The First Team

17

When Operation Low Blow had been in its final planning stages, Admiral Haymarket had sketched out the primary areas of major concern and determined in his own mind whom he would assign to be responsible for each of them. For all of the coordinating and operation at Hunters Point — Walter Wagner. Ted Pappas had wanted that assignment desperately, but he could not match Wagner’s field experience or his exceptional ability to dive unhesitatingly and safely more than a hundred feet from a crane boom into the water. There had not been any other acceptable method of recovering the crane operator available and therefore he had had to concede.

The mechanical and supply details went of course to Stanley Cumberland. Pappas, with his near genius for detailed planning and organization, was given the job of making everything fit and preparing a full set of alternate plans to meet every visible contingency.

Ed Higbee was committed to the second phase of the master plan, to be activated if the first part succeeded. There his almost uncanny knowledge of psychology, propaganda, news distribution, and negotiation would be of prime value. That left one more vastly important job and two extraordinarily capable men to handle it — the protection of the Magsaysay from the moment that her lines were cast off until she was safely hidden under the vast waters of the open Pacific. General Carlton Gifford had accepted the assignment with dedication and relish; it was right up his alley. His first action had been to request the help of Lieutenant Colonel Henry Prichard, the search and rescue specialist who was celebrated for a cast-iron nerve and the ability to handle himself even during extreme emergencies. More than forty men marked for death had been saved by him and not one of them had ever seen him display the least recognition of fear.

Together the two Air Force men had gone to work systematically to produce a miracle, and the magnitude of the task did not dismay them. They had begun by carrying on a highly selective recruiting program concentrated on the West Coast. They had found people in the armed forces, in law-enforcement agencies, and in such civilian organizations as Mensa and the Masonic Lodge. The Japa-nese-American Citizens League provided help and a few were chosen through the Knights of Columbus. Ham radio operators were very carefully culled over and a handful were selected. Lastly, a few men were picked from the ranks of the Teamsters Union. When the job had been completed the necessary backup force numbered almost five hundred men and a few women. Of all of these very few knew what they were to do or why, but they were all highly qualified in one way or another and every one of them had a proven ability to keep his or her mouth shut.

The next step had been the organization of this work force into a cell system so that any possible leak could be stopped within a local area involving, at the maximum, ten people. Certain outstanding individuals were chosen for supervisory duty, and they in turn came under the direction of full-time field personnel who reported directly to the headquarters of Thomas Jefferson.

In the meantime, detailed operational plans had already been drawn up. It was recognized from the start that a high degree of flexibility would have to be incorporated into every phase of the effort since a large number of unpredictable variables could not be eliminated. But variables or not, the job had to be done and Gifford was determined that it would be.

With the aid of the personnel selected, a close day-to-day watch was kept over the enemy throughout the San Francisco region. Every piece of equipment that was taken over was noted and recorded. The people concerned were evaluated and in some cases probed for weaknesses. Whatever the enemy did, wherever he established a force of any kind, he was watched and the information gained was passed on to the operations room. Colonel Prichard was in charge of that. Laid out on a huge table he had a detailed presentation of the San Francisco Bay area and all of its military facilities. Everything that the enemy did was noted and marked on it. The board was kept up to date on an hour-by-hour basis and manned around the clock.

As S (for sailing) day grew closer, the operational orders were prepared and passed to the waiting people in the field. Most of them still did not know what was to take place, but they did know that a major move was to be made and that they would be part of it. Every enemy post or installation that could in any way interfere with the safe departure of the Magsaysay from Hunters Point was kept under surveillance and a specific team was appointed to deal with it. To minimize risk and protect secrecy to the utmost, General Gifford confined most of the scheduled efforts to apparently simple, nonspectacular procedures which in many cases could be interpreted as accidents or simple bad luck — unless someone took the time to put them all together into a single pattern. But that could not be done until after the event, and then it would be too late.

Forty-eight hours before S time the operational personnel were deployed. In certain parts of San Francisco and its environs, repair and construction crews showed up to work on street installations. In each case they had the proper blueprints and work orders; their legitimacy was established. They closed off some roadways — as they apparently had to — and began to dig trenches in the usual manner. These activities were widely scattered, and when they were viewed against the background of all of the other street work going on at the same time, no visible pattern was apparent.

At Beale Air Force Base three teams moved in and positioned themselves well before they were due to go into action. At various other military installations where the enemy was present and had any combat capability, other personnel already on the job were backed up and reenforced. All of this was made easier because the enemy was still relatively new in the area, not yet deployed in any major strength, and convinced that the fervent desire of the United States for peace at any cost was adequate insurance against any uprisings.

At Hamilton Air Force Base three enemy fighter pilots who had been assigned to put on a show of force should that ever become necessary regularly dined at the only local facility where their patronage appeared to be welcome. They liked American food and the good liquor that could be had to go along with it. The only thing missing was suitable female company, but that had proved to be very hard to come by in the United States under the circumstances.

