Assignment to Disaster Read online

  Durell felt a great wave of relief wash through him.

  "Officially," McFee said, "you'll be in the hospital. But I've got an Army jet bomber ready to fly West in about an hour. You'll be on it. You'll go to Las Tiengas and work alone."

  "But the girl…"

  "If she cracks, they may take her with them to Las Tiengas, too. As a decoy, a lure to bring her brother into the open. There's a better chance for you to find her and help her out there than if you stayed here and chased yourself in circles for Swayney. I'll call Mike Larabee, the security chief at Las Tiengas. You can check in with him. After that, you'll be on your own."

  Durell stood up. "Thank you. I'm grateful."

  "There isn't much time. I'll tell you something else. There's something wrong out there at the Las Tiengas Base. I can smell it. Something stinks in all this. Don't trust anybody. That's a hell of a thing to say, but that's the way I want you to play it. If you latch on to anything, don't contact anybody but me. No matter what it is." Blue eyes burned at Durell. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  "Good luck, then," said McFee. "You'll need it. Officially, you're persona non grata for having lost contact with the girl. You know what happens if you miss." McFee sighed. "I'd hate to have to accept your resignation, Sam."

  Durell nodded. "Is there time to see Sidonie Osbourn?" he asked.

  McFee sighed. "God help her, yes."

  The little house near Alexandria looked the same. He thought it ought to look different, somehow, but he could not see any change in it, and he knew that any difference he felt was in his mind, in the knowledge of permanent absence and loss. There was a neatly trimmed lawn, a low privet hedge, children playing a few houses away up the sloping curve of the street. It was cooler here than in Washington, which seemed to gather in a peculiar heat of its own. There were a few cars parked by the curb, none in front of the house. Durell got out and walked up the brick path to the door.

  It opened as he reached for the bell and Sidonie stood there. No tears, but her eyes were unnaturally bright. He remembered her eyes as vivacious, Gallic, with their slightly upturned slant. He remembered the way she had kissed Lew on the occasions when he had come here with Lew for dinner.

  He kissed her cheek.

  Her underlip trembled. "Thank you, Sam."

  He felt awkward, hating this. "Are you all right?"

  "No. Of course not. How could I be?" Then she said, "I'm sorry, Sam. Don't mind me."

  He followed her inside. Everything was the same. Well, what did you expect? Lew isn't here, he won't ever be here again, but he's left this, this house and this girl and the twins. He wanted to smash something.

  "I sent the girls to a neighbor's," Sidonie said. "Sam, don't look like that."

  Strength from her, given to him. He was astonished. "Sid…"

  "I know how you loved him," she said quietly.

  "I wish I'd been there."

  "I knew it was going to happen, someday."

  Staring at her, he said. "You knew?"

  "We both knew. It was always a question not of if, but when. Every day was a holiday, Sam. Can you understand?"

  "No," he said.

  "You think he was wrong to marry me? I know you think so. You talked about it to Lew so often. But he wasn't wrong. It was wonderful."

  "How can you…"

  "He did his job," she said. She sat down and folded her hands in her lap and looked at her wedding ring. A small girl. Strong and brave. He felt ashamed of his own weakness. "He did his job and he knew the danger in it and so did I. We accepted it and lived with it."

  "What will you do? I know it's too soon…"

  "It's all been arranged. I'm going to work for General McFee. He just called me."

  He looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to the airport. He stood up.

  "I have to go."

  She nodded, arose, and kissed him. "Lew always said you needed a girl. I wish…"

  "No," he said, almost violently.

  "Sam, I'm sorry for you."

  He was surprised. "For me? Don't be. Sid."

  "Come back soon. I need to talk to you."

  "Is there anything I can get for you, that you need?"

  "No. Thank you, Sam."

  "Anything I can do…"

  "Finish the job," she said. "For Lew."

  Chapter Nine

  The plane was riding high through the night, trying to overtake the purple sunset. The earth was hidden beneath cotton clouds. The interior of the bomber was austere, stripped, a pattern of punched-out Duralumin girders painted gray, yellow, black. He was in a bucket seat where he could see the seven-man crew up forward, hunched over a fantastic series of lighted banked instruments. One of them yawned. None was curious about him.

