The First Team

23

Colonel Gregor Rostovitch received the news with a cold and tight-lipped understanding. The death of the man Carlo he had expected for some time; the rest of those who had been killed were of no special importance. What did matter was that he had been challenged on a face-to-face basis, that was the message and there was no mistaking it. It was also, remotely, a threat to his own person, and he understood that too. The world was full of people who wanted to see him dead and he did not care. But he had been challenged and that he knew would be to a finish. The high diver, and those who were associated with him, had asked for what they were about to receive.

His mind was clear as he planned his response. The people against him had tried terror, knowing that he was probably the greatest expert in the use of terror anywhere on the international scene. And behind him he had awesome military power. Against him he had a so far unseen foe, which made the game more interesting. Also against him he had the clock and the calendar. The conquest of America had been perhaps one of the greatest coups in history, but it had unexpectedly also proven to be one of the most costly. The government he had left behind him was growing increasingly unstable and uncertain; unless he could return home as the new premier within a fairly short time, there could be very serious consequences. The Actor had about run his course and, wily as he was, his performance was beginning to pale. Gregor Rostovitch knew that he badly needed a personal triumph of his own to build his stature up to an apex. Now he had been presented with the opportunity to achieve one, which accounted for the fact that he was not enraged in the least. Instead he began to lay his plans with the gfim satisfaction of a gladiator who knows that no man living can stand up to him and that another contest for him will mean another sure kill.

Not long after the first light of the morning had thrown its blushes into the sky, a light aircraft sat down on the concealed landing strip that served the headquarters of Thomas Jefferson. The pilot paused just long enough to allow three people to deplane, then he was off again at very low altitude, skimming over the hills on what could have been a hunting reconnaissance or a rancher looking for strays from his herd.

Some twenty minutes after that Senator Solomon Fitzhugh was escorted into the reception foyer, such as it was, of the Thomas Jefferson headquarters. The facility had not been designed to receive many visitors, and minimum attention had been given to the usual amenities. Nevertheless Fitzhugh looked about him and took it all in.

Mrs. Smith came out to receive him. “Good morning, senator,” she greeted. “I’m very sorry that it was necessary for you to get up so early.”

“That’s quite all right,” he answered her gravely. “I am by nature an early riser.”

She sat down and faced him informally. “Senator, I believe that it has been made clear to you that this facility, and everything that goes on here, is supersecret in the strictest sense of the term.”

The senator nodded. “It has.”

“And as an American patriot you have agreed that under no circumstances will you reveal anything whatever about its existence until such time as you have been given specific clearance, from this headquarters, to do so.”

Again Fitzhugh nodded. “I have assumed that obligation, and I am grateful that at last someone describes me as a patriot.”

“Very well, senator, then I have something to show you before anything else. We are not much given to ceremonials here, we are too heavily engaged in other matters, but we do have something. Please come with me.” She opened a door and passed through.

Senator Fitzhugh rose and fell in behind his guide. When he had passed through the doorway he found himself in a simple room with no furniture whatsoever except for a single American flag standing in one corner. On the wall there were some pictures. Some fifty people, men and women, looked back at him from their portraits, each with a name posted underneath. He stopped when he saw the face of his son and read the name gary fitzhugh followed by the dates of his short life.

“The man who directs our whole operation ordered this,” Mrs. Smith said. “We all come in here every little while to look and to remember. The President knows of it too; when this is all over a suitable memorial is going to be built in Washington.”

Despite himself Fitzhugh felt a growing lump in his throat. He looked long at the features of his dead son and then at the picture of the slender, quiet-appearing brunette which was hung next. He read the name and then looked at his guide. “She was your daughter, I believe you said.”

Mrs. Smith nodded. “Yes, senator, my only child. I cannot have anymore.”

The senator bowed his head. “I am very sorry,” he said.

“And I also, senator. But they did not die in vain. You will learn more about that very shortly.”