On the evening before S day they ate as usual, but the occasion was marked by the fact that three American girls were seated unescorted not too far away. After some discussion the pilots tried an approach. It was not successful, but on the other hand it did not appear to be a flat rejection. After a little more talk, they decided to try again. This time they had better luck.

All that was being done was known in general terms to the captain of the Magsaysay; each place where something might go wrong was known to him also, and he was at least forewarned. The most critical area was the possibility of air attack; surprise would help a great deal in forestalling any effective land-based action against the submarine, but even traveling at flank speed she would lie exposed for over an hour on the surface, and in that time an air attack against her could be mounted and carried out.

Against such an action she would be helpless; the water she would be in would not allow her to maneuver and she carried no antiaircraft defense whatever. The Bay area was surrounded by military installations where the enemy was in possession. Almost from the moment that she had slipped her moorings the thought of air attack had been foremost in the captain’s mind; once Blossom Rock had been cleared and the Golden Gate lay ahead, he knew that the time of greatest peril was at hand.

In his Washington headquarters Colonel Rostovitch had been informed within minutes of his own emergency phone call that in some totally unexplained manner the Magsaysay had been seized and was attempting to put out to sea. With furious energy he began to mount a counterattack. He was not too familiar with the geography of the Bay region, but he knew in general terms that the fugitive submarine would have to negotiate some inland waters before she would be able to reach the Pacific, and that was where she would have to be caught.

He summoned subordinates, who came with all haste and the knowledge that something drastic had occurred. Rostovitch whipped them into action with a few words, then he stormed into his communications room so that not a moment would be lost in finding out what was going on. As the reports began to come in, minor disasters seemed to accumulate. In San Francisco three seized U.S. Army tanks were being kept more or less on the alert to deal with any possible mob uprisings, but only one of them was able to respond to the call to action; the crews of the other two could not be readily located in the predawn on the West Coast. When the one available tank had started out, it had encountered unexpected road construction which had forced a maddening delay.

At Hamilton Air Force Base all three of the posted fighter pilots were discovered to have been out on an extended party with some girls they had met the night before. They seemed unable to rouse themselves and reportedly acted like men who were in a trance. At McClellan the single fighter plane available and armed was discovered to have nearly empty tanks. When an effort was made to refuel it, the main gas tank cap stuck and, when force was applied, it broke loose from its fitting. It was a very minor thing, but the plane could not get off the ground.

At Beale, of the two available interceptors, one had a damaged wingtip as the result of a careless truck driver’s backing into it the day before; the other had a routine flat tire. The supply depot was secured, so a tire had to be removed from the damaged aircraft and switched with the flat. Two airplanes had to be jacked up to accomplish the change, and only one set of the proper-sized jacks could be located on short notice.

At Mather Air Force Base no suitable aircraft of any kind were available. At Travis, the great transpacific terminal of the Military Airlift Command, a plumbing rupture had allowed several hundred gallons of injection water to get into the main fuel lines. Before this was discovered several aircraft had been loaded with the contaminated mixture; they could not be flown until their tanks had been completely drained and the fuel systems cleaned out.

Alameda Naval Air Station had a few transports on the field, but not a single combat aircraft capable of an attack.

And so it went: Moffett, Castle, and all of the other air facilities within a realistic range reported trouble of one kind or another. Before the third such report had been received, Rostovitch knew that a thorough campaign had been staged without his being forewarned. His fury raged to the point where he seemed on the verge of apoplexy, but he could do nothing. He did not know how long it would take the submarine to reach a safe haven in the Pacific, but he sensed without being told that he would not be able to muster anything from anywhere in time. He seized a phone once more and ordered a maximum, unceasing effort to find and capture the saboteurs. He ordered the American commander of the Hunters Point Shipyard seized and held in maximum security for his personal interrogation. The man who had been assigned to guard and watch over him was to be treated likewise. All of the American agents, when captured, were to be executed publicly at once.

Then he thought hard. There had to be some way to locate and destroy the Magsaysay while she was still close in, some system of detection that would reveal her position. Offhand he did not know of any, but that was not in his field. Information was what he needed; once more he jerked up a telephone and hurled an order into the mouthpiece.

The OD on the bridge looked straight up at the mighty structure of the Golden Gate Bridge. “They might take some potshots at us from up there, sir,” he said.

“Pretty difficult,” the captain answered. “If anything does start, you and the talker get below on the double.”

“With your permission, sir, negative.”

“That goes for me, too, sir,” the talker said.

The captain raised his binoculars toward the bridge, then once more searched the sky. He was acutely aware of a low fogbank that lay not too far ahead; that was one prayer answered, although any enemy fighters that managed to get airborne might be equipped with sophisticated modern radars. Mercifully, traffic was not proving to be a problem; since the United States had fallen, waterborne commerce to and from her shores had dropped off to a considerable degree. The radar reports from below indicated that the ship channel was, as of then, free and clear.

