right.”
To Hansen’s astonishment, the woman’s face did seem lewdly intent, but how in the world could the general see what was happening off the photograph?
“Will the general please yield the floor?” Hansen could not determine from Pickens’ tone whether he was asking or ordering.
“Skipper,” Flugel ignored the civilian to direct his remarks to the admiral, “I take this photograph as proof positive that we’d better haul - - - to Russia on the next convoy out, and I’d like to pick up a print of that scene of a beach to add to my collection.”
“General Hogarth, aide to General Ware, would like to comment,” a voice with a Southern accent came out of the darkness.
“General Hogarth has the floor,” Pickens rasped.
“May I see the upper half of that photograph? Notice, sir, that fewer men are wearing sandals than in the former picture, and more women…”
“Right!” It was Admiral Primrose sounding through the darkness. “And I hope your observation points up to the Commandant of Marines the dangers of overspecialization…”
“It is characteristic of lower classes,” General Hogarth continued, “both in this country and abroad, that the men do not remove shoes…”
“I object,” Flugel bellowed, “some of the best I ever got was in combat boots…”
“That exception proves the rule,” someone yelled from the darkness.
“What son of a bitch said that?”
“Lights,” said the admiral as Pickens pounded the gavel. “General Hogarth’s point is well taken. Women are status conscious in Russia as well as the United States or Tanzania. They removed the men’s shoes.”
In the rising light, Hansen was completely at sea. No one from the floor had finished talking, yet the admiral had won the support of the General Staff. When he spoke his voice carried resolution: “Gentlemen, it’s the considered opinion of the Secretary of Defense and me that women control Soviet Russia. Although the evidence is deduced, we have been provided with a means of checking our deductions.
“On Tuesday, a Russian trade commission is scheduled to arrive from Moscow bringing ten females, the first of five hundred for the services, representing down payment on one million bushels of wheat. If the women have been previously segregated, they can be delivered on schedule by the Russian Minister of Trade—unless we get word to the Russian women.
“Providentially, a member of my staff. Captain Benjamin Franklin Hansen, has just returned from eighteen months in the Antarctic. His wife believes that he is unaware of her withdrawal. Captain Hansen is going home over the weekend to speak freely to his wife of the Russian girls.
“As soon as Dr. Carey gets the information to her Russian supporters, they’ll attempt to cancel the trade. If the girls arrive Tuesday, I will seriously consider reopening Operation Queen Swap. If not, we will know the Russian women have taken over.”
Hansen saw plainly, now, that Operation Queen Swap was a plan to occupy Soviet Russia with the connivance of Russians whose armies no doubt would occupy the United States. Technically, it might not be treason, but morally it most surely was. More galling even, he was being assigned to deceive his wife on the theory that she would betray her country in order that the U.S. High Command might assess the effectiveness of the operation. Here was an incredible pyramid of treachery, and the base of this pyramid was the wife of Captain Benjamin Franklin Hansen, USN.
He rose and faced the admiral.
“Sir,” he hurled his words across the bend in the U, “I wish to advise the admiral that this assignment conflicts with my ideas of honor as a gentleman, and it falls, I believe, within the proscriptions established by the Nuremberg Trials.”
Only a slight stiffening of the admiral’s spine and a slight intensification of his gaze was enough to give Hansen the sensation of a freeway driver whose brakes suddenly fail. “Honor?
To Hansen’s astonishment, the woman’s face did seem lewdly intent, but how in the world could the general see what was happening off the photograph?
“Will the general please yield the floor?” Hansen could not determine from Pickens’ tone whether he was asking or ordering.
“Skipper,” Flugel ignored the civilian to direct his remarks to the admiral, “I take this photograph as proof positive that we’d better haul - - - to Russia on the next convoy out, and I’d like to pick up a print of that scene of a beach to add to my collection.”
“General Hogarth, aide to General Ware, would like to comment,” a voice with a Southern accent came out of the darkness.
“General Hogarth has the floor,” Pickens rasped.
“May I see the upper half of that photograph? Notice, sir, that fewer men are wearing sandals than in the former picture, and more women…”
“Right!” It was Admiral Primrose sounding through the darkness. “And I hope your observation points up to the Commandant of Marines the dangers of overspecialization…”
“It is characteristic of lower classes,” General Hogarth continued, “both in this country and abroad, that the men do not remove shoes…”
“I object,” Flugel bellowed, “some of the best I ever got was in combat boots…”
“That exception proves the rule,” someone yelled from the darkness.
“What son of a bitch said that?”
“Lights,” said the admiral as Pickens pounded the gavel. “General Hogarth’s point is well taken. Women are status conscious in Russia as well as the United States or Tanzania. They removed the men’s shoes.”
In the rising light, Hansen was completely at sea. No one from the floor had finished talking, yet the admiral had won the support of the General Staff. When he spoke his voice carried resolution: “Gentlemen, it’s the considered opinion of the Secretary of Defense and me that women control Soviet Russia. Although the evidence is deduced, we have been provided with a means of checking our deductions.
“On Tuesday, a Russian trade commission is scheduled to arrive from Moscow bringing ten females, the first of five hundred for the services, representing down payment on one million bushels of wheat. If the women have been previously segregated, they can be delivered on schedule by the Russian Minister of Trade—unless we get word to the Russian women.
“Providentially, a member of my staff. Captain Benjamin Franklin Hansen, has just returned from eighteen months in the Antarctic. His wife believes that he is unaware of her withdrawal. Captain Hansen is going home over the weekend to speak freely to his wife of the Russian girls.
“As soon as Dr. Carey gets the information to her Russian supporters, they’ll attempt to cancel the trade. If the girls arrive Tuesday, I will seriously consider reopening Operation Queen Swap. If not, we will know the Russian women have taken over.”
Hansen saw plainly, now, that Operation Queen Swap was a plan to occupy Soviet Russia with the connivance of Russians whose armies no doubt would occupy the United States. Technically, it might not be treason, but morally it most surely was. More galling even, he was being assigned to deceive his wife on the theory that she would betray her country in order that the U.S. High Command might assess the effectiveness of the operation. Here was an incredible pyramid of treachery, and the base of this pyramid was the wife of Captain Benjamin Franklin Hansen, USN.
He rose and faced the admiral.
“Sir,” he hurled his words across the bend in the U, “I wish to advise the admiral that this assignment conflicts with my ideas of honor as a gentleman, and it falls, I believe, within the proscriptions established by the Nuremberg Trials.”
Only a slight stiffening of the admiral’s spine and a slight intensification of his gaze was enough to give Hansen the sensation of a freeway driver whose brakes suddenly fail. “Honor?
Similar Books
