The Road to Omaha (56 page)

“It
is
!”

“Who says besides you?”

“Well, I … I
can’t
!”

“Too bad. If there was a shred of truth to the concept, you could probably sell an outline for a few hundred thousand. And with what they call a ‘screen treatment’—that’s a half-assed summary like we all used to do in high school book reports—for maybe a half a million. You’d be the toast of Tinseltown.”

“Oh, my God, it
is
true!
Believe
me!”

“
I
may believe you, but my confidence wouldn’t be worth a Pellegrino and lime in the Po-Lounge. For this
kind of thing to fly, you need credibility.… Now, General, I really think we should return to the interview.”

“
No
! I’m too close to my dreams.… Paul and Joanne, Greg and Mitch and Michael—all the
good
people!”

“That they are—”

“You
must
believe me!”

“How can I?” growled the old journalist. “I can’t even write down a word—we’re off the record.”

“Well, try
this
,” cried Brokey the Deuce, his eyes on fire as the sweat rolled down his face. “Within the next twenty-four hours, my antiterrorist repertory company of actors will capture one of the most dangerous enemies our country has ever known.”

“That’s a hell of a statement, General. Anything to back it up with that I can document?”

“Is there anything between off-the-record and on-the-record?”

“Well, I suppose there’s confidential postoccurrence disclosure—that’s to say nothing may be printed until the event takes place, and even then, only ‘on background.’ ”

“What’s
that
?”

“No specific names are used or revealed as sources.”

“I’ll take it!”

“You’ll get it,” muttered the journalist.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Go ahead, General.”

“They’re-in-Boston-Massachusetts,” said Brokemichael quickly in a monotone, his lips barely moving.

“That’s nice.”

“Have you been reading the newspapers or watching television?” the general asked, again quickly, secretively.

“Off and on, you can’t escape either one.”

“Did you read or hear about the Nobel committee that flew into Boston on the Vice-President’s plane?”

“Yes, I think I did,” replied the journalist, scowling in thought. “Something about an address at Harvard and announcing some award or other for a general … the Soldier of the Decade, or something like that. I saw it on the television news.”

“
Preet-tee
impressive, wouldn’t you say?” said Brokey the Deuce, the question delivered in sing-song.

“Well, any committee representing the Nobel Foundation wouldn’t be too tacky.”

“You agree then that they were a distinguished group of scholars and military historians, right?”

“Certainly. The Nobel boys don’t mess around with bums, they don’t have to. So what’s all this got to do with your … your repertory company of antiterrorists?”

“It’s
them
!”

“What’s them?”

“That Nobel committee! They’re my men, my
actors
!”

“General, on this point I’ll stay strictly off the record, but have you been dabbling in the sauce this morning?… Hey, look, I’m no young goober with newsprint stars in my eyes—like my friends at the Po-Lounge, I’ve been around the block, too, sometimes with a fifth in my pocket—”

“I’m telling you the
truth
!” Brokemichael fulminated, his harsh sotto voce so intense the veins in his throat turned purple. “And I
never
have a drop of alcohol before the Officers’ Club opens at noon. That ‘Nobel committee’ is actually my clandestine unit, my
actors
!”

“Perhaps we should reschedule this interview—”

“I’ll
prove
it to you!” The leader of Suicidal Six raced to a file cabinet, slapped open a drawer, and yanked out a number of manila folders. He ran back to his desk and threw them indiscriminately across the top, opening several and scattering dozens of photographs helter-skelter. “There they
are
! We keep records of their various disguises so as not to duplicate them on succeeding operations in case of past photo surveillance.… Here,
here
! These are the last pictures—the hair, a few short beards, the glasses, and even the eyebrows.
These
are the men you saw on television in the press conference at Logan Airport in Boston! Look,
look
!”

“I’ll be
damned
,” said the journalist, now standing and studying the eight-by-ten glossy photographs. “I believe you’re right.”

“I
am
right! These are the Suicidal Six,
my
creation!”

“But why are they in Boston?”

“It’s top secret, max-classified to the zenith.”