“I understand that I may be here quite some time.”

“Yes, but perhaps not as long as you might expect. Things are rapidly coming to a head.”

She opened another door and, indicating that he should follow, led him down a lengthy corridor which penetrated deep into the underground complex. Then she paused and looked into the conference room. “This is where the First Team meets,” she told him. “It is equipped with very advanced and highly protected communications facilities and many other features. It is much superior to both NORAD and the underground SAC headquarters. One major difference is that there are no press tours.”

“I can well understand that.”

“Good. Please sit down and you will be served some breakfast.” The tribute to his son, along with the others, had moved Solomon Fitzhzugh, and he had something to say. “Mrs. Smith, I am very keenly aware that all of this was built without the knowledge or consent of the Congress, but I can see why it had to be kept very secret.”

He drew an encouraging response to that. “Senator, I don’t question the integrity of anyone in Congress, but your colleagues in the Senate and the House represent a great many different shades of opinion; there are many of them who we would not trust to be here now.”

A door at the end of the room opened and Admiral Haymarket came in.

For a second or two Fitzhugh did not react; then he began to stare in almost stricken amazement. The admiral came toward him. “Good morning, senator,” he said. “I regard this as a much happier occasion than our last meeting.”

Fitzhugh took hold of the back of a chair and tried to clear his head of disbelief. “But I thought you dead and buried!”

The admiral nodded. “We went to considerable trouble to create that impression.”

Fitzhugh’s mind whirled and a desperate hope came to him. “My son?”

The admiral closed his eyes for a second and shook his head. “Sit down, Senator Fitzhugh, and let me have your breakfast brought in. We have eggs ready the way that you like them. This, at least, we can do for you.”

“I… I am astounded,” Fitzhugh said.

“I can appreciate that,” the admiral said clearly. “I assumed command of this operation, senator, on the direct orders of the President. I have the documents here if you wish to see them.” Fitzhugh was still stunned. “That… won’t be necessary.” “Good. Here is your ration, I believe.” He waited while the senator’s breakfast was set before him. Then he sat down easily and rested an arm across the back of the chair. “While you’re eating, I have some information for you. Our enemies, and I believe you recognize them as such now, have been making fun of our diplomacy for years and ridiculing our genuine peace efforts. But when we get tough, they understand perfectly. You remember Kennedy’s actions during the Cuban missile crisis.”

“Yes.” Fitzhugh was somewhat uncomfortable, but he ate his eggs and listened.

“Well, we got tough yesterday. We closed in on their murder team that killed your son and the other students. Forgive my referring to it, but I think you’d want to know. We disposed of them.” “You mean that…”

The admiral nodded briskly. “Yes, senator. Included in the group were two professional torturers and a well-known assassin. He was personally responsible…”

The senator shut his eyes for a moment.

“They won’t do it anymore.”

The senator picked up a glass of orange juice in a hand that shook a little. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Now, senator, another matter. In a major operation, to which we gave maximum attention for many weeks and in which many people risked their lives in very hazardous assignments, we arranged for the escape of one of our most potent FBM’s — Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine, that is.”

“I know of this.”

“Of course. Very recently the enemy boasted to one of our people that the submarine had been sunk. Our best guess is that there is a forty per cent chance that this may be so, but we aren’t sure.”

“Can’t you find out?”

“Yes, but that would require her to send out a signal and thereby expose herself to additional risk. If we transmit to her and request a reply, the enemy will know and will be listening too.”

“I see.”

“Therefore we may be playing with a bust hand; we don’t know if our hole card has been stolen or not.”

“There’s no time that the submarine is scheduled to report in?” The admiral shook his head. “Her captain is under direct orders not to transmit any signal whatsoever unless directed, or under circumstances that don’t pertain here.”

Fitzhugh rubbed a hand across his face. “I still can’t believe that you’re alive and that I’m sitting here talking to you.”

“Well, you are.” The admiral let him take his time.

