, but he was not sure now. Maybe that look had been there all along, if only Lyman had had eyes to see it.

The President sat back, almost relaxed now. You know, he thought, this fellow can be taken. He really doesn't have things going for him at all. Lyman let his eyes fall away from Scott. He didn't have to duel him that way. He looked around the room: there were Eisenhower's flags, Kennedy's chair, Monroe's ornate desk. Reminders of the Presidency, of the strength of the office he now held.

He bent himself to business, and the effort lent him added strength.

"General," he said evenly, "I want to read you something." He drew the cigarette case from his pocket.

"I intend to leave right now," Scott said quickly.

"No," the President said. Oh, I saw something, all right, he thought. "No, you sit right there and listen. I'll tell you when you may leave."

Scott watched as Lyman pried open the case and took out the two sheets of scorched paper. He placed them on the table, smoothed them carefully and hitched his glasses closer to his eyes.

"This was saved from the wreckage of the plane in which Paul Girard was killed," he said. "He was on his way home from Gibraltar."

Now Scott could not have gone if Lyman had ordered him out. Curiosity pinned him to the couch. Lyman began to read:

memorandum for the president

Gibraltar, May 15

The undersigned, who have also initialed each page, agree that this is the substance of a conversation had in Admiral Barnswell's cabin aboard the U.S.S. Eisenhower on this date.

Lyman looked at Scott. The General's face remained impassive, but his eyelids had come down over his eyes.

Late in December, Adm. Barnswell, while on an official trip to Washington, met with General Scott, Chairman, JCS, in his quarters at Fort Myer. Also present were Gen. Riley, Commandant, U.S.M.C., and Gen. Dieffenbach, Chief of Staff, U.S. Army.

There was considerable discussion of the state of the nation, and general agreement that the Lyman administration was losing public confidence and that there was general public dissatisfaction. It was also agreed that the proposed nuclear disarmament treaty would expose the nation to surprise attack. These matters, added to the dangerous loss of morale in the armed forces because of administration refusal to support needed benefits, led all present to the conclusion that the nation faced its most critical time in history.

Gen. Scott said that under such circumstances military commanders should make themselves available, under their oaths to uphold the Constitution, to take whatever steps seemed necessary. It was agreed that if some action should be required, commanders who felt as those present did could be alerted by orders from Gen. Scott.

On 26 February, during an inspection trip to the Mediterranean, Gen. Scott visited Adm. Barnswell aboard this ship. During an extended private talk, Scott said the conditions outlined at the December meeting had further deteriorated. Barnswell agreed that military commanders had a duty to the nation, but asked what Scott proposed to do. Scott said they must act "to uphold the authority of the nation." Barnswell asked if this meant upholding constituted authority, such as the President. Scott said of course, unless such authority had been so undermined or weakened by outside events as to be meaningless. Barnswell told Scott that he was ready as always to do his duty.

On 23-24 April, Adm. Barnswell was again in Washington, and had another talk with Scott. Scott said at this time that should action become necessary Barnswell and others would be informed by a code message in the form of a pool wager on a horse race, the message to include the time for taking necessary action. Agreement to enter the pool in return message would be sufficient acknowledgment.

Adm. Barnswell at this time again sought assurance that such action would not conflict in any way with constituted civilian authority. Scott gave this assurance "subject to conditions existing at the time." Adm. Barnswell then asked what Scott meant by "conditions existing at the time." Scott replied that by this he meant that recent developments indicated that the President might not be fulfilling his responsibility for the national security, and that if this were in fact proven to be the case, it might be necessary for the good of the country to supersede him.

Adm. Barnswell on May 12 received a message from Gen. Scott inviting participation in a pool wager on the Preakness, Saturday, May 18, and advising of a "post time" for the race. After consideration Adm. Barnswell replied "No Bet." By this Adm. Barnswell meant to indicate that he desired more details and assurance that any plans had the approval of the President.

At the time of this conversation, Adm. Barnswell has received no further word from Gen. Scott. Adm. Barnswell is surprised and dismayed to learn, according to the report of Mr. Girard, that no information of the pending action had been transmitted to the President, and that he therefore had not approved it. Under these circumstances, Adm. Barnswell could not obey any orders that might be forthcoming without the express direction of the President.

Farley C. Barnswell, Vice Admiral, USN

2200Z 15 May

Paul Girard

"Do you wish to comment?" Lyman asked Scott.

"That thing is a fake."

"A fake?" Lyman was incredulous.

"That is what I said, Mr. President."

A flush rose on Lyman's face and he folded his long arms across his chest. "Are you accusing me of forging a document, General?"

"I accuse nobody. I merely say that the events set out on those scraps of paper never occurred. I had no such conversations with Admiral Barnswell. It's a pity Mr. Girard isn't here to tell us the circumstances under which that was written."

Lyman flared. "It's a pity Paul lost his life trying to save his country."

"If that is intended as a reflection on my patriotism, I'll ignore it."

Lyman waved the papers. "Do you deny that this is Admiral Barnswell's signature?"

Scott shrugged. "How would I know? If it's my word against Barnswell's, I have no doubt of the outcome."

"Once again you seem to be hinting at some kind of hearing, General."

"If it should ever come to that, the American people will never believe this story you've cooked up."

"I'll take my chances on that," said Lyman, "even without going into a number of other questions." He pulled the little slip of paper from under the cigar box and read from it.

"There is your statement to the Senate Armed Services Committee that communications did not work properly in the last alert, when in fact they were almost the only thing that did function properly. There is your extended and intimate acquaintance with Harold MacPherson, a figure whose associations are extremely questionable. There is your action in attempting to hide by taking a freight elevator at midnight to visit Senator Prentice at his apartment. There are others, a good many more. But I don't think we need to belabor this. I want your resignation and those of the other three generals on the JCS within the hour."

