«You’re tellin’ me, Little Joey, that the nest of this terrible cospirazione is right down the hall from you, right?»
«Right, Bam-Bam!… Sorry, Vin, it comes natural, you know what I mean, from the old days?»
«Basta. What else, although I think we got all we need? Can you find out who the crumb was inside—maybe just a broad, huh?»
«Hoo-hay, Vinnie, it was no broad and I saw him. He’s a mental case, a real vegetale.»
«What are you talkin’?»
«Like always, I keep the door open an inch, maybe an inch and a half, maybe two inches—»
«Joey!»
«Okay, okay. I see the gumbar come out and he goes to the elevators, right?»
«That makes him a mental case …?»
«No, Vin, his pants do.»
«Huh?»
«He’s pissed all over ’em! Big wet circles down to his knees—on both sides. I mean, he’s walkin’ out in public with his pants filled with pee! If that don’t make him a mental case, you tell me what does, huh, Bam-Bam?»
«He’s all shook up, that’s what he is,» concluded the astute director of the Central Intelligence Agency. «Around this place they call it ‘operational burn-out,’ or sometimes ‘deep-cover bends,’ depending on the mission.» Mangecavallo’s console hummed; it was his secretary’s line. «I only got a couple of seconds, Little Joey. Try to find out who this creep with the pissed-up trousers is, okay?»
«I know, Vinnie! I went to the front desk and made like a friend of a priest who was lookin’ for him on account of some personal tragedy and described him, although I didn’t make a big thing about the pants… I thought maybe I should get a religious collar, you know what I mean, but I figured it would take too long—»
«Joey!» roared Mangecavallo. «Stop already! Who is he?»
«His name is Devereaux, and I’d better spell it out for you. He’s a sharp attorney in the big yarmulke’s firm.»
«He’s a ferocious un-American traitor, that’s what he is,» pronounced the DCI, writing out the name as the Shroud spelled it. The director’s visible phone rang again; his visitors were impatient. «Stay put with your eyes open, Little Joey. I’ll be in touch.» Mangecavallo hung up and placed his private telephone back into the drawer. He then buzzed his secretary twice, the signal to admit subordinates. As he did so, he picked up a pencil and wrote out in block letters another name below that of Devereaux. BROOKLYN! Enough was enough; it was time for solid professionals.
Colonel Bradley «Hoot» Gibson, pilot of the still-airborne EC-135, the «Looking Glass» for the Strategic Air Command’s global operations, shouted into his radio. «Have you idiots gone to lunch on the last quasar beyond Jupiter? We’ve been up here for fifty-two hours, refueled three times, and apologized in six languages, two of which weren’t even in the fucking computers! Now, what the hell’s going on?»
«We read you loud and clear, Colonel,» came the reply from Offutt’s control tower, using its UTF radio band, otherwise known as Ultra Tropopausic Frequency, which, unfortunately, had a tendency to pick up cartoons from Mongolian television but otherwise had a clear range throughout the Pacific. «We’ve handled the complaints on this end very effectively. It’s a pretty good bet you won’t be missiled down, how about that?»
«You get our maximum leader on the horn or I’m heading off your screens to Pago Pago and sending for my wife and kids! I’ve had it—we’ve had it!»
«Easy, Colonel, there are five other aircraft in roughly your same predicament. Think about them.»
«I’ll tell you what I think about them. I think we’ll rendezvous, head to the Australian Outback, auction off these electronic tubes of spaghetti to the highest bidders, and have enough cash to start our own country!… Now get that clown of a commander on the phone!»
«I’ve been on it, Colonel Gibson,» said a distinctly different voice over the radio. «I’ve got a patch here to all airborne equipment.»
«Eavesdropping, General? Isn’t that against the law?»
«Not in this outfit, fly-boy… Come on, Hoot, how do you think I feel?»
«I think you feel your ass in a cushioned chair inside a building on dry ground, that’s what I think you feel, Owen.»
«I suppose you also think I issued those orders myself, don’t you? Well, I’ll let you in on a little national security secret: I’m not permitted to. They were issued to me—code Red Plus.»
«To repeat myself, what the hell is going on?»
«You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, but then I couldn’t, because I didn’t understand a word the trench coats said—well, I understood most of the specific words, but not what they meant when put together.»
«What trench coats?»
«Again, you wouldn’t believe me. It’s hot as hell down here, and they kept their coats and hats on, and they don’t open doors for women.»
«Owen … General Richards,» said the pilot, with firm gentleness. «Have you been to the base hospital lately?»
In his office, the commandant of SAC sighed as he replied to the pilot 800 miles west and 40,000 feet above. «Every goddamn time the red phone rings I want to turn myself in.» So, of course, the red telephone hummed as its red light flashed on and off. «Holy shit, there it goes!… Hang on, Hoot, don’t go anywhere.»
«I’m not canceling the Australian Outback, Owen.»
«Oh, shut up,» ordered the commandant of SAC as he picked up the red telephone. «Rec-Wing Headquarters, General Richards,» he said with ill-felt authority.
«Beam ’em down, Scotty!» cried the half-whining, half-wheezing voice of the Secretary of Defense. «Beam ’em all down!»
«I beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary?»
«I said bring ’em back, soldier! We’ve got ourselves a little breathing room, so stand down till I call you again and then be prepared to send up the whole flotilla!»
«Flotilla, sir?»
«You heard me, whatever your name is!»
«No, Mr. Secretary,» said Richards, a calm suddenly spreading through him. «You hear me, sir. You’ve just given your last order to whatever-my-name-is.»
«What did you say, mister?»
«You heard me, sir, and my title is ‘general’ in contradistinction to the civilian ‘mister,’ not that either term would mean anything to you.»
«You being insubordinate?»
«To the fullest extent of my vocabulary, mister… Why we put up with you Washington sewer pipes is something I’ll never understand, but I’m told it’s spelled out somewhere by somebody who never ran into anyone like you, and I’m not about to introduce you because all the rules would be changed—like opening doors for ladies—and I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.»
«Are you sick, soldier boy?»
«Yes, I’m sick, you sniveling, tiny rat with a rug on your tiny head, sick of you dumb politicians who think you know more about my business than I do after thirty years in this uniform! And you can bet your butt I’m beaming them all down, Scotty, and I would have done so whether you called or not!»
«You’re fired, soldier!»