The First Team

8

The following thirty days were the most traumatic in the history of the United States of America. It had faced disaster, civil war, and Pearl Harbor — even the divisive agony of the Vietnam war — but never before the galling indignity of defeat. The belief that had persisted at first — that the country would somehow extricate itself from its unexpected, awkward embarrassment, died under a series of events which fell like hammer blows throughout every part of the nation. Each day dozens of flights from overseas terminated at major airports with pay loads of up to four hundred of the enemy — troops, administrators, censors, secret police, and even scientists to take over existing plants and facilities. In a few places people resisted; they were ruthlessly pushed aside and were lucky if they escaped with their lives. Some did not.

It came as a bitter shock to most Americans when a swift and tight control was clamped on all forms of news dissemination. This was something almost impossible for a free people to understand, even for those comparative few who had visited East Berlin and had had to surrender every scrap of paper which might bear tidings of the West before being permitted to pass into the Communist-controlled portion of the city. Such isolation might be the unfortunate lot of certain other peoples, but it had been inconceivable that it could happen to the citizens of the greatest nation on earth.

The news vacuum was filled by an undisciplined mass of rumors which scurried back and forth like a maze of molecular particles. Some were cautious, but most were fearful, wild, irrational, frightful, uncertain, terrifying, fanciful, and at times distorted beyond any hope of reality. In mid-America the report was rife that the granaries would be rapidly emptied for shipment of their contents overseas and that severe rationing would face the American public during the winter to come.

The news blackout was followed by sharp restrictions on travel; flights from one part of the country to another were permitted only after specific permission had been granted for each individual trip. The commercial airlines reduced their schedules to the minimum, but the larger aircraft still flew half empty. Enemy uniforms began to appear everywhere while the now controlled radio and television stations constantly warned that any attempt whatsoever to impede the actions of the men who wore them would be severely punished.

For the first time in living memory Americans were forced to keep their women at home and out of sight. It all became part of the larger picture, the still incredible circumstance that the nation had been defeated — that an aggressor had been able to impose his will by force of arms, and that the decimated military of the United States had not been equal to the challenge. It had happened before in world history to many different countries and peoples, but never to the land of the free and the home of the brave, the land of Patrick Henry, of Ethan Allen, Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, and Harry S. Truman. The nation desperately wanted a leader who could do something about all this, but no such man appeared. The President was somewhere out of sight for his own protection and safety, but in the cold gray light of this disastrous dawn he was seen revealed as a choice of political expediency, adequate to do a satisfactory job, but far from the man that the country so urgently needed.

In a few places individual Americans remembered the time that a retired admiral had had his say before a congressional committee, but he was dead. The citizens of the United States had only one choice open to them, and that was to do as they were told.

Of all the Americans in this plight, those who had the greatest cause for concern were Jewish. Some few of them who still bore tattooed numbers on their forearms were bitter to the point of denouncing life itself and asked their God what they had ever done in their history as a people to deserve this deadly final blow. Some found no answer and quietly took their own lives; double suicides by elderly couples whose children had married and moved away passed unnoticed by the limited, tightly censored, daily press.

There were others who viewed the new policy as a heaven-sent opportunity to escape from the grasp of a vicious enemy known to be anti-Semitic long before the beginning of the period of goodwill which had immediately preceded the sudden outbreak of the war.

At Kennedy International Airport the employees of the largest American overseas airline were doing their best to handle the tide of passengers. Yiddish-speaking personnel were pressed into emergency service when it was discovered that many of those going abroad had never learned the English language.

Most of the passengers booking during the first thirty days were only too glad to leave behind a country which had suddenly shifted from one where certain restrictions still existed in a few areas to one wherein anyone born a Jew might well be in growing peril of his life.

In the hastily constructed lounge for departing refugees the scene brought back memories of train terminals during World War II. People slept, babies cried, mothers changed diapers without worrying whether they and their infants were on public view or not. Some complained and a few demanded; the majority simply waited for the opportunity to climb on board an aircraft, occasionally feeling again the slight bulge on their persons where they had their extra money concealed. As far as was known, no one had as yet been subject to search.