“Well, General, I hate to tell you, but all you’ve shown
me is disconnected visual possibilities. They’re meaningless without an explanation. Remember, we’re on ‘postoccurrence disclosure,’ so it’s okay, you can tell me.”

“My name won’t be mentioned—except perhaps to your ‘Po-Lounge’ friends, who I’d
kill
to meet?”

“My word as a journalist,” agreed the man who called himself Harrison.

“Well, that general you mentioned—that disgraced
former
general—is a traitor to our country. I won’t go into all the details, but if he carries out his plan, this nation stands to lose its first- and second-strike capabilities.”

“He’s that—Soldier of the whatever?” interrupted Harrison.

“ ‘Soldier of the Century,’ but it’s all a hoax, a scam to pull him in and take him! And my men, my
actors
are doing that right now!”

“I’m genuinely sorry to hear that, General,
genuinely
sorry.”

“Why? He’s demented.”

“He’s
what
?”

“He’s a screwball, a mental case—”

“Then why is he so goddamned important?”

“Because he and a criminal lawyer from Harvard, accent on criminal—who
I
know something about—have worked up some big fraud case against our perfect government that could cost us—especially the Pentagon—more millions than we could con from Congress in a hundred years!”

“What case?”

“I don’t have the particulars, only the essence, and let me tell you, it’s a
Rocky Horror Picture Show
—did you ever see that movie?”

“Sorry,” growled the journalist, his blatant hostility apparent, but apparently not to Brokey the Deuce. “Who is this general?” asked the man called Harrison, choking out the question.

“A crazy son of a bitch named Hawkins, a real troublemaker, always has been.”

“I remember that name. Didn’t he win the Congressional twice?”

“He’s also a maniac. Eighty percent of the Congressional
get it after they’re dead. How come he wasn’t killed—maybe there’s a story there?”

“
Auuaagh
!” coughed the journalist, the fire now in
his
eyes. “How come
Air Force Two
carried these imposters to Boston?” he asked, resuming a semblance of control.

“Window dressing for the press conference. You can’t ignore that aircraft.”

“You can’t rent it from a Hertz counter, either. That plane’s an untouchable.”

“Not for some people—”

“Oh, yes, you mentioned a big shot … ‘one of the most powerful men in the country,’ I think you said.”

“Very high rank, damn near the highest. Max-classified.”

“Now that sort of confidential information would really impress my friends in Hollywood. They’d probably fly you out to the Coast for a couple of conferences—all very hush-hush, of course.”

“Conferences?”

“They look ahead, General, way down the road, they have to. A picture starts with a high concept; the development takes a couple of years. Good Lord, every major star in the industry would be at your feet—you’d have to meet ’em all for precasting purposes.”

“Meet them … 
all
?”

“Sure, but I guess it’s out of the question since you can’t tell me—on a confidential postoccurrence basis—who the big shot is. Later, any damn fool can reveal the name, and probably will; the time to strike for you is now. After the fact you won’t be anything special.… Oh, well, win some, lose some. Let’s get on with the interview, General. The cuts in defense spending directly affect the manpower situation, which has to in turn affect troop morale—”

“Wait a minute!” An apoplectic Brokey the Deuce paced back and forth, looking down at the photographs of his magnificent creation/obsession. “As you say, when the story breaks—and it has to some day—I won’t be anyone special, and any damn fool can take credit for what I’ve done. God, they
will
, too! They’ll make a movie and I won’t be any part of it. I’ll have to pay probably fifty dollars
just to sit in a theater and watch what they’ve done to my masterpiece. Oh, Christ, it’s terrible!”

“That’s life, as Old Blue Eyes sings in that song,” said the journalist, his pen poised above his notepad. “For a fact, though, Francis Albert is looking for a good character role—he might even play you.”

“Francis Albert …?”

“I mean Frank, naturally, Sinatra, of course.”

“
No
!” roared the brigadier general. “I did all this and did it
my way
!”

“What was that?”

“All right, I’ll tell you,” said the perspiring Brokemichael. “Later on, down the road, he’ll probably thank me, maybe find me another star, and even if he doesn’t he can damn well pay fifty dollars himself and watch that movie,
my
movie.”

