"Officially, then, this is not a military matter," Captain Dwight Martin said, his words coming out slowly and distinctly. He wanted to verify the underlying intent of what the Secretary of the Navy had just told him.
"Exactly." Mitchell Schroeder nodded in agreement. "Although the President has personally requested your help. A sort of temporary duty."
"I'm pleased to be as much help as I can." Martin began to frown. With the prospects that lay ahead, he knew damn well that even the unofficial involvement would be too thin a shield if the crap started to fly. "I assume there's an operational reason that the President wants to keep the mission on a non-military basis."
"Naturally." Schroeder reached for his cigarettes and took one out. He stood silently while he fumbled for a match, lit the cigarette, then inhaled deeply. He finally turned back to Martin. "If we go the official military route, the operation would of necessity be transferred to the military command center." Schroeder slowly blew out a long plume of gray smoke. "Then we'd be ass-deep in jurisdictional arguments with the top brass. Everyone would want a slice of the pie."
"Probably," Martin said as he nodded.
"Unquestionably." Schroeder decided to omit the fact that the President didn't think much of the particular military commanders he had been saddled with in this administration. Instead, the interservice rivalry angle would be as good an excuse as any for explaining his actions. Fortunately, Schroeder and the President had been friends during college, so working this problem out solely through the Navy had been the President's natural choice. "The Air Force would insist on high-saturation bombing, while the Marines would probably want to attempt an assault on the Yorktown. God knows what the Army would request." Schroeder smiled, but he had only been half joking. "At least the way it is now, we can avoid that sort of problem." Schroeder looked across the room, toward where Lieutenant Nash and the technician hovered over the channel 01 teletype machine. From where he stood, the machine appeared ominously silent and inert. "We want to avoid too much input from the top brass, especially if things come down as I assume they will."
"How's that?"
"That we won't have any options. In comparison, this situation is far worse than the Iranian hostage affair. At least back then, we had a group of sympathetic Iranians lurking around Tehran on our behalf. The CIA spooks were getting hard data back to us. The Iranians militants themselves didn't know what they were doing or what they wanted next."
"I see your point. These terrorists we're dealing with have managed to thoroughly isolate the hostages. Worse than that, they're obviously professionals." Martin tapped his finger against the stack of teletype messages from the Trout that lay on his desk.
"Yes. Professionals. They've got total control of the situation. They staged the event in a place where we can't hope to even approach them without grave risk to the hostages. In other words, they've got us by the balls."
"Then what do we do?"
"We wait." Schroeder was about to add more when he noticed that Lieutenant Nash had begun to lean over the teletype machine. A few moments later he reached up and ripped a piece of newly printed paper off the scrawl, then turned toward them.
"Here it is," Nash announced as he rushed up. He held the paper out so that either of the men could take it.
Schroeder took the paper, laid it on the desk and began to read.
TO SECRETARY OF THE NAVY, FROM U.S.S. TROUT. IN REFERENCE TO YOUR PREVIOUS MESSAGE, THERE ARE ADDITIONAL FACTORS YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY NOT YET AWARE OF. SHIPMENT OF GOLD VALUED AT 25 MILLION DOLLARS WAS ONBOARD TRANS-AMERICAN AIRCRAFT — IT IS NOW SAFELY ABOARD THE TROUT. WE HAVE ALREADY ACCOMPLISHED THE MAJOR PORTION OF OUR MISSION. WHAT WE OFFER NOW IS A SIMPLE EXCHANGE: THE NET WORTH OF THE TRANS-AMERICAN AIRLINER, PLUS THE YORKTOWN, ARE FAR IN EXCESS OF THE TEN MILLION DOLLARS WE REQUIRE IN ORDER TO LEAVE THEM INTACT FOR YOUR RETRIEVAL. IN ADDITION, OF COURSE, ARE THE LIVES OF THE NEARLY ONE HUNDRED PASSENGERS AND CREW.