Threading their way through the several hundred waiting people were three individuals in a little group who were trying their best to make a systematic circuit of the whole area. Very little attention was paid to them; those who were nearby sensed that they were not Jewish and in view of the circumstances which prevailed, slightly resented their presence. Despite the fact that all of the people who were ticketed for overseas were leaving on their own volition, a tight sense of suppressed misery could almost be felt in the air. They were going, but they were not happy, even those who had relatives waiting to greet them and make them feel welcome. Some few of them had relatives waiting ready to tell them that they were not wanted and that God only knew how they were to be taken care of or housed.

The public address system came on with the announcement that the 747 was still in the hands of maintenance and hopefully would be released within the hour. The announcement created little stir. Despite the fact that scheduled airline operations had been cut back to a bare minimum, the aircraft shortage was drastic because of the enemy’s appropriation of almost all of the long-range equipment.

Mrs. Sarah Rappaport eyed the cruising trio and hoped that she would not be disturbed by its members, whatever it was that they were doing. She was fully occupied, in her mind at least, by taking care of little David, aged seven, and Marsha, who was two. She was booked for the flight out on the urgent advice of her husband who, heaven knew, was a genius. From a humble beginning in the Bronx he had moved ahead so fast on Wall Street that he was already in the research department of one of the biggest brokerage houses in the country. Danny Rappaport was smart, everyone who knew him agreed on that, and when Danny had told her that the sooner she got out of the country with the kids the better, she had had no choice but to follow his direction. She did not wish to leave; she wanted to remain to enjoy the rich, if strictly Jewish, social life that she was enjoying on a neighborhood level. The money that Danny was beginning to make had elevated her position somewhat and she was human and feminine enough to like it. Now it all had to be thrown away because the government had fouled things up again. With a Jewish President, maybe, it wouldn’t have happened; he would have been smarter.

Over the transatlantic telephone Danny had made all of the arrangements. Old Morris Rappaport had not been too enthusiastic, but he had reluctantly agreed to look after Sarah and the children until Danny could join them. Danny would stay as long as he felt he could despite the fact that the market was all but closed down; he was making money giving advice to people and as long as he could do that he was going to stay on the job. No, he had told old Morris, he wasn’t taking any chances, it was just that every day he could stay on the street he would make that much more money, and in view of the uncertainty ahead, every bit of it might be needed to tide them over until they could come back safely once more. Then, if he had enough left, he would consider opening his own firm.

“Pardon me.”

Sarah looked up and stiffened a little; the three people were beside her and since the man had spoken, she could not ignore them.

“What is it?” she asked. She looked at the man and decided that he was not bright. His straw-colored hair was brushed back in a way that a clever businessman would have avoided; the open features of his face were not smooth and urbane like her Danny. His suit was ready-made and had cost only about sixty-five dollars. He was a schlemiel.

“I’m Reverend Jones,” the man said, “from the Church of the Little Shepherd. This is my wife Doris and our son Greg.”

Mrs. Rappaport took a single searching look at the Reverend Mr. Jones’ wife and decided that you get what you pay for. “So what are you wanting?”

“We’re here to help if we can.” He motioned toward the tray of sandwiches his wife was carrying. “If you’re hungry, please help yourself. Greg has some coffee. It isn’t as hot as it was, but it’s still warm if you’d like some.”

“How much does it cost?”

“It’s free — please take what you want.”

Her deeply rooted suspicion of strangers purporting to offer something for nothing seized hold of Mrs. Rappaport and warned her; if she took anything she would have to pay for it one way or another — they might even force her to listen while they read to her from the New Testament. Nobody gave anything away for free. If he had been a rabbi she would have believed in him, but a minister — no.

She shook her head that she wanted none of it and turned her attention back to her children. These people could do as they liked. She, her Danny, and their children had been virtually cast out. Hatred of the injustice swelled within her and she slammed her mind shut as an act of pure self-defense.

For all of his visible lack of sophistication, the Reverend Mr. Jones understood and led his small family to the next group of refugees. This time it was a man and a woman with a single small girl who looked up at him with deep sad eyes. He repeated his little speech of introduction while his wife held out the tray of sandwiches.

“Is your church doing this, reverend,” the man asked, “or is it the airline?”

“It’s our church.*We’re not too far away and we wanted to help if we could.”

The man stood up and shook hands with the minister. “I’m Jack Bornstein, reverend. My wife Hazel, and Molly.”

The Jones family acknowledged the Bornsteins while Greg took his cue and poured out two cups of lukewarm coffee.

