The general had made up his mind. “Look, Shelton, go out there and stall them until the troops get here. Then we’ll tell them to disperse, and if they don’t we’ll go back to the old days and spray them with gas. But try to get them out of here peacefully.”
Colonel James Shelton went out of E Ring to the upper level, where the SOUL marchers were shouting their indignation at the walls.
It was 11 P.M., in Peshawar, almost thirty-eight hours since the ultimatum had been sent, with thirty-four hours to go, when the giant C-135 rode over the darkened plain. Its engines quieted suddenly to just above a whisper. In the cabin, Karl Richter and half of his Operation Scratch team put seat belts on. Joe Safcek stubbed out his cigarette. The plane dipped to the left and came straight in at a row of blue lights running along the ground. The wheels touched and screamed, and the motors roared into rev brake the momentum. When the aircraft stopped, the three men unbuckled their harnesses and stepped to the door, which opened suddenly to admit a burly MP, signaling them to follow him. They descended into the darkness and, guided by flashlights, went to a jeep, which deposited them before an isolated and bleak barracks. These were the same barracks from which Francis Gary Powers had walked on May 1, 1960, to take off on a never-completed overflight across Soviet territory to Bodo, Norway.
President William Mellon Stark was about to sit down to lunch with Robert Randall. He was edgy, curt to the point of rudeness, but Randall did not seem to mind. The forty-year-old advisor had known the President too long. Besides, he continued to marvel at the way the man bore up under the strain. Randall knew he himself would be near to cracking in the same spot. When the waiter had left the room, Stark picked at his food and fretted.
“According to what Richter told me, Safcek should be on his way to Tashkent in an hour or so.”
Randall made no comment.
“Good God, it’s awful to think that we’re reduced to relying on a handful of commandos to save the entire country.” The President finished his consommé and pushed the dish to one side. The waiter came back in with the entrée, a chef’s salad, and the two men ate in silence for a few moments.
“Bob, I can only give that team twenty-four hours to blow that building. Beyond that I must have some leeway. I’ve been thinking about General Roarke’s idea of a nuclear strike by one plane. Maybe he wasn’t so wrong. Maybe, just maybe, it would take the wind out of the Russians and scare them so much they wouldn’t go to war over it.”
Robert Randall munched a piece of lettuce reflectively and answered: “You know, if you combined it with a hot line to the Russians within a minute or so of the strike, it might work. You could tell them that it was just a one-plane operation, not an all-out attack, and put the pressure back on them for the responsibility of starting a big war. The important question is: who’s in charge there. Would cool heads really prevail?”
Stark retreated to a pessimistic silence. While eating vanilla ice cream, he suddenly spoke: “Tell Roarke to have a plane ready just in case. I’ve got to have another option.”
Randall patted his lips with the napkin and excused himself. The President remained at the table, and did not look up as Randall left.
Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine was lunching with General Roarke in the besieged Pentagon when Randall called with the President’s message. Physically, Erskine was feeling worse. The pain in his left arm had become almost unbearable. He was intermittently nauseated and suffering from chills and sweating. Erskine and Roarke were discussing Operation Scratch, and the secretary had spent fifteen minutes defending the plan. Erskine was not inclined to like the tall Texan who worked for him. To him, Roarke was a boor, an insensitive man who irritated the brilliant administrator of the nation’s defenses. Erskine had come to Washington from the presidency of Consolidated Industries, one of the Big Ten in American business. He had never liked the military mind. Now in close daily contact with it, he abhorred its ingrained insistence on the use of power in time of crisis. Erskine was appalled by any application of force to settle the world’s problems. He had watched the country submerge into the morass of Vietnam and thrash about in it painfully for years. When he was asked to take the job, Erskine had told Stark that he would never allow himself to be associated with such a debacle during his term of office. He found Stark a sympathetic listener, a kindred spirit, who also seemed to have pacifist tendencies. Their years of association had not altered Erskine’s opinion of the President.
General Roarke considered the secretary a weak person, unfit for the job. The two men had clashed frequently over strategy during Roarke’s tenure as chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and their animosity was barely covered by a veneer of civility. On this day, Roarke had come to Erskine to complain bitterly that Stark was running scared, that Operation Scratch was doomed and so was the country unless the Joint Chiefs were allowed to act, decisively. Erskine listened patiently for a while but then cut the general short with: “The President thinks this is the best way to avoid a nuclear war. So do I. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”
The phone on Erskine’s desk rang shrilly. He picked it up and listened as Robert Randall relayed Stark’s instructions. Erskine asked Randall to repeat the message. As he waited, his features turned chalk white, and his palms began to sweat. The secretary mumbled good-bye to Randall and put the receiver down. “Roarke, this is a happy day for you. The President wants you to get that plane ready in case Safcek doesn’t make it.”
The general’s face expanded in a huge smile. He responded, “Yes, sir,” and bolted out of the room.
Secretary of Defense Clifford Erskine made a decision. He ordered a car to take him to the White House immediately. He went down an elevator and into the underground garage. As the limousine poked upward into the noontime sunlight, Erskine heard the roar of the protesters in the distance. Out the window he saw people waving placards reading: “SAVE THE UNBORN.” Clifford could not have agreed more.
Colonel James Shelton’s renewed dialogue with the march leaders was an exercise in banalities. His instructions had been to delay, and he was succeeding. The wizened old man and the other spokesmen had fenced with him over the piece of paper. Shelton had repeatedly denied its authenticity, but they wanted proof from him. By 1 P.M., they wanted proof from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Shelton told them that was impossible, that the Joint Chiefs would not consent to a confrontation in front of the Pentagon.
When he saw troopers from Fort Myer arriving in half tracks, Shelton had had enough. He faced the five men and said: “Gentlemen, you may present any petitions that you wish. Other than that, I believe you have made your point that you are concerned about a possible nuclear war. For my part, for what it’s worth, I share your sentiments. Now then, I must ask you to retire from these premises in an orderly fashion. In one half hour, you must be off the grounds.”
Colonel Shelton looked out of the corner of his eye at the several hundred soldiers deploying across the entrance to the Pentagon with a feeling of relief. “Beyond that time, you will be considered as trespassers and dealt with accordingly.” Shelton turned and walked back into the building. The old man and his friends stood irresolutely for a moment, then melted back into the crowds of chanters, who began to call, “We want Erskine, we want Erskine.” Erskine was not there anymore. He was on his way to the White House to resign his job.
In the radio room in the sub-basement of the Pentagon, an operator sent a message in top secret Croesus code: