Sex and the High Command (25 page)

Hansen was caught completely by surprise when a lanky pilot emerged through the door and held it open for a lady who wore a fawn-gray, waist-length coat trimmed at the collar with mink and a matching fawn-gray miniskirt, fawn-gray mesh hose, and mink ankle boots. When she raised her arm, flicked her hand, and called, “Yoo-hoo, Ben, here I am,” he knew.

Beneath the blond wig, the mascara, the false eyelashes, and three layers of makeup, showed the vaguely recognizable lineaments of Dr. Houston Drexel.

“My dear,” Dr. Drexel said, imitating the falsetto of a hoarse female to the T, “can you imagine me sitting alone in the cabin of that plane for three hours with no one to talk to? I thought we’d literally never get here. Oh, you are handsome, Ben. I hope you’re not angry with me for my little deception over the. phone, making you think I was the old Drexel. You will forgive me, won’t you, Ben?”

Suddenly he whirled, one arm on hip, the other lifted in a coy arch above his head, in a perfect pantomime of a posing woman. “How do you like my new figure?”

Hansen felt he might be reading into Drexel the same qualities that Flugel had read into the espionage photographs of the Russian beach, but old Drex did seem to have changed. His pectoral muscles were pendulous under the blouse, and his buttocks were blobs of jelly under his too-tight miniskirt. In addition, his voice sounded about an octave higher than it had sounded over the phone.

Falling in with the spirit of the masquerade, Hansen said, “Your legs are right fetching, Drex, and that’s a sweet perfume.”

“The girls tell me my legs are me. And the perfume is Courtesan at forty dollars an ounce, a gift from Mother Carey.”

Drexel wasn’t wrong about the legs. They were a little heavy around the ankles, but the kneecaps merged into the rest of the leg quite attractively.

“How can you use this disguise in a washroom, Houston?”

“Oh, you naughty boy! This isn’t a disguise. Ben, I’ve been christened and rechristened. You are now looking at Dallas Georgias. The first name is our given name and the second is our mother’s. Mother was named Georgia, but I prefer to pronounce the first G hard. Of course, I couldn’t use Houston, but I’m still a Texan.”

“Well, I’d better get you out of here, quick. The soldiers might…”

“Oh, forgive me, Ben. Major Eagleson, meet one of my oldest and dearest friends, Captain Ben Hansen, USN, Retired.”

“Retired? Since when?”

“Now, don’t you fret, Ben. Mother Carey wants me to assure you, personally, that you’re retired on full pension and she has an opening for you in the naval auxiliary.”

Hansen steered her toward the exit, saying, “How are things working out in the Air Force, Major?”

“The mother still has a need for jet jockeys, and I’ll serve until my time comes. I was a chicken colonel in the old Air Force.”

Dallas Georgias swept into the bunker wardroom unescorted because the ex-chicken colonel was a chicken major. Coming out of the elevator, Hansen was so embarrassed by his former friend’s appearance that he hung back, trying to get the major as a buffer between him and the ovulated HEW Secretary. But Eagleson tried to use his lower rank to get the captain to precede him. After they bowed each other from the elevator and
do-ci-doed
through the reception area, Hansen heard Defense whistle.

By the time he arrived in the wardroom. General Talliaferro was helping her out of her coat, and the Secretary of State was greeting her with Old South courtliness, holding her hand and gazing attentively up into her eyes, but his pose was somewhat hampered by an activated tic. Primrose was standing back, rigid, and the President remained seated and hostile.

Hansen wished to introduce the major, but Dallas was already talking a purple streak, so he took off his coat, nodded to the major to follow, and went into the officers’ cloakroom.

General Talliaferro was hanging up Miss Georgias’ coat, stroking the fur, and sniffing. “Say, Ben,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me Old Drex was a woman?”

“Didn’t know it myself.”

“If Acworth Cobb thinks he can beat my time, that old goober grabber just doesn’t know Lafe Talliaferro.”

“General Talliaferro, this is Major, formerly Colonel, Eagleson. He was Miss Georgias’ pilot.”

“Welcome aboard, boy. You fly most of the way on auto?”

“No, sir,” Eagleson answered. “The lady’s on Vita-Lerp.”

“Well, we’ll put her on cold turkey for a few hours, and she’ll kick the habit.”

