over. They sat on the ground, brooding, like sinister birds who had intruded in a nest.
Verago stood at the far end of the flight line, and he remembered where he had first seen that strange shape. On General Croxford’s desk. One of the models looked like that.
Verago screwed up his eyes. He wished he could get a closer look. He could see some figures bustling around, but from this distance he couldn’t make out what they were doing.
He didn’t notice the approaching jeep until it pulled up behind him with a screech of tires. Three airmen were in it, wearing combat kit. Two of them had carbines. The third man, a master sergeant, had a pistol holster. It was unbuttoned.
The sergeant got out of the jeep. “Sir,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking around.”
“Your ID, please,” requested the sergeant.
Verago showed it to him. The two men in the jeep waited tensely. Their carbines pointed, almost nonchalantly, in Verago’s direction.
The sergeant did not return the plastic-covered card. Instead he asked, “What are you doing on this base, Captain?”
“Is that any of your business?”’ snapped Verago. What was the matter with this damn place?
“Everything is our business, sir,” replied the sergeant, unsmiling.
He went back to the jeep. Its tall radio antenna was waving in the breeze. The sergeant picked up the radio phone and started talking quietly.
69
Verago couldn’t hear what he said, but the man read the details on his ID card out aloud, looking at Verago as he talked.
Then he replaced the radio phone and walked over to Verago.
‘mere are, Captain,” he said, and handed back the
“Are you satisfied, Sergeant?” asked Verago, and he hoped it sounded sarcastic.
“Sir,” said the sergeant, “you are in a restricted area.”
Verago looked around. “What area? There’s nothing here. They’re a mile away, at least.” He nodded at the planes.
“This whole section of the base is restricted to outs~ders, sir, ‘ said the sergeant.
He made “outsiders” sound dirty
“What’s your outfit?” asked Verago.
“Air Police, sir.” The face was impassive.
“Well, you tell your commander that I’m here on official business, and Sergeant …”
“Sir?”
“You tell him I’m a United States officer, and I may not be air force but I’m certainly not an outsider on an American military installation.”
“Yes, sir.” The man was utterly unmoved. “But if you want to enter this area, you’ll need special clearance. Otherwise we got strict orders. Prom the general.”
“What orders?”
“If we find unauthorised persons trespassing in certain parts of the installation, we can, if necessary, shoot.” He waited for the effect, then he added, “If they fail to identify themselves or attempt to elude us. And this is one of those parts of the base.”
He saluted and climbed back into the jeep. But it didn’t drive off. The three airmen sat silent, watching Verago. Slowly he began to walk away, toward the main part of the installation.
Then, suddenly, he recalled what those black planes were. A year earlier, Gary Powers had been shot down near Sverdlovsk in one.
They were U2s.
He needed a drink A strong one.
In the officer’s club, he ordered a scotch. It was noisy, crowded, and he decided he wouldn’t stay long. Another thing annoyed him: Over the bar was a replica of the
70
wing crest, the one-eyed Cyclops. Like a constant, nagging reminder.
“Another one, sir?” asked the barman.
“Why not?”
Verago hadn’t even been aware how quickly he had gulped down his first drink. Inwardly he knew the necessity for caution. He needed a clear head. And this was certainly not the place to tie one on. One more, and that would be the lot.
He wished he could get rid of the psychosis that he was being watched the whole time. Especially since nobody in the chattering, laughing knots of people around him even seemed to spare the lone army officer standing by
Verago stood at the far end of the flight line, and he remembered where he had first seen that strange shape. On General Croxford’s desk. One of the models looked like that.
Verago screwed up his eyes. He wished he could get a closer look. He could see some figures bustling around, but from this distance he couldn’t make out what they were doing.
He didn’t notice the approaching jeep until it pulled up behind him with a screech of tires. Three airmen were in it, wearing combat kit. Two of them had carbines. The third man, a master sergeant, had a pistol holster. It was unbuttoned.
The sergeant got out of the jeep. “Sir,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
“Looking around.”
“Your ID, please,” requested the sergeant.
Verago showed it to him. The two men in the jeep waited tensely. Their carbines pointed, almost nonchalantly, in Verago’s direction.
The sergeant did not return the plastic-covered card. Instead he asked, “What are you doing on this base, Captain?”
“Is that any of your business?”’ snapped Verago. What was the matter with this damn place?
“Everything is our business, sir,” replied the sergeant, unsmiling.
He went back to the jeep. Its tall radio antenna was waving in the breeze. The sergeant picked up the radio phone and started talking quietly.
69
Verago couldn’t hear what he said, but the man read the details on his ID card out aloud, looking at Verago as he talked.
Then he replaced the radio phone and walked over to Verago.
‘mere are, Captain,” he said, and handed back the
“Are you satisfied, Sergeant?” asked Verago, and he hoped it sounded sarcastic.
“Sir,” said the sergeant, “you are in a restricted area.”
Verago looked around. “What area? There’s nothing here. They’re a mile away, at least.” He nodded at the planes.
“This whole section of the base is restricted to outs~ders, sir, ‘ said the sergeant.
He made “outsiders” sound dirty
“What’s your outfit?” asked Verago.
“Air Police, sir.” The face was impassive.
“Well, you tell your commander that I’m here on official business, and Sergeant …”
“Sir?”
“You tell him I’m a United States officer, and I may not be air force but I’m certainly not an outsider on an American military installation.”
“Yes, sir.” The man was utterly unmoved. “But if you want to enter this area, you’ll need special clearance. Otherwise we got strict orders. Prom the general.”
“What orders?”
“If we find unauthorised persons trespassing in certain parts of the installation, we can, if necessary, shoot.” He waited for the effect, then he added, “If they fail to identify themselves or attempt to elude us. And this is one of those parts of the base.”
He saluted and climbed back into the jeep. But it didn’t drive off. The three airmen sat silent, watching Verago. Slowly he began to walk away, toward the main part of the installation.
Then, suddenly, he recalled what those black planes were. A year earlier, Gary Powers had been shot down near Sverdlovsk in one.
They were U2s.
He needed a drink A strong one.
In the officer’s club, he ordered a scotch. It was noisy, crowded, and he decided he wouldn’t stay long. Another thing annoyed him: Over the bar was a replica of the
70
wing crest, the one-eyed Cyclops. Like a constant, nagging reminder.
“Another one, sir?” asked the barman.
“Why not?”
Verago hadn’t even been aware how quickly he had gulped down his first drink. Inwardly he knew the necessity for caution. He needed a clear head. And this was certainly not the place to tie one on. One more, and that would be the lot.
He wished he could get rid of the psychosis that he was being watched the whole time. Especially since nobody in the chattering, laughing knots of people around him even seemed to spare the lone army officer standing by
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