Cal eyed the two men warily. “If I agree, I get the feeling I’m gonna have to leave Memphis, leave my family behind.”
Both men nodded somberly. “Studying these Enhancements takes resources we just don’t have in Memphis,” Bronk said. “You would, of course, be entitled to paid leave once you showed you could control your Enhancement to a more acceptable degree. But now, Mr. Hooks, you’re a danger to yourself… and to those around you.”
Cal thought about it some more, then slowly began to nod. Sure, he’d be gone, but hell… he worked all night and slept all day, anyway. And taking their offer would mean Winston would go to college like he wanted.
“I’m gonna make that telephone call, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to see all this in writing before I agree to it. That all right with you gentlemen?” Cal asked.
“Absolutely. Whatever you need,” Danny said. “We want to help you. You have a rare talent.”
Cal smiled a bit at that but shook his head humbly. “I don’t know. I just think Jesus heard me. About time, too.”
6
Lt. Cmdr. Danny Wallace walked across Pennsylvania Avenue at a rapid clip, struggling to keep up with the two men in front of him while juggling their briefcases and paperwork as well as his own. Typical military, to have the guy giving the briefing haul all the stuff for the guys who would take the credit.
Ahead of him, Admiral Roscoe Hillenkoetter chatted amiably with James Forrestal, the United States’ very first secretary of defense — apparently, secretary of war was too, well, warlike. Hillenkoetter, Danny’s old boss from Pac-Fleet intelligence, was now the director of the Central Intelligence Group, successor to the now-defunct Office of Strategic Services and, rumor had it, the foundation of an even larger intelligence agency currently in development.
Danny presented his identification at the White House guard post — Forrestal and Hillenkoetter were senior enough to be waved through on sight — then once again increased his pace to catch back up with his superiors, who hadn’t bothered to wait. The two were making small talk as they strolled across the sun-dappled lawn on the way to the West Wing — when suddenly Forrestal stopped and turned to Danny.
“Commander, you rehearsed this like I told you, yes?”
Danny nodded vigorously. “Yes, Mr. Secretary, I’m quite prepared. Notes are all arranged.”
Hillenkoetter, dressed in a civilian suit that seemed to hang off his frame, smiled and put his hand on Danny’s shoulder. “You’re gonna do fine, Wallace. Just think of him as a regular guy. Actually, he’s probably the most normal man we’ve had in there since Lincoln. Easy as pie.”
Danny nodded and thanked his former CO, then turned to Forrestal, expecting to hear something similar. But he merely grimaced and kept up his purposeful pace across the lawn. Word at the War Department — er, Defense Department — was that Forrestal was as high-strung as they came, and seemed to believe that both budgets and Communists were running high surpluses these days. Not often you see a hawk want to cut military spending, but there you go.
Then again, tensions brewing with the Soviets were shaping up to become anything but a normal war. Folks around the office had started calling it a “cold war,” which made a lot of sense to Danny. It was better than a “hot” one, he supposed, especially for countries that want atomic bombs at their disposal — and even more destructive weapons in the works.
There was another security checkpoint, but eventually the three men were ushered into the White House’s West Wing and walked down a fine, well-appointed hallway, at the end of which was a woman at a desk. She nodded, rose, and opened the door, and ushered the men into… an oval office. The Oval Office. It was a plaster-walled room with a fine carpet underfoot, some well-appointed couches, and various paintings. There was a model of a jet-engine airplane on a credenza near the bookshelf, and a large portrait of the late President Franklin D. Roosevelt, looking over the room with a gentle smile and a keen eye.
And there, behind a huge, dark wooden desk, was a slight, balding man in spectacles, his feet up, reading a file folder. His suit jacket was tossed over one of the sofas and his bow tie was undone, but Danny could tell his clothes were first-rate. He looked, for all the world, like a successful haberdasher inspecting his latest order.
Of course, Harry S. Truman was arguably the most successful haberdasher in history.
“Ah, there you are, boys!” the President of the United States said as he stood. “Come in! Come in! Rose, let’s get some coffee in here for Jim and Roscoe. And…” The President stopped and walked over to a shell-shocked Danny. “Harry Truman. You are?”
Danny managed to put down the briefcases and papers on a low coffee table before saluting smartly, then taking the President’s hand. “Lieutenant Commander Daniel Wallace, Mr. President. It’s an honor, sir.”
Truman smirked. “Let’s see how you feel about that honor after we’re done,” he said slyly, motioning Danny to the center of the room. “Roscoe here, in particular, has been saying this is gonna be a barn-burner.”
Danny glanced over at Hillenkoetter, who looked amused. Forrestal, meanwhile, stiffened visibly. Danny knew both men understood the gravity of the situation — they just had diametrically opposite opinions on how to deal with it. And that difference, Danny considered as he nervously organized his papers for the countless time, maybe wasn’t a bad juxtaposition for a president to have among his top advisors.
Danny handed out three file folders to his audience, each with identical photos and reports. Forrestal and Hillenkoetter had already seen them, of course, but they’d likely want to follow along and answer questions as needed. A young Navy valet came in with a silver tray of coffee and cups, placed it on the table, and left, closing the door behind him with a secure click.
Danny really wanted the coffee, but nobody else went for it, and he certainly wasn’t going to be the first. So, he just stared at it sadly for a moment before launching into his report.
“Mr. President, I’m obligated to remind you, as well as Secretary Forrestal and Director Hillenkoetter, that the contents of this briefing, and the papers I’ve just given you, should not be shared beyond the confines of this room,” he began.
Truman’s eyebrows rose. “Hell, son, I know that. You’re in the Oval Office. Get on with it.”
His heart racing faster, Danny nodded. “Of course, Mr. President. We wanted to update you on our running inquiry into the anomalous phenomenon in the ruins of Hiroshima, which we first discovered in October 1945. We continue to believe it was a byproduct of the atomic bombing of that city. We continue to receive information indicating a similar phenomenon occurred in Berlin at the same time as the bombing — August 1945 — and while these reports are unsubstantiated at the moment, there’s enough of them to make us believe that it may be possible that Soviet-occupied East Germany, and thus the Soviet Union, may be developing their own project along similar lines.”
“A strange white light is wreaking havoc on the intelligence agencies of the preeminent world powers, and everyone’s worried that another country is going to beat them to the punch,” Truman said, chuckling grimly. “We figure out exactly what it is yet?”
Hillenkoetter cleared his throat. “Short answer: no, Mr. President. Long answer… well, that involves a lot of science and physics and no shortage of new ideas and experiments.”
Truman nodded. “But we got it out of Japan?”