Ultimate Issue (14 page)

“Yes, sir.”

Croxford nodded. “Keep me posted on Oboe. I’ll be in my quarters.”

The blue phone buzzed softly. The controller picked it up, listened. He handed it to Croxford.

“For you, sir.”

The general took the phone. They usually didn’t bother him when he was down in the command post. Unless it was very urgent.

“Croxford,” he said.

“General, it’s Duval.”

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“Well?”

‘`There’s no sign of Tower, sir.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I guess he’s gone, sir.”

The controller had no idea what it was about, but the last time the general had such a look on his face was when Gary Powers failed to take the death pill and allowed himself to be captured by the Russians.

L~conbury

Tower stood in the shadow of the warehouse, watching the AP jeeps race past. They were buzzing all over the base like angry bees. The white hats waved down cars driven by the wives, held up supply trucks, checked the family housing area, searched the bowling alley, and swarmed all over the barracks and the mess halls.

The gates to the base were double-manned and any veLciles that left were searched. And they had the dogs out.

The dogs were out looking for him. Tower feared them. The AP squadron prided itself on its canine unit. Sergeant McKluskey, the man in charge, had a special technique. Everybody hit the dogs, except their handlers. His men would walk down the lines of kennels, and when a Doberman stuck out his head, he’d be whacked across the nose with a gauntlet.

So they hated every human being. Their handlers they just about tolerated, because they fed them and were the only people who didn’t hurt them. Every other person was an enemy.

That was the way McKluskey wanted it.

The dogs roamed loose in certain parts of the highsecurity zone, where no one was supposed to enter. McKluskey sometimes wished somebody would try a little sabotage in the maximum-security compounds. It would give his pets some exercise.

Tonight was the big event for the dog section. Tower was their quarry.

Getting out of the cell-like room by the boiler house had been no problem. He had carefully picked his moment and simply walked out.

He wore uniform, and the airmen he passed gave him cursory salutes but no second look. He walked along Texas Street, the thoroughfare in the middle of the dependent housing area, and made his way to the car park alongside the NCO club.

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His only plan was to get out. To reach London. And there …

But London, right now, was on another planet. He had to get off this sprawling, huge triangular complex, surrounded by hedges, and behind them ten-foot-high wire fences.

Whatever he did, he knew he had to avoid the operational area of the base. That was always tightly guarded, and tonight the sentries would really be on their toes. They’d enjoy it too. Guard duty was monotonous; at last there was something to watch for.

He had a vague idea to steal a car and somehow drive off the base. Bluff his way past the guardhouse. Try to pull rank on the APs. Crash his way through. Anything.

But when he got to the car park, he found the APs were already there. Shining flashlights into every car, standing in a group. He heard walkietalkies chattering. Hastily, he turned the other way.

He tried to recall, in his mind, the layout of the base. The flight lines and runways stretched to the east. The administrative areas were ahead of him, the big sprawling family complex at his back.

To the south alongside Laconbury was the highway to London. A busy route, with constant traffic. cars. Trucks. If he could reach it, he could hitch a ride. They’d be surprised to see an American air force officer thumbing a lift, as every Yank was believed to have his own huge limousine, but they’d certainly pick him up.

He had to get to that main road.

Tower began to walk, hugging all the buildings along the way, staying in the shadows as much as he could. The part oPthe airfield he was making for was open country and grassland. Just the occasional storehouse. There was nothing sensitive, no special guard posts.

He was on open ground now, but if he was lucky nobody would see him in the dark. He started running toward the wire fence a mile away.

Suddenly he heard barking behind him, and when he looked around, two shapes were streaking toward him. He ran faster. He wasn’t just running to get to the fence, he was running to escape the dogs.

He was afraid. Recently fear had been a familiar companion. It was almost as if he was reenacting a movie. Fleeing for his life, the dogs behind him, and the men behind them.

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It had been a wood in Germany last time, not an airfield in rural England, and the uniforms had belonged to a different country. But the fear tasted the same. His throat tightened with panic as the dogs came nearer and started to catch up to him.