Six minutes later the first of the fog began to dilute the stark brightness of the sky. The Magsaysay continued on at flank speed, racing now for the deep water where she could find sanctuary. The first real motion of the Pacific caused the submarine to begin to roll, but the knowledge of what that signified negated any sense of discomfort. A thin allover haze surrounded her as she continued southwestward toward the ship channel. Then, visibly, it became more dense and the sky was erased in a dull whiteness. The ship was alone now, just as though she were on some voyage in space, plowing ahead at her best surface speed, dipping and rolling under the force of the moving water, making steady progress past the shoals that lay astride the harbor entrance.

Eleven minutes later she entered the ship channel. It was a critical time, since for the next three miles there would be no doubt where she was and if the outer exit were to be blocked in any way, she would be trapped. Ten additional, slow, agonizing minutes passed in the fog-clouded atmosphere.

The captain said nothing, he was keeping his attention on the fathometer and the increasing depth of water underneath his ship’s keel. The water was a little rougher now and the Magsaysay was rolling fairly heavily. The depth was eighty-four feet.

“Dave,” the captain broke his silence, “prepare to take her down.”

“Ay, sir.”

The necessary orders were passed below into an atmosphere that was already completely professional. The men of the crew, those who had come aboard in decontamination suits and those who had been masquerading as day workmen, had almost all managed to change into the standard poopie suits worn by Navy submariners at sea. Many of the men had worn them under their decontamination gear; the rest had drawn theirs from the stock on board. The dropped isotope had been expertly recovered from its hiding place and put back into a safe container. The prediving preparations were gone about smoothly and precisely, the crew for the first time looking the part of a hand-picked, coordinated team.

A depth of ninety feet registered as Magsaysay turned twenty degrees to starboard and took up a heading of two seven zero — due west. On the bridge a message came up from below and the phone talker passed it on to the OD. “Ready to dive, sir.”

“Thank you.”

The fog hung on, shrouding the submarine visually, but not from the prying eyes of radar. The captain remained as quietly composed as he had seemed from the first moment that he had taken his place on the bridge, but the OD was well aware of all of the things that must be unreeling themselves in his brain. It was so close now, but it was not yet a sure thing. Once under the water the speed could be increased more than ten knots, and much more sophisticated equipment would be required to pinpoint the ship’s position. Eventually it would be all but impossible and then, at last, Operation Low Blow would be an accomplished fact.

“One hundred and three feet, sir,” the OD said, “and deepening.”

“All right, Dave, take her down. Make your depth fifty feet. Five degree down bubble.”

“Ay, sir.”

The phone talker left the bridge first, then the OD, and finally the captain. After he had passed through, the hatch was closed and secured.

Steadily, and without haste, the bow of Magsaysay began to sink lower; the wave changed in contour and crept closer to the base of the sail. Presently the sail itself began breaking the oncoming water; it continued to do so as the flat missile area behind it came awash and then the visible part of the stern. The sail alone was above the water after that, sinking steadily and flooding as it did so. It began to move forward at a slightly faster rate, gradually disappearing until only the top remained. Water came onto the bridge deck, conquered it, and then took possession of the rest of the structure until only the shaft of the periscope remained visible, churning up a tiny wake behind it. Then it too disappeared and the surface of the water returned to a solid pattern of waves and swells untouched by any man-made creation.

Admiral Barney Haymarket sat all but motionless, a cup of coffee set before him, watching the message board and the face of the clock beside it. The last message to be received was still displayed: Magsaysay had been seen to disappear into the fogbank which lay a short distance off the coastline. Some transport aircraft had been observed, but nothing of a combat type had been spotted.

The clock continued to measure off the minutes, an emotionless indicator which supplied data but could not interpret them.

Major Pappas spoke from halfway down the table. “She should be out of the channel now.”

They all knew that, but it helped somewhat to put it into words. Then it fell silent again, the clock now the center of all attention unless the message board chose to come alive once more.

At the end of almost twenty minutes more of waiting the admiral picked up his coffee cup and tasted the now lukewarm brew. It was taken as a signal; in response a little stir of movement began in the room.

The message board flashed: beale ok. That meant that the operational personnel who had been assigned there by Colonel Prichard had made it safely back to their base and were considered out of immediate danger. Better news still was the fact that no other message concerning the submarine itself had come in. When another ten minutes had been measured off and no more signals had been received, the admiral got to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I believe they pulled it off.”

That broke the tension which had lasted for so long. There were other hazards still ahead, but the most difficult part of the operation appeared to have been concluded satisfactorily. As the admiral turned toward his office he caught the eye of General Gifford and motioned. The general arose and followed him; among the rest only Major Pappas remained where he was, waiting for a possible final confirmation. If anything went wrong at the last minute and the submarine could not dive, he had one more remaining emergency plan to deal with the situation.

In the confines of his office the admiral sat down and faced his second in command. “What do you think?” he asked.

