Fade Out (14 page)

And China had done the same.

There was a brief, exquisite moment of suspended time. Then Connors' mind filled up again with the million and one things he had to do. He closed his eyes and lay back, his head deep in the pillow.

Charlotte raised herself up on one elbow. ‘Is it all right if I get dressed?'

‘Sure go ahead.' Connors reached for his watch, checked the time, then strapped it round his wrist. ‘I'm going to have to get moving anyway.'

Charlotte never liked being naked any longer than was necessary. Connors watched her get out of the bed and scurry self-consciously into the bathroom.

‘I wish you wouldn't look at me like that,' Charlotte was now safe behind the half-open door.

‘Why not? You're very beautiful.'

Although the statement was patently untrue, it didn't draw a rebuttal from the bathroom. Charlotte was a gifted, intelligent girl of twenty-nine. Or a woman of thirty. That remained to be discovered. But certainly too
intelligent to worry about what she looked like. But worry she did – mainly about putting on weight. Her mother suffered from the same problem, a genetic defect that had endowed both of them with an insatiable desire for handmade chocolates and Viennese pastry.

‘I'd begun to think I wasn't ever going to see you again.'

‘Me too.' And after tonight, that could well happen…

‘Mother sends her love, by the way.'

‘Uh-huh…'

‘She and Pops almost blew their minds about having the President – I mean you can imagine… to have both of them drop in for dinner like that.'

‘The man has to eat.'

‘You know what I mean, and I love you for it.'

Given Connors' present mood, that seemed a bleak perspective. ‘I hope your mother didn't spend too much on the meal.'

Charlotte peeked around the bathroom door, a comb poised halfway through her rich, dark hair.

‘Why'd you say that?'

‘Because it's going to cost her another half million dollars at the next election.'

Charlotte had a well-developed sense of humour, but she'd been taught to ignore jokes about money.

‘Do you have to lie there like that?'

‘I'm waiting for the bathroom.'

Charlotte withdrew behind the door to avoid his nakedness.

‘Are you going to be out of Washington for long?'

‘It depends.'

‘And you really can't tell me where you're going?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Well, I think it's ridiculous. I mean, it's not as if there is a war on or anything.'

‘Would it make you feel better if I told you I was in Russia a couple of weeks ago?'

‘What were you doing there?'

‘Just talking.'

‘I hear the food there is absolutely terrible. What were you talking about?'

Colonel Sanders. Pizza Hut and Macdonalds have done so well, they want Kentucky Fried Chicken from Moscow to Vladivostock.'

Charlotte finished buttoning up her dress as she came out of the bathroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a sheet up over Connors. ‘Be serious. Do they expect this solar radiation, or whatever it is, to go on jamming the TV and radio much longer?'

‘I don't know, Charly. I'm not holding out on you. We don't have the answers yet. The fade-out is like an earthquake or a tornado. We just have to hang tough till it blows over.'

‘Is it the fade-out that's making that hissing noise every time I pick up my telephone?' asked Charly.

‘Yes. It's something to do with the way the atmosphere is supercharged with static electricity. I don't know exactly how it works, but it's all related. That's why we've had such heavy summer lightning.'

‘I read in the paper that in Canada and Europe they're getting the most fantastic displays of northern lights,' said Charly. ‘People are staying up to watch instead of going to the movies… I'm glad it wasn't the Russians. It makes things a whole lot better to know they're in as big a mess as we are. That's if they're telling the truth, of course.'

‘Things could be worse,' said Connors. ‘We could have normal, uninterrupted service on all our tv channels.'

Charlotte gave him a look that reminded him of his mother. ‘Bob, you're not fooling me. When I can't get a
straight answer, it means you've got trouble. Is something bad about to happen?'

‘Nothing's about to happen, Charly. Nothing bad, and nothing good either. Things are probably going to go on pretty much as they always have.'

‘And this you call reassurance?'

‘It's the best I can do.'

Charlotte knelt down by the side of the bed, took hold of his hand, kissed it, then cradled it against her face.