“I have read the address you prepared for me,” the senator began, thinking aloud. “If the submarine has been sunk, then it would be pure suicide to deliver it.”

“Precisely.” Admiral Haymarket nodded his approval.

“But if there is no broadcast.”

“Then we’re right back where we started and the war goes on indefinitely.”

“The war?”

“Yes, senator.” „

“You see no peace ahead?”

“Do you?”

Fitzhugh thought for a moment or two. “No,” he said at last. “There you have it. If you prefer not to go on the air, I’ll understand and we do have other resources. There’s a celebrated war hero from Hawaii in the Senate and if we can get hold of him…” Fitzhugh lifted his hand. “I have no one left to me,” he said. “Only the memory of my son. This is the second time that you’ve invited me to cut my throat. I may do it this time.”

Admiral Haymarket made it as easy as he could. “Why don’t we cut the tape,” he suggested. “Then we’ll hold it pending your final decision.”

“All my decisions are final, admiral,” Fitzhugh answered him. “I’ll make the broadcast.”

The videotape was done the same morning. Once he found himself facing the familiar broadcasting equipment, Solomon Fitzhugh assumed the manner that was internationally known; once more he was the wise, powerful, and sincere senior lawmaker who carried great weight and authority. He had to be believed; conviction rang from his every word. His performance was masterly and as the admiral watched on the monitor in his office he gave silent thanks that he had chosen the right man. If Solomon Fitzhugh said these things, and sounded as if he meant them, then it would hearten the whole nation and help immensely to bring things to a rapid climax. Speed, in moderation, was essential now: Magsaysay could not remain at sea indefinitely, if she was still afloat, and each day that passed made the enemy stronger in the United States.

When the senator had finished, he asked to see the admiral once more. When he was shown into Haymarket’s office he sat down limply and ignored the cup of coffee that was placed before him.

“I’ve delivered your speech,” he said. “Exactly as it was written — that was my agreement and I have carried it out. What do you want to do with me now?”

The admiral looked at him and saw an aging man from whom much energy had been effectively drained out. It was not the speech that had done it, he knew; it was the pressure the man had been under, the grief, the agonizing reappraisal of his position, the defeat of the personal philosophy that had guided him, publicly and privately, for years. For the first time since he had known Solomon Fitzhugh he felt for him.

A teletype in the corner of the office began to clatter; the admiral got up and stood before it, waiting for the message to be completed. When the machine stopped he tore off the yellow paper and brought it back to his desk. He studied it carefully and then handed it to Fitzhugh. The senator adjusted his glasses and read:

The senator knew without asking, but he allowed himself to have a small added satisfaction. “The signature…”

The admiral understood completely. “The President,” he said. “He was notified and was watching.”

“He is all right then?”

“Very much so.”

“Is he here?”

Haymarket shook his head. “I trust you completely, senator, but you have no need to know.”

“Of course.”

Haymarket became more practical, and very considerate. “You will be our guest here for a while, sir, I believe that was explained to you before you came.”

“Yes, admiral, it was.”

“Then one of our people will look after you beginning immediately. It may please you to know that we have brought your man from Washington and he will be here shordy to take care of your needs for as long as you are with us.”

Fitzhugh recovered a little. “That is most kind of you, admiral.” “Nothing at all, senator. As a matter of fact he might have been in an awkward position if we hadn’t protected him and we deemed it only good judgment. Now, sir, let’s hope to God that our submarine is still at sea.”

“Amen,” Fitzhugh said.

When the amenities were over and Senator Solomon Fitzhugh had been shown to the quarters he would have to occupy for the time being, a harder and more factual appraisal of his work began almost immediately. This was Ed Higbee’s show, and to him the rest of the First Team gladly deferred. Higbee saw the brief tape three times and then individual parts of it once again before he ventured an opinion. “It isn’t perfect, far from it,” he told General Gifford, “but all things considered it is damn good. I’m going to use it as is. If we tried to patch out the few soft spots, or asked Fitzhugh to redo the whole thing, we’d probably lose more than we’d gain in the process.”