  A blond young airman second class worked his way back toward Durell. "Are you all right, sir?" A Mississippi drawl.

  "Fine."

  "You like some coffee, sir?"

  "Yes, please. Thanks. Could you tell me where we are now?"

  "Vicksburg, I reckon."

  He thought of the mighty river below. Several hundred miles to the south, in the Cajun bayou country, was his grandfather, aboard the old hulk of the Three Belles. His mind spun back to the past and he remembered Bayou Peche Rouge and the general store when he was fourteen, and Toinette Deslabes, whose papa ran the store. Toinette he remembered well, the way she ate oranges, small white teeth biting into the pulp. He remembered a night in the Pass-a-Joix, across the bayou, when he and 'Toinette had walked along the chenière together and then stopped walking and sank to earth under the moss-dripping live oaks. There were awkward fumblings, the making of love for the first time, frightened and ashamed when he failed. He remembered the smell of her, the pungency of oranges, the way she had writhed, frustrated by his boyish failure, how she had come at him furiously with a knife and he had knocked her down and taken the knife away; and then because she was no longer the aggressor, he was able to take her as he willed. Later, his grandfather had asked him what had happened, and he knew the sounds they had made had carried across the still black water, across the masses of water hyacinth…

  His stomach tightened. He thought of Deirdre Padgett. He saw her in his mind with the bullet-headed giant, tortured and in pain, hurt badly. He forced himself to shy away from the images.

  Later, at Yale, there was a girl from Litchfield, in her beaver coat, in her little roadster, driving back through the icy, barren hills to her home for dinner after the football game. She had turned into a barway, parking in the dark among the frozen, crystal weeds, and torn off her fur coat, torn away the veneer of Radcliffe, and it had been awkward in the tiny car, and strange to sit at dinner later in the old colonial house, with the milk glass and antique copper and the huge fireplace, and feel her hand groping for him under the table while her parents discussed the Yale eleven and its chances against Harvard…

  Deirdre, he thought, wanting to forget her, unable to forget her, helpless to aid her wherever she was at this moment. He told himself there was nothing he could have done back there that Swayney wouldn't do. He told himself that McFee was right, that the men who had taken her might as easily manage to bring her to Las Tiengas tomorrow. It didn't do any good. He thought of her red flowing hair, her wide gray eyes, the courage in her that fought against the ugly haunting fears. He thought of her bitter anger, because her brother had been abused and served with injustice. She had known, in his apartment, that she had been mistaken. He had seen it dawn in her, the knowledge that she herself was not important, or her brother; not any of them. But it had come too late, this putting aside of personal feelings. She might be dead now.

  The bomber flew on through the night.

  There were no clouds over Texas, and the stars were like polished bits of silver in the night sky. Up ahead, the navigator was talking to the engineer, laughing about something, reminding the engineer of a fiasco with some girl in a San Francisco bar. The radioman volunteered a comparison bet
ween the girl in the bar and a Japanese girl he had known in Yokosuka. Their laughter was strong, easy, free, mingling with the vibration of power from the jet engines. They knew what their job was and they were doing it, asking no questions of their passenger.

  Hearing the soft voices, the different accents from Maine to Mississippi, from Brooklyn to Houston, he felt a change come over him. Hearing the steady beat of the powerful engines, feeling the lift of the wings that spanned the earth and the sky and carried him across the continent in a matter of hours, he felt better.

  He closed his eyes and slept.

  * * *

  The airport at Las Tiengas was new, raw, and busy. A white-helmeted MP with eyes like steel marbles met him at the bomber, asked his name, and guided him to an Army scout car parked in the restricted military area of the field. Durell did not object, although this was not what he had expected. In a matter of moments, they were skimming down a new highway across the flat desert floor, away from the gaudy glow of lights that marked the town.

  They passed a white-and-black barrier manned by more MP's, and under the desert moon Durell saw the white blocky shapes of barracks, skeletal rocket launchers, a huge hangar, a glare of blue light from a cavernous machine shop. The MP who drove was not communicative. He seemed bored. The desert wind was chilly.

