Sex and the High Command (17 page)

It was Primrose’s business, and Primrose’s words were being scrambled as they came out of his mouth. It was a weird experience for Hansen, listening to a spoken, scrambled message.

Suddenly Primrose quit speaking and held the phone in front of him, looking at it in disbelief. Still holding the phone, he leaned over Defense, picked up the speaking tube to the driver, and said, “To the White House, driver. And use the siren. No, belay the siren!”

With a lurch, the limousine bucked forward, and the siren opened up. “I said, ‘Belay the siren,’ driver.”

“Your permission, Sug,” Defense said, practically tearing the speaking tube from the admiral’s grip.

“Turn off the siren, driver.”

The siren stopped.

“He’s not Navy,” Defense said. “He thought you meant belabor the siren. Give me the phone, Admiral. That was Piagorsky, wasn’t it?”

Piagorsky, Hansen recalled, was the name of the Russian admiral, the naval attaché to the Russian embassy, who had approved Queen Swap.

“Yes. He was asking for asylum. But the line went dead.”

“So did Piagorsky,” Defense said. “Operator, this is the Defense Secretary. Get me the White House, top priority… I see… Thank you.”

He hung up. “It’s busy. The President is talking to State.”

“You pass my apartment, Oglethorpe,” Interior said. “Could you drop me off?”

“Certainly, Dalt. Would you open the door just before we stop? Driver, slow down long enough for Mr. Lamar’ to exit when we pass his apartment.”

“Sug,” Dalton Lamar said, “doesn’t a BOAC leave for New Delhi at noon?”

“At twelve fifteen,” the admiral answered. Then, he asked, “Operation Abominable Snowman?”

“Yes, Sug. I think it’s my best bet… Ogie, will you tell Acworth to turn in my resignation to the President. Give Ack-Ack my warmest affection and tell him I’ve gone to hunt yeti.”

“Certainly, Dalt,” Defense answered, and Hansen could swear that there was a mist in Pickens’ eyes. “Farewell, my old and loyal friend. Go with God.”

“I’d like to, Ogie, but She doesn’t want me. Good-bye, y’all.”

He opened the door and jumped as the car slowed, waved once, and the car was gunned forward as the phone rang.

Defense picked it up. “Yes, sir… Yes, sir… Yes, sir.”

He hung it up.

“Alicia is the new ambassadress. The ambassador and Admiral Piagorsky both died of heart attacks, simultaneously. State’s on his way, but Dem wants you as alternate interpreter, and me as Russologist. Do you think we should cancel all leaves?”

“Not until we’ve talked to Ivan, if he’s still alive.”

“I hope he’s sober,” the Defense Secretary said.

Although Hansen was confused, mention of canceled leaves alerted him to a military situation, and he said, “Shall I remain in Washington over the weekend, Admiral?”

“No, Captain,” Primrose shook his head. “A bet’s a bet. Besides, you may be our only listening post.”

“You had better reread
Lady Macbeth
, Sug,” Pickens said. “It’s an appropriate drama for these parlous times.”

“Absolutely not,” the admiral said. “Even Prospero could not have conjured up the Bolshoi Ballet over one weekend.”

Privately, Hansen felt that both men were using poor timing for a literary discussion as they hurtled toward the White House, but both lapsed into silence and the silence continued until they pulled up before the building to park behind the Secretary of State’s limousine, which had arrived before them.

State was waiting for them.

“We’ll go directly to the basement,” he said. “The President’s there, with Mr. Powers.”

They were walking into the White House as they talked, and they passed through the reception room, down a hall to a high-speed elevator. At the bottom, the elevator opened onto a small anteroom, and facing them across the anteroom was an open door leading into the White House bomb shelter. The door was of thick steel, resembling the door of a bank vault. After they walked in, Defense started to close it, but the President called from inside, “Leave the door open, Mr. Pickens.”

They passed through another anteroom which revealed a small lavatory through an open door to the right. On the left was a cubicle containing radio equipment. Ahead of them, in the room they were entering, was a table surrounded by chairs. Against the far wall was a settee under a battle lamp. The interior was done in battleship gray, and the only spot of color was a bright-red phone on the table.

The President and Mr. Powers were seated on the settee.

