9
From the day that his supposed death had been made public, Admiral Barney Haymarket had been by his own order a literal prisoner in the underground complex of Thomas Jefferson. He longed to go outside, to walk for an hour through the rough mountain country, to drink in the beauty of the sky, the land, and the air; but remote as the region was, the chance existed that he might encounter someone who would recognize him or wonder who he was and what he was doing there. That minimal risk could be avoided at a cost; without a second thought the admiral paid the price. He was asking, and would ask, far more of others.
As a substitute he paid a daily visit to the little gymnasium which had been set up, took a rubdown, and, if he had time, spent a few minutes with a putter and two or three golf balls on the carpet in his quarters. The admiral had never done anything by halves; he applied that principle in working to improve his game. Each night he slept six or seven hours if the situation permitted; the rest of the time he was on duty, turning the full scope of his abilities onto the fiendishly difficult problem with which he was confronted. It was characteristic of him that he did not allow it to oppress him; he remained alert and confident, a skilled commander engaged professionally in the greatest campaign of his career.
At the admiral’s expressed wish the other members of the First Team also remained close to the operating base. He wanted an absolute minimum of traffic of any kind to and from the facility; when the time came to move he would approve it, until then secrecy had to remain as close to absolute as possible.
He had been extraordinarily careful about that. The blasting crews who had made the original excavation had also prepared several others which had been subsequently, listed as “abandoned.” A massive amount of paperwork had been prepared and planted in the classified files to indicate that the entire job had been part of another canceled project, given up after millions had been invested in its development. There were even more than two hundred letters on file in case anyone authorized or in a position to do so decided to go through all of the correspondence. Not far from the concealed entrance there was a landing strip made of natural materials and so artfully concealed that an unsuspecting hunter could walk right across it without being aware that it was there.
The entrance itself was camouflaged as an abandoned mine shaft crudely boarded up and with a warning sign which, while apparently badly weather-beaten, was still clearly legible. There were also some loose strands of barbed wire to discourage the inquisitive. If anyone persisted beyond this point, delicate and invisible electronic equipment would report his presence immediately.
At the morning conference which he had called the admiral was, as always, brisk, efficient, and confident. “All right, gentlemen,” he began when everyone was present, “it’s time to compare notes. Stan, you first.”
Stanley Cumberland, the retired industrialist, wore an alleged sports jacket which had been conservatively cut to fit his narrow, six-foot-three frame. His lean, austere features suggested the Great Stone Face; there were those who had paid dearly for the privilege of learning that they were part of the equipment of one of the greatest poker players in recorded history. Not on visible display was a brilliant intelligence coupled with a profound knowledge of mechanics and ways of getting things done. Few people would have dared to call him Stan; the admiral did and Cumberland felt honored.
“Operation Low Blow is on schedule,” Cumberland reported. “They are watching the Magsaysay very closely but we are watching them.”
“Good,” the admiral said. “How about the supply problem?” “We’re working on that. The first job was to find a suitable vessel; we finally have one. She is a great big, lumbering old fishing craft designed to go to sea and to stay out there for long periods of time. I’m sure you know, sir, that the fishing industry is not being interfered with in any way — at least not until now. When the Nazis were in control of Europe they permitted fishing operations even out of the French ports opposite the channel for the sake of the food produced. I suspect that for the next six months, at least, fishing operations will be allowed to continue. After that we won’t be concerned.”
“How about getting the necessary quantities of supplies?” the Marine major asked. “It may be a little tough getting our hands on what well need without attracting attention.”
“That’s being attended to,” Cumberland answered him. “We were able to get hold of a very good man in the ship supply field. He has laid out a plan of action and will put it into operation as soon as we’re ready.”
The former high diver, whose muscular development was the envy of all present, was also carefully weighing the factors involved. “Where is our fishing vessel home ported?” he asked.
“At the moment San Pedro, but when we have completed taking her over she will be able to show up almost anywhere that there’s a fish market without any questions being raised. If we have to, we can shift the price structure a little to make San Francisco her obvious destination.”
The admiral smiled his approval of that. “A little manipulation of that kind may be right in order. Next, turning to the Magsaysay herself, let’s have a crew report.”
Major Theodore Pappas, USMC, responded. He opened a folder in front of him with his good hand and then spoke in a clear, decisive voice. “As of the present moment we have fourteen men aboard her under Chief Summers. They’ve been able to create enough feeling of personality conflicts to provide the atmosphere that we want.” He looked around the table for a moment. “I can assure you, gentlemen, that they are among the best that the Navy has got and that’s mighty damn good. None of them are tattooed and they have been given special indoctrination in avoiding Navy or sea-going language. When one of the top ratings hit his head on a hatch, he had the presence of mind to curse at the door.”
“Have you determined the exact number that should be on board when the operation begins?” General Gifford asked.
“Yes, sir, one hundred and two as things stand right now. That is subject to change if we lose anyone and don’t have time to position a replacement.”
“I think we should establish a deadline on that,” the admiral said. “Offhand I would put it at minus twenty days. After that if any personnel are lost we won’t replace them unless it’s in an area so vital that we must.”
“We have backups, sir, for every key slot, twenty-three all told.” The major paused and looked around the table once more. “I have to report one snag — a bad one. Our operational plans are pretty well worked out, but as they stand now we’ll have to sacrifice the crane operator. Maybe I’m not being tough enough, but I’d like to avoid that if I can. He’ll have to be a damn good man and we don’t have any to spare.”
“Have you any preliminary thinking on that at all?” the circus performer asked.
The major nodded. “Yes, Walt. If there isn’t any other way, I’m going to handle that part myself. That solves a lot of problems, including finding someone whom we can trust absolutely.”
Admiral Haymarket was silent for a moment. “I have a thought,” he said finally. “Let me develop it a little before we discuss it. Meanwhile I suggest that all of us apply ourselves to the screw problem, because at the moment that’s the crux of the whole thing. At least it’s a vital link.”