The Final Countdown, page 9
Again that infuriating smile. “Captain, I could tell you right now.”
“Then do it, man!”
Lasky shook his head. “No. need to, sir. You’ll start getting your answers just as soon as those fighters make contact”
Yelland glared at Lasky, but the civilian was already walking to his computer room.
10
The only clouds were on the distant horizon, and the steel-hulled yacht moved steadily and comfortably through the sea of slow-moving swells, its motions in roll and pitch so gentle as to bring on a desire to lapse into sleep. A beautiful day, a beautiful ship, a chef who had been bribed away from one of the finer hotels in Washington, D.C., a good crew. A great bar, time to spare. Even a dog having the time of his life, chasing hovering gulls that followed their deliberate course back toward Honolulu.
Two men watched the dog, both with the same thought. He’s going to chase one gull just a bit too damned far and go sliding off into the water. But Charlie was a four-footed expert with the changing angle of a deck, and he managed always to stop just in time. Senator Samuel S. Chapman exchanged a smile with his close friend, Arthur Bellman, who also owned the yacht. And a steel mill, and an aircraft factory, and two lumber mills, and a shipyard, and God knew what else. Chapman was one of the grand old wizards of Capitol Hill, a veteran of the senate floor, and a man with determined high aspirations to keep ascending the political ladder. Bellman took the moment to study his old friend and associate. Damn, but Chappy looked the part he had cast for himself. Silvery hair, a face of wisdom, and that marvelous leonine head atop
a body of splendid conditioning. Smooth, bright, even brilliant; above all, skilled in political maneuvering and industrial manipulation. A damned good politician, and one who knew also that more deals were made and closed in back rooms and on yacht decks, like right here and now, than ever took place on any floor where the powerful men of the nation met before the naked view of the press.
Arthur Bellman lacked the polish of the senator, but as a man whose wealth could literally be counted well above a billion dollars, he didn’t give a damn about urbanity or the social graces, and neither did anyone else who curried his favor or made the mistake of risking his wrath. The right people in the right places in Washington meant continued favoritism not only for the industrial machinery owned by Bellman, but for his close professional associates as well, and if this crowd that looked down on Wall Street knew how to do anything, it was to maneuver together and keep their differences from interfering with their mutual welfare. Bellman stood a hulking six feet three inches, had a permanent five-o’clock shadow, and a musculature from working up the ranks as a steelworker that not even years of power on top had diminished. He worked, played, loved, and fought with a sheer delight in the struggle. Yet he knew that there was only a certain point he could reach without the added touch of political clout. Thus this private “pleasure cruise.” You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours; that was the routine with himself and Chappy. It had been good enough for the times of the Roman senate and it was good enough for today. They had much to offer one another. Sam Chapman wanted to keep ascending the political staircase and Art Bellman wanted all the industrial muscle he could gather. They made a good team. They’d known one another from the early days of their respective lives and by whatever special touch there is in two people they had remained faithful—and scrupulously honest—with one another. Now it was time to forge another rung in their parallel ladders.
They watched the antics of the dog, but their ears were on a different wavelength. The shortwave radio of the yacht, powerful enough to pick up broadcasts from around the world, carried the hypnotizing tone of the master politician of them all, the one and only Franklin Delano Roosevelt, exhorting the American public to ever more and newer new deals and in almost the same breath issuing stem warnings to the Japanese to slack off on their murderous forays through the Far East.
Sam Chapman gestured lazily. “Think the emperor is listening to old Franklin?”
Bellman snorted. “Wouldn’t matter if he did. He don’t count for diddly-shit, anyway. Wanders around in those stupid robes and carrying that sword, and the cabinet meets with Mitsubishi and the shipyards, and they decide everything. Why should they care what Roosevelt says? He talks out of both sides of his mouth. We send aid to the Chinese, charging them through the nose for it, and we also sell raw foods and machinery to the Japanese at the same time.”