“Gentlemen,” the President spoke without preliminaries, “draw up chairs. Mr. Powers and I were discussing a matter when the late Russian ambassador called. From there, you know the developments. Incidentally, Captain Hansen, General Flugel called from the airport. Harjanian was strangled aboard the plane, as, I understand, you predicted. Under less morbid conditions, I might compliment you for your insight. But the picture is even blacker, gentlemen. Mr. Powers has been analyzing the missing persons reports from police departments throughout the nation for the past two weeks, and has come up with some sinister statistics. Ordinarily, women exceed men in those reports by something like an eighty-to-twenty proportion. Last week, ninety percent of the reports were made by men reporting men missing. Furthermore, last night Mr. Powers lost a key operative under very suspicious circumstances. It would seem, gentlemen, that the feminists have commenced the final solution of the male problem, and I am ordering all cabinet heads and the High Command to practice celibacy.”

“But Piagorsky and the ambassador were realists, Mr. President,” State said. “How could they…”

“Russian women are realists, too,” the President snapped. “And, Captain Hansen, see to it that McCormick refrains.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“At the moment,” the President continued, “our most pressing problem is to determine if the Russian monosexual movement is from the outposts inward. If so, our best defensive measure would be to revive Operation Queen Swap.”

“What
is
Operation Queen Swap, Mr. President?” Mr. Powers was pleading.

“Our military forces occupy Russia, Mr. Powers, while their military forces occupy the United States. Now, I’m going to call Premier Gregorovitch to ascertain, indirectly of course, if he is truly in control of the military apparatus in his country.”

“Mr. President,” Mr. Powers’ face had reddened visibly, “are you suggesting that we turn this country over to the Russians?”

“It’s more of an exchange of countries,” the President explained. “Both occupying armies can enforce conventional breeding by military means, and the head of neither state is then called upon to violate his country’s constitution.”

President Habersham turned back to his advisers from whom he had asked no advice. “If the premier is not aware that his embassy has been taken over by the monosexists, this will indicate that the Russian feminists are moving inward from an outer perimeter.”

“Sir,” Mr. Powers interrupted brusquely, “while we’re over there being subverted by their women, their men will be over here subverting our women.”

“At the moment, our interests are more fundamental. Mr. Cobb, will you call the premier.”

“If he picks up that phone, I’ll resign,” Mr. Powers said.

“Please reconsider, Mr. Powers. Mr. Pickens, will you turn on the conference switch. I wish to hear every word.”

Secretary Cobb spoke into the phone in Russian when a male voice answered. “He’ll be here, directly,” Mr. Cobb said.

“I resign,” said Mr. Powers.

“Please enunciate clearly, Mr. Cobb. Mr. Powers, since you won’t reconsider, your resignation is accepted. I’ll notify Disbursing to give you a full day’s pay.”

“When I get through with the press…” Mr. Powers began.

State interrupted. “I can hear his footsteps, sir. They seem steady.”

Defense turned on the conference switch and the voice of the Russian premier came into the room.

“Your pay stops at eleven forty-five, Washington time,” the President was saying, even as State commenced to translate.

“How are you, Mr. President, and how are things in Mexico and Canada?”

“Not good, Mr. Premier. Not good in Canada and worse in Mexico. How is Albania?”

“It was never good in Albania.”

“How are things in Moscow, Mr. Premier?”

“Mr. President, I am an old man, but a fire still smolders. The young girls, the beautiful young girls, walk through the Parks of Recreation and Culture, but they are for themselves. In Sevastopol, I have done much for Sevastopol, one would think that they would love me more in Sevastopol…”

State quit interpreting and said, “He seems to be wandering, sir.”

“Just interpret. State. Don’t editorialize,” the President snapped.

“I summer in Sevastopol…”

“After forty years in the bureau,” Mr. Powers said, “I…”

“Mr. Powers, you’re not supposed to be in this room. This is the War Room. Only officials of the government are permitted. Please close the door on your way out.”

Ashen-faced, Mr. Powers rose and staggered for the exit. Hansen thought the President rather abrupt in his dismissal of Mr. Powers, but this mild-mannered President was obviously mild in manner only. Hansen’s attention was drawn back to the flow of Russian and State’s interpreting.

“And the young girls look only at the flowers. They do not look at me, their premier. Mr. President, are you holding a conference?”

