Fade Out (17 page)

‘The local people are pretty used to this kind of thing,' said Greg. ‘Oil companies have had outfits prowling around eastern Montana for years.'

Clayson nodded. ‘And your centre of operations?'

‘I think we have to put everything up on Crow Ridge. We flew a wide circle around it before landing at Broken Mill today. There's enough space to set up the accommodation we need and the facilities that Arnold's team has asked for. But first we have to secure and fence off the whole ridge. Which is where your people come in. We can't really start moving until they get here.'

Clayson looked at his watch. ‘They should be landing at Billings about now.'

Billings was about one hundred and fifty miles west of Crow Ridge. By road, it was nearer two hundred.

‘They're coming in on MRDC aircraft. That's why they are using a civilian airport. You'll have a unit of fifty topgrade technicians. All master sergeants or above, and
all with good security classifications. Most of them are from Kirtland.'

Kirtland AFB was the Air Force's Special Weapons Center, situated deep in the desert of New Mexico. Only a very few people knew the full scope of its operations.

‘There is a second unit of two hundred and fifty men,' continued Clayson. ‘They will provide the manpower for your basic workforce, and will be available for any kind of duty.'

‘Where do they come from?' asked Connors.

‘They are all third- or fourth-year cadets from the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs. All volunteers. You'll find them intelligent, tough, and highly motivated.'

Clayson was right. It would have been hard to imagine a more gung ho bunch than the senior classmen from Lowry. ‘Who's holding the reins?' asked Connors.

‘General Allbright.'

‘Allbright? The head of SAC?' Connors stared in surprise at Clayson, then looked at Arnold Wedderkind. He got the feeling that Arnold already knew.

‘You don't look too happy,' said Clayson.

‘I should,' said Connors. ‘He's one of the best men you've got.' He smiled. ‘I guess the reason I looked surprised was because I wasn't expecting anyone so – high-powered.'

‘I can't think of a better man to back you up in this situation.'

‘Neither can I', said Connors. ‘I've never met him but I'pve heard he's – '

‘An extremely able and totally dedicated commander,' added Clayson.

Connors had the feeling he was being oversold. He heard a phone ring in the outer office. Someone answered it, then buzzed the call through to one of the phones on
the Base Commander's desk. General Clayson picked it up, listened, then smiled.

‘Good. Let me speak to him.' A pause. He looked at Connors and Wedderkind. ‘Allbright… Hello, Mitch?… glad you could make it.' Clayson listened some more, then said, ‘No, there's been no change in the situation… No, I'll be flying back straight to Washington.' And then, looking at Connors, ‘Mitch, I'm going to hand you over to someone who's very anxious to meet you. I won't come back on the line, so I'll say good-bye – and good luck. Keep in touch. Oh, how's Frances?… Good. Bob Connors will speak to you now.'

Connors took the phone. ‘Hello, General Allbright? General Clayson just gave me news about your assignment to this project. I'd just like to say, at this point, that we all feel very good about having you on the team, and that I'm looking forward to meeting you.'

‘Why, thank you very much, Mr Connors. I'm also looking forward to meeting you.' Allbright's voice had a dry cutting edge – like Gregory Peck in
Twelve O'clock High.

Connors explained the situation to Allbright, and between them they arranged that his party would stay overnight at Billings. The MRDC transport aircraft would then fly the Air Force technicians and their mobile workshops into Miles City during Sunday.

The CIA advance party that was to man the MRDC ‘front office' operation had arrived the day before. Lodged on the outskirts of town at the Red Rock Motel, they had already begun to integrate themselves into the local scene. The process, reportedly, had not been a difficult one. The roadside billboards justly proclaimed Miles City ‘The Friendliest Town in the West' and proof of Miles Citians' famous hospitality came within hours of their arrival when two of the more aggressive members of
the party drank themselves into a warmhearted, welcoming fistfight with local ranch hands outside the Buffalo Bar.