“You know, this is damn decent of you,” Bornstein said. “Our position is rather awkward at the moment because of our religious faith, and a helping hand like this is certainly appreciated.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Jones responded. “It isn’t a matter of religion, it’s simply human decency. You’ve been hit by a misfortune that’s not your fault, so this is little enough.”

Bornstein chose a sandwich. “We’re going to England if we can until this thing blows over,” he said. “We thought of Israel, but if we went there Molly would have to learn Hebrew and they might indoctrinate her more than we would like. In England she can at least speak her own language.”

Jones nodded. “That’s a wise decision, I think. I’ve never been there, but we were Welsh originally, so I feel we have some roots there.”

Bornstein looked around the large lobby and seemed to be forming some conclusion in his mind. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “From your viewpoint, how long do you think that this thing is going to last?”

“That’s terribly hard to say,” the minister replied. “I don’t have any special sources of information. It might be as much as a year — I really don’t know. These people are so hard to understand. The next thing, they may shut down all of the houses of worship. If they do, then I don’t know how I’ll support my family. My work doesn’t pay very much, but it’s enough for us, and the ministry is what I want. I guess I could become a teacher.”

Bornstein laughed. “You came pretty close; I’m in education myself — or I was. But get on with your good work. If we meet again, and I hope that we do, well. He did not finish the sentence; he could not find the words he wanted. Once more the men shook hands before the Reverend Mr. Jones and his little family continued on their slow rounds of the lounge.

Some forty minutes later there was a brief but disturbing scene. At the far end of the lounge a man jumped to his feet, exclaimed something in a loud voice, and then viciously slammed one of the last of the free sandwiches into the Reverend Mr. Jones’ face. The boy Greg doubled his fists and jumped forward to do battle, but his father restrained him. The minister inhaled a very deep breath and then regained control of himself as he let it out slowly. “Come on, son,” he said. “Forgive him. It was our fault; we should have known better than to bring any ham.”

His complexion red, but his head high, he quietly walked out, followed by his enraged, frustrated son, and his patient wife who was openly in tears.

At the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard the nuclear-powered Poseidon- firing submarine, the U.S.S. Ramon Magsaysay, lay in her berth, a warship of enormous sophistication and firepower, in the hands of the enemy.

She was brand new, commissioned, but not yet the veteran of even a single tour of duty at sea. The Magsaysay was richly loaded with classified materiel and had a nuclear power plant which the enemy would find highly informative when the original work of occupation had been completed and attention could be turned to the milking of the vast American industrial capacity. Meanwhile she was under heavy guard and totally devoid of any of the provisions which would be essential for her to go to sea. Guarded as she was, and stripped of all of her essential supplies, she was as helpless as though she had been embalmed in some gigantic cube of transparent plastic.

With a certain sadistic satisfaction it pleased the enemy to allow three or four junior officers without submarine experience to maintain the pretext that she was still in United States hands. The sharp frustration of fighting men in being forced to pretend on powerless watches, on the deck of an impotent ship which had cost the United States multiple millions to construct, afforded amusement to the commander assigned by the enemy to control and oversee the former United States defense facility. Americans, he knew, were basically inept, granting that they had a flair for technology and had had the extraordinary good fortune to be able to put men on the moon before anyone else. A precious lot of good it would do them now.

The Magsaysay was the first of a new, ultra-advanced series which had proven too much even for the people who had designed and built her; the shakedown sea tests had turned up a multitude of problems which it would have taken six months to put in order if the Americans had been left alone to do the job by themselves. They would fix her all right, but they would put her in shape to join the already mighty fleet that had helped to bring about their swift downfall.

As soon as the Magsaysay was finally ready she would be sailed away to her new destiny, but not before she had been renamed. And the new name she would be given would not please the Americans, not one little bit.

At shortly after eight-thirty on a Monday morning, while low-lying fog still obscured much of the local area, a workman who clearly disliked his assignment applied for a pass at the main gate. His qualifications as a technician were limited, but he possessed sufficient ability to do the electrical repair and modification work for which he had been recruited from one of the suppliers of the Magsaysciy’s equipment. He was precisely the type and kind of man the new chief of security for the naval facility wanted — resentful, but frightened enough to obey orders without question to save his own skin; capable of doing the work expected of him, but not advanced enough to do any dangerous improvising. He was kept waiting an hour and a half while he was checked out and his background verified. After that he was made to strip to the skin and both his person and clothing were thoroughly searched.