His face was a grimace of pain as he put all he had into escaping, his heart pounding so hard that he knew soon, any moment, it would explode. Christ, those dogs. They were gaining on him. Closer. Closer …

Reality and nightmare, the present and the past were madly somersaulting round his mind. The scar on his face, the panic, the desperation to get away, to escape.

They had to get him, to stop him. But they … who were “they” this time? Had it all happened before or was it the same moment, over and over again?

A stack of empty oil drums, shaped like a pyramid loomed in front of him. Last time it had been trees, the wood … or was it back streets and dark alleys?

Oh God, he had no strength left. He knew it was useless. Now the dogs were snapping at his heels. He stumbled, like a crazy drunken man, and fell against the drums, just as the whistle shrilled.

There had been a whistle last time. But this one sounded different.

The dogs froze, their eyes red, crazed with fury, shining brightly in the dark, saliva dripping from their jaws, panting with eagerness to tear his flesh.

But they obeyed the whistle. McKluskey had trained them well. They stood over Tower, waiting, hoping he would move, so that they’d have their excuse.

For a fleeting moment, Sergeant McKluskey had the insane idea of giving them their reward. He allowed himself the pleasure of savoring the sight of the exhausted, cowering fugitive, mesmerised by the Dobermans. He relished the idea of giving them a taste of the real thing, instead of the man-sized dummies they usually savaged in training.

But, like the dogs, McKluskey was well disciplined.

He gave another whistle, a different note, and they stood back.

“Well done, you beautiful bastards,” crowed McKluskey. “Now sit.”

He lifted the walkietalkie.

“Post Eleven,” he said. “We got your man.”

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Monday, July 3,1961 Laconbury

Ike cab he had taken from the station dropped Verago at the gates of the base next morning at 8:40 A.M.

The AP checked his ID again, but then, instead of waving him through, said, “You’d better get out, Captain.”

And he opened the door of the cab for him.

“Hey,” said Verago.

“Pay the man, sir,” ordered the AP.

Verago stared at him in disbelief.

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to … ?” he began.

“Five pounds,” said the cab driver. He didn’t know what the fuss was all about, but he wanted to be out of it. He made a good living overcharging Laconbury Yanks who had no cars. If he had trouble with the APs, he’d lose out badly.

Verago paid him, and the cab reversed out of the gate and drove off.

“Step this way, please,” said the AP.

In the guardhouse, the staff sergeant behind the desk got up slowly as they entered. He sauntered over to the counter, eyeing Verago with some curiosity.

Maybe I’d better start teaching these bastards a little military courtesy, thought Verago. He wasn’t a spit-andpolish fanatic at the best of times, but this studied insolence was too much even for him.

“Sergeant,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir?”

“You know who I am?”

“You’re Captain Verago,” the sergeant replied nonchalantly.

“And don’t you forget it,” whiplashed Verago. It was unusual for him to browbeat an enlisted man, but when he did his victim seldom forgot it.

But not this time.

“Wait here, Captain,” instructed the sergeant. “What for?” The sergeant was dialing an extension on the phone.

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He turned his back. He said something into the phone, hung up, and sat down.

“Do you always sit down when an officer is standing?” grated Verago.

The sergeant got to his feet. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. “They’ll be here in a moment.”

The other AP still stood by the door, gazing into space.

Verago turned to go, but the AP moved so that Verago couldn’t pass him.

“Give me the phone,” said Verago tersely.

“I’m sorry about this, sir,” said the sergeant, “but we got orders.”

“Just give me that phone,” ordered Verago.

The sergeant swallowed. He saw Verago’s expression, and whatever the guy had done, he had those captain’s tracks on his shoulders. You could never win an argument with an officer.

The car saved him.

It pulled up outside the guardhouse with a squeal of brakes and they all heard a door slam.

Duval came in.

“Come with me, please,” he said to Verago.

“Who are you?”

“Duval. OSI.”

“Well, Mr. Duval, you’d better tell me what’s going on here,” said Verago.