“When are you going to spring it?” the general asked.

Higbee glanced at his watch. “No good news story is improved by needless delay; it goes out tonight. The cut-ins on the major networks are all set up, and you can take it from me that it’s been one hell of a job. We won’t get full coverage, and we’ll undoubtedly get cut off in some places, but in the main we’ll get through.”

“You said you had a gimmick for building the audience.”

Higbee nodded. “There are still a considerable number of air-raid sirens left operational in the major cities around the country, and in most of the smaller ones as well. Stan Cumberland worked out a system so that we can set most of them off about five minutes before air time. When the American public hears that racket, you know what’s going to happen: everybody’ll be running to turn on the TV or radio to find out what it’s all about. Then on goes the Fitzhugh tape. I’m counting on a lot of the local fuhrers to think that this is their own people’s work and to let it ride. It was pretty carefully written with that in mind.”

“You should reach a good percentage of the country,” Gifford said. “I like the air-raid warning idea — if it works, it’s good.”

Higbee punched a cigarette into an ashtray. “I hope to reach as many as I can for their own good, but I’m really talking to the Actor; you understand that. And to Zalinsky and Rostovitch. Zalinsky may miss it, in the hospital, but he’ll get the word.”

“I think everyone concerned should see the tape before it goes out.”

“Barney had the same idea; I’ll screen it at this afternoon’s meeting and outline the plans. Then, unless someone disagrees, we’ll go—”

The conversation stopped there, the men at the top of Thomas Jefferson had long ago cultivated the habit of leaving out unnecessary things that were mutually understood.

It seemed to Hewlitt that the air had suddenly become much sweeter to breathe. The tension that he had been living under for weeks had been lifted; now he no longer had to hold himself in continuous check, guarding every sentence that he spoke, every gesture that he made. All playacting was ended. He was under a new kind of cloud, but the danger that it represented was simply the hazard of getting physically caught. He could get the breaks or they could get him, but so long as he remained free the air was wonderful.

And he had Barbara with him. He remembered very keenly what she had said while she had been throwing things literally into her suitcase and he presumed that he was responsible. In fact he hoped to God that he was, because she was his girl and if anyone was going to get her pregnant he preferred that it be himself. He had no illusions that he was the first man ever to make love to her, as he had never pretended that she was the first girl with whom he had ever been in bed. Somewhere in the dim past Mrs. Grundy had run screaming up the flue and people had changed their thinking about such things.

Of course she could be made unpregnant, and perhaps that would be the thing to do, but that decision should be hers and no one else’s. The occupying authorities had put out an edict about that, but he doubted very much if anyone paid any real attention to it except to see that some additional precautions were taken.

The movement of the members of the little ex-White House party had been handled very smoothly indeed. A Helio Courier aircraft had picked them up out of an almost impossibly small field and had carried them a considerable distance at night and at very low altitude with the aid of terrain-avoidance radar. Later there had been a much faster aircraft on an unspecified kind of disguised business and then a Land Rover ride up to the mountain hideaway where Senator Solomon Fitzhugh had been housed. In that retreat there had been a blessed opportunity to bathe, to sleep, and to savor a fresh sense of freedom.

Percival did not accompany them past the point where the Courier aircraft had taken them on board. He had left them without explanations other than a very brief farewell. “I’ve got a great deal to do in a short time,” he had said. After that he had shut the cabin door and waved once at them before he had disappeared into the darkness.

Hewlitt did not know when he would be summoned for his promised meeting with the First Team, but he kept himself as prepared as he was able. He was considerably relieved when his luggage was delivered to him with almost all of the essential things that had been in his apartment. Everything had been tossed in evident great haste, but Barbara obligingly pressed a few items for him along with her own clothes and restored his confidence in his ability to make a presentable appearance. When he met the First Team, he wanted to look like the man from the White House who had faced Colonel Rostovitch and had outbluffed him, even if only for a few minutes.