  Mike Larabee was waiting for him in an office of the Base Administration Building. Larabee was a squat bulldog of a man, his jaw dark with unshaven beard, eyes bloodshot, face tired. His glance was hostile. His handshake was hard and quick.

  "Sit down, Durell. Relax. Like something to eat?"

  "I didn't expect to work out of here," Durell said.

  "You don't. You're supposed to be on your own. But I guess McFee figured you needed some briefing. I don't like it a bit, I tell you. A thing like this needs organization, a lot of men working together. What can you hope to do alone?"

  "I hope to find Calvin Padgett."

  "Nuts. You'll only get in my hair."

  "I'll try not to," said Durell.

  "Well, I just don't like prima donnas," Larabee growled. He slapped a palm over his mouth and wiped his hand across the lower half of his face, pulling and distorting his flesh with his fingertips. He sighed deeply. "Sorry. I haven't had much sleep. We'll get along, Durell."

  "You know that Padgett is still somewhere in the area?"

  Larabee nodded. His face looked more like a bulldog's than ever as he jutted his jaw angrily. "The son-of-a-bitch. The screwed-up bastard. I'd like to ream him with a forty-five."

  "How did he get away from you?"

  "We found that out just a few hours ago. Through a drainage culvert. Of all the goddamn things. Down a manhole and crawling for two, three hundred yards, popping up like a gopher outside the wire and the radar. My own damned fault. I ought to be hanged."

  Durell relaxed a little. "Any leads to where he might be hiding out?"

  "Just one. He didn't go into town often, but he had a girl there. Or a woman friend, you might say. Cora Neville."

  "Local girl?"

  "Just the richest dame in ten states. You can't touch her, Durell. Don't try. We've got trouble enough without making her squawk. But she's staked out, too. Not a sign of Padgett. We searched her ranch and the whole damned motel. He wasn't there."

  "What motel?" Durell asked.

  "The Salamander. It's just north of town, and you never saw a place like it. Forty bucks a day, cigarettes a buck a pack, four bits for a Kleenex. Jaguars and Cadillacs and a lot of rich, spoiled, useless people taking the desert air, sobering up for the next round. She fits the place like a glove, that Cora Neville. Cal Padgett was right friendly with her."

  Durell's face looked thin and sharp. "How did he get to know a woman like that?"

  Larabee shrugged meaty shoulders. "Ah, who knows? She picked him up in one of the Cactus Street joints, probably just for kicks. These scientists are temperamental. They work along nice and quiet for a time, hypnotized by their own genius; then all of a sudden they're tired of the recreation we give 'em — bridge and billiards and chess. Cal didn't often go on a toot, but when he did, it was a beaut. We always had a man with him, of course, to see about drinking or talking too much. Policy said to let 'em relax, so we did. Only thing my boy couldn't do was get under the bed with them."

  "I'll check into the Salamander tonight," Durell said.

  Larabee shot him a hard, angry look. "He isn't there. I guarantee it. I went through the place as if I was looking for a two-headed louse. The Governor called me on it, I got calls from a Senator and two Congressmen in Washington. Seems I went too far and too fast with Miss Neville and she doesn't like her guests distressed. She says she doesn't know where Cal is and doesn't care. He was only a passing fancy. She was amused by his boyish earnestness, she said. But very annoyed with him now for causing her a little difficulty."

  Seated, Durell felt the floor tremble and heard the vibration and shuddering of window glass. His eardrums felt odd. He looked up and saw Larabee watching, not grinning, but dimly amused.

  "You're a tenderfoot, all right."

  Durell still felt the sensation of concussion, deep in the pit of his stomach. "What was that?"

  "My little babies never sleep. They're got to test their playthings. What you just felt, mister, was about a million bucks of the taxpayers' dough blown into the sky for fireworks."

  "They fire at night, too?"

  "With Dr. John, you never know. Come on, I guess you want to meet him."