WE RECOGNIZE THAT THE PREVIOUS PUBLIC STATEMENTS MADE BY THE GOVERNMENT IN REFERENCE TO THE MORATORIUM ON FUTURE DEALS WITH TERRORISTS AND HIJACKERS COULD EASILY PROVE TO BE AN EMBARRASSMENT TO YOU. THERE IS AN EASY WAY OUT OF THIS DILEMMA. THE ADDITIONAL MONEY FOR THE SAFETY OF THE LIVES AND PROPERTY CAN BE PAID SECRETLY SO THE PUBLIC NEED NOT KNOW. AS FAR AS THE PUBLIC WOULD BE CONCERNED, THE STOLEN GOLD SHIPMENT WOULD HAVE BEEN THE ONLY REASON BEHIND THE HIJACKING OF TRANS-AMERICAN FLIGHT 255. IF YOU DO NOT PUBLICIZE THE RANSOM PAYMENT, NEITHER WILL WE. LOGIC DICTATES THAT YOU COMPLY WITH OUR REQUEST FOR THE ADDITIONAL TEN MILLION DOLLARS. IT IS A REASONABLE FEE FOR WHAT IS BEING OFFERED. SIGNAL YOUR ACCEPTANCE VIA TELETYPE MESSAGE ON THIS CHANNEL NO LATER THAN 0100 HOURS. IF YOU DO NOT, THE YORKTOWN WILL BE SUNK.
The three men stood silently for a short while after they had finished reading. Schroeder reached over for the swivel chair, spun it around and sat himself down.
"Bastards," Martin said in a low whisper.
"At the very least." Schroeder rubbed his eyes, then glanced back at the teletype message. "The words are bad enough," he said as he tapped the paper with his fingers, "but their arrogance is incredible. It's more the tone of this thing than the actual content that tells me how insane the person who sent this message must be."
"I'd agree with that." Martin sat himself down on the edge of his desk. Out of nervous energy he looked around and quickly spotted his orange golf ball where it sat on the corner of the desk. For one irrational moment Martin had the overwhelming urge to pick up the golf ball, walk out of the NCC and head straight for the golf course. There, at least, none of this craziness would exist — his biggest problem would be in keeping his wicked slice out of the lake on the fourth hole. Martin found himself almost rising to his feet several times before his self-control overpowered him enough to keep him firmly where he was. He turned his head and began to scan the teletype document once again. "What do we do now?"
"There's not much choice, either way."
"That's true." Martin nodded reluctantly in agreement. "But at least these bastards are promising to stay quiet about the ransom. I guess that's something. Will the President buy that sort of deal?"
"Yes." Schroeder nodded. “That’s why this is such a secret and keeping it out of normal channels. If we went public, or even full-scale military, then the Administration’s policy of absolutely no dealing with terrorists would kick in.”
“That would be the end for those hundred-plus hostages,” Martin said.
“That’s for certain.” Schroeder sighed, then reached for the telephone. "The President already knew about the gold shipment, the airline people told us. I didn't mention that fact in the last message I sent to the Trout, I wanted to see their response."
"Now we've got it."
"We sure as hell do." Schroeder shook his head sorrowfully. "Both the President and I suspected that this would be the course they would take." Without waiting for either of the Navy officers to speak, Schroeder picked up the red command telephone in front of him. He uttered a coded phrase to the military operator, and within a few seconds the President of the United States was on the line.
Captain Dwight Martin found himself stiffening to attention while he watched the Secretary of the Navy explain the situation to the President. "I wouldn't want to be in his place," Martin whispered to Nash across the desk. "It's a hell of a rotten choice to make."
"Yes, it is." Lieutenant Ted Nash squirmed, but more out of what was in his own mind than what Martin had said. Skip, I’ll meet you in an hour. I'll have everything you'll need by then. Nash wondered for an instant if he had gotten himself in too deep with Skip Locker, but then he dismissed the idea. Don't get chicken shit. It's a non-military matter, they've said so themselves. He thanked God that he had overheard that part of the conversation about it being non-military, because that made his involvement with Locker less of a problem. Before Nash could convince himself of that point any further, Schroeder had hung up the command telephone and had turned directly to him.
"Have your technician get ready, I'll need to send another message. We have authority from the President to accept their terms."