When Mrs. Smith came for him, he was ready. He rode beside her in the simple car she had brought and talked with her about relatively neutral topics during the considerable ride that followed.

He noticed that she had modified her appearance somewhat; she was still very much the same person, but the chic, perfectly turned-out look that had characterized her in Washington was replaced by a far less sophisticated outward image. She had transformed herself into what appeared to be a properly dressed, well-mannered Midwestern housewife, one who had three children to care for and when she was not doing that, belonged to the church women’s club and subscribed to the Reader’s Digest. Her manner changed, too, to match her altered appearance; she was simpler in what she did and more matter-of-fact. It was Hewlitt’s judgment that she had blended herself remarkably well into the environment in which she was apparently now living and, despite the fact that she was notably attractive, she could pass all but unnoticed almost anywhere.

“We could stop for lunch,” she suggested. “I believe that it would be quite safe unless we had a particularly bad break. Or, if you prefer, we can keep going for another two hours or so.”

“How about yourself?” he asked.

“It’s immaterial to me.”

“Then I suggest that we go on. I’m in favor of avoiding any risk that it isn’t essential to take.”

She drove on; Hewlitt looked at her profile and wondered whether or not she had been testing him with that bit of business. If she had wanted to stop to eat, she would have known the proper place and would have pulled in without consulting him.

It was close to three in the afternoon when they turned off onto a side road and were out of sight of the highway in a matter of a minute or two. Hewlitt rode on, awaiting what lay before him. When they reached the boarded-up entrance to an old mine shaft, he was slightly surprised to find a hunter with a gun who took over the car without comment as soon as they had gotten out. The man drove away farther into the mountains and they were alone, appar-endy in the midst of desolation.

He knew better very shortly thereafter. As soon as they were both inside Mrs. Smith dropped her provincial manner and became what could have been a highly efficient executive secretary. “You are expected, of course, Mr. Hewlitt,” she told him, “but we have an operation under way right now and your interview may be delayed for a little while. I believe that all I need to tell you is that anyone you meet here you may and should talk to freely and with total candor.”

“I understand,” Hewlitt said. “This is the headquarters, I take it.”

“Yes, it is, and the knowledge of its location is one of the most vital secrets we have.”

“I understand,” he told her. “You can rely on me.”

She gave him the fraction of a smile. “If we had not been totally convinced of that, you would be in Canada right now.”

With that she left him and he was alone for perhaps half an hour. Then a man came into the room who at first glance seemed to be, like Percival, a trim but otherwise undistinguishable individual. Then he noticed that part of one of his hands was missing. That meant an industrial accident or possibly a combat injury; Hewlitt cataloged the fact away in his mind and waited for what the man had to say.

He came to the point without formalities. “Mr. Hewlitt, my name is Pappas. I’d like to talk to you about several things if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly.”

“I understand^ that you had an interview with Colonel Rostovitch.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“And after you talked to him, you returned to your desk briefly and then left the White House in Miss Stoneham’s company.” “That’s right.”

“Did Colonel Rostovitch accuse you of being a member of the underground?”

“Yes, his exact words to me were, ‘You are an agent; as soon as I finish with you, you will be taken out and shot.’ ”

“You have a good memory, Mr. Hewlitt.”

“Thank you; it’s an asset that’s helpful at times.”

“I believe that. However, you were not shot.”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Colonel Rostovitch is not noted for relenting on promises of that kind. I would be very interested to know what you said or did to cause him to change his mind.”

Hewlitt didn’t know who this man was, but the manner in which he spoke implied authority — not forcefully, but in a very quiet practical way that suggested maximum capability. “The answer I believe is Amy Thornbush,” Hewlitt said.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t believe that she is anyone,” he replied. “The first time that I talked to Mr. Zalinsky he asked me if I knew Amy Thornbush. I remembered the name. Later it was mentioned to me once more. Since I was certain that I had not met any such person, I considered it possible that it was some sort of a code.”