When the routine had been completed he was assigned a number, given a biting two-minute lecture on the penalty for the slightest infraction of the rules and shown the muzzle of a gun, in order that he would be fully impressed with what he was being told. He grew red and cringed at the same time, which was the psychologically desirable reaction; the security chief who had watched the process through a one-way mirror signaled that he was to be admitted. By phone the chief of the guards on board the Magsaysay was told to expect him.

Obviously uncomfortable, the middle-aged man started out to find the ship, inquired twice for directions, and at last located her berth. He crossed the brow onto her deck and was intercepted by a lieutenant junior grade, who had the mock position of being the Officer of the Day.

“Who are you?” the OD demanded. He was fighting his own private war; whatever they did to him, and to the ship under his feet, he was an officer of the United States Navy and he was damn well going to show every enemy son-of-a-bitch who might be watching how such a man conducted himself.

The workman dug his credentials out of his pocket and showed them. “Summers,” he said.

The lieutenant scanned the pass and the letter of authorization, wondering to himself as he did so how an American, any American, could so lower himself as to help the enemy take over the property of the United States government. “All right,” he said, with cold contempt.

“How do I get in?” Summers asked. The lieutenant pointed toward the hatch, not wanting to speak unless he had to.

Summers took the direction without comment, put the papers away, and then painfully climbed down through the indicated opening.

Operation Low Blow had begun.

In his cell at the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas, Erskine Wattles, black ultramilitant, was desperately impatient. He had fought and fought hard for this day and he was anxious for his reward.

The people who had now taken over the country had to know who he was and where he was to be found. He had met with them or their representatives on many occasions; they had given him much encouragement and some money. They had also promised him, in a rather vague manner, that if he helped in certain directions, he would rise to a position of great power and importance. Power had been the magic word; he had savored it and hung onto it, and dreamed of the day when he would be mighty in the land.

To symbolize the new power that would be his he rose to his feet and looked about his narrow cell with the feeling that he was a great man whose very thoughts would burst the walls that held him captive. He strode the two or three steps permitted him by the stones and the bar$, then turned and strode the other way, trying to ignore the blood-boiling frustration of the limited space at his disposal. In the upper bunk he saw the inert back of his cellmate, an unimaginative rapist who had gotten horny and dragged a thirteen-year-old girl across a state line. He was stupid, and despite the fact that he was black, Wattles hated him.

He did not want to take hold of the bars to feel his own strength, because to do that would be to acknowledge their existence and the fact that they held him prisoner. He would not be kept in prison; every minute of his time was vitally important to his future plans. And for every bit of time that he was held back, those who had put him here would pay with their life’s blood when he became dictator.

No one but a black man could run the country, and he knew that he had been chosen. He was the leader; he had proven that the first time he had organized a celebration in honor of the anniversary of the death of the black traitor to his people, Martin Luther King. He had made a speech that had rocked the whole nation that day, and they surely knew who he was after that.

With the Weathermen he had helped to lead the attack on the colleges and universities; he alone had closed a campus of the University of California for weeks and had kept hundreds of advanced degree candidates from graduating. At the time of his proposed induction into the armed forces he had provoked and led a riot which had put more than thirty people into the hospital, a lot of them pigs. He loved that word — pigs — he had shouted it, screamed it, made it synonymous in the minds of most of the black people for any kind of policeman or any member of the armed forces.

He had been in all of the big ones — the Watts riot, the Chicago Democratic convention, the peace marches, the campus blow-offs. The only man who had been ahead of him, and that was because he was a big name singer, was Orberg. But Orberg had never had the nerve in court to leap onto the bench and punch a federal judge’s face with his thumbs out and hard enough to blind him permanently in one eye. He and he alone had been able to do that. And every sick pig in the country had been afraid of the name of Wattles that day and they were still afraid. Because he was coming out now and when he hit the street, the whole world was going to be his.

His sharp lawyer, a Jew named Wolpert, had gotten him out on bail for another appeal. Wolpert had pleaded that his client had been under the effect of drugs, to which he had been addicted for years, and therefore was a sick man. Because his lawyer had told him to, he, Erskine Wattles, had hung his head and playacted, and had gotten out on bail that a lot of protesters had put up because he was their great hero.

He had had it made then except for the lousy Korean pig. Who in hell expects a Korean to be on an airplane anyway! His gun had scared every lily white bastard to death and they were already over the water on the way to Cuba when the Korean pig had had to go to the can. He had let him, and for thanks the pig had jumped him with his goddamned karate or something, mocking the authority of his gun, and the pilot had turned back toward the mainland.