“Let’s go to my place,” said Duval, as if he’d issued a dinner invitation.

They got into the car, and the driver started the engine.

“Did you give them orders to detain me at the gate?”

“The APs were told to report the moment you stepped on the base, Captain,” replied Duval.

“Why?”

But the car had already arrived at its destination inside the base, the concrete building with the barred window.

“Come into the office, please,” said Duval, pressing the buzzer. The door swung open.

“Sit down, Captain.” Duval placed himself opposite Verago. “We’ve been very anxious to talk to you, but we didn’t know where you were.”

You tucking liar, thought Verago. You know I’ve been in bed all night with Laurie Czeslaw in London.

“This is not formal, Captain,” said DuvaL “Nothing’s

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being written down. Not a word recorded.” He held up his empty hands like a conjurer at the begin of his act. “You can walk out any time you want.”

Somewhere close by a teleprinter was stuttering, and a phone rang briefly. But Verago’s mind was on other things.

“When outfits like the OSI say something’s off the record, I shut up on principle,” he said. “Nothing personal, Mr. Duval. But you’d better tell me quick what’s going on before I “

“I understand your indignation,” interrupted DuvaL “At the same time, you’ll appreciate what a sensitive installation this is, and when something like this happens “

“Like what?”

Duval regarded him in disbelief. “Oh, come on, Captain. You don’t know, I suppose, that your client tried to go absent during the night?”

Verago sat very still. “Go on.”

“He broke restriction. He tried to get away and almost made it. The APs just caught him. Near the perimeter fence. We think ” Duval stopped, and then continued slowly, ” we think a car was waiting for him.”

“And you’re suggesting?”

Duval was chilly. “I’m suggesting nothing. Our job is security. And, well, let’s say you didn’t exactly go by the book when you smuggled yourself into his room at the hospital. You’ve gotten yourself a reputation for welt playing it by your own rules.”

“Unlike you fellows, of course.”

Suddenly Duval grinned. “Listen, I don’t hold it against you.” The grin vanished. “But I’ve got a lot of unanswered questions.”

Verago looked at his watch. “I’d like to see Captain Tower,” he said.

The noise of an aircraft stopped Duval answering right away. Then he said, “I’m sorry. Right now he’s in close confinement.”

“Duval, you don’t seem to get it,” grated Verago. “I’m his attorney. You can’t stop me seeing him.”

“No?” inquired Duval.

“I’ll take it to the top.”

“Your privilege,” said Duval coolly.

They stood face to face like two antagonists about to come to the confrontation they had both expected,

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“All right,” said Verago, “you asked for it, friend.” He reached for the phone.

Suddenly a siren started shrieking. Somewhere, simultaneously, a bell rang stridently.

“What the hell is that?” demanded Verago.

“That,” said Duval, “is the war alert.”

And in the distance they could hear the planes starting to take off.

Red Alert

At 1005 hours Laconbury air base was completely destroyed by a multimegatonweapon dropped from a Soviet bomber that was subsequently listed as probably shot down by an F-111 from Bentwaters.

But although Brigadier General Croxford and his command ceased to exist, on paper, in what would be one sudden, fiery bright flash, the exercise was rated a big success.

All Laconbury’s serviceable aircraft had been airborne within six minutes of the alert, allowing them to disperse all over the map, as laid down in the contingency plans.

It was a very good performance, as they told the general on the hot line, after he had been informed he and his outfit were dead.

By t600 hours, the alert was over. The air force children in the dependent school no longer had to lie flat on the classroom floors, the commissariat was open for business again, outgoing calls were allowed once more, and servicemen could enter and leave the base.

Captain Verago would have died a split second earlier than some other people on the base, because the focal point of the bomb’s explosion was the spot where the OSI building stood.

It was an academic point, since the effect of the blast would also have destroyed a substantial part of Cambridge, Huntingdon, Peterborough, St. Ives, Ely, and other towns in the East Anglia area.

Verago never knew any of this, because the report on the alert had the highest security classification.