“His lawyer,” said the doctor. “I mean, his other lawyer. Lieutenant Jensen.”
Laconbury
First Lieutenant Cyrus Jensen was an unfortunate man. He was short, baby-faced, with thick bulbous lips that
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somehow made him look sullen. As if to make up for his appearance he was also aggressive, except to his superiors.
“I’m glad to have you on this case, counselor,“he said briskly when Verago walked into his room at the base legal offlce.
“That so?” It surprised Verago. He had already convinced himself that Jensen would resent his very presence.
“Yeah. Maybe you can make this idiot see some sense.”
“How’s that?”
“He’” wasting everybody’s time. The case is open and shut.”
They were words Verago loathed. Every prosecutor he came across in the military trumpeted he had an “open and shut” case. Only this man was supposed to be defending the accused.
“It’s solid, Captain,” added Jensen, and pushed a file across to Verago. “You just read the Article Thirtytwo.”
“You were there?”
“Of course,” Jensen said indignantly. “I did my best, but Jesus, you can’t fight a brick wall.”
That was better. Jensen was living up to expectation, after all.
“So what do you suggest?”
“We’ve got no choice,” declared Jensen, not unhappily. “He’s got to plead guilty and hope for the best. Unless, of course …”
Verago’s eyes narrowed. “Unless what?”
“Unless we can get him boarded out. Discharged for ‘the good of the service ‘ Something like that.”
Verago’s dislike of the man grew by the minute. “That finishes him.”
Jensen laughed. “Well, he won’t become a United States senator, that’s for sure, but he’ll be able to sling hash or clean windows. Better than Leavenworth any day. Who wants a guy like that in the service anyway?”
“I see,” said Verago.
“By the way, there’s a second charge now. Violation of Article One thirty-three.”
“But he’s already charged with prejudicial conduct,” interrupted Verago. “What the hell are they trying to do?”
“Counselor, this is conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman. It’s quite different,” Jensen said piously.
“You mean they want to hang him twice.” He took a deep breath. “And what’s the specification this time?”
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“The same. Having sexual relations with a female not his wife.” Jensen evidently liked the sound of it.
Verago leaned back. “Have you had many of these, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t get you.”
“Have a lot of men on this base been accused of adultery?”
The thick lips pouted. “Er … no. I guess not.”
“And how many men are stationed here?”
“That’s classified,” said Jensen hastily.
“Bullshit. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Say three thousand? Four thousand?”
“Well?” Jensen’s annoyance was growing.
“So, Lieutenant, here are hundreds, maybe thousands of married men stuck in the middle of nowhere, in a foreign country, for three years at a time, and not one of them apparently has got himself involved with a woman. It’s a great outfit you got here.”
“This isn’t Germany, Captain, and we’re not in the army.”
“And you don’t tuck?”
Jensen’s babyish face reddened. “That’s uncalled for, sir; I heard about your reputation, Captain, now I believe
Verago smiled benignly. “No kidding? And who told you about me?”
For the first time, Jensen seemed embarrassed. “I can’t remember, but I guess somebody must have said something when they heard you were coming. You know how it is.”
“I do indeed.”
“But I’m sure we can cooperate and look after Tower’s interests,” Jensen added, suddenly conciliatory. “Lees show them, right?”
“Fine,” said Verago. “And as a start you can get our man out of that hospital. What the hell is he doing there, anyway?”
“The doctors …”
“The doctors nothing, Jensen.” Verago stood up. “You had him put in there. Either you or somebody who told you to do it. Well, get him out. Right away.”
His anger was still controlled, but Jensen sagged.
“It’s … it’s for the best, counselor. He’s been under a strain, and I thought it would help to keep him out of the way.”
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“Sure,” said Verago. “And it wouldn’t do any harm to plant the suggestion the guy is a psycho, rights Needs mental care. Isn’t responsible. What a great way to have a man booted out of the service.”
“There’s no suggestion ” objected Jensen.
“Okay. Just get him out. And listen, Lieutenant, if you don’t …”
He stopped. From the outer office came the clatter of typewriters, and in the distance the sound of jet engines warming up. But Jensen was transfixed by the man facing ~m.