As Hansen returned to the wardroom, he heard Defense ask, “Say, Dal. Where’d you get those breasts?”

With her coat off. Miss Georgias was voluminous.

“Estrogen and Styrofoam, Ogie. Now, gentlemen, Mother Carey has requested that I do nothing but play poker. But first, I have a little social chitchat—President Habersham’s wife has sent him a note with the Mother Presiding’s approval, and Captain Hansen’s daughter has done likewise, without the Mother Presiding’s advice or consent… Oh, my bag. What a mess!”

“Orderly, set up the projector,” Admiral Primrose said.

“Dal, has that Styrofoam got any bounce?” Defense asked.

“Ogie, you naughty boy!”

Judging from his knowledge of Houston Drexel, Hansen decided that Oglethorpe Pickens had the inside track in the race to see Dallas Georgias’ incision.

“Ah, here they are. Yours, Mr. President, and yours, Captain Hansen.”

“Give them both to Admiral Primrose,” the President said.

She handed them to Primrose who took them and said, “Gentlemen, as you read these letters, check them for obvious correlations, for they may well be in reference code which our cipher analysts will not be able to crack. Scan them carefully. I’ll project the President’s, first.”

When the lights dimmed and the letter focused on the screen, Hansen found Bertha Habersham’s scrawl so illegible that he was forced to scan it carefully, it read:

Demorest Habersham!

Well, I never! You, out there on that ice cap, behaving like an idiot. And out there with those persons. Primrose and Flugel. Yes, I’ve heard about them.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I bet you didn’t even take your rubbers.

You come home this minute, and stop your tomfoolery. When I get my hands on you, Demorest Habersham, I’m going to skin you alive.

Bertha

“What do you read, Admiral?” the President asked.

“I’m afraid it’s literal, sir. Too bad. But it could give us a legal basis for Operation Meat Cleaver.”

By heavens, Hansen thought, Primrose never gave up on Plans and Operations.

“You’re quite right. Admiral. Let’s have J.P.’s note.”

Hansen was startled to hear the President use his own familiar name for Joan Paula, but he put his thoughts aside when her familiar and beloved handwriting flashed on the screen.

Amapola,

Mother and I had a falling out over you. She wanted me to change my name to Joan Paula Helgas, but that got my fighting blood up. I’m fifth-generation Navy, and even though I can’t use your name, I can exercise my options and keep the tradition alive, which I did.

So, mother shipped out. She’s
wintering
on Cape Hatteras and shivering in her boots, no doubt.

Come home. Papa, and quit kicking a dead horse. The Navy needs ship handlers and I swing enough weight in the service to get you a job as an instructor. Besides I have your Christmas presents wrapped and ready.

You tell that nasty little Primrose that it’s about time for him to shape up and ship out. He’s getting to the age where
Coriolanus
reads like the tale of a juvenile.

As ever,
Joan Paula Joans, Lt., USN

“What does ‘Amapola’ mean, Captain?” Primrose asked.

Hansen was braced for the titter that followed his answer. “My pretty little poppy, sir.”

“Do you read any references in the letter that aren’t obvious?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir,” Hansen said. “When I planned the nuking of Virginia and North Carolina, I told Helga that the bight of Hatteras would be the safest spot.”

“Good,” Defense said. “Word of the Cherokee Cluster has leaked out. The pressure must be on the old biddy to negotiate.”

“Admiral?” the President asked.

“I’ve read enough, sir, to convince me that Supplementary Plan A for Operation Meat Cleaver should be invoked. That girl is a genius, just like her father and even more like her mother.”

There was a lull in the conversation as the sergeant in charge of the projector raised the house lights, but the voice of the President broke the silence.

“Gentlemen, start your poker game.”

“It’s your deal, Drexel,” the admiral said.

“Mr. President, the Mother Presiding is willing to drop charges against all who come home, with the exceptions of Admiral Primrose and General Flugel. They will face reduced charges.”

“What is the nature of those charges?” the President asked.

“Morals offense, sir.”

“Do you have Dr. Carey’s offer in writing?” the President asked.

“She’s written an official note, sir.”

“Then give us the note,” the President said.