“And you charge them through the nose for it,” Chapman said.
“Is that a surprise?” Bellman responded. “We sell and we buy all over the world and we’re all in the same business.”
Chapman’s eyes narrowed. “How much interference are your people getting from the White House? You know what I mean, Art. With the really big business. Not the tourist crap.”
“Nothing to bother with,” Bellman said, a shrug dismissing the issue. “Lots of noise but little else. Don’t worry, Senator, I’ll be pounding on your door when the government starts screwing with the bankroll.”
“Be sure you do,” Chapman said easily. He sat erect, looking for the steward. “Harvey! Make it a fresh round, will you?”
The steward’s white coat gleamed in the sun. “Right away, Senator. The same for you, Mr. Bellman?” “Yeah. All around, son.”
The steward poured drinks and Bellman tapped his arm. “Fix one for the lady, Harve.”
They watched her approach, a stunning body in a one-piece bathing suit, long blond hair caught by the wind. She was as lithe and graceful as a cheetah, and the only item disturbing the touch of total femininity was the package of typed paper in one hand. Sam Chapman leaned to his left and turned down the radio volume. “Finished so soon?” he asked Laurel.
“A pleasure cruise is not made where there are typewriters present,” she said lightly. “Yes. Finished in what I consider final draft. There are a few rough spots. Why don’t you read them while I do damage to this long-delayed and deserved drink?”
He waved aside her suggestion. “Drink, then you read,” he instructed.
She drank quietly for several moments, then put aside the glass as she scanned the papers. “Um. You’ve already approved most of it. Here it is.”
“Go ahead, honey,” Chapman said.
Laurel read slowly the words that Arthur Bellman would be speaking before a meeting of the most powerful labor union leaders and industrialists in the country. No one, aside from those present on the yacht, would ever be aware that Laurel Scott, under the direction of Senator Chapman, had them written for Bellman.
“So if he does choose to support my program,” Laurel read carefully, “then let Senator Chapman be assured now, because of his impeccable and brilliant record in sustaining the industrial strength and military might of our great country, that we will bring all our resources to bear upon the president of the United States, that the qualifications of Senator Chapman are those which are most needed for the cabinet. There is a need that is imperative, a need that is overwhelming, in the White House. There is needed a voice, a conscience, between our labor and industrial family and the office of the president. That voice and that conscience, so clearly established through selfless service, are found in Senator Samuel S. Chapman. I urge all of you to—” She stopped as Chapman gestured.
“I don’t think we could improve on what Laurel writes if we wanted to,” he told Bellman.
“And there’s no need to,” Bellman said. “Laurel, that’s perfect I begin to get the idea that we should retire Sam and run you for the Senate.”
“She’s too beautiful, Art,” Chapman laughed.
“Then let’s make her a diplomat, for Christ’s sake.” Laurel smiled at them. “I rather thought I was,” she said in a low voice. She sipped from her drink. Sunlight reflecting wetly from her lips, Bellman thought, could turn a man to jelly.
Arthur Bellman sighed. “Well, let me tell you something, Laurel. We’ve had to tread a very fine line right now, and your words are the—well, I didn’t expect middle-ground perfection. You know what you’ve done? You’ve cooked up a broth of a. compromise that could very well make your boss the next vice president of the United States.”
Laurel smiled her thanks and rose to her feet. “Then, Mr. Bellman, I believe it’s urgent that I do the final typing on these papers right now. I don’t want you two talking it over and trying to improve on what the best diplomat in this crowd has already done.” “Ouch,” Chapman said, wincing visibly. “I’d fire her except that she’s right”
“And stunning,” Bellman added as Laurel disappeared below decks to her office. He gazed longingly after her. Which was surprising, since Arthur Bellman could buy just about any woman he wanted. But, he knew, not this one. The price tag here didn’t come in dollar signs. Laurel Scott had her own qualifications. She was never hired. She allowed Sam Chapman to hire her, as if it were the woman and not the senator who controlled the moment.
