of Queen Swap, the CIA’s opinion fortifies my belief it is not. The fall-off represents a firmer hand in control of the party apparatus. That hand, gentlemen, does not belong to Premier Gregorovitch. If there has been a withdrawal within the Soviet Union, the Russian men will not let us know it because they are quite willing to swap a dead pig in a poke for our half-dead pig.”
It was seeping into Hansen’s mind that this plan might not be as innocent as he had first thought. Operation Queen Swap was beginning to shape up as treason by the High Command. Unaware of the turbulence he had created in Hansen, the admiral continued, “Now, hear this! In accordance with the Eisenhower Directive, I submit nothing to the President without your approval. I want you all to leave here satisfied with my decision, so you’ll be shown two photographs of the resort town, Zhadanov, on the Azov Sea. The first was taken by the nuclear sub Patrick Henry , three years ago, on a July afternoon on the second Saturday of the month. The second was taken three weeks ago, second Saturday, as before, same time of the day. We know that the withdrawal had not begun three years ago. So, pay close attention to the differences between the two photographs.”
Admiral Primrose clicked a cricket and the room lights dimmed. A panel, twenty feet square, in the middle of the Sahara Desert, slid back to reveal a high-resolution photograph projected on a screen. It was a beach scene with crowds. Behind a boardwalk, on piers behind the beach, were pastel-colored buildings, their shades drawn against the sun. Most of the bathers were stumpy and towheaded, and the girls, for the most part, had performed the unique feat of making their bikinis look dowdy. Hansen scrutinized the shadows under the boardwalk carefully to see if the Russians had concealed suicide boats.
When the admiral clicked the second time, the picture was replaced by another and very similar photograph. Checking for differences, Hansen detected only that the stucco had peeled on the center building, and it had cracked vertically on the building to the right. Allowing for individual differences, the bathers were essentially the same, the ratio of men to women held the same, and there were still no suicide boats under the boardwalk.
Out of the darkness, the admiral asked, “Any comments from the floor?”
“You G - - d - - - right!”
“General Flugel has the floor,” Pickens said.
“Blow up the faces of that couple on the top steps leading from the boardwalk to the beach.”
As the projectionist complied, cropping the photo to that area, Hansen saw a blond lad, about eighteen, alert, keen-faced, bending down over a lovely, dark-haired, dark-eyed little Ukrainian miss. He could see the twinkle in the lad’s eyes as he bent to his sweetheart. Ironically, Hansen thought, an espionage photograph had captured and preserved the image of young love on the threshold of life.
“Notice her lips,” General Flugel’s voice boomed through the darkness, “wetted and slightly apart. Gentlemen, when they hold their mouths like that, that means the - - - - - - - - is ready, with a slow rising on the ‘poon’ and a rolling snap to the ‘tang.’ Bring it back a little. Notice how she’s sort of slung forward at the pelvis? I haven’t seen hunching like that since I got kicked out of the Epworth League. Her - - - - - is burning a hole in her bloomers. But look at that boy. Notice how that shagpoke’s leaning down on her. He’s sneaking a squint at her titties.
“That boy wouldn’t make a Marine,” the general said sadly, and then his words picked up tempo. “But take a look at that lower right-hand quadrant—Blow it up!—see that old bag with her - - - toward us? Notice how she’s drooling as she looks off the camera to the right? She’s looking at a boy who would make the Marines because he’s getting his under a beach blanket, off the photograph to the
It was seeping into Hansen’s mind that this plan might not be as innocent as he had first thought. Operation Queen Swap was beginning to shape up as treason by the High Command. Unaware of the turbulence he had created in Hansen, the admiral continued, “Now, hear this! In accordance with the Eisenhower Directive, I submit nothing to the President without your approval. I want you all to leave here satisfied with my decision, so you’ll be shown two photographs of the resort town, Zhadanov, on the Azov Sea. The first was taken by the nuclear sub Patrick Henry , three years ago, on a July afternoon on the second Saturday of the month. The second was taken three weeks ago, second Saturday, as before, same time of the day. We know that the withdrawal had not begun three years ago. So, pay close attention to the differences between the two photographs.”
Admiral Primrose clicked a cricket and the room lights dimmed. A panel, twenty feet square, in the middle of the Sahara Desert, slid back to reveal a high-resolution photograph projected on a screen. It was a beach scene with crowds. Behind a boardwalk, on piers behind the beach, were pastel-colored buildings, their shades drawn against the sun. Most of the bathers were stumpy and towheaded, and the girls, for the most part, had performed the unique feat of making their bikinis look dowdy. Hansen scrutinized the shadows under the boardwalk carefully to see if the Russians had concealed suicide boats.
When the admiral clicked the second time, the picture was replaced by another and very similar photograph. Checking for differences, Hansen detected only that the stucco had peeled on the center building, and it had cracked vertically on the building to the right. Allowing for individual differences, the bathers were essentially the same, the ratio of men to women held the same, and there were still no suicide boats under the boardwalk.
Out of the darkness, the admiral asked, “Any comments from the floor?”
“You G - - d - - - right!”
“General Flugel has the floor,” Pickens said.
“Blow up the faces of that couple on the top steps leading from the boardwalk to the beach.”
As the projectionist complied, cropping the photo to that area, Hansen saw a blond lad, about eighteen, alert, keen-faced, bending down over a lovely, dark-haired, dark-eyed little Ukrainian miss. He could see the twinkle in the lad’s eyes as he bent to his sweetheart. Ironically, Hansen thought, an espionage photograph had captured and preserved the image of young love on the threshold of life.
“Notice her lips,” General Flugel’s voice boomed through the darkness, “wetted and slightly apart. Gentlemen, when they hold their mouths like that, that means the - - - - - - - - is ready, with a slow rising on the ‘poon’ and a rolling snap to the ‘tang.’ Bring it back a little. Notice how she’s sort of slung forward at the pelvis? I haven’t seen hunching like that since I got kicked out of the Epworth League. Her - - - - - is burning a hole in her bloomers. But look at that boy. Notice how that shagpoke’s leaning down on her. He’s sneaking a squint at her titties.
“That boy wouldn’t make a Marine,” the general said sadly, and then his words picked up tempo. “But take a look at that lower right-hand quadrant—Blow it up!—see that old bag with her - - - toward us? Notice how she’s drooling as she looks off the camera to the right? She’s looking at a boy who would make the Marines because he’s getting his under a beach blanket, off the photograph to the
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