‘Do you think you'd be able to talk to me more if I were your wife?'

‘If you were my wife, I probably wouldn't be speaking to you at all.'

‘Yes, but she wasn't interested in politics. I am.'

Connors got up and went into the bathroom.

When he was washed and dressed, he let her help him pack. Then they went out for supper. Connors would have preferred to stay at home, but he knew Charlotte got a lot of mileage out of being seen with him.

He went along with it because he had decided to be kind and understanding to at least one person in his life. That was what his good half said, and Charlotte had rewarded his attentions in so many ways. His bad half reminded him that her father was into real estate, hotels, and resort development in a big way. Charlotte was not only good company, she was Gucci-shod life insurance.

Sanford G. Woods was a fifteen-year-old aeroplane buff from Santa Barbara. Every Saturday he would prowl
around the airport at Goleta Point, noting down the type, registration number, and owner of every aeroplane he could lay eyes on.

On the eighteenth, Sanford chained his bicycle to its regular spot on the airport fence, checked the lightplane park, then wandered down the depressingly familiar line of big twins to where an ageing B-26 Invader sat on the rim of its wheels, hanging together in the hope that some handsome Colonel of the Confederate Air Force would come and rescue her. It was then that Sanford hit pay dirt.

Two big, four-engined C-130 Hercules transports belonging to Thailand Air Freight had been parked over on the west side for weeks. They were still there, only now they bore the chrome yellow and olive-drab trim of the Mineral Research and Development Corporation, and they were being readied for flight.

With a surge of excitement that only another aeroplane nut could understand, Sanford duly logged the change of ownership and took a photograph of both aeroplanes with his Kodak Instamatic 300. What Sanford didn't know was that there had not, in fact, been any change in ownership. Thailand Air Freight, which had once been busy in Southeast Asia, and the Mineral Research and Development Corporation were both end links of complex corporate chains forged by the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia.

Set up late in 1958, the ‘front office' activities consisted of aerial and ground geological surveys, mining and drilling. Its overseas operations had provided bases and cover for several successful CIA assignments in the early sixties. They had also resulted in three useful strikes, two of ore and one of oil, which had been leased off for development.

For the last few years, MRDC had just been filing tax
returns from an address in Fort Worth, Texas, but now it was back in business.

Its revival was the result of the meeting between Connors and McKenna at the White House on the Monday of the previous week. Wedderkind had sat in on the meeting while they discussed ways and means of containing a landing site within the United States with a minimum of publicity. A lot depended on Crusoe's manner of arrival, but, unlike Mel Fraser, they had been hoping Crusoe wouldn't choose Times Square.

When he had been given his assignment two weeks before, at the Western White House, Connors had sounded out Air Force General Clayson. While he was happy to help, Clayson had baulked at the idea of a direct containment by uniformed units of the Air Force, and had hinted that the use of Army units might present an even greater risk to the secrecy of the project. The CIA, suggested Clayson, was better organized to mount this unorthodox type of operation – and keep it secret.

There was always the risk that their cover might be blown, Clayson had said, but if the CIA could survive the Bay of Pigs disaster, Chile, the unforeseen collapse of the Shah of Iran and all the other ugly bugs that had crawled out from under the carpet, it could certainly survive any disclosures about its role in the Crusoe Project.

McKenna, who had been with Connors, and had also survived the triple threat, decided Clayson had intended a backhanded compliment. It was in their subsequent discussions in Washington that he'd come up with the idea of using the Mineral Research and Development Corporation. Now that Crusoe was lying buried under a heap of Montana shale, it seemed like the best idea they had had all week.

While Connors and Wedderkind had been talking to the Soviet Premier, MRDC was reactivated and hurriedly
restaffed with Texas-based CIA front men. Money was pumped into MRDC's bank account from the Director's Contingency Fund, and the newly-appointed purchasing officer began hiring drill rigs, equipment and basic transportation. By Saturday the eighteenth, just two weeks after Crusoe had been located in orbit, MRDC was in good enough shape to convince even a hard-nosed panhandler that they were the real thing.