  They went downstairs to a jeep, drove along a street between barracks, turned left past a towering structure that made little sense to Durell, and drove about two miles into the chill desert before they came to a tall building with an observation tower like the control tower of an airport. An elevator took them up to the glassed-in room.

  Dr. John Padgett was like a giant eagle, a big, bony man with hunched shoulders and a long-nosed face and loose limbs. He sat beside an assistant in a smock, watching numerous dials on a bank of recording instruments. There was a humming sound in the big room. On John Padgett's face there was a mark of intelligence and deep suffering. A rugged, roughly knobbed walking stick rested beside his chair, and when he stood up he leaned heavily on it as he shook hands with Durell.

  "Yes, Mike told me you were coming." He had a deep, deliberate voice. "I regret it is my young brother who is causing all this trouble."

  "Well, maybe you can help me," Durell said.

  "I've done all I can. But if there is anything more…"

  "I'd just like to know what kind of argument Calvin had with you about the work going on here," Durell said.

  His shot went home. He saw the quick glance John Padgett exchanged with Larabee. Then the physicist shrugged, and his bony shoulders emphasized his resemblance to a hunched, bedraggled eagle.

  "Calvin was distraught. He was impetuous. He felt that an error had been made in the calculations for our device and insisted on checking and rechecking. We did so. And there was no error."

  "I take it you are certain of that," Durell said.

  "It is my responsibility," John Padgett said quietly.

  "I understand you considered Calvin as suffering from a nervous disorder of some kind. That right?"

  "If you wish to speak to Dr. Crane about it…"

  "You can tell me all I need to know," Durell said.

  "Quite so. You know his history, of course — about the Investigating Committee and so forth. I could not bring myself to believe he harbored subversive notions. I took him under my personal parole, you might say. Perhaps it was a mistake. I dislike to think so, however, until every effort has been made to find Calvin. Our work here causes high mental strain among the staff, and a great deal of philosophical theorizing, you see. Calvin was growing steadily moodier, doubting the wisdom of our work. He was not alone in this, but others managed to keep their attitudes and fears under control. Calvin did not. He ran away. I am sure that when he is found, it will turn out to be no more than a gesture
toward escape from reality."

  John Padgett limped back to his instruments and studied them for a moment. Then he returned to Durell. His dark eyes burned with a fanatical light. "Whatever happens, nothing must interfere with the scheduled firing of Cyclops. It is my responsibility, above that of the military personnel here, above Mike Larabee's security forces, above everything except for certain people in Washington. I designed Cyclops, I helped to build it. It will succeed. It must succeed! I have put aside all personal feelings in regard to my brother. Whatever must be done about him I leave to your discretion. And now, if you will excuse me…"

  Durell felt strangely disappointed. He did not know why he felt this way. Perhaps he was tired, he thought. This day had stretched out interminably. Then he looked up as Mike Larabee crossed the room, glanced at his watch, and tore a big sheet off a wall calendar.

  It was past midnight. It was now the second day of July.

  Chapter Ten

  He had no real difficulty getting a room at the Salamander. Larabee had not exaggerated about the place. His room was a cottage, discreetly apart from the others. He stopped in Las Tiengas, which apparently knew no curfews, and rented a car, then bought a suitcase and some clothing in the shops on Cactus Street. Larabee did not come with him. Larabee made it plain he did not like the idea of Durell's working independently on the problem.

  The town was built on fiats slightly north of the center of a forty-mile bowl rimmed by jagged buttes. Cactus Street was noisy, lined with bars, lurid with neon, swarming with military uniforms. Aloof from all this, like an oasis of plush luxury, was the Salamander.

  There was a main building surrounded by stately palms and green lawns and oleanders. There was a huge swimming pool, where some people still sat about in robes at tables under umbrellas. There was a restaurant, a gambling room, tennis courts, squash courts, a private auditorium for motion pictures, several shops, sun decks. The Salamander was a world unto itself. Once here, the privileged guest need not stir or want for anything. The cottages ranged in irregular patterns among more palm trees and shrubbery, discreetly located along private paths. The clerk's desk in the lobby of the main building was like an upholstered doughnut, and the clerk went with the decor. His eyes at first dismissed Durell briefly.