The sober element of the Corporation would provide transportation for the Air Force Academy cadets to travel in varying-sized groups by road to Crow Ridge. Connors suggested that it might be a better idea than having two hundred and fifty straight-backed young men march out of Miles City's modest airport which, according to Greg Mitchell, only came alive twice a day when a twin-engined Otter of Frontier Airlines flew in.

Allbright took it rather well. Connors hung up with the thought that he might even have a sense of humour. Which was good – except that Allbright hadn't been injected into this situation because he was a laugh-a-minute man. There was more to it than that. Connors had the feeling that, while he was managing the road show out in Montana, Fraser was back in Washington rewriting the script.

After his telephone conversation with Allbright, Connors left Greg to mind the store in Montana and flew back overnight to Washington with Wedderkind. Connors would have liked to talk to him about the Allbright-Fraser connection, but once they were airborne Wedderkind switched off and went to sleep. Connors closed his eyes but his brain kept ticking and didn't wind down until they reached Andrews Field. He dozed off in the back of the
car on the way to his house in Rock Creek Park, and when he got home, he drew the curtains and went to bed.

At midday, he rang Charly.

‘Weren't you supposed to be out of town?'

Connors yawned. ‘Change of plan.'

‘You sound as though you're still in bed.'

‘I am.'

‘Are you, ah – going to be in town for long?'

‘Till tomorrow morning. I have to see the President.'

‘He's at Camp David,' said Charly. ‘They announced it on the radio.'

‘Thank God something's still working.'

‘One measly station,' said Charly. ‘Just music and newscasts. The police and fire department and the airports have taken over the medium-wave bands. Most of the Sunday papers say that the fade-out may get worse. They say it may take out all the long-wave stations too.'

‘Are you frightened?'

‘I don't know. Not really. I only listen to the radio in the car, and I hardly ever watch TV. But why do you ask – is there anything to be frightened about?'

‘No,' said Connors. ‘But I guess a lot of people must be worried when things like the TV networks and airlines are hit.'

‘That's it. People take them so much for granted. If only someone would tell us how long this thing is going to last. One could at least make plans. But with all this uncertainty – '

‘Yes…'

Although the FAA had lifted the ban on private flying, the newspapers had carried ads from all the major airlines announcing the suspension of all scheduled services for the duration of the fade-out. After test flights with volunteer crews, the airlines had decided that they could not
operate even a limited passenger service with what they regarded as an acceptable degree of safety.

Talks had started at the Treasury on a proposed Federal subsidy to cover the loss of revenue suffered by the airlines. The big question was, how much, and whom to help? The airline shutdown had had a domino effect on a surprising number of service industries, and there was the bizarre prospect of Jumbo-jet pilots joining the queue for food-stamps. Without prompt and effective aid, they would not be the only ones waiting in line.

‘How are your mother and father taking it?' asked Connors.

‘They're worried, what else? Dad's lost a lot of money. Okay, most of it is just on paper, but it was a bad week on Wall Street. The bottom fell out of the big electricals. The total losses are around twelve billion dollars – right across the board.'

‘Sounds like a good time to buy.' Any money Connors had he kept in the bank, but if the fade-out continued, it might prove smarter to stuff it under his mattress.

‘Wall Street's not the only problem,' said Charly. ‘Now that fewer people are able to fly, the whole holiday scene is a real disaster area. Do you realize how much money we have tied up in hotels and resort development?'

‘Yeah, it must be tough,' said Connors. ‘I'd better get started for Camp David.'

‘If you're coming back to town tonight, do you want to come over?'

‘For supper?'

‘Well, that depends on what time you get here.'

‘Okay, listen, I'll give you a call from Camp David.'

‘Marvellous.'

‘Don't get too excited, I've got a big day tomorrow.'

There was a second's hesitation at the other end of the
line. ‘I really don't know what my mother sees in you,' said Charly.