Saturday the eighteenth was also a big day for some of the hardier weekend fliers. Following the ‘Friday Morning Massacre' and the government ban on all civil flying, airports across the country had been reduced to expensive parking lots. Exactly a week later, following mounting protest from lightplane owners' associations and air charter firms, the Federal Aviation Authority rescinded its order. A brief moment of rejoicing by private fliers and nonscheduled operators was terminated on discovering Catch-22, an almost simultaneous announcement by the aviation insurance companies stating that, for the duration of the fade-out, the cover on their aeroplanes and passengers would become invalid the moment their wheels left the ground. The freeze also included cover on third-party claims.

Despite the sledgehammer caution of the insurance companies, by the week's end, a surprising number of people had taken to the air in what quickly became known as ‘Suicide Specials'. Depending on one's point of view, it was either a unique demonstration of faith in the high standard of workmanship of American aeroplane manufacturers, or proof that the pioneer, frontier spirit was alive and well – and airborne.

Connors left Washington early on Saturday and flew to Glasgow Air Force Base in northeastern Montana. They
touched down at 08:10 local time, a full two minutes ahead of their ETA. As the T-39 Sabreliner turned off the runway, a ‘Follow Me' truck pulled out ahead of them and led the way to the base of the tower where a Dayglo-jacketed ground handler wheeled them into line with the other parked aircraft.

Connors looked out of his window and saw a blue Air Force Chevy pull up alongside. Greg Mitchell, his chief assistant, was up front with the driver. Another man, whom he didn't know, was in the back.

Connors had sent Greg on ahead the day before to smooth out any wrinkles. A born fixer, Greg earned every cent of his salary – and probably tripled it on the side.

Greg took charge of Connors' thick briefcase while the Air Force driver stowed the two bits of matching luggage in the trunk of the Chevy.

‘Good trip?'

‘Yes. Where's Arnold?'

‘Over at the Base Commander's house waiting for you to have breakfast.'

‘Do we have time?'

‘For a courtesy call, yes. It's Colonel John Zwickert, by the way. Wife's name is Margaret.'

‘Is he in on any of this?'

Greg shook his head. ‘He's just pouring the coffee.'

‘Who's the guy in the back of the car?'

‘Lou Weissmann. He's the Corporation's lawyer.'

The Mineral Research and Development Corporation.

‘Okay,' said Connors. ‘Let's go.'

The Base Commander's house was a low-slung stone and weathered-timber duplex with deep overhanging eaves. It sat uncomfortably on a mound of lettuce-green crew-cut turf surrounded by flower beds.

Connors decided that it probably looked better after a
heavy fall of snow. He led the others up the curving stone path. Colonel Zwickert and his wife met them on the porch.

The living room was cool, clean, and comfortable, and the breakfast table was laid with the family silver and Mrs Zwickert's grandmother's table linen.

Wedderkind was over by the window, keying an eighteenth-century harpsichord back into tune. ‘Isn't this a beauty? I'll be with you in a minute.'

It was long enough for Connors to learn that Mrs Zwickert's grandmother had brought it over from Leipzig along with the table linen, and that she, Mrs Zwickert, had braved the perils of East Germany to visit her grandmother's birthplace during her husband's last European tour of duty.

‘There are hot pancakes, syrup, ham rolls, orange juice, coffee, cream for those who want it, and milk for those who don't. I guess you gentlemen will want to talk so I'll leave you to help yourselves.'

The Colonel and his wife withdrew, the Colonel to the base, his wife to a red alert in the kitchen.

Connors poured himself a glass of orange juice. He saw Greg poised with a plate. ‘Just a roll and coffee. Black, no sugar.'

‘Coming up. Lou?'

Lou Weissmann was already helping himself to two of everything. Wedderkind inspected the food on the table and settled for a cup of coffee. He sat down opposite Connors and stirred in four spoonfuls of sugar. Connors tried to keep a straight face.