The uncertainty Lyman had noticed earlier seemed to take hold of Scott more strongly now. His eyes sought out the scorched papers and the list in Lyman's hand, then searched the President's face.

"Perhaps fake was too strong a word," he conceded. "But there is no proof of the authenticity of those papers."

"No, General, I'm afraid that won't wash," Lyman said. "This has been signed by two men, one of whom is still alive. Girard called me to say he had obtained a written statement and was placing it in his cigarette case for safekeeping. A Spanish police officer found the case and turned it over to an American foreign service officer. That officer is in Washington now. He gave it to me this afternoon."

"His name?"

"I am not going to tell you," Lyman said. "But you may be assured that he has read the contents and would so testify. The Spanish police officer could, of course, identify the cigarette case. As for the document itself, there are handwriting experts."

Scott smiled wanly. "Is this at the trial you accuse me of inviting, Mr. President?"

Lyman said nothing. Scott sat motionless. There was no change in his bearing, but his eyes gave him away before he spoke.

"If I submit my resignation, will you destroy that paper?"

Scott was bargaining now. Lyman, who hadn't considered the possibility, thought for several minutes. The only sounds in the room were the breathing of the two men and the intermittent hum of traffic through the open window.

"Yes, I will, General," Lyman said. "Not for the reason you have in mind, but I will. In fact, I think that's the only thing to do with it. I will burn it, in that fireplace, with you watching if you wish, as soon as I have those four resignations in my hands."

Scott stood up. He stared down at the President, and Lyman for a moment had not the least idea whether the General was about to surrender-or stalk from the room. The two men eyed each other. Then Scott spoke quietly.

"May I use your writing desk?"

"Certainly."

Scott straightened his shoulders and stepped briskly to the little walnut desk against the wall. Lyman, holding his knee against the lower drawer to make sure it remained shut, pulled open the top drawer for Scott. The General took out a single sheet of stationery, and under the gold presidential crest he wrote:

17 May

I hereby tender my resignation as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the United States, effective immediately upon its acceptance.

James M. Scott, General USAF

Lyman took the sheet, blew on it to dry the ink, leaned over the desk and scribbled across the bottom:

Above resignation accepted, May 17, 9:39 p.m.

Jordan Lyman

The President picked up the sheet of paper and went to the telephone.

"Esther," he said, "General Scott will be using this phone for a few minutes to call several of his colleagues. Please put through any call he wishes. But first, please connect me with General Rutkowski at the Joint War Room."

Scott, standing in the middle of the study, could not hide his surprise when he heard Rutkowski's name.

"Barney," Lyman said, "this is Jordan Lyman. General Scott has just tendered his resignation and I have accepted it. Please send out an urgent message to all commands, signed by me as commander in chief, stating that an alert scheduled for tomorrow afternoon has been canceled. And, Barney, order those K-212's to remain at Fort Bragg. If they've left already, get them diverted or turned back in flight. If you have to, put my name on that too."

Lyman hung up and turned to Scott. The General wore a bleak smile. You can't be sure, Lyman thought, but I believe there's actually some reluctant admiration there.

"General, I don't propose that the country ever know the real reason for your resignation," he said. "I don't know whether you appreciate that or not, but that's the way it's going to be."

"You're assigning a reason, then?"

"Yes. Our differences over the treaty. God knows they are real enough. I will make a speech to the country tomorrow, saying that I asked for your resignation and the other three because you insisted on opposing settled national policy on a vital matter after the decision was made final."

"Suppose I say otherwise?"

"You may, of course, say whatever you please. The Constitution remains in force, and so do its guarantees of free speech." Lyman smiled. "But if you mention the real reason, I'll deny it from every soapbox I can climb up on."

Scott drew himself up in front of the President.

"Mr. President, there is no 'real reason,' as you call it. I have done absolutely nothing wrong, or illegal, or seditious, as you have implied. My resignation was forced by a man who has lost his ... bearings."

"Have it any way you want, General," Lyman replied, "but I must have your word that you will say nothing until I have announced this. Otherwise, I shall be required to keep you in this house through tomorrow."

"You have my word on that," said Scott. "When I speak out, if I do, it will not be until the public is thoroughly familiar with the facts in this matter."

Lyman moved toward the door.

"I'll leave you alone for a while, General. Please tell Riley, Hardesty and Dieffenbach to come to this room at once. They can come in by the back gate as you did. When any one of them is here, call Miss Townsend on the phone. She'll get me."

Lyman stepped out into the hall, closed the door behind him, and gave Corwin an all's-well signal with circled thumb and forefinger. Then he stepped to the door of the Monroe Room. He threw it open and was about to call "Ray!" when he saw that the room was empty.

The President beckoned to Corwin.

"Art, where's Ray? He was supposed to be standing by in here."

"Oh, he hasn't been there in over an hour," said Corwin. "He's down in the Cabinet room with Secretary Todd."

As he rode down in the little elevator, Lyman thought: Ray wasn't there at all in the clutch. What if I had needed him? But I didn't need him. Maybe he knew I wouldn't ... Lyman felt like whistling as he hurried along the covered passageway past the rose garden to the west wing.

The President stepped into the Cabinet room as his two associates came forward anxiously. Lyman stood there smiling, awkward and angular as always, but obviously in command. He pulled the sheet of stationery from his pocket.

"General Scott has resigned," he said.

Todd's gray eyebrows arched upward, but his look was anything but disapproving. He grasped the President's hand.

"You weathered the point, Mr. President," he said. "The rest is smooth sailing."

Clark feinted a punch off Lyman's jaw and grinned at his old friend. His eyes were serious-and admiring.

"You did it, Jordie," he said. "Nice going, Yankee boy!"