"Really?" For some reason, Nash found that concept discomforting. He could feel the ring of perspiration as it began to gather around the collar of his uniform shirt. "We're going to go along with everything they've asked? All their demands?" He couldn't pin down the feeling, but for some reason the President's acceptance of the terrorists' terms had pulled this whole incident in a direction other than the one he would have preferred.
"Yes." Schroeder nodded his head in the manner of a man who had agreed with the decision on a moral level, but not on a practical one. Still, he had little choice. "The only non-negotiable condition we have is that absolute secrecy must be maintained. We are to proceed according to their terms, but only so long as the public is not made aware of the actual conditions that we are being forced into meeting. According to the President, if the word of the ransom payment somehow leaks out, we are to go immediately to plan number two."
"Number two?" Nash worked hard at keeping his expression neutral, but he sensed correctly that his muscles had grown too taut, his eyes too wide. "If I may ask, sir, what exactly is plan number two?"
Schroeder swept his hand through the air as he gestured toward the plotting board's map at the front of the room. "If the public finds out that we intend to pay a ransom to terrorists, we must deny that allegation emphatically."
"What will happen then?" Nash asked, although he suspected that the answer would be almost too personally frightening to listen to.
"Simple." Schroeder rose from the swivel chair and leaned against the desk. He looked more hangdog now than he had at any other time since the incident had begun, as if the last ten minutes had managed to visibly age him. "If we go with plan number two, we need to prepare to lose a few things."
"Like the carrier?"
"Yes. A relic of an aircraft carrier, a commercial jetliner and the lives of approximately one hundred innocent men, women and children. That’s the price we'll pay for sticking to our principles if the truth leaks out."
<>
The pavilion in the center of the courtyard sat in the deep shadow cast by the Pentagon's towering brown walls, the late afternoon sun sitting too low against the western horizon to be seen. Even though the pavilion itself had closed a few hours earlier, several people lingered on the benches and in the grassy areas of the expansive courtyard. Lieutenant Ted Nash hurried past them, careful to avoid any glances that might have invited a casual conversation. His mind was too intent on the problem that he wrestled with to deal with vacuous chitchat and, besides, Skip Locker was due to meet him at the Ground Zero hamburger stand in just a few minutes.
When Nash reached the wooden structure in the center of the courtyard, he walked around it once to be certain that Locker had not already arrived. Satisfied that he had gotten to their rendezvous spot first, he leaned against the wall where the wooden shutters had been pulled down and locked after the lunchtime crowd had come and gone. Nash worked hard at not appearing overly anxious to any of the bystanders in the courtyard who might notice him — mostly military personnel who worked at sectors that continued to function beyond the normal bureaucrat's hours. Several times Nash forced himself to breathe deeply to steady his nerves. I've done it now. What the hell was I thinking of? What started out as a silly, harmless tip to a reporter who could do him some good had somehow mushroomed into a life-and-death situation. Innocent people would die if this story leaked out.
Several minutes passed with no signs of Locker. It was nearly 6:30. Nash shook his head in disgust at the situation, then reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. I've given him too much already. He's left to print what he's got. Nash wiped the growing line of perspiration off his forehead.
"A little too warm for you today?" Skip Locker said as he walked briskly around the corner of the small wooden building and into Nash's view. "You should be enjoying the heat, it's the last we'll see of it until next spring."
"You're late." Out of habit Nash glanced at his wristwatch, then back at the man who stood a few feet to his left.
"I didn't know that our schedule had become critical." Locker grinned, enjoying whatever was the cause behind Nash's obvious discomfort. "What's the news?"
"We've got to kill the story."
"What?"
"There's more to this than we first thought."
"I don't understand." Locker carefully maneuvered himself to a position where the microphone of the hidden miniature tape recorder in his coat pocket would be most effective in picking up the Lieutenant's voice. He had already taken the precaution of checking over the device and turning it on before he walked into the courtyard, and now he was damn glad that he had brought it along. Whatever Nash was going to add to the incredible story of an aerial hijacking and a ransom demand, would certainly be worth hearing and recording. "Don't be silly. I've spent the last two hours working out the background details on the Yorktown and Trout. Everything's set to go, it'll make one hell of a scoop."