“I can’t follow you, General.”

“The Secretary of State!” whispered Brokey the Deuce. “
He’s
the one my Suicidal Six are on the Boston mission for. He arrived here yesterday incognito, nobody on the base knew who he was, his ID a processed fake!”

“
Bingo
!” shouted the Hawk, leaping up from the chair to his full height and ripping the dull red wig off his head. “
Gotcha
, Deucey!” he continued yelling as he tore apart his collar and tie while yanking the steel-rimmed glasses away from his face. “How
are
ya, old buddy, you miserable son of a
bitch
?”

Ethelred Brokemichael was beyond speech; in a word, he was paralyzed. A series of deep-throated grunts combined with high-pitched nasal wheezes emerged from his gaping mouth in the lower middle of his contorted face. “Ahhhh … 
ahhhh
!”

“Is that any way to greet an old buddy, even if he is a mental case and a misfit who probably shouldn’t have been given his Congressionals?”

“Aiya … 
aiya
!”

“Oh, I forgot, he’s also a traitor and a troublemaker, and maybe there’s a story behind those medals like directing his own fire on himself, that might do it.”

“Nyahh … 
nyahh
!”

“You mean you don’t think that’d work, you
pissant
?”

“Mac,
stop
it!” cried Brokey the Deuce, recovering sufficiently to protest. “You don’t know what I’ve been going through … a divorce—the bitch is bleeding me dry—and fighting Washington for funds, and keeping my unit happy—Jesus, I have to arrange captive audiences for their goddamned staged readings when the recruits don’t understand a word and smoke funny cigarettes to get through the ordeals.… Have
mercy
, Mac, I’m just trying to survive! What would you have done, tell the Secretary of State to shove it?”

“I probably would have.”

“Yeah, well, you never had to pay a dime in alimony.”

“Of course not. I taught my fillies how to take care of themselves, and by God, they did. If I’m short, any one of ’em will ante up.”

“I’ll never understand, never.”

“It’s simple. I cared for each and every one and helped them to be better than they were. You didn’t care and you didn’t help.”

“Well, damn it, Mac, that wall-eyed Pease made a hell of a case against you! And when he told me that lousy punk lawyer Devereaux was involved, I went bananas—dedicated bananas.”

“That’s kind of a shame, Deucey, because that ‘punk’ Devereaux is the reason I’m here … to help you get your ass out of the biggest sling it could land in.”

“What?”

“It’s time for
you
to have a little mercy, General. Sam Devereaux now knows he overstated his charges against you and wants to make up for his younger indiscretions. Do you think I’d risk coming down here and walk right into the enemy’s camp if he hadn’t insisted?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re being set up, Brokey. Sam found out and literally ordered me to fly down and warn you.”

“What?
How
?”

“There’s this minor lawsuit against the government—someone’s always suing the government—but this one is a major embarrassment to Warren Pease, and he’s a very image-conscious politician. He wants it eliminated, so he enlists you and your team to do his dirty work, convincing
you it’s a big national crisis, and the minute you’ve done it, he doesn’t
know
you! The lawsuit’s thrown out of court ’cause the plaintiffs aren’t there, somebody’s bound to protest, and the elimination trail leads right to your Suicidal Six—and
you
. A general officer who only barely survived serious charges in the Golden Triangle. You’re dead meat, Brokey.”

“Holy
shit
! Maybe I ought to call them back.”

“If I were you, I’d also insert an official memorandum in your files—dated yesterday—that upon reconsideration you withdrew your troops, because you believed the mission was beyond military constitutional authority. If there’s a congressional investigation, hang Pease, not yourself.”

“Goddamn, I will!… Mac, how did you know so much about L.A.—the Coast, and the Polo Lounge, and all those other things you talked about?”

“You forget, old buddy, they made a movie about me. I was the consultant for ten crazy weeks out there, courtesy of the Pentagon pricky-shits who thought it would do wonders for recruitment quotas.”

“They took a nose dive, everyone knows that. It was the worse damn flick I ever saw and I’m something of an expert. I mean, it was really terrible, and even though I hated your guts, I bled for you.”