Mao had said that power came from the barrel of a gun, and he knew that that was right, only the frigging Korean pig that he had been nice to had betrayed him. And now he was in this goddamned hole, waiting to get out and dying every minute that he wasn’t out and tasting the power that he had been promised. For a month the pigs had been eating dirt and nobody had come for him yet. When they did, he’d show them who was the big man! He rushed to the bars of his cell, grabbed them hard in his powerful hands, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “PIGS! PIGS! PIGS!”

During the month that he had been on his new job Hewlitt had learned a great deal. With the initial shock of the conquest over and dissipated, the remaining members of the White House staff had settled down to what was substantially a waiting game. Cedric Culp, the former press aide of the President, was now doing the same job for Zalinsky; in addition he was an active member of the underground cell. Both Barbara and Mary remained on the roster, and there were now three others. The orders routed through Frank had been specific; wait. Pick up any available information, report it through channels, but take no individual actions without direction. All of them had played the game exactly that way, but Hewlitt could not help wondering from time to time how much his colleagues would be influenced if they knew that the directions which he was faithfully passing on to them were being routed through a Negro taxicab driver.

However, if it seemed hard to credit at times, that was all to the good, because it would confuse the enemy even more. “Protective coloration” was the phrase that Frank had used, and it was valid.

The one most encouraging thing was the knowledge that something was being done. Hewlitt was satisfied as to that. You had to believe in something, he told himself, and wondered if the day would come when Frank’s invisible boss would establish a direct contact.

The intercom light went on, indicating that Zalinsky wished to see him. He picked up paper and pencil as always, if for no other reason than to cover the fact of his well-trained memory, and went into the Oval Office. Zalinsky worked with his coat off a good part of the time now, and while Hewlitt was not privy to much that crossed the administrator’s desk, he was aware from the man’s general manner that not everything was going as he would have liked.

“Sit down,” Zalinsky said.

“Yes, Mr. Zalinsky.” He sat in the usual place and waited.

The administrator looked at him. “Why for is it that always you say the same thing to me?”

“Because that was your order,” Hewlitt answered. “You said that you were to be addressed in no other way. Major Barlov said it too.”

Zalinsky brushed a hand through the air. “It will be changed, I am not so anxious that I hear the sound of my own name all the time. I do not like it that much.”

Hewlitt debated his next question before he put it, but he wanted to measure the reaction. “Speaking of names, do you have a first name? You must, but no one seems to know what it is.”

“It is Feodor,” Zalinsky said, “but, like you, I do not use it. I now ask you something: you read our language, you must have read some of our propaganda.”

“A lot of it. It was my job.”

“But you are not yet convinced that we are right?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because your system doesn’t work.”

“It worked well enough that we won the war.”

“You won it,” Hewlitt said, “by deceit.”

Zalinsky smiled. “That is part of the system.”

“I shall remember that,” Hewlitt told him. “You wanted to see me.”

Zalinsky moved his hands on the top of his desk. “I have an embarrassment,” he said. “It is because of your Senator Fitzhugh. You are knowing him?”

“I have never met the senator,” Hewlitt said.

Zalinsky ignored the response. “The senator, he is a fool. He has now written a letter to our premier that is a nuisance to him. This Fitzhugh, he proposes to make peace for the United States.”

“On his own?” Hewlitt asked.

“I do not understand.”

“I mean, does he propose to make peace all by himself? Does he mean to speak for the President and the whole country?”

“President you have not,” Zalinsky said. “He has made himself absent and I sit here in his place. But yes, it is that Fitzhugh sees himself that he is now the person to speak for the country.”

“I doubt that,” Hewlitt said.

Zalinsky leaned back. “It is good that you say that, because it is that I wish you to see him. I do not want to having him here, I have no time for him. But you go, you explain.”

“Explain what, Mr. Zalinsky?”

“You have not stupidness, you should understand. This Senator Fitzhugh, he believes that he remains a fragment of the government. He does not understand that he is now nothing. He is allowed that he sits in his office, but he is playing with shadows.” “What you want me to do is to tell him that he’s through.” “Exactness. Also, please explain to him that he was granted interview because we wanted him to make a bigger face, as say the Chinese, and become reelected. That is absolutely all.”