"We can't do it." Nash glanced from side to side to be certain that no one else was close enough to overhear. "This hasn't turned out like I thought it would."
"What does that mean?"
Nash bit into his lower lip. It was obvious that he had said far too much already, but there was no other way out except to give Locker a complete explanation in order to convince him not to go ahead with the story. "It's more complicated than we imagined."
"Go ahead, I'm listening," Locker said skeptically.
"The hijackers sent another teletype message a short while ago. They've already got twenty-five million in gold." As he continued with his explanation of the incredible series of events that had occurred in the last two hours — the general text of the last teletype message, the President's decision — Nash watched the young reporter's eyes for some signs of sympathy, some indication that he, too, was shocked by the turn of events. All Nash could see on Locker's face was an alert but neutral expression, as if he were hearing nothing beyond a recitation of bland but pertinent facts on a technical subject. "Do you see what I mean? There's no way we can release a story like this."
"That's an interesting point." Locker allowed the penetrating silence to hang between the two of them for several seconds. After a short while he turned away and faced the closed and locked door of the hamburger stand a few feet to his left. "This is an odd place, don't you think?" Locker volunteered in a casual voice, as if the earlier conversation had not taken place.
"I don't follow you." Nash didn't know what Locker's point would be, but something inside him told him that it wouldn't be something he wanted to hear. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about inappropriate behavior." Locker waved his hand in a broad motion that took in the courtyard and the high brown walls of the interior of the enormous five-sided building that surrounded them. "We frivolously label the center courtyard of the Pentagon — the world's most sought-after military target — as ground zero. Then we build an outdoor cafe on the same spot and give it the same name. The Ground Zero Cafe. Very cute. This way, we can chew hamburgers and drink milkshakes on the tranquil spot that most people agree will someday become a nonexistent molten hole, thanks to the dozens of Soviet missiles that are programmed for the peak of this very building." Locker pointed toward the neat wooden cupola that sat above the center of the roofline of the hamburger stand. "Ironic, isn't it, how a place this peaceful can be the number-one military target in the Western world. It's inappropriate, to say the very least."
"I don't follow your point." Nash didn't know what to say. He didn't want to press Locker too quickly, but on the other hand he had to get back to the NCC as soon as he could. He didn't have time for nonsensical conversations. Nash peeked at his wristwatch, then glanced up toward the countless windows that lined the brown walls that surrounded him on all sides. He felt as if there were officers at each of the windows watching him, each of them writing down exactly what time and what place he was having this conversation with this civilian reporter. I never should have dealt with him. I must have been crazy. "I've got to get back. What I need from you right now is your assurance that we can forget everything. You can understand why we can't risk releasing a story like this."
"Not really." Locker stood silently while the expression of horror and revulsion slowly spread across Nash's face. "Don't take this personal, but what you're asking is too much. This is the story of the century."
"There are lives at stake, for chrissake!" Nash had raised his voice too loud, and several of the people on the park benches within a few dozen feet had turned toward him. Nash stepped closer to Locker and dropped his voice to a whisper. "If the story gets out, the President won't go ahead with the ransom payment. Those people will die."
"There are lives at stake here, too," Locker answered quickly, his words tumbling out as if they had been rehearsed. "Everyone in the country has their neck on the chopping block, but that doesn't seem to bother the military mind."
"What in God's name are you leading up to?"
"It's not me, it's what you and your friends are leading up to. It's the promise of a push-button nuclear nightmare that you and your friends in this building are responsible for." It was the first time Locker had used that phrase since he had picked it up during his coverage of the antinuclear peace march on the Pentagon earlier that summer. The phrase had such a good sound to it that he decided to continue with that line of banter — it was as good a way as any to distract Nash and confuse the real issue. "You people have built a hamburger stand on ground zero, then you have the audacity to overtly call it by that very name. Nuclear war isn't a joking matter, or aren't you aware of that? I suppose what you really want is for us to get used to the idea of being vaporized into dust whenever the mood strikes you."