Chapman watched Bellman and chuckled. “Arthur, at least let the girl keep her suit on, will you? The way you’re undressing her with your eyes she’s liable to catch her death of a cold. And she’s much too valuable to us now for the sniffles.”
Bellman turned his gaze back to Chapman. “You had her in bed yet?”
The senator chuckled. “That’s no question to ask a married man, Art”
“You didn’t answer me.”
Chapman shrugged, as if to dismiss any further talk on the matter. “Well, you know how these things are—” “Chappy, you son of a bitch. If ever I’ve seen prime, that girl is it.”
Chapman pushed himself to his feet. “Conversation is pleasant with you, Art, but those papers are critical to both our futures. I’d better check with Laurel and see how things are coming.”
“Sure, sine. Business first. Right, right”
Chapman laughed at him. “Oh, come on, Arthur. Have yourself another drink and stop being concerned about how much everybody is getting. You know you can fill this goddamned boat of yours with beautiful belles.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Bellman said tartly. “A man who mixes broads with business ends up with bruises somewhere down the line.”
Chapman gestured his goodbye and took the ladder below decks to Laurel’s stateroom-office. He heard typing as he opened the door and he peered over her shoulder, his hand touching her arm lightly. He tried to keep his voice calm but the jubilation within him spilled over.
“We swung it, Laurel! By all the holies, we really swung it, thanks to you. Art is going to throw everything into the campaign. If he needs to, he’ll buy the goddamned cabinet position.”
Laurel had a half smile on her face. She stopped typing but didn’t turn around. “Did you tell him you were sleeping with me?”
Chapman was caught off balance with the question he had never even dreamed would be tossed at him. “What?”
Laurel’s voice remained as deadpan as the back of her head. “Sniggering together like a couple of kids,” she intoned. “You offer any sordid details?”
Chapman grasped her shoulder; firmly but, as always, gently. “Laurel, for God’s sake! Please, turn around.”
Hazel eyes bored into his. “Look, I won’t lie. I haven’t yet to you or about you. By God, I wish I were sleeping with you. I’d give up even my seat in the Senate to—”
“That’s stupid, Chappy.”
“I mean it, damnit!”
And then, in one of those easy but deft motions of hers, she took control of the situation and eased it aside. “It really doesn’t matter, Chappy. People assume you and I are shacking up. You know that, don’t you? Sometimes you let them believe that, in fact It doesn’t matter. We know. I guess I can five with what people think. It never mattered before and it doesn’t matter now. So there’s no real difference.”
Hope lit in his eyes like a candle. “You mean you’d—”
“I mean, Chappy, that I’m going to put you into the White House—not into my bed.”
He walked slowly around the table and eased himself to a couch, never taking his eyes from her. She was so beautiful it took his breath away. “You’re a strange girl, Laurel”
“I’ve thought for a long time the word was woman.”
“Oh, shit, you know what I mean!”
“Senator, your own rule is never to assume.”
“Jesus! You give me more lip and sass and backtalk than any female on Capitol Hill! I don’t know why I just don’t up and fire you!”
“Because the White House is out there, Chappy. That, and because I’m the best speechwriter you’ll ever find, and I know political infighting, and because I’m a woman and beautiful men would never believe all that, and so they let me know things that’s pointing you straight to that same seat where Roosevelt sits right now. And strange as it seems to you, if not the rest of the world, I’m more interested in your political career than your erections. !—”
She stopped short with a strange sound from her dog, Charlie. The animal had followed Chapman below decks, and now the dog was on all fours, looking up toward the ladderway, hair bristling, and trying to snarl and whine plaintively at the same time. “Charlie, what’s the matter?” Laurel spoke to the dog, trying to soothe the obviously disturbed animal.
The snarls gave way to the whines as if the dog were in pain. “He hears something,” Chapman said. “Something we can’t hear yet. Whatever it is, it’s tearing the hell out of his ears.” They watched as the dog suddenly emitted a series of painful yelps and tore out of the compartment to scramble up the ladder.
