such that already nine of the North Pacific sub fleet, including the USS
Hawkeye TACAMOS — take charge and move out aircraft — had been ordered aloft from the West Coast stations to take over the always tricky task of making radio contact with the subs at their next rendezvous points. But it was always more complicated than it seemed. The Hawkeyes’ rotodomes’ 360-degree sweeps had ranges of up to three hundred miles, with overlap patterns so they could cover all nine subs that had already missed their first call, together with the overlap patterns necessary to reach another six nuclear subs in the Pacific due for call-in within the next twelve hours. This meant the endurance of the half-dozen allocated planes and their crews would be stretched to the limit — that quite simply, some of the subs would not be reached. Meanwhile, a large Siberian fleet was now in the process of gathering in the fog-shrouded seas where the Kuro Siwo, or Japanese current, meets the ice-cold waters south of the Aleutians.
While looking soberly concerned, “wholeheartedly” welcoming the idea of oversight committees, the country’s police chiefs were ecstatic, but played it down in front of the press conferences.
For the first time since the Vietnam War, editorial offices raged with argument — calm debate no longer possible in the atmosphere of growing panic — about whether or not to release certain stories and sow further fear. One holdout was Peter Ovan, the editor of a small New Hampshire daily, the
“Hell,” responded the Pentagon chief of PR, “anyone can start a fire, Mr. Ovan.”
“That supposed to comfort me, Major?” responded Ovan, shifting the phone from one shoulder to another, tearing off a fax of a reported sniper attack on the approach road to the “secret” Savannah River atomic weapons production plant in South Carolina. It was a better story, in Ovan’s opinion, for the truth was that if he wanted to nail the administration for incompetence, the Stealth fire story wasn’t the best. Besides, he’d already run a column on the open secret among the pilots of the 450th Tactical Group at Nelles Air Force Base in Nevada that the twin- engined multimillion-dollar Stealth fighter, with swept wings and V tail, had been flown at night since 1983 and was responsible for many UFO sightings over the mountains and deserts of the western United States. More importantly, in the pilots’ opinion, it was perhaps the most overrated plane in history. Inherently unstable and therefore remarkably maneuverable, kept on the edge by its computers, the Stealth fighter hadn’t proved to be the ultimate “radar evader” after all. The Soviets had designed low frequency detection sets that could pick up the fighters almost as quickly as they could the Stealth B-2 bomber. It was one of the reasons the B-52 program had been drastically cut, ostensibly for “economic reasons.”
As it turned out, Ovan didn’t run either the Stealth or the Savannah River sniper stories in the
Cautious by nature, and made more so, given the rash of reported crazies and sabotage, Ovan asked his wife the sender’s address. He could hear the rustle of Ida handling the plastic envelope. “Ida! Don’t open it!”
“I’m not. I’m looking for an — it’s from a Mr. Carlisle. Internal Revenue Service, Washington.”
“Since when do the IRS use courier?” Ovan asked.
“Since most of the phones aren’t working,” said Ida.
“All right, have Billy run it down here. I’ll go over it with the rod.” He meant the metal detector he kept in the office as a precaution against crank mail.
“You be careful,” said Ida. “All this violence in New York.” To Ida, all violence happened in New York— another country. “I think you should call the sheriff’s office.”
Ovan considered it for a moment, his pride battling the pressure of his deadline. Still, the IRS gave him a turn. Rumor was, everyone gets audited sometime. “All right. Have Billy take it to the sheriff’s office first.”
Seventeen minutes later the local police car pulled up outside the
“Pete, we opened your package.”
“Then I guess it wasn’t a bomb?” Ovan replied wryly.
“Sort of.”
Ovan’s fingers stopped on the keyboard. “What you mean, ‘sort of’?”
The sheriff opened the plastic bag and showed him. It was a fish wrapped in an old copy of the
Ovan’s hands came off the keys. “You tell Ida about this?”
“No one ‘cept the deputy. I told your Billy to stay up at the station.”
“You checked the sender?” asked Ovan. “Carlisle— IRS?”
“Yep. Put a radio call through all the way to Washington. Phones there aren’t working too good.”
“Well?” said Ovan impatiently.
“No such person. Besides, Pete, IRS don’t send dead fish.”
“How ‘bout live ones?” reparteed Ovan, but he didn’t think it was funny himself. He thanked the sheriff for calling personally, asking him not to tell Billy.
Ovan’s assistant, a young, freckle-faced coed, Mary, had just finished trimming the ads as he walked over to the window and pulled out a cigarette. He always asked Mary if she minded whether he smoked, and she always said no, she didn’t, when they both knew she did. But this time he didn’t ask. He just lit up and inhaled deeply, looking out on the sunlit folds of virginal winter snow — deep and crisp and even, he thought. “Drop the leader,” he said glumly.
Mary looked up, surprised. “The story about the Stealth—”
“Do as I say,” he snapped. “We’ll run that NBA payoff scam instead.” He exhaled, bluish smoke filling the small room. “Everyone likes baseball.”
But he hadn’t heard her. He was furious, and rang the CIA public relations major whose staff had been ringing the newspapers to hold back the Stealth sabotage story. The major was polite, given Ovan’s tirade about receiving the dead fish.
“Mr. Ovan — if you’ll let me speak for a moment, sir…”
“Go on, then!” grumped Ovan finally.
“We don’t operate that way, sir. I’m not going to pretend that I’m not glad you’re holding the story, but we don’t work that way, Mr. Ovan.”
“I shouldn’t damn well think so,” said Ovan, his voice now an asthmatic wheeze. “Christ, that’s just the kind of thing we’re fighting against over there, goddamn it! In Siberia!”
“Exactly,” concurred the major. “Look, we’ll have the FBI — this kind of thing is really their jurisdiction — look into it, if you like.”
“Yes I would.”
“Fine. I’ll have them contact you as soon as possible.”
“Appreciate it,” said Ovan brusquely, but grateful nevertheless.
When the major hung up, he shook his hand as if it had been on fire. “Boy, was he steamed.”
The petite second lieutenant nodded. “I could hear him from here. Did he buy it?”