The general took his time about lighting a cigar. “We’re not out of the woods yet, but we can start breathing again. As I see it, it will take them a minimum of twenty-four hours to muster and position any kind of an ASW force and by then they’ll have an eight-hundred-mile radius to attempt to search.”

“It’s possible that they could find her.”

“Possible, yes, Barney, but they don’t know how. Their technology simply isn’t up to it, I’m confident of that. And if they get very very smart about the resupply operation, it still won’t do them very much good unlegs we have terrible luck. And as you know, we’re protected against that.”

The admiral shook his head as though to clear his brain. “I’m going to sack out for a little while, Carl, and I think that you should too. Pass the word that I’m to be notified immediately if anything concrete comes in.”

“Will do. Where do we go from here?”

Admiral Haymarket pressed the base of his palms hard against his skull just above his ears and moved them back and forth. “Let me get six hours’ sleep,” he said. “After that we’ll eat and then start in on the next phase.”

In the quiet of his very modest study the Reverend Mr. Jones addressed himself to the packet of mail which had just been handed to him. He sorted out the junk literature, set aside two or three bills which would have to be attended to, and then explored the rest. On the very bottom of the pile there was an airmail letter with an Israeli stamp. He opened the letter carefully because there was a twelve-year-old girl in his congregation who collected stamps, unfolded it, and began to read:

The Reverend Mr. Jones reread the letter very carefully. Then he bowed his head. He prayed for the Bornsteins and for all others like them. He gave thanks also for the Great Commandment that had taught him what to do… “that you shall love one another as I have loved you.”

When he had given thanks also for the blessing of his ministry and the grace that had been given to him, he arose once more, picked up the letter, and then opened the door.

“Doris,” he called to his wife. “Could you come here for a moment? I’ve got something to show you.”

Hewlitt could not define it, but he felt that a change in the atmosphere of the White House had developed during the noon hour. He sensed it almost as soon as he returned to his desk. Major Barlov stopped by and asked him some questions, none of them significant but all of them probing for something that was not disclosed. He saw Zalinsky only briefly; the administrator was as loaded with work as always, but he kept looking at Hewlitt as though he expected to read a sign in his features that was not there. By the time he was ready to leave for the day he knew definitely that something was up, but he had no clue as to what it might be.

Frank was not able to help. The burly cab driver listened to

Hewlitt’s report, but he could offer no information. “Percival will know, you can bet on that,” he said. “He hasn’t been around as much lately; somthin’s been keeping him busy. He’s about due back.”

When he was inside of his apartment and alone, Hewlitt lay down on his back, stared at the ceiling, and tried to fit the pieces together. The underground cell to which he belonged had been meeting for some time and had passed along a quantity of essentially trivial information, but there had been no real action. He had resigned himself to weeks, and probably months of this sort of thing with the eventual hope that it would all mean something in the end, but with the determination also that he would keep on with the job as long as he was asked to serve.

He got himself something to eat, then sat down to work on the notes he was keeping on the day-to-day activity in the White House. It was a perfectly innocent document which contained nothing that he was not supposed to know and presumably could discuss with anyone he chose. If the country were ever freed, then his notes, properly amplified, could be the foundation for a book he might eventually write.

When the phone rang he answered it without enthusiasm; his mind was on other things. His mood changed abruptly when he heard Barbara’s voice. “I’m lonesome,” she said. That was all.

“We’ll have to do something about that,” he responded, and was aware that it sounded trite.

“It might take a while.”

“Time well spent.” That was a little better.

He put away his manuscript in his desk, where it was there to find if anyone took the trouble, put a few things into a small case, and set out to answer the summons. When he arrived at the safe house Davy Jones let him in with a smile. “Percival’s back,” he announced as soon as Hewlitt was safely inside. “He wants to see you. Barbara’s here, and the rest of the girls.”

“Barbara phoned me.”

“Of course, I’m stupid — sorry. You fixed to stay all night?”

Hewlitt nodded. He, Cedric Culp, and the two secret service men who belonged to the cell stayed over often enough to give credence to the facade that the house was a private brothel. They were seldom there together, although three of them had a sleeping arrangement on the second floor. One of the secret service men had moved in with the girl called Nancy, but that had been by their mutual consent. What they did was their business, and the rest of the little group did not interfere.

Barbara appeared and kissed him casually. A few moments later Percival joined them and occupied one of the bar stools. Hewlitt sat beside him; Davy served up the drinks as though this was the beginning of a festive evening. He had a certain style about him, Hewlitt noted, that suggested a devil-may-care attitude. People could be acquainted with Davy Jones for a long time and not really know him. It could be an expert defense that he had developed because he was a Negro, or merely a reflection of his own complex personality. Whichever way it was, Hewlitt liked Davy a great deal and had learned to trust him.