“If you don’t, I’m going to fly in civilian psychiatrists, the top men, people the military can’t fix. And they’re going to look over Tower, and then tear your medics apart, and God knows what else.” He paused again. “Capote?”
He picked up the Article 32 folder.
“I’ll see to it, Captain,” said Jensen. Verago wasn’t sure, but momentarily those thick lips seemed to tremble.
“Good.” Verago stopped at the door. “You’ve fixed quarters for me?”
“Well,” began Jensen, and looked away. “We’ve got a small problem.” He saw Verago’s look and hastily added: “Oh, don’t worry, we got you a place.”
“So what’s the snag?”
Jensen cleared his throat. “Fact is, we’ve got no room on the base. There’s a squadron in from Edwards on TDY and all the BOQs are full. They’ve got priority, you understand. Being operational.” He laughed weakly. “I guess we legal eagles don’t rate high on the list.”
“Where am I staying?” repeated Verago, very quietly.
Jensen again avoided his look. “We were lucky.” He was nervous. “We booked you into the George and Dragon. It’s a nice pub. Seventeenth century. Oliver Cromwell stayed there. You’ll like it.”
“I’d prefer to stay on the base,” said Verago. “I like to be in the middle of things. It’s more handy.”
“Couldn’t agree more, counselor,” toadied Jensen. “But we can’t make space where there isn’t any. Can we? Anyway, the air force pays. And it’s only four miles away.”
Four milest With no car. The idea of a four-mile hike to and from the installation every day did not appeal to Verago.
‘All need transport,” be announced.
“Leave it to me,” promised Jensen. “And listen, if
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there’s anything you require, this office is at your disposal While you’re over here, you’re one of us.”
Heaven forbid, an inner voice said to him, but Verago curbed his tongue.
“And when you’ve read the Article Thirtytwo, maybe we could have a little strategy meeting and get it all sorted out,” Jensen continued. “1 don’t imagine this case will keep you here long.”
Jensen gave what he firmly believed to be an encouraging smile.
Somebody must love you, thought Verago. Your mother. A woman maybe. God knows why.
“You’ll be seeing me,” he said.
And he meant it.
As soon as he had gone, Jensen went back to his desk and sat scowling. Then he slammed down his fist on the desk rattling his empty coffee cup in its saucer.
“Son of a bitch,” he snarled to himself, and though it was an impotent gesture, he felt better.
He left the office, slamming his door, and walked a few hundred yards to a little concrete building with windows barred by steel grilles.
He entered and came to another door that had a sign on it reading: “Office of Special Investigations. Restricted Area. Authorized Personnel Only.”
Jensen pressed a buzzer, and a partition in the door slid aside. A face peered out at him.
“Come in,” said the face’s owner.
The door opened electronically, and Jensen was admitted in a tiny hallway.”
“Is Duval free?” he asked.
“Go right in, Lieutenant,” said the man at the door.
Jensen was familiar with this place. He knew exactly which was the office he wanted. He knocked and entered.
“Hi,” said Duval. He wore a herringbone sports jacket and well-cut flannel trousers from Simpson’s. He was a handsome man, with dark wavy hair. “Take the load off your feet, Cy,” he invited.
“Boy, have they picked the wrong guy.”
“We didn’t pick him,” Duval pointed out gently. He had a pleasant, resonant voice and could have been a radio announcer. “Our friend picked him. And that’s his right.”
“I know, I know,” said Jensen irritably. “But the guy’s a real pain.”
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Duval settled back in his chair comfortably.
“Okay,” he said, “tell me all about Captain Verago.”
Victor Alert
The planes were clustered at the end of a long concrete runway, more than a mile from the main buildings of the base.
Nearby were a couple of reconnaissance bombers, Boeing RB - 7Hs, but these were different. For one thing, they seemed lopsided, their wings longer than their fuselage.
They had no insignia. No air force markings, no crests, no emblems. They were painted black all over. They sat on the ground, brooding, like sinister birds who had intruded in a nest.
Verago stood at the far end of the flight line, and he remembered where he had first seen that strange shape. On General Croxford’s desk. One of the models looked like that.
Verago screwed up his eyes. He wished he could get a closer look. He could see some figures bustling around, but from this distance he couldn’t make out what they were doing.