"Wait a minute..."
"No. You've had your say too often in the past." Locker searched his mind for a few other of the key phrases he had heard. The only additional ones he could recall seemed even less applicable than the ones he'd used already. It was, like they had taught him on the debating team at Yale, now time to wrap it up. "Don't tell me that I'm jeopardizing lives. All I'm doing is informing the public. If there's any inappropriate behavior here, it's yours."
"That's pure bullshit and you know it." Nash was angry, but he knew that he couldn't afford to say what he wanted to. "We've got to be reasonable," he pleaded, his voice more controlled. "The terrorists are going to kill those people."
"Maybe the terrorists are bluffing."
"Don't be a damn fool, why should they?" Nash's face flushed with anger. He had a feeling that Locker was toying with him, that his decision had already been reached.
"I guess you're right. If the gold shipment has been verified..."
"It has."
"... then there's no reason why the terrorists won't go ahead as they've threatened. They're winners already — from here on it's just a matter of how big they win, that's all."
"Exactly." Nash wondered if he were getting through to Locker. He glanced at his wristwatch again. "Can I depend on you? I'm asking you not for my sake but for the sake of the hostages." Nash knew that what he had just said seemed incredibly self-serving, but he had been sincere. The thought of those innocent people being murdered by a gang of madmen had shocked him back to his senses, back to his responsibilities.
"I'll tell you what," Locker said in a conciliatory tone, "I'll meet you halfway."
"There is no halfway."
"Sure there is." Locker stood with his hands in his pockets and rocked gently back and forth, as if he were a used-car salesman about to close a deal for a car selling for twice what it should. "I'll hold this story until everyone is safe. At that point, I'll print it. That'll give me the scoop I need over the other news services."
"Are you going to print the part about the ransom payment?" Nash watched Locker carefully as he asked the question.
"No. Of course not," Locker said. It'll be a cold day in hell when I leave out the best part of the story. This is more valuable than your tin-soldier career — this will get me to the top. "You have my word. Nothing about the ransom payment. No news releases until after those people are safely back."
"Okay. Good." Nash nodded his head slowly; something was obviously on his mind. He turned and took one step away, then stopped. He stood his ground for several seconds.
"Something wrong?" Locker asked.
"No." Nash turned back toward Locker. "But there is one more thing."
"What?" Locker had already taken a few steps away from the pavilion in the opposite direction — he was anxious as hell to get going, anxious to get in his car and personally dump this story on the editor-in-chief's desk. It was, he knew, far too important and complex a story to be sent in on the telephone.
"I appreciate your cooperation."
"That's all right," Locker answered as he waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. If the bureau chief rushed the story onto the wire, it would go out in time for the evening TV newscasts in the East.
"I'm serious," Nash said. "I really do appreciate how you're taking this. To show you what I mean, I'm going to get more hard data for you. That'll give you something of a scoop when you finally do release the story."
"Like what?"
"How about an exact copy of the terrorists' last teletype message — the one that told about the gold heist and the ransom demand?"
"That would be great." Locker could hardly believe his ears, it was an offering from heaven. He, alone, would be the only newsman to have the exact wording of the ransom demand, the exact copy of what had come across the Pentagon's teletype. That sheet of paper would make a great TV display, if the TV crews weren't fortunate enough to get on location fast enough to film the sinking of the Yorktown. "When can you get it to me?"
"Meet me back here in twenty minutes. No, better yet, meet me inside the building," Nash said as he pointed to the Pentagon's nearest entrance off the courtyard. "On the second floor, ring C, corridor three."
"Second floor, ring C, corridor three. Twenty minutes," Locker repeated. He watched as Nash turned and strode away. I’ll be glad to wait twenty more minutes. This story will take me to the top. Locker leaned back against the Ground Zero hamburger stand and began to grin ear-to-ear. When this story hits the wire services in an hour or so, you and your military buddies are going to take a lot more notice of me. Locker leaned farther back and began to snicker. By this time tomorrow, that big-shot Lieutenant Nash is going to think I'm a lot taller than five feet ten.