When Connors arrived, the President was just finishing a late lunch. Connors joined him and the First Lady for coffee, then set off with the President for a digestive walk through the woods. A few yards away, on either side of the path and behind them, were six of the President's Secret Service bodyguard. Up ahead, two more rode point.

Connors gave him the fine print on the Crow Ridge situation and some additional background material on Bodell. ‘I won't be here tomorrow but you won't have any trouble with him.' Connors smiled. ‘He's one of the few genuine silent heroes we have left.'

‘Yes,' said the President. ‘We could do with a few more. Where will you be?'

‘Ohio. I'm flying out to Wright-Patterson to meet the people Arnold has pulled in for the project. He flew up to Boston today to round up the last of the stragglers.'

‘Has he picked good men?'

‘I'll have to call you tomorrow on that,' said Connors. ‘Knowing Arnold, I imagine he's got the best available. Not all the people he contacted were willing to go into this thing blind – with no guarantee of coming out at the other end. But the last time I talked to him, he sounded fairly happy. I think his team will stay out in front.'

‘You make it sound like some kind of contest.'

‘Well, let's face it. Crusoe isn't the only one in this ball game.'

The President's face gave nothing away. ‘That second helping of pie must have slowed me down. What is it you're trying to tell me?'

‘I thought we had decided to set up the Crusoe Project as a civilian operation, using a CIA company as cover – with the Air Force supplying secondary personnel for the workforce and basic technical backup.'

‘Isn't that what you've got?'

‘No. What we've got is General Allbright, Commander in Chief of the Strategic Air Command, and the Air Force poised to make a takeover bid on behalf of the Defense Department.'

‘That sounds like something written by one of your friends in Hollywood,' said the President.

‘Who wired Allbright into the project?'

‘I did. Chuck Clayson put him at the top of his short list. I saw no reason to reject his recommendation, and I certainly didn't expect you to object.'

‘Chuck didn't put him on that list. He wanted to keep the Air Force's involvement to a minimum,' said Connors. ‘We don't need a heavyweight like Allbright to run that site, we – '

‘We need the best men we've got. Why do you think I put you in charge?'

Connors shrugged. ‘You may have put me in charge of the project, but are we going to be able to keep control of it? I think we'll find that Fraser put Allbright on to Crow Ridge. And if he did, Allbright is there to do more than just count the C rations.'

‘I take your point, but I don't see that we have a problem,' said the President. ‘What you seem to have forgotten is that all three of you are working for
me
.'

There really was no answer to that.

Wedderkind was waiting for Connors when he stepped off the Jetstar at Wright-Patterson. Emerging from the cool filtered light of the aircraft's interior, Connors was momentarily dazzled by the huge expanse of sunbleached concrete. Overhead, the sky was a cloudless cobalt blue. He put on his mirrored sunglasses.

Wedderkind took his outstretched hand, and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Hi. Do you want something to eat?'

‘No, thanks. I had breakfast just before I left.' He walked with Wedderkind towards a metallic-blue, top of the range, BMW. ‘Is this yours?'

Wedderkind pulled the door open. ‘No, it belongs to a friend of mine who works here. He's one of the top men at the Aerospace Research Lab.'

They got into the car. ‘Not bad,' said Connors. ‘At least whoring for the military has some compensations.'

‘Don't give me that old radical crap,' said Wedderkind. ‘If we hadn't helped make America strong, who in the world would be interested in what you people in the White House had to say?'

Touché
… ‘I was only joking, Arnold.'

Wedderkind put the car into gear. ‘Let's go and meet the folks.'

Wedderkind had recruited a pair of physicists, biologists, and chemists from different university campuses. All six had been engaged in or had contributed to the space program at one time or another. He had also pulled
in a geographer who doubled as a historian, and a language scientist who would have the well-nigh impossible task of trying to decipher any signs of communication that might emanate from Crusoe. The team was completed by four systems engineers from NASA and another two borrowed from the Air Force.