Hewlitt pressed his lips together and thought for a moment. “If you want me to talk to him, Mr. Zalinsky, I will — of course. I suspect that it will make him… I mean, it will break him up completely.”

“It is overdue that he think badly of himself. Please to do this.” Hewlitt made an unnecessary note on the pad before him. “I’ll call the senator immediately for an appointment,” he said. “He will probably keep me waiting for a day or two; it’s usual.”

Zalinsky shrugged. “Only please to make it clear to him that he is not to annoy our premier with any more letters. If he does, we may have to take his toys away from him.”

“I’ll make it clear,” Hewlitt promised.

He was on his way from his office to the West Gate when a man he did not know fell in step beside him. He was a youngish type in Air Force uniform. He wore the twin bars of a captain, a rank of minimum importance in the military environment of Washington. “You’re Hewlitt, I believe,” he said.

Hewlitt looked at his unexpected companion and nodded.

“I’m Phil Scott,” the captain said. “Please, may I come by and see you about six-thirty? I know where.”

“O.K.,” Hewlitt said. He lifted his left arm, looked at the dial of his watch, and gave the exact time as he had it to the captain. Scott took off his own watch and made a pretext of resetting it. They went through the check-out gate one behind the other, then Hewlitt climbed into Frank’s waiting cab and was driven out into the traffic as usual. He did not look behind him to see what the captain had done or where he had gone.

Frank bent down and turned on the radio, keeping the volume reasonably low. “Might be something on the news,” he explained. “I’m kinda lookin’.”

“Good,” Hewlitt said.

“Your girl friend come through yet?” Frank asked.

“I want to ask about an Air Force captain,” Hewlitt said. “His name is Scott, Phil Scott. I don’t know him, although I’ve seen him around once or twice. He came up to me just as I was leaving and asked to see me this evening at six-thirty. He said that he knew where I lived.”

Frank guided the car through an intersection. “Don’t know him offhand, but I’ll try and find out. If he’s cornin’ by at six-thirty, that looks like dinner, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I guess so, unless it’s a short visit over a drink.”

Frank devoted himself to his driving for a minute or two. “You know that Chinese restaurant near where you live?”

“Sure, I eat there every now and then.”

“Suppose you go there to eat tonight if he’s with you. If I find out anythin’ in time, I’ll get word to you.”

“You could phone me,” Hewlitt suggested. “Tell me that you may not be able to pick me up in the morning if anything’s wrong. If not, give me any other kind of message.”

“O.K. If I find out anythin’ in time; it’s pretty short and I may not be able to get hold o’ my boss.”

“Do what you can,” Hewlitt said. “I’ll play it cozy in the meanwhile.”

“That’s the word,” Frank said. The news broadcast began, but if there was any significant item on the air, Hewlitt did not recognize it as such. When they pulled up in front of his apartment Frank spoke a formal good night and drove away.

His guest arrived within two minutes of the appointed time. Hewlitt welcomed him and gestured toward his small portable bar. Captain Scott, still in uniform and immaculately so, bent instead over the stereo component equipment installed at one end of the room. “I’m interested in this stuff,” he said. “Could I hear it play?” “Of course.” Before Hewlitt could turn on the set himself Scott did so. The sound came on at once, the Tchaikovsky Fourth Symphony in the middle of the second movement. Scott set the volume at a slightly uncomfortably high level, but one which did reveal the system at its best. Then he spoke quietly to Hewlitt. “That’s the best cover that I know for listening devices,” he said. “After what happened to us, I don’t take any chances anywhere.”

“Don’t blame you,” Hewlitt agreed. He made two drinks at his small bar and placed one of them in his guest’s hand. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

Scott sampled his drink and approved of it. “Before that, let me introduce myself a little more. I’m simply an Air Force type a little like Bob Landers was, only not so much so — I’ll never be as good a man as he was.”

Hewlitt’s mnemonic memory functioned and a near-forgotten item came back to him. “I think I know you — aren’t you the officer who claimed Bob’s body and arranged for burial in Arlington?”

“That’s right,” Scott said. “I think they’d have left him there to rot. Anyhow, he rated Arlington as much as anyone, and that’s where he is. It wasn’t a solo operation, though, I had a lot of help from some other guys.”

“I’m glad to buy you a drink,” Hewlitt responded. “How about having dinner wifti me? There’s a little Chinese place near here — not the greatest, but the food’s not bad and there’s quite a bit of privacy. I doubt like hell that it’s bugged.”

