seem to be the right time to squash O'Reilly, the president's geek. So Bombing Joe tried to straighten his twisted lips in his beet-red face and marched away to make more telephone calls.
Despite the lateness of the hour, the telephones were already ringing. Some of the callers were too important for the president to ignore. He took a call from Willard
Critenden, a political consultant who had been with him all the way until he was recently disgraced in a sex scandal and banished. Now the president did his consulting with Willard via long distance.
After the pleasantries, which were dispensed with in the first three seconds of the conversation, Willard got down to it:
'You have to do something about these saucers. The Bible-thumpers were freaking out yesterday. They are gonna go nuts when the sun comes up and they turn on their televisions. Already some of the evangelicals say we have arrived at the end of the world. In Revelation — '
'All right, all right,' the president said hastily, cutting Willard off. He hated it when people quoted the Bible. It reminded him of those horrible mornings in Sunday school, back when the world was young. 'We're doing everything we can.'
'Right. Which is nothing.'
'Willard, for God's sake! What in hell can I do? Get out on the south lawn with a flashlight and wait for the saucer leader to drop in?'
'All I do is advise. My advice is to go to DEFCON ONE. People will feel better if the army, navy, and air force are ready to kill somebody. You gotta appear strong, resolute, capable. If you look like a frightened rabbit, the country will panic. And believe me, if the country panics, you and your party can kiss November good-bye.'
'No one's going to panic. I can handle that end of it,' the president said, reasonably confident. He had discovered long ago that ninety percent of what elected people do is posture before cameras. He was reasonably photogenic, knew how to discreetly use makeup, and for years had practiced setting his jaw just so in front of his bedroom mirror.
Of course that kind of savoir faire went only so far.
'Unless they land. What if they land?' the president asked Willard now.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, what if a goddamn saucer lands on the south lawn and some slimy thing crawls out and says, 'Take me to your leader.' What then?'
'Act presidential. That is critical. Don't pee your pants, don't freeze, don't give away the country.'
'Uh-huh,' the president said. He never, ever forgot that Willard was a political genius.
'Remind the press that you've always been a champion of multiculturalism.'
'Willard, I really appreciate your taking the time to call.'
'I'm pulling for you, pal,' Willard said and broke the connection.
The sun was peeping over the horizon in Washington when Bombing Joe De Laurio was summoned to a secure telephone. His repeated calls to the Pentagon demanding to know the whereabouts of the UFO team that had been dispatched to the Sahara had borne fruit.
'Sir, the CIA has confirmed that the members of the UFO team are prisoners of the Libyans.'
'They're sure?'
'Positive. CIA says they are being held incommunicado in Tripoli while Qaddafi decides what to do with them. CIA also says there are some other people with them, some Australians and two employees of an oil exploration company.'
'What is State doing to get them out of there?'
'Uh, nothing right now, I imagine. The agency has their troubles in Libya. They've moved heaven and earth for us on this one. They just haven't yet passed it on to State.'
'The secretary is over here now. I'll tell her, see if I can light a fire under her.'
'Sir, if I may make a recommendation. Perhaps we can get someone from the embassy to go see these people. They went to look for a flying saucer and we seem to have a bunch of them flying around… '
'Yeah. Thanks.'
Bombing Joe hung up and went to find the secretary of state.
The sun was streaming through the open hangar door when Rip awakened. Something was prodding him. He opened one eye.
'Well, hallo, mate. Welcome to the world.'
'Who are you?'
'Name's Rigby. Like Eleanor in the song.'
The man grinned crookedly and used his pistol to tilt back the bill of his cap. Then he pointed the pistol in Rip's general direction and wiggled it. 'C'mon, mate. Up. Time's awastin'. Let's go.'
'You're Australian.'
'God, you're quick,' Rigby said. 'I don't want to get physically violent with you, kid, but if you don't roll your sorry ass off that couch and get yourself erect, I'll have to do something we'll both regret.'
Rip got up. That's when he saw that there were three more men. They were over near the saucer, touching it, looking up into the open hatch, apparently paying no attention to Rigby.
'Let's go,' Rigby said, waggling the gun and nodding at the door with his head.
'Where?'
'Up to the house, mate. Let's wake them up.'
Rip went. Behind him Rigby said to his friends, 'Come with me, people. You can gawk later.'
'How did you find us?'
'Took a little doing. Your mother thought you might be here, and lo, here you were.'
Rip whirled. 'If you hurt my — '
Rigby slapped him. Hard. A casual backhand across the face.
'I've tried this nice, laddie buck. Now I'm telling you. Up to the house and no more running your mouth.'
The slap stung fiercely. Tears came to Rip's eyes. He turned away so Rigby wouldn't see them.
They went inside. Rigby made him sit in the living room while the other men searched the house and rousted out Egg and Charley, who were forced to join Rip on the couch. One of the men sat in a chair opposite them. He took a gun from a holster under his armpit and placed it in his lap. Another man made coffee in the kitchen. Rigby removed a cellular telephone from a jacket pocket and made a call.
'It's here,' he said exultantly. 'In a little wooden hangar by a grass runway, about fifty meters below the house… We're in the living room.'
He checked on the man making coffee, then looked at Charley. 'Your name Pine?'
Charley was staring at her feet. She ignored him. Rigby stepped toward her.
'Yeah,' Rip quickly said. 'She's Pine.'
'She's here,' Rigby said into the telephone. He listened a bit more, grunted once, then turned it off and put it back in his pocket.
'Who are you people?' Egg demanded. 'Threatening people with a gun is a felony in this state.'
'Darn,' said Rigby. 'I just hope and pray we don't have to shoot you. That's an infraction of the law too, or so I've been told. I try not to do more than six or eight felonies before breakfast. Jack, is that coffee ready yet?'
'Contain yourself,' Jack replied in a flat Australian accent.
The four thugs were sipping coffee when Rip heard a car drive up outside. Rigby went to the window and looked out. In less than a minute he opened the door.
The man who entered was a bit above medium height, superbly fit, with a tan that could come only from a tanning bed. He wore a dark blue suit and hand-painted silk tie. He came into the room, looked around at everyone and everything, then stopped in front of Charley.
It was then that Rip realized the man was at least seventy years old. From ten feet away he could have passed for fifty.
'Captain Charlotte Pine, United States Air Force,' he said, with just the faintest trace of an Australian accent.
'I used to be in the Air Force,' Charley said coolly. 'Now it's just Ms. Pine to you.'
'I see.'