“I have it here, somewhere. Oh, this bag…”

She finally fished the message out. Primrose took it and handed it to the orderly. Again the lights were dimmed and the projector flashed the bold, back-slanted handwriting of Dr. Henrietta Carey on the screen:

Boys,

Your behavior is nothing short of indecent, but, as Mother Presiding over the whole political family, I’m willing to forgive if you come home this minute and quit defying me. Of course, you can’t have my girls. My mind is made up on that score. But if you really have the gall to drop those bombs on your own country, then give me three days to think it over.

If you give up this mad plan and come home, I’ll grant complete amnesty to all who return, with the exception of Primrose and Flugel. Nice people would not be seen in public with those two. Bertha wants a few words with Demorest, but due process does not apply in family quarrels.

Doctor Henrietta Carey, MP

After the lights rose, Hansen heard four men achieve a hubbub of voices. He and Lafe remained silent, but Primrose, the hybrid between the civilian and military establishments, joined in.

Defense: “If she had any, we’d have her by them.”

The President: “She endorsed it with the Great Seal. No one gave her permission to use that seal.”

Primrose: “She must have put it together with scissors and a pastepot.”

State: “What’s that woman doing, talking about due process?”

The President: “She used the Great Seal.”

“Drexel, what does she mean by complete amnesty?” Cobb asked.

“You get to retain your… er… possessions, provided there are no more legal transgressions.”

“Such as a traffic ticket,” Primrose snapped.

“Mr. President,” Drexel asked, “shall I call Dr. Carey and tell her negotiations are going to take a few days?”

“They aren’t,” the President said. “Dr. Drexel, as former Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare, have you retained enough loyalty to tell us why the male mortality rate is so high on the mainland?”

“No, sir.”

President Habersham leaned back in his chair, apparently considering Dr. Carey’s offer. To Hansen, her proposal seemed reasonable enough. The only man present who would lose by it would be Primrose, since Flugel was dead, and Primrose wouldn’t be losing much since the admiral was pushing sixty.

“Sergeant,” the President finally addressed the orderly, “would you take this woman to the quarters reserved for Secretary Drexel and hold her under guard until I’m ready to release her? And don’t let her have her bag.”

Dallas let loose with a string of cuss words that would have been the envy of the Old Navy. When she was finally hauled away, they could hear her screaming in her quarters. A search of her bag revealed six capsules larger than a man’s thumb.

“Mr. President,” Primrose said, “my evaluation of the correspondence leads me to believe that chances are fifty-fifty the Gluckstag is on its way.”

“I agree, Admiral,” President Habersham said, “but I’m now less concerned with the
Gluckstag
than with the loophole her proposal opens for a constitutional justification for Meat Cleaver.”

“Sir, that loophole would be your noose,” Cobb said.

“Exactly,” the President agreed. “And I’m counting on female illogic to hang me before Inauguration Day. Admiral, I gather from Joan Paula’s letter to her dad that she’s cooperating with John Paul Jones?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll go back and get my traffic ticket,” the President said, “and you can set up JPJ, Admiral, if it’s agreeable.”

Hansen had not the faintest idea what the conversation concerned, although he was flattered that the President knew his daughter. He wished Primrose would lift the ban on direct questions.

“Agreed, sir,” the admiral said, “and our logical man for John Paul Jones is Captain Hansen.” He turned to Hansen. “Ben, you’ve been keeping your own counsel here. What’s your opinion of the situation?”

“I’m in full accord with the President, Admiral.”

“That’s guts,” Defense said.

“I’ll have to think about a pilot.” The President glanced at his watch. “I hate to ask for one of Lindenberry’s boys. They’re due for a little rest and recreation in about eight hours.”

“We’ve got Eagleson, sir,” Talliaferro said.

“There might be a matter of divided loyalties there, General. He’s a major in her air force.”

“No problem at all, Mr. President,” the general demurred. “I think I can demonstrate his loyalty to your satisfaction, sir.”

“If you can do that… Mr. Cobb, I’m appointing you President pro tempore under stipulations of the National Emergency Act.”

“Very well, sir,” State said, as shrieks became audible in the wardroom, “but, right now, I’d better go calm Dal.”

Talliaferro had sent an orderly to get Eagleson. As Cobb left, the President turned to Primrose. “We’d better activate those orders for Captain Hansen, and while I’m about it, I’ll sign his other papers. Now, Admiral, when you finish writing my memoirs, stress the constitutional motive behind my return, and change the title. Make it
Memoirs of a Former President
rather than
Memoirs of the Last President
. And don’t be too harsh on Senator Dubois.