“No harm done, Si, who am I going to tell? I still haven’t told anyone about the time you buzzed the nurses’ residence in Toronto. So what’s Fried going to be working on, jets? Missiles?”
“Rug-hooking, I think.”
Jack laughs and opens the door of the booth with his foot to let some air in. The afternoon is heavy with sun. “So all this American fella knows is that at some point a Canadian officer will contact him and brief him.”
“That’s right.”
“He doesn’t know it’s going to be me.”
“No one knows it’s you.”
Jack removes his hat, wipes the band of perspiration from his forehead, and puts the hat right back on, because the sun pierces his eyes. “No one except Woodley,” he says.
“Who?”
“The CO here.”
Simon sounds relaxed as ever. “No, as I said, I’ve closed the loop on this one.”
Jack pauses. It’s one thing to feel he’s acting as a private citizen helping Simon with a favour. But a foreign officer has been posted here for a purpose of which Jack’s CO is unaware. Still, the man will function as a flight instructor; he’ll step into a position that would be filled by an American in any case. His “special task” will take a day at most. And it’s not as though he’s coming from a hostile country. Simon is still speaking: “… only you and I know where Oskar Fried will be living. Only you and I know him by that name.” Of course. Jack ought to have assumed it was an alias.
“One man to babysit, and one to stand by in the dark until it’s time to escort Fried. Simon, that’s a whole lot of hand-holding.” He lowers his chin, getting the most out of his hat brim.
“It’s overkill.” This time Simon does not sound amused. “There’s no need for this poor Yank to move to Canada, uproot his family for a year, just so he’s in position for a task that would otherwise cost him a day. I don’t like it.”
Jack hears Simon in the instructor’s seat beside him, not sure I like the looks of that. Never anything so adamant as I don’t like it. He feels momentarily disoriented, as at the sudden cessation of an engine, and regains his bearings with a pragmatic observation: “It’s a waste of the taxpayers’ money, that’s for sure.”
“Whenever you increase the points of entry in a mission, you lose control. That’s when you get gremlins.” Simon’s voice is clipped, precise as chalk on a blackboard. “This Yank’s no doubt a good man, but the Americans, in their customary zeal, have increased the target area. The chances of a fuck-up will now likewise increase. It’s sloppy and bloated and it annoys the hell out of me.”
Jack waits for more, but Simon is silent. “We could use you here at the management school, Si.”
Simon laughs and sounds like himself again: “Word of advice, Jack. Number one: If there’s ever another conventional war, join the intelligence service. You’ll be relatively safe, and you’ll know more or less what’s actually going on. Number two: Observe carefully what the Americans are doing. Then do the opposite.”
Jack laughs. “When’s this fella getting here, anyhow?”
“Any day now. Name’s McCarroll.”
“Sorry, I meant Fried.”
“Oh. Shouldn’t be long.”
“Why here, Simon?”
“You’re an inquisitive bastard.”
“I’m interested, I can’t help it.” He leans against the glass, glancing over at the PX. “Listen, you know what I’m looking at right now?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Chicken legs thirty-nine cents a pound, homo milk is on special, and there’s a Red Rocket by the door, drop a nickel in the slot and you can go to the moon. There’s a four-year-old astronaut in it right now.”
“Going stir-crazy?”
“Naw, it’s a great place, just not exactly where the action is. What’s out your window? The Pentagon? The White House?”
“The domino theory in action: I tell you one thing you don’t need to know and you go at it with a crowbar. I’m not telling you a bloody other thing, sunshine.”
“Come on, Si, toss me a bone, you old son of a gun.”
Simon sighs. Jack waits.
“Well, the first factor in selecting this location is you, of course.”
Jack savours it silently.
Simon continues: “Then, as you may be aware, there is your country’s reputation as a way station for weary travellers.”
“You mean refugees?”
“In a manner of speaking. Canada is an easy route to the U.S. In this case, that’s working in our favour.”
“But why park him here, why not ship him stateside straight away?”
“Canada is also both far enough removed from and closely enough allied to Britain and the U.S. to provide haven.”
“Because Fried is working on something the Soviets and the Americans both want,” Jack hazards. “Which means they’ll look for him in the States first. But by the time he gets there, he’ll have a new identity — he’ll be Joe-Blow Canadian crossing into the U.S.” Jack is of course aware that Britain, Canada and the U.S. share intelligence — cooperation among these countries is often smoother than cooperation within them, due to inter-service rivalries. But he has never seen it up close — a case study. “What do we all get out of it?”
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Hang on.”
“Christ, what now?”
“Who the heck is Major Newbolt?”
Simon laughs. “You’re going to have to do your homework, lad.”
“Let me know when I can buy you that drink.”
As he turns to leave the booth, Jack sees that a small lineup has formed. Cadets standing at a respectful distance, waiting for the phone. They salute; Jack touches the brim of his hat and heads across the parade square for home. Something the Soviets and the Americans both want…. He doesn’t have to look up in the sky, he knows it’s there — even when you can’t see it.
“I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the moon, and returning him safely to earth.” Kennedy said that last year, but the Soviets have kept right on eclipsing American efforts, making heroes of Russian cosmonauts smiling out from the pages of Life. Luniks, Vostoks, manned rockets bearing the red star, hurtling skyward, gaping fire, two launch pads for manned flight at Baikonur in Kazakhstan compared with the lone Pad 14 at Cape Canaveral. The first U.S. attempt to match Sputnik blew up on the launch pad — the British press dubbed it a “Flopnik!” Oskar Fried is a scientist from the winning side, and the United States Air Force has gone to great lengths to import him. When Jack recalls recent articles and editorials about American military determination to compete with NASA, the connections seem suddenly crystal clear. He quickens his pace, his leg muscles feel taut and tireless, he could easily run home.
The Soviets are not like us; while we’re “mooning” about space exploration, they are turning their best military brains to the problem of space flight, pouring unlimited state funds into it, unconstrained by a congress or parliament. That’s why President Kennedy has approved billions for NASA. That’s why the U.S. Air Force is clamouring for a piece of the pie, convinced it ought not to be left entirely to the civilian agency. Jack glances up; there it is, mild disc. To fly there. To stand in the darkness of space and view our earth, milky blue, fragile jewel. There is not a human being on the planet who could remain unmoved by the enormity of such a feat. That’s why, apart from immense strategic advantage, there is such prestige attached to it. Hearts and minds and muscle. Jack feels certain now it’s why USAF is determined to acquire its own Wernher von Braun, in the person of Oskar Fried. He watches a fuel truck lumber past him up Canada Avenue toward the hangars, and behind it, Vimy Woodley at the wheel of a big Oldsmobile with a carload of Girl Guides. He returns her wave. One of those young gals is bound to be her daughter. When he gets home he’ll tell Mimi to line her up to babysit Friday night. It’s high time he took his wife into London for a fancy dinner, just the two of them. He glances at his watch. Five-twenty; Mimi will expect him by now. He quickens his pace, feeling springs in his heels, wings on his feet. When Jack was a boy he idolized Flash Gordon. It was science fiction then. Now it’s just a matter of time.