Mary Mulligan joined with the two other girls who now lived in the house: Nancy who had originally been of the First Lady’s staff, and Melanie, who was the interesting and highly attractive offspring of an American father and a Korean mother. She was quite slender and had a liquid grace that appealed to many men. There was nothing about her manner that revealed the exceptional intelligence she possessed. She spoke perfect French effortlessly and had a conversational knowledge of three additional languages.

The new bar was large enough to accommodate them all; when Davy had supplied refreshments to everyone, Hewlitt began. “I don’t know if any of the rest of you encountered this,” he said, “but when I got back from lunch this afternoon, there was a decided change in the atmosphere. I can’t prove it by anything specific, but I felt it all around me. Barlov asked me a lot of questions and Zalinsky wasn’t himself at all.”

“Did anyone else get a similar reaction?” Percival asked.

“Very definitely,” Barbara said. “In fact I was talking about it to Mary — she picked it up too. We were going to tell you about it. What’s it all about?”

Percival consulted his drink before replying. “All of us have been waiting a long time for something tangible, some really effective action against the enemy. We’ve got it now. It happened this morning in San Francisco.”

“Give, man, give,” Davy said.

“All right. Just before dawn a United States Navy crew took possession of a newly commissioned, fully armed, fleet ballistic missile nuclear submarine and took her out to sea right under the noses of the enemy.”

“Good God!” Hewlitt said. “How did they ever do it?”

“We’ve been working on it for weeks — longer, in fact. There’s a remote chance that they might still mount a successful attack against her — she’s still pretty close in — but I doubt it very much. That’s about the size of it. She’s the newest and best that we’ve got and she’s under the direct control of the First Team; in fact one member is on board her right now.”

“What’s going to happen?” Melanie asked.

Percival went back to his drink. “Nothing for the immediate present; the submarine just escaped this morning. In two or three weeks a lot could happen. Remember: a missile-firing submarine, one that packs as many warheads as this one does, is principally a deterrent.”

“Do it or else,” Davy said.

Percival nodded at him. “That’s about it. In case you girls didn’t know, one modern FBM like this one packs more firepower inside her hull than has been released in all of the wars in the world’s history. That includes World War II and the two nuclear explosions in Japan.”

“One thing,” Mary interjected. “This opens the bag as far as our organization is concerned. They know now that we exist and that we have a considerable capability.”

“They do,” Percival agreed. “You can count on one thing: they’re going to throw everything they have into finding and destroying that submarine, because she’s our big gun now.”

Nancy, who had remained silent up to that point, spoke in her slightly reedy voice. “But she can’t stay at sea forever; she’ll have to put in to port for food and supplies. So if anything’s going to happen, it can’t wait too long.”

Percival agreed with her. “That’s true.”

“In other words,” Hewlitt said, “it could all be over in another ninety days — one way or the other.”

Percival handed his empty glass to Davy. “Yes, the chips are going to be down from here on in. It may get pretty rough, but we’re prepared for that, too.”

It was after twelve before Hewlitt turned in. There had been much discussion until they had stopped to hear the eleven o’clock news. Not a word was said about the submarine or anything else that could be associated with it. Hewlitt was used to that — he had heard many newscasts which took no notice of the major story of the day because it had not been made public and perhaps never would be. The tight control of all the news media was one of the things he resented most about the enemy occupation; withholding classified information was one thing, but total news management was another. When the news was over the girls went upstairs, Davy left on an errand of his own, and Hewlitt found himself alone with Percival.

“When this is all over, I’d like to know who you really are,” he said. “That is, if you’ll be able to tell me.”

“I think so,” Percival said. “I won’t break the cell system now for reasons that you fully understand; part of your own protection comes from the fact that we know that we’re playing for keeps and we don’t take any chances that we can possibly avoid.”

“I fully understand that.”

“Good, because there’s something I want to discuss with you. Would you like to get a little closer to the First Team in this operation?”

“I’d like that very much.”

“At an increased risk?”

“That’s part of the game, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Percival agreed, “it is. There’s another thing: after what we’ve just done to them, they’re going to try twice as hard to ferret us out now. There’s a man named Rostovitch…”

“I know,” Hewlitt interrupted without thinking, “I’ve heard about him. He’s supposed to be a very hard case.”

“He is, and I have that directly from a man who faced him once. He won’t show any mercy of any kind; if he gets you that’s it and we won’t be able to help you — at least you won’t be able to count on it.”

“What are my orders?” Hewlitt asked.

“For the moment — none. We’re going to play this a little differently; you’ll know in time what to do. Settle for that. Are you still willing?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good, I’ll pass your decision on up. At least one member of the First Team knows all about you; he’ll be handling this personally.” “I hope I’m to meet him.”

“Very possibly you will.”

“By the way,” Hewlitt said, “who is Amy Thornbush?”

“I don’t know — why?”

“The first time I met Zalinsky he said to me, ‘You know Amy Thornbush.’ It was a statement not a question. I don’t know any Amy Thornbush and I wondered if you did.”

Percival took out a small notebook and a pen. “I’ll look into that; there isn’t any Percival either, if you follow me.”

“I do, and I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You have a good memory.”

“I’ve had some training — self-administered.”

“That could come in very handy. From now on your conduct, particularly as regards this house, is to remain unchanged, but you are out of the White House cell; you’ll report directly to me and not to anyone else — all right?”

“Yes, of course. Do you mean by that that I’m not to confide in Frank anymore?”

“Not at all: in fact if you need to see me in a hurry he has certain contacts that can help you. But you’re going to play a new role and I don’t want you to be going through intermediaries. If all goes well, you may be in at the most interesting part.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good. Go to bed.”

Hewlitt did not know when Percival left the house, and he did not concern himself with it. He went up to the small room that he used for his overnight visits, undressed, washed his face and hands in one of the two available bathrooms, and turned in. The bed was not as comfortable as it might have been, but as it had before, it would do.

He had no recollection of anything before he went to sleep. The next thing that he knew was that he was being vigorously shaken and that a flashlight was burning in the room. Then he heard

Davy’s voice cutting through to his sleep-charged brain. “Hew, hurry! Into Barbara’s room — now. We’re being raided!”

As he came to, Davy literally yanked him to his feet and pushed him into the corridor. Barbara’s room was opposite; without ceremony Davy opened the door and shoved him inside. Hewlitt turned quickly to ask a fast question but he had no chance; the tall Negro was whipping the sheets off his bed and destroying the signs of recent occupancy.

“Hew, hurry!” He heard Barbara’s voice come out of the semidarkness, then he saw her sitting up in the double bed. With a quick sweep of her arm she gestured. When he stayed at the safe house he slept in his shorts; he had them on now and nothing else. Barbara apparently wore nothing at all; he had a stabbing glance toward her and saw a magnificent pair of breasts, then her urgent voice caught him once more. “Strip,” she urged. “Get into bed, fast!” He had been in bed with women before, but for a fraction of a moment he hesitated. He was fully awake now, but this was not just a girl — this was Barbara which made things different. Then he heard a sound from her, it was not a spoken word but an almost animal gasp of desperation. After that it took him only four seconds to get out^of his shorts, fling them into a chair, and run the three or four steps to the side of her bed. As he did so he heard sudden noises downstairs, sounds of abrupt forceful entry.

He had been slow to waken, it had cost several seconds, but he made up for it now. As Barbara held the covers up for him he sprang into her bed. “Hold me,” she commanded. He put his arms around her and pressed her naked body to his own. He did not have time to react to the feel of her; within seconds the corridor outside was suddenly full of men.

The door to the bedroom was jerked open and the beam of a powerful light cut through the darkness. It found the bed and held steady, blindingly, on the two heads that were close together. Hewlitt raised himself on one elbow and, in a voice he managed to make sound startled, called out, “What the hell!”

Two men came in, one holding the light. Unceremoniously the other jerked back the covers and surveyed the two naked bodies pressed together. He hesitated for several seconds, drinking in as much of Barbara’s body as was visible. Then with one hand he pushed her shoulder, turning her onto her back.

The man studied the body revealed before him, then tossed the covers back into position. For a few seconds the other swept the light around the room, then they were gone.

“God damn them!” Hewlitt raged. “I’ll kill every one of them!”

It was for their benefit, of course, if they heard him, and Barbara knew that; she pressed an arm across his chest commanding him to remain in bed. Hewlitt thought and realized that that would be the natural thing to do; charging naked through the corridors in pursuit of armed men would be idiotic and no sane person would do it, no matter how furious he might be.

They heard a scream from Mary’s room, but it was one of fright and not terror. “Stay here,” Barbara whispered in his ear. “She’s all right. I know.”

He could do little else; his clothes, apart from his shorts, had been left in the other room and in a few fast seconds Davy had probably taken them away. There was the sound of a man going downstairs and more tramping in the corridor, but the bedroom door remained shut.

“What if any more of them come in here to look at you?” Hewlitt asked her softly.

“Let them,” she answered. It was not tight-lipped, simply practical — the only possible solution to an acutely dangerous situation.

Hewlitt thought next of Davy and wondered if he needed help. He half-started to rise when once more Barbara held him down. “Don’t,” she said. “You can’t do anything.”

Tense as he was, he knew that she was right. How any girl could keep her cool in the midst of an enemy raid with an unexpected man in her bed he did not know, but Barbara managed it. He took comfort in the realization that he had heard no sounds of violence, no scuffling, no cries of distress or pain. Mary had made no further outcry; the whole noise level seemed to be dropping. Then he heard at least two men going downstairs, which could mean that for the moment at least they were alone.

Then he felt Barbara’s finger across his lips. At that moment he remembered a story he had read as a boy — about someone who was pretending sleep in a flophouse that was being raided. He had heard the intruders depart in just the same way, but he had lain perfectly still for a full half hour, breathing steadily as though he had been in deep slumber. Then, finally, he had heard the man who had been waiting patiently and noiselessly just outside his door at last give up his vigil and walk away.