He didn’t notice the approaching jeep until it pulled up behind him with a screech of tires. Three airmen were in it, wearing combat kit. Two of them had carbines. The third man, a master sergeant, had a pistol holster. It was unbuttoned.
The sergeant got out of the jeep. “Sir,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking around.”
“Your ID, please,” requested the sergeant.
Verago showed it to him. The two men in the jeep waited tensely. Their carbines pointed, almost nonchalantly, in Verago’s direction.
The sergeant did not return the plastic-covered card. Instead he asked, “What are you doing on this base, Captain?”
“Is that any of your business?”’ snapped Verago. What was the matter with this damn place?
“Everything is our business, sir,” replied the sergeant, unsmiling.
He went back to the jeep. Its tall radio antenna was waving in the breeze. The sergeant picked up the radio phone and started talking quietly.
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Verago couldn’t hear what he said, but the man read the details on his ID card out aloud, looking at Verago as he talked.
Then he replaced the radio phone and walked over to Verago.
‘mere are, Captain,” he said, and handed back the
“Are you satisfied, Sergeant?” asked Verago, and he hoped it sounded sarcastic.
“Sir,” said the sergeant, “you are in a restricted area.”
Verago looked around. “What area? There’s nothing here. They’re a mile away, at least.” He nodded at the planes.
“This whole section of the base is restricted to outs~ders, sir, ‘ said the sergeant.
He made “outsiders” sound dirty
“What’s your outfit?” asked Verago.
“Air Police, sir.” The face was impassive.
“Well, you tell your commander that I’m here on official business, and Sergeant …”
“Sir?”
“You tell him I’m a United States officer, and I may not be air force but I’m certainly not an outsider on an American military installation.”
“Yes, sir.” The man was utterly unmoved. “But if you want to enter this area, you’ll need special clearance. Otherwise we got strict orders. Prom the general.”
“What orders?”
“If we find unauthorised persons trespassing in certain parts of the installation, we can, if necessary, shoot.” He waited for the effect, then he added, “If they fail to identify themselves or attempt to elude us. And this is one of those parts of the base.”
He saluted and climbed back into the jeep. But it didn’t drive off. The three airmen sat silent, watching Verago. Slowly he began to walk away, toward the main part of the installation.
Then, suddenly, he recalled what those black planes were. A year earlier, Gary Powers had been shot down near Sverdlovsk in one.
They were U2s.
He needed a drink A strong one.
In the officer’s club, he ordered a scotch. It was noisy, crowded, and he decided he wouldn’t stay long. Another thing annoyed him: Over the bar was a replica of the
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wing crest, the one-eyed Cyclops. Like a constant, nagging reminder.
“Another one, sir?” asked the barman.
“Why not?”
Verago hadn’t even been aware how quickly he had gulped down his first drink. Inwardly he knew the necessity for caution. He needed a clear head. And this was certainly not the place to tie one on. One more, and that would be the lot.
He wished he could get rid of the psychosis that he was being watched the whole time. Especially since nobody in the chattering, laughing knots of people around him even seemed to spare the lone army officer standing by himself a second look.
“I’m imagining things,” he said to himself.
But he knew he wasn’t.
Saturday, June 24,1961
Laconbuq
IT wasn’t a cell, but it had the spartan austerity of a confinement facility. Iron bedstead, a hard-backed chair, a wardrobe, a wash basin, a toilet. For light relief, there was a small radio and a poster on the wall listing a PW’s obligations.
It sternly declared that rank, name, and service number was all that a man in enemy hands could honorably tell an enemy about himself; that to aid, cooperate, give comfort, and above all betray information was akin to treason. The posters had first started appearing on military bases after Korea, and Tower hadn’t seen one for a long time.
The worst thing about the room was the heat. It was next to some boilers, which not only made a curious kind of rumbling noise, but turned it into a mini oven.
“I guess it’s not as comfortable as the hospital, but you can thank Captain Verago for that.” Jensen sniffed. “He insisted you get moved out.”
“What’s happened to my quarters?” asked Tower.
“They got assigned to somebody else. I’m sorry about that, John, but you know how crowded we get here. Anxway, this is only temporary.”