“Probably not,” Scott agreed. “Percentagewise, it wouldn’t be worth it. But let it be a dutch treat; I’d like it better that way.”

The symphony paused in midflight as the movement ended and a few seconds of silence followed while the announcer turned over the record. Then the familiar work resumed once more.

“You’re still wearing your uniform,” Hewlitt said. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Damn right. In the first place, no one’s told me not to, either them or my military superiors. Secondly, we’re in a time of war.” “Technically, the war’s over.” Hewlitt probed carefully.

“Not for me it isn’t. We haven’t officially surrendered, and unless I’m completely off, we’re not going to. Maybe you think that I’m a dreamer, but old Ho Chi Minh, who’s roasting somewhere in hell right now, beat the French and even gave us a hard time in a limited action.”

“Yes, but he had both communist China and Russia behind him at the time.”

“True, but what were his resources otherwise? We’ve got resources, and I’d like to think that we have some people with brains and spirit.”

Hewlitt looked across the room to where a clock rested on the mantel. “How about getting something to eat?” he proposed. “We can talk better sitting down. The place is usually pretty uncrowded at this hour, we ought to be able to be strictly by ourselves.”

“Fine, let’s go. I haven’t had any Chinese food in months.”

Hewlitt lingered for another two or three minutes hoping that his phone would ring, but it remained inert. Then he ushered his guest out and fell in beside him for the short walk to the restaurant. By unexpressed common consent, they kept their conversation entirely neutral.

They were received upon arrival by the same quiet headwaiter who, without being asked, showed them to a booth which offered a maximum of privacy. He put down two menus, wished them a pleasant dinner, and left without further comment.

They were well into their meal before Scott brought up the thing that was on his mind. “Look,” he began, “I’m going on the assumption, and I consider it a damn safe one, that you’re a solid citizen. I have the word that you were tapped by Zalinsky to sit at his right hand, but that you never bent an inch in his direction.”

“I’ve tried not to,” Hewlitt said.

“All right. Now just for the sake of argument, suppose that a bunch of Americans who don’t have any ax to grind apart from the fact that they are loyal to their country and what it used to stand for were to try to organize something. How would you feel about that?”

Hewlitt already knew what he was going to say when that question came. “I’d certainly wish them well; that goes without saying. At the same time I’d have to regard it as a damn dangerous game. Basically we can’t get away from one thing: we had our whole Air Force, plus the Army, the Navy, and the Marine Corps. With all of this, and our whole industrial capacity completely at our disposal, we took a licking. How can we hope to reverse all that by, say, an underground guerrilla organization?”

Scott was thoughtful. “We weren’t licked, Hew, you know that; we were tricked. The Orberg decision took away the power of the draft while all kinds of people kept telling us that patriotism was out of date and that we were fools to salute when the flag went by. Remember Wattles, the black militant? He eventually went to prison, but not for his basic crime — trying to tear down his own nation. And there was old stonehead — Fitzhugh. Perhaps we had too much freedom — and we abused it. Abused it enough to con ourselves right out of our security; all that they did was to take advantage of our weakness. Granted that they helped it along with their undermining, bugging, and all that.”

“It’s your thought, then, that if an underground were to be organized, it would be able to operate without all of these drawbacks?”

“Of course, but that’s only a small part of it. We’ve got an immense country here and a couple of hundred million people who don’t like the way that things have turned out. They’re bound to do something eventually.”

Hewlitt pushed his plate aside. “I’ve got to agree with that,” he said. “Only I’m afraid that they could get terribly hurt in the process.”

“True,” Scott responded. “Probably a lot of people would be shot as Bob Landers "was, but that’s the price we’re stuck with for having let our guard down.”

He stopped when the waiter approached the booth. The man cleared away the used dishes, wiped the table, and set down a fresh pot of tea. In front of each of them he put a tiny plate with a fortune cookie and then withdrew.

Hewlitt had used the time to think. He had no intention of revealing to Scott even by the vaguest hint that such an organization did, in fact, exist, but he did not know how to break off the conversation without committing himself in one way or another. He poured himself some fresh tea. As Scott did the same he broke open his fortune cookie and extracted the tiny slip of paper which promised to reveal his destiny. In red typewritten characters he read: Do not trust. Believe dangerous. Asher.