Presently he became embarrassingly aware of the girl beside him. He had often thought how rewarding it would be to be in bed with Barbara, but it had not been a casual thing with him. Now, out of necessity, Barbara was beside him: warm, close, and naked as a girl in bed should always be. His nerves were still far from composed, but with the first respite from the raid that had just taken place, he could no longer ignore the circumstances.

His thoughts were interrupted by more noise from downstairs and the sound of angry voices. He recognized Davy’s baritone in the jumble of heated talk. There were additional sounds from outside and then at last the coming of a blessed quiet. Five full, tension-locked minutes passed, then there was a soft tap on the door. “Yes?” Hewlitt responded.

The door opened just enough to allow Davy to slide in. “Our guests have gone,” he said. “Sorry if you were inconvenienced.”

“Say that you were and I’ll bite your ear off,” Barbara whispered. Davy heard her, but he made no comment. “We were warned just in time,” he said. “They didn’t find anything. Hew, I’ll get your clothes back to you as soon as I can.”

“No rush,” Barbara said. “He isn’t going anywhere.”

Hewlitt heard her, but his mind was preoccupied. “How about it?” he asked. “Has this house had it? They know where we are now.”

“They’ve known all the time,” Davy answered. “We wanted them to. Tonight they came for a look and found just what they were expecting. There’s a lot of stuff hidden here, but they didn’t come close to any of it.”

“How about Percival?”

“He’s all right, he left some time ago. Now get some sleep if you can.” He went out and closed the door behind him.

When they were alone once more, Hewlitt discovered that Barbara was shaking a very little as she lay beside him. For a moment he wondered if it was because of him, then he felt her arm tighten around him. “I was scared,” she confessed in a whisper.

“So was I,” Hewlitt said softly. “I still am a little.”

It was awkwardly silent then; he felt that he should say something, but he was not sure what. “This may not be just the time and place to mention it,” he managed, “but, well, corny as it may sound, I am falling in love with you.”

She tilted her head up toward him and there was a slight movement of her body against his own. “Thank you. When you’re in bed with a naked lady, it’s quite appropriate to tell her that you find her nice.”

She turned sideways until she was facing him, her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. Although the only light was what came in from the streets, he could see her very clearly. Her hair was billowed about her face; at that particular moment her normal attractiveness was enormously amplified as though some undiscovered alchemy had transformed her into the most beautiful and desirable woman who had ever been born.

He banished from his mind the thoughts that had been shuttle-cocking back and forth about the raid, the inspection of her body that he had witnessed, and the almost violently abrupt manner in which they had been thrown together.

He kissed her, reasonably gently at first, but when he knew that she was fully and freely, even joyfully responsive, he let himself give way to a mounting passion. She was a woman who knew how to give of herself, and to receive back all that she gave — and more. He was immensely grateful, because this was the way he wanted it to be — the way he had dreamed it would be.

He ran his hand down the smooth subtle curvature of her back, his fingertips relaying the magic feel of her skin. She made a very small noise and his blood pounded harder because of it. He held his hand against the soft contour of her buttocks and then pressed her hard to him in the beginning moments of realization.

More than one thousand miles northwest of San Francisco, four hundred and twenty-five feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, the captain of the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay sat in his small office, in full command of his ship, his crew, and himself. Seated before him was one of the two enemy representatives who were on board his command, the one who had literally jumped for his life at the last minute when the submarine had been slipping her moorings at Hunters Point. Standing in the doorway, by invitation, was the commander of the shipyard whose overseer the uninvited guest had been.

“What is your name?” the captain asked.

The man responded with a cascade of syllables that was all but incomprehensible. It appeared to start out with Klem, but that was all that could be understood.

“All right,” the captain said. “I can’t pronounce that and I’m sure my men can’t either. We’ll call you Clem. Why did you come on board?”

“Because it was not my wish to die. While I watch I see nothing, but you do everything. For this I am shooted immediate fast. This is undesirable, so when I understand, I jump.”

“I see. Suppose we had been stopped by your people before we got away?”

“Then I say I jump to prevent you.”

The captain looked at the commander. “He’s candid, anyway.”

“I can’t honestly blame him too much,” the shipyard man said. “In his position I think that I would have done the same thing. He didn’t have much choice.”

“Nor do we. All right, Clem, I will grant you political asylum on board this ship for the time being. We can’t give you anything to eat, you understand that. Every man in this crew was forewarned that there would be no way to get any supplies on board and that we would all have to go without rations for at least three days.” “That fool everyone,” the ex-overseer volunteered. “Nothing to eat, cannot go.”

“Well, we did manage to smuggle some packets of soup mix on board under some of the decontamination suits, but that’s all we’ve got. No coffee, just drinking water that we make.”