“Please go on.”

“When I met Colonel Rostovitch he said to me very positively, ‘You have been sleeping with Amy Thornbush.’ That narrowed the field immediately — either it meant Barbara Stoneham or it was a recognition signal. At least those were all the possibilities that occurred to me at that moment.”

“There were no other young ladies who had favored you?”

“Yes, there were, but the colonel’s method of speaking implied a steadily continuing relationship, and there was no one else who would come under that category.”

“That’s all you had to go on.”

“Yes, sir, at that moment.”

“What did you do?”

“I gambled; I had to. There was a possibility, of course, that Barbara Stoneham was also known by another name, but since the colonel was aware that I knew her as Barbara, he wouldn’t logically have thrown the other name up to me if he had had her in mind.”

“You reasoned that out.”

Hewlitt shifted his position and looked again at the man who was interrogating him. “I can’t honestly claim that, I didn’t have that much time. I liked the other possibility better and I bet on it.”

“How?”

“I said to him, ‘And so have you.’ If it was a recognition signal, I gave it back to him.”

“In your opinion, Mr. Hewlitt, is that why he let you go?”

“Yes, Mr. Pappas, it is. I realized that he could check up and determine within a very short time if I was in any way a member of, say, an enemy underground organization in this country, but it did buy me enough time to get out of the White House and into Percival’s hands. Do you know Percival, sir?”

Pappas nodded. “Yes, I know him. I am fully aware of what took place after you and Miss Stoneham reached the safe house.”

“I’m reassured that you are,” Hewlitt said.

“One more point: were you able simply to walk out of the White House without any interference from the guards or anyone else?” “Yes, sir. Major Barlov was very helpful there.”

“Please explain that.”

“Colonel Rostovitch said to me, ‘Meanwhile I give you a message; deliver it.’ I said that I would as soon as I was able. Then he said, ‘We have devices of which you do not dream. We have used them. Inform them that their submarine, the one named for the Filipino traitor and that has the high diver on board, was found and sunk by us early this morning.’ ”

Hewlitt noted at once that Pappas paid particularly close attention to that answer, especially the latter part of it.

“That is a reasonably exact quotation of his words?”

“I believe, Mr. Pappas, that it is verbatim.”

“Excuse me for a moment, if you please.”

Hewlitt was alone for some time. He ran over in his mind the interview he hatl just had and reassured himself that he had quoted Rostovitch accurately. He was not likely to forget a speech like that, particularly with the references to the Filipino traitor — which Ramon Magsaysay had most certainly not been — and the high diver, which was most likely another code designation.

When Pappas came back he had with him another man; he was not unduly tall, but his shoulders were exceptionally wide and the tautness of his physique could not be concealed by the slacks and sport shirt that he wore.

There were no introductions; the newcomer simply said, “Mr. Hewlitt, would you mind repeating to me the exact words of the message that Colonel Rostovitch gave to you?”

Since the other two men were standing up, Hewlitt got to his own feet. “Certainly not. The message was, ‘We have devices of which you do not dream. We have used them. Inform them that their submarine, the one named for the Filipino traitor and that has the high diver on board, was found and sunk by us early this morning.’ ”

“That is verbatim?”

“I’m certain of it, sir.”

“Did you gain any other impression from his manner?” Pappas asked.

Hewlitt turned toward him. “Only that he was trying to impress me with his authority and the meaning of his message. Of the news he was giving me.”

“Did you believe him?” the muscular man asked.

Hewlitt had not decided whether he liked this new man or not, he seemed a trifle peremptory. The fact that he had not as yet introduced himself could have been responsible for that impression.