“Charlie!” Laurel shouted, running after the fleeing dog. Chapman was right behind her. They ran to the deck, watched the dog tear past the astonished Bellman, growling and yelping until he stood on a higher part of the deck. His head pointed in a fixed direction, and he laid back his ears, crouching down as if he could see or hear some terrible overwhelming enemy. “Laurel, what’s the matter with him?” Chapman called to the woman.
She stared in dismay at the dog now more than ever in pain. “Sam, I—I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this.”
“He sees or hears something we don’t I—There!” His hand shot out to two small specks on the horizon. “Planes,” Bellman said as he came up behind them. “What kind?” Chapman queried.
“Damned if I know. Too far out to tell yet.” Bellman’s brow furrowed in creases. “Goddamn, but they’re fast Look at them coming at us.”
A low thunder carried across the water. They looked at one another, confused. They couldn’t believe the speed at which the two strange machines plunged toward them. They had a head-on view of a thick and squarish body on each machine. “Where the hell are their wings?” Bellman said aloud, talking as much to himself as the others. “They look like they have only stubs for—”
That was all he had time to say before the two aircraft were upon them, faster than they could believe. They couldn’t really see the planes as they screamed over the water at better than 700 miles per hour. Gray-and-white shapes ripped by, just above the water, and the sound crashed upon them in a terrifying crescendo of pain. There was that first distant thunder rumble and then a shattering CRAAAACK! that brought a scream of pain from Laurel and gasps from the men. In that instant the two shapes were gone, stabbing into the sky like two insane arrowheads.
“My God!” Chapman said, wincing as he spoke. “It sounds like a volcano going off!”
A canine shriek followed his words as the dog ran madly for the ladder to take him below deck.
Bellman pointed. “They’re coming back! Hang on!” The two Tomcat fighters came over on their backs, rounding out in an enormous curving loop, and then they fell wildly toward the ocean, pulling out at the last moment, and again there came that incredible blowtorch explosion and scream of thunder. The air about them seemed to boil with maddened sound and they felt pain all through their bodies. They blinked several times and the impossible craft had already diminished to tiny shapes climbing upward until they disappeared in the bright sun.
Chapman rushed to Laurel’s side. She had collapsed on the deck, her hands held tightly to her ears, her face screwed up in pain. “It’s all right, hon. They’re gone.” He helped her to her feet “This time it’s you who needs the drink.”
“Goddamnit, so do I,” Bellman said, his voice strangely hoarse.
They were silent for several moments as they drank deeply. “Art, what the hell were those things?” Chapman asked.
“I have no idea.” Bellman polished off the drink, poured another.
“For Christ’s sake, Art, you own an airplane factory! Surely you know something about them. You—”
“Shit, Sam, they’re impossible. Will that do for an answer?” Bellman was angry and confused. “You saw what I saw! They didn’t have any goddamn propellers! No props, so how the hell are they flying! Not only that, they didn’t have enough wings to stay in the air. And you saw how they climbed. Holy Jesus, we don’t ,have a thing in the air that can dive that fast, even going straight down!”
Chapman took control of himself. “I swear those were American markings.”
Laurel added quick agreement “I saw that much. A star, but it had strange bars—”
“Not like any other. Our planes have a star with a red ball in the center,” Bellman corrected. “Those markings were not what we paint on our planes.” Chapman looked off into the distance where there was only open sky to be seen. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he said grimly. Tm on the Senate War Appropriations Committee, and I know every goddamned thing this country is building or even testing, and if those things are ours, they’ve kept them the best secret in the world.”
“And if they’re not ours,” Bellman murmured, “then God help us.”
Laurel put her drink aside. “You two keep right on talking. I’m going to send a radio message to our fleet headquarters at Pearl Harbor. Maybe they’ll know something, and if they don’t,” she added, “we’d damned well better tell them.”