“No, Mr. Premier. I’m listening.”

“They have been debating in the supreme council, Mr. President, and they are not yet finished. The decision may not necessarily go in our favor, Mr. President, yours and mine.”

“It’s rather late for a meeting of the supreme council. It’s almost midnight in Moscow, isn’t it, Mr. Premier?”

“Yes, Mr. President. The
shoudas
are growing longer.

“What’s a
shouda
, State? Please interpret.”

“
Shouda
, suh. Thangs seen in daylaht except at hah noon.”

“Admiral, you interpret,” the President said. “Else, I’ll need an interpreter for the interpreter.”

Under stress, the President could be rough, Hansen realized, as the admiral took over, translating smoothly.

“But I do not hate them, Mr. President. My mother was a woman…”

Suddenly, the voice paused. Hansen thought he heard a sob, and when the voice returned he could sense its incredulity through the foreign language: “But their fathers were men.”

“Is he drunk?” the President whispered.

Primrose spat something in Russian, and the President barked, “I’m asking you, not him!”

“I’m asking him,” the admiral snapped back, “because he’s a tippler and he and I both know it.”

“He calls everyone comrade when he’s drunk,” State said.

“No, Mr. Cobb,” the voice of the premier came soddenly in English. “Not my wife.”

“I’m sorry, Ivan,” the Secretary of State said, in English.

“Let
me
talk!” the President shouted.

“Yes, I’m drunk with sadness,” the premier continued in Russian, “for the tears I cannot shed would create another Volga. But I don’t blame you, Mr. President. We treated them as equals over here, too. But they are not our equals. They are our…”

There was a loud report followed by sudden silence. As the men in the bunker looked at each other in surmise, the voice of a woman, lilting, speaking English with an Oxford accent, filled the room.

“Maria Katerinovna, h’yo! I am to inform you that the new premieress of all the Russias is Ailya Ailyanovna. Henceforward, would you direct communications through diplomatic channels. Our embassy in Washington will assist you in transmitting messages.”

There was a click and total silence.

“They shot him,” the President said.

“Sir,” Admiral Primrose said, “may I call your attention to the fact that ‘Ailya Ailyanovna’ means Ailya, the daughter of Ailya. They’ve removed the father’s name from the surnames.”

Helga might have been incorrect in assuming the movement was purely local, Hansen thought. Unless it was a coincidence, female attitudes were the same all over the world, for Joan Paula’s letter had said, “If we were logical, I would be Joan Paula Helgasdotter.”

The President stood up. “Gentlemen, the Sino-Russian bloc has fallen. Once more, the United States is the last great hope of earth, and the last great hope of the United States is the McCormick-Dubois ticket. Let us go and replay the tape.”

Following behind the President, they walked out of a War Room which was useless now, forever, except as a storage bin, but from force of habit, the Secretary of State locked the door.

Walking toward the elevator, the President remarked, “Such petty defiance. Mr. Powers left the door open.”

As they squeezed into the elevator. Defense turned to State. “Acworth, Dalton Lamar asked me to ask you to tender his resignation to the President. He has gone to hunt yeti.”

State turned to the President. “Mr. President, the Secretary of the Interior has resigned for urgent personal reasons.”

“Just when I need to worry about appointments least!”

Despite his turmoil, Hansen admired the calmness which permitted these men to observe the chain of command in a crowded elevator and after such terrifying news. Even so, he thought Mr. Powers had been rather shabbily treated by all present, and the President’s remark about the door had been unfair. If Mr. Powers had wished to spite the President, it would have been far more inconveniencing to leave the elevator topside rather than send it back down, as Mr. Powers had done. Leaving the door open had not been an act of defiance.

Hansen’s assumption was correct. Mr. Powers had never left the War Room. Nauseated by the President’s footsy-playing with the Reds, he had rushed to the lavatory. When the light went out and the door clicked shut, Mr. Powers was locked in the War Room eighty feet beneath the White House. His only means of communication with the outside was a telephone to Soviet Russia.

Upstairs, as they gathered in the office to play back the tapes, a red light glowed on the President’s desk console. He flicked on a switch and Mr. Powers’ voice came clearly into the room, “… directing you to call the President of the United States and tell him to check the basement.”