“Not entirely, no,” he answered. “In the first place Magsaysay was a distinguished patriot; a traitor betrays his own country. One untruth in a statement casts doubt on all of the rest. Then that bit about the high diver sounded like another code device to me — that’s just a guess, of course. As to the submarine part, I couldn’t evaluate that because I simply didn’t have enough data to go on.”

The new man relaxed visibly in his manner. “All this is very interesting, Mr. Hewlitt, including your opinions. Apparendy you displayed excellent resourcefulness and your point about President Magsaysay is very well taken. As it happens, I’m the high diver, but you were right about Amy Thornbush and that was where it counted.”

Hewlitt felt much relieved. “Thank you, sir. Pardon my asking, but I was told that I was to meet the First Team on this trip. Am I still programmed to do that?”

“You will,” Pappas promised.

An air of expectation prevaded the conference room during the showing of the Solomon Fitzhugh tape. Those who saw it knew that Ed Higbee had already given it his approval, but when it was over they did not hesitate to express their own opinions. The consensus was very strong that the senator had done his best and that he would be believed as much as anyone who could be put on the air. That was enough for the admiral; in one of the few easy decisions he had made he O.K.’d the program to be aired that same evening.

“Some other things,” he told the people around the table. “We have had some intelligence input from Europe that, in the main, tends to refute Rostovitch’s claim that Magsaysay has been sunk. Part of it is reverse English — simply the fact that if they had done it, they would have trumpeted about it more loudly than they have. Hewlitt, the White House interpreter, is in here now and both Ted Pappas and Walt have interviewed him. Ted, what did you think?” Major Pappas was ready as usual. “He’s nobody’s fool; based on what he told me, and he wasn’t boasting in any way, I’m inclined to believe that he did outmaneuver Rostovitch at their one meeting. At least he didn’t panic and blow his top, and that in itself is notable. One other thing: Rostovitch definitely told him, according to his story, that the high diver was on board Magsaysay. In other words, he was still unaware that she put in at Wainwright or that Walt was back on the job with us. So he missed one trick at least.” “Did you get anything else from the interpreter?” General Gifford asked.

“I liked his candor and the way he handled himself. I’m inclined to think he’s pretty good — for an amateur.”

“We might make a pro out of him if we need to,” Colonel Prichard said. “I have a thought in the back of my mind and if it works out, he could be very useful.”

“I suspect that I have the same idea,” the admiral said, “but we don’t have the time to go into it now. What I want next is to grease the machinery for a maximum feedback on tonight’s broadcast. The more we know how well it goes over, the better we’ll be able to set up the next moves.”

Ed Higbee responded to that. “We’ve already got a very good net spread. I should be able to start giving you reactions minutes after it’s over. There are a lot of good newspapermen in this country, and many of them are with us. They’ll get the story.”

“Fine,” the admiral concluded. “We might as well catch some rest, because it’s going to be a busy night.”

The air-raid sirens that had been quietly hooked up at a hundred different control points began to sound at eleven minutes after ten, Eastern Standard Time. They did not all come on at the same time, because there was no need for a national hookup and establishing one would have entailed enormous difficulties. By individual timing they all responded within a time frame of thirty seconds, which was more than satisfactory as far as the plans that Ed Higbee had laid were concerned. By the hundreds of thousands, by the millions, Americans throughout the country turned on their radios and TV sets to find out what was going on. On many of the radio stations they were told to tune the proper channels on TV; the coverage was far from complete, but it was wide enough to insure the fact that the whole country would know what had happened before the night was over.

On the selected channels the regular programming disappeared, often in mid-sentence. It was a considerable technical achievement that the tubes remain blank for only a few seconds before an off-screen voice cut in. “We interrupt this program to bring you a special news broadcast.” Those most potent of all words in broadcasting guaranteed attention; most of the persons who heard them thought that it was the enemy talking, but they listened to find out what new disaster was about to befall them.

The first surprise came when the unseen announcer followed with, “Speaking for the government of the United States, Senator Solomon Fitzhugh.” Two seconds later the image of the white-haired legislator came onto millions of screens.