“Thank you for my life. I am glad I am live to feel that pain of hunger. I am patient.”

“That’s fine, Clem. Understand that if you make the slightest attempt to interfere with the operation of this ship, you will be treated at once as an enemy spy.” He looked up at the shipyard commander. “Suppose you take over responsibility for the POW’s,” he said. “I’m badly understaffed as it is, and I don’t have any men to spare.”

“I’d be glad to.”

“Good. We’ll cover for you while you’re in the sack. Ask Mr. Wagner to come in, will you?”

Even in a poopie suit Walter Wagner could not conceal his remarkable physical development. The captain invited him in and gestured toward a chair. “One of the privileges of being in command,” he said, “is that I was on the bridge and saw you come off that crane. How high were you when you dove?”

“About a hundred and four feet,” Wagner answered. “It looks spectacular, but it isn’t difficult when you’re used to it.”

“It would scare me witless.”

“The only thing that disturbs me is that I had to blow my cover. Now everyone in the business knows that this country has an agent who is a high diver. Up until now I could go almost anywhere as a circus or carnival performer and no one ever questioned it.”

“I don’t know what the future holds,” the captain said, “but if this cruise is successful, you might be able to retire and do whatever you’d like.”

Wagner shook his head slowly. “I’d like to believe that, but just about the time that things quiet down all around something pops up somewhere. It always has.”

The captain npdded unhappily. “I wish you weren’t right, but I know that you are. Essentially we’re in the same business. Anyhow, we’re all naturally very proud that we have a First Team member on board. I’d like to pass the word on that if you don’t mind.”

“All right, but keep it low-key. Major Pappas wanted this assignment very badly, but there was no way to get him off the crane except to come down the ladders, and that would have been out of the question. I could get off and into the water in something like five seconds, so that settled it in my favor.”

“Have you had some soup?”

“Not yet; I stuffed myself before I came on board, so I’m in good shape.”

“Good enough. You have the run of the ship and, while I’m in command, if you have any directives they’ll be followed.”

Wagner got to his feet. “I’ll leave all that to the admiral; you’ll be hearing from him.”

The captain stood up as well. “We already have. We didn’t transmit, but our orders stand unchanged.”

“Thank you, captain.”

“You’re more than welcome, sir.”

Colonel Gregor Rostovitch was in a mood of intense concentration. Spread out on the top of his desk was a series of charts and maps to which he was giving his undivided attention. The Magsaysay had gotten away and due to the fact that he had been inadequately staffed and poorly served, no one so far had been made to suffer for it. Accepting the fact that the submarine was loose in the Pacific, the colonel was now intent on tracking her down. One thing was greatly in his favor: by all report she had no provisions on board and she would have to put in somewhere very promptly for supplies. Canada was the likeliest choice, but there was an important treaty with Canada which the northern dominion, probably for the sake of its own hide, was adhering to scrupulously. Any services rendered to the Magsaysay would be interpreted as an act of war, and Canada would be brought under the gun just as the United States had been. Air patrols were out searching for any supply vessels, but on the surface of the Pacific that was an almost hopeless task. However! The colonel did not know the exact range of the fugitive submarine’s missiles, but he was acutely aware that if she could make her way into the Atlantic, that would put almost the whole of his country within her easy reach. Sixteen rounds of ballistic missiles, each one equipped with multiple, directable nuclear warheads, represented fearful firepower that could wipe whole nations off the map, and from underneath the ocean; she did not even need to surface in order to fire.

Bitter as the pill was, he accepted the fact that the men on board were actually an integrated submarine crew that had been assembled right under the noses of his thickheaded people. The whole thing had been carried off superbly well, which told him that it had been a professional operation all the way. That confirmed the fact that somewhere within the United States there was an organization which had just handed him the greatest defeat of his career. The underground was not an illusion, and it was not made up of weakling college students. Very well! The counter was first to find and sink the submarine. That done, he would requisition more men, have them sent over, and set up a system of terror that would destroy the underground and force the total, absolute and final surrender of the United States, not so much to his country as to himself.

There were only three rational ways that the Ramon Magsaysay could get into the Atlantic: through the Panama Canal, which was obviously impossible, around Cape Horn, or under the Arctic ice cap. The southern route would be safer and she had almost unlimited fuel — enough to take her completely around the world four times at the equator. Against it were the time required and the need to restock her larders. South America was liberally supplied with his own agents who could make any stop down there ill-advised.

Her obvious choice was to transit the ice cap; once she was safely up in the Beaufort Sea there would be no stopping her, but to get there she would have to pass through the Bering Strait. There was no alternative, and in the narrow confines of those strategic waters she would be at a great disadvantage. To stop her some very important people would have to issue orders, but that was no problem. Gregor Rostovitch usually got what he wanted.

The colonel’s immediate furious rage began to ebb away. Replacing it was the total intensity of the skilled tactician beginning the careful planning of the placement of his forces.