Henry Fuller was too busy to eat. As a group leader in the demonstration, he was responsible for the orderly procession of his five hundred people at the White House. The marchers were beginning to mass at the south bank of the Reflecting Pool, once the site of Resurrection City.
Henry worked at the Pentagon. A lawyer, he handled contracts with private industry for the peaceful development of atomic energy. He believed in this aspect of the government’s program, but through his work he knew that in sixteen centers around the world, the United States had concentrated the equivalent of one trillion tons of TNT. Fuller could not live with this thought. As a man with a wife and six-month-old child, he refused to believe that these weapons would not be used someday. He wanted them dismantled by a worldwide agreement.
As to SOUL, he felt that denial of life by government regulation was as wicked as extinction by a bomb. Thus, he marched to protest this latest abomination. Fuller knew that if he was recognized during the parade by government agents, his top-security clearance would be lifted and his job would be jeopardized. But it was worth the risk to him to attempt to force the President of the United States to take a position. The youthful group leader passed among his charges for the day and issued further instructions. At precisely 10:30 A.M., he gave the order to move from the Reflecting Pool toward the Washington Monument from there to the Capitol Building, and, finally, back by way of Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House.
Forty feet away from him, a man in a double-breasted brown suit watched him carefully. The man was swarthy. His shoes were distinctive, pointed, and of European cut. He held a large package in his hand, and he too looked at his watch when Fuller did. At precisely 10:31, he ripped a manila cover off the package and pulled forth a huge sheaf of handbills, which he began circulating to the crowd of marchers, happily leaving on their crusade for future generations.
William Stark had no time to worry about a demonstration in front of the White House. His mind was bedeviled by the pressing problems before him. He had just talked by scrambler phone to Karl Richter on the plane. Richter told him that he had briefed Safcek and Gorlov for the mission. Jump-off would be sometime after midnight, Peshawar time, near 2 P.M., in Washington. Richter was elated with his men. Safcek was the coolest man he could imagine in such circumstances. Gorlov was relatively calm, uncommunicative, but obviously efficient and ready. Stark told Richter he wanted to be in constant touch with the operation after they landed and would be available at any hour for consultation. Richter promised to keep an open line to the White House.
Stark had also met with Sam Riordan and Gerald Weinroth. Riordan told him Russian strategic weapons were no longer on alert. Samos detectors had come to the startling conclusion that the Soviets appeared to have declared a holiday for their personnel. No activity was apparent at missile sites. The Soviet naval task force in the Atlantic was still moving inexorably toward the East Coast and at present was three hundred miles northeast of Montauk.
Weinroth had consulted his own scientists and concluded that the laser, if operating efficiently, could be fired at Washington and then New York within ninety seconds’ time. Stark pursed his lips in distaste, and Weinroth apologized for giving such awful news.
At 11 A.M., the White House press office was jammed with newsmen clamoring to ferret out the truth behind the meeting the night before. Edwin Rast, press secretary at the White House, told them the President would refuse to discuss such speculations at this time.
Alex Barnett said acidly: “I suppose the armed forces are on alert to defend the country against the marchers going by here soon.” Rast refused to get involved with the acerbic representative of CBA Broadcasting and walked out of the room to a chorus of catcalls.
On the line of march, Sharon McCandless read a pamphlet someone had thrust at her. While attempting to maintain her footing in the crush of demonstrators, she managed to digest its contents. Clutching at Tom’s arm, she screamed, “My God, did you see this?” He took the paper and read:
AS PER INSTRUCTIONS INITIATE CONDITION RED ON SEPTEMBER 16 AT 0900 HOURS.
ASSIGNED TARGETS IN THE SOVIET UNION AND ITS SATELLITES WILL BE RENDERED USELESS BY APPROPRIATE NUCLEAR CONFIGURATIONS. FINAL CODED SIGNAL FOR ATTACK WILL BE ISSUED BY MY ORDER AT 0800 HOURS SAME DAY. REPEAT MY ORDER ALONE.
Tom read it twice. “Where did you get this?” Sharon said a marcher had handed it to her as they were approaching the Washington Monument.
Tom was incredulous. “It’s just a joke. Some underground group must have made it up to put a little spice into the protest. Forget it, honey. Let’s enjoy the scene.”
She was not so sure and felt a distinct wave of fear. “Do you really think it’s just a hoax, Tom?”
“Of course. The United States would never do such a thing, and why should they? Everyone has been sitting down lately to talk about disarmament.” The couple joined hands and walked on.
Others in the march were not so calm about the pamphlet. A tall, muscular man of about forty raised the paper into the air and shouted: “Look at what those bastards over in the White House are plotting now! Stark has gone crazy!” His voice was heavily accented, and his jacket bulged over the left breast. He shoved the pamphlet and others he had with him at some curious paraders, who read them with growing indignation.
Henry Fuller had been pleased at the way his group of demonstrators were behaving. At first, the procession was slightly disorganized as thousands of citizens struggled to form into a reasonable facsimile of a parade. They wanted television cameras to record the truth, that this march was not an excuse for excess by a few against the Establishment. The past years had seen the bulk of the American people increasingly repelled by those who spoke disparagingly of an oppressive government and yet resorted to disruptive tactics to bring their own message to the people. Fuller and his followers marched with a sense of urgency but not in direct rebellion against their own governing process.
Fuller’s glasses had begun to cloud over in the humidity of the late Washington summer. As he marched along wiping them carefully, he heard a discordant chorus behind him and turned to check. Two men were haranguing the increasingly agitated crowd. Fuller fought his way back through the press of onlookers to the edge of the disturbance. He could hear someone screaming: “It’s true. This signature is Stark’s. Somebody told me that a person in the Pentagon leaked it to us to expose the Administration’s plans for a third world war.”
Henry Fuller grabbed a pamphlet and read the fateful words. He could not believe them and shouted: “Who the hell are you?” toward the speaker. But the man was gone, swallowed up in the throng. Harsh voices beat at Fuller’s ears, and he felt a sudden surge of anger. His demonstration was turning into a mob scene before his eyes.