He looked into the camera and spoke. “My fellow Americans, I have news for you this evening of the greatest importance; I have been chosen to bring it to you because my sponsors feel that you will know my face and my voice.”

Hundreds of occupying enemy personnel heard those words and assumed that the renowned peacemaker was once again allowing himself to be used. They knew the importance of propaganda and their own mastery of it; where they were directly concerned, they saw to it that the show remained on the air.

“Some months ago,” Fitzhugh continued, “the United States of America was overcome by a superior force. Superior in numbers, in the timing of its operations, and in the degree of surprise with which it struck. The President capitulated, since the outcome was inevitable, in order that the loss of life and property could be kept to a minimum. I genuinely believe that tens of thousands of you are alive to hear me now because of that decision.”

The senator appeared to glance about him for a moment, which was one of his familiar histrionic tricks, then he looked again steadily from the tube. “Our surrender was not complete, however.

Actually we did not surrender as such; hostilities could be resumed at any time. Now they have been.”

Those words caught his audience and guaranteed that the attention being given to him was at a maximum.

“Some time before the war broke out, our government established a supersecret organization headed by the most competent and dedicated people that the President could find. The purpose of this organization, which was code-named Thomas Jefferson, was to provide a basis of resistance in the event that this nation were to be overthrown or occupied by force. It has been continuously active since that tragic event did take place.

“A few weeks ago it arranged to seize back from the enemy a completely armed and equipped ballistic missile nuclear submarine; this extremely potent weapon is now at sea in the hands of the United States Navy. It is carrying more than one hundred and sixty nuclear warheads and is capable of attacking any target of military importance anywhere in the world. The power of this single submarine is overwhelming. It can completely erase almost any nation on earth.

“At present the United States government, as represented by the Thomas Jefferson organization, has no intention of ordering this submarine to fire, for such an action would mean a fearful loss of life. But, on behalf of the President, whose spokesman I now am, I am authorized to say that this ship will fire, against the homeland of our enemies, unless certain conditions are met. Here they are: “There shall be a gradual withdrawal of the occupying forces now in this country; they shall begin leaving as soon as practical and shall return home at approximately the same rate that they came over. Those who may wish to seek political asylum here will be given consideration.

“Through orderly process, and without bloodshed, the government of the United States shall be returned to the people. After this has been accomplished, we will be prepared to enter into negotiations with our former enemies to establish a new era of peaceful understanding and mutual cooperation. We pledge ourselves to extract no reprisals. Let this conflict be resolved between intelligent people who have no wish to destroy each other. We now have the power to carry out such destruction, but we have no desire to use it.

“It is fearful to think that in a matter of minutes we could wipe out almost every significant military facility that our present enemies possess and millions of people at the same time. We could lay waste to their entire country with nuclear salvos that would deliver ten or more separate warheads at virtually the same moment. Some might be stopped, but some surely would get through. And with each such salvo, the resulting destruction would be overwhelming, the loss of life staggering. This force we pray to God we will not have to use. But if the terms I have been directed to spell out are not met, then use it we will until they are. Thank you and goodnight.”

Almost immediately through the nation, from coast to coast, in great cities and small communities, Americans talked excitedly about the broadcast and told those who had not heard what had been said. The lights burned long into the night. In some areas there was minor violence and the men of the occupying forces for the most part wisely remained out of sight. It was a turning point, the first great dawning of hope that all was not permanently lost. People openly wept, and a great many sought the sanctuary of their churches. Impromptu services were organized, on street corners and in cathedrals.

In the synagogues the sounds of thanksgiving were heard and then all was still once more. For the enemy force was fearfully powerful and one single submarine was all that challenged it. It was well that in that time of great emotional feeling only a very small handful of Americans knew that there was a good chance that the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay was manned only by a crew of dead men and that she lay rusting somewhere on the bottom of an unnamed Arctic sea.