"Jerome, my boy," he said now, "I hear you're doing a fine job as director of the Joint Staff, a fine job."
Casey felt like swinging again. Not the least of Broderick's poisonous traits was his habit of saying everything twice, as though his listener were either deaf or a moron, or both.
"Where you stationed now, Broderick?"
"Uh . , . oh, no you don't, no you don't. I'm top secret, pal, all the way. Just in town for the day to report to the chairman." He nodded toward Scott's office and smiled condescendingly at Casey.
"Have it your own way, Broderick," Casey said. "You usually manage to, anyway."
"How right, Jerome, how right. See you around sometime,"
Casey was back at his desk a few minutes later, still irritated, when Marge called. She had just finished a round of golf at the Army-Navy Country Club and was about to pick up the boys at school.
"Jiggs," she asked, "who do you think I just saw in the clubhouse?"
"Abercrombie and Fitch."
"Monday's your bad day for jokes, honey. I saw Helen Broderick. Very mysterious, like Mata Hari. Wouldn't say what John's doing. Something very hush-hush down near Fort Bliss. Don't you know all the hush-hush things, dear?"
"Oh, sure," Casey said. At least I used to, he thought.
"Well, I'm dying to know. Sounds all hot and sandy and deliciously secret. What time will you be home tonight?"
"The usual, more or less, I guess. Say about six."
Casey toyed with a pencil on his desk. So Broderick is head of some secret command near Fort Bliss, eh? That checked with what Mutt Henderson was talking about yesterday. On a hunch, he fished out of his jacket pocket the paper Mutt had given him and dialed the number. Henderson answered.
"Hi, Mutt. Jiggs. Just checking on you. When you leaving?"
"In a couple of hours, after the C.O. gets through with Scott."
Casey kept his tone casual.
"Hope you get along better with Johnny Broderick than I do," he said. "The guy rubs me the wrong way."
"Yeah," Henderson said, "he takes a lot of getting used to. But he's one hell of a C.O., Jiggs. Our outfit really moves. The men don't like him, but they work their butts off for him anyway. Big morale man."
"Well, good luck, Mutt. Let us know next time you come up here."
My God, Casey thought as he hung up, Scott sure picked a fine Fascist son-of-a-bitch to run his ECOMCON-whatever that is.
Casey pulled the stack of papers out of his "in" box and doggedly set to work on them. He couldn't keep his mind on the job. The events of the past two days kept intruding on his concentration. Finally he gave up trying and just sat, wondering why he was so addled. Suddenly he got up, cleared his desk, locked his safe, and picked up his cap.
"Miss Hart," he said to his secretary, "call the car for me, please. I'm going home. If there's any flak, I'll be there."
His car was in the driveway when the Army chauffeur delivered Casey at his home. The boys were nowhere in evidence. He found Marge in the kitchen.
"It's only four o'clock, Jiggs," she said, startled. "Are you sick?"
He answered with an embrace whose vigor and duration were sufficient to convince her of his good health. He grinned at her when she wiggled loose.
"Nope, I'm doing fine," he said, "but I need to take the car for an errand. I won't be long."
He changed into slacks and sport shirt, then drove down to the Potomac and out the George Washington Parkway, past the fashionable homes on the bluffs, all the way to Great Falls. He parked and walked down along the dirt path to a rock ledge overlooking the cascades.
Casey sat on the rocks and watched the brown water of the Potomac careen over the falls, disappearing into dark eddies at the bottom, then bursting into new rapids. He watched this, but he did not really see it, for he was thinking.
Prentice talking about being "alert." Admiral Barns-well refusing to put up ten bucks for the chairman's betting pool. That bastard Broderick. ECOMCON. General Hardesty's crumpled memo: a big airlift to New York, Chicago, Los Angeles and ... and maybe Utah. Why Utah? In fact, why an airlift? What was Site Y anyway? And why was Scott suddenly cutting him out of things? Bits and pieces from the past two days swirled in Casey's mind like the water at the foot of the falls. He struggled to sort them out. The Vice-President's trip, for some reason, kept intruding on his thoughts, but he was at a loss to know why. Casey again felt the uneasiness of Sunday morning and the anxiety that had kept him awake last night.
He sat by the falls and stared down at them, and he tried to make some sense of it.
Casey sat for almost an hour, oblivious of the strolling couples and the racketing children who passed him. Then he stood up, stretched, and walked slowly back along the path, his eyes on the ground.
He was still preoccupied as he drove along the river toward town. In Langley the sight of a telephone booth at the corner of a service station lot broke the spell.
Casey pulled off the road, dropped a dime into the coin box, and dialed.
"White House." The operator was simply stating a fact.
Casey took a deep breath, started to speak, then hesitated.
"White House?" The phrase had become a question.
"Paul Girard, please," said Casey, finding his voice.
"May I tell him who is calling?"
"Colonel Martin Casey."
"Just a minute, Colonel."
There was a delay of more than a minute before Girard came on.
"Jiggs, if you offer to buy me a drink, I'll cut your throat."
Casey had no answering wisecrack. "Paul," he said, "I want to see the President."
"Oh, fine," Girard scoffed. "What did you do when you got home last night? Pick up where I left off? You really must be flying by now."
"Paul," Casey repeated, "I want to see the President. No kidding."
"Sure. All you have to do is invent a forty-hour day and we can take care of you and everybody else too."
"Paul, I'm serious. I've got to see him."
Girard chuckled patronizingly. "Okay, pal. How about my saving you a few minutes the next time your boss comes over here? I'll slip you in afterwards if you can hang around."
"Uh-uh. I have to see him right away. Today."
For the first time there was the slightest hint of professional wariness in Girard's voice when he answered. "Today? Come on, Jiggs, what's this all about? Some hot-shot Pentagon business?"
"Paul, I can't talk to you about it now."
"You can tell your uncle Paul, Jiggs. These phone lines are okay."
"No, no, I don't mean that." Casey was sweating inside the stuffy phone booth, but the heat was not the cause. "I can't tell you about it, Paul. It's ... it's a national security matter."
Casey knew there was much defense information to which he had access but which was denied to Girard on the theory that he didn't need to know it. He hoped the phrase would be enough. It wasn't.
"Jesus, Jiggs, aren't you pretty far out of channels? How about doing it through Scott or the Secretary of Defense?"
"I can't, Paul."
Girard again chose to see the funny side. "Ah, I'm beginning to get it now," he bantered. "Looking for a backdoor promotion? Or are you after the chairman's job?"
Casey squeezed the phone hard.
"Paul, listen to me. Please. You know I'd tell you about this if I could. I'd like to. I think the President would, and will, but he's got to decide that. There are things involved that I'm sure you don't know about and it isn't up to me to tell them to you." He stopped.
"Go ahead, Jiggs." There was no jesting in Girard's voice now and Casey knew he had broken through.
"I said it was a national security matter. What I really mean is, it involves the ... the security of the government. The President has to know about it as soon as possible."