The Krone Experiment (14 page)

“Sir, we are in full agreement on our goals.
We must select the important elements from a flood of information,
but my record demonstrates that I am effective in doing just
that.”

He had stressed the “my” and McMasters’ ears
tinged with red at the riposte.

Isaacs extended a vigorous forefinger at the
report on the desk and continued, “There is something profoundly
disturbing about this seismic signal. Of course, there is a chance
that it is insignificant, but I don’t believe that is the case. I
believe we must pursue this thing until we understand it.”

“You believe?” McMasters spoke with anger and
mockery. “On what basis? Is there a clear and present danger to the
nation?”

“Not clear and present. You can’t expect. .
.” Isaacs began hotly.

“Is there any hint of the slightest bother to
anyone, anywhere?” McMasters interrupted.

“Not yet, but...”

“Your concern for this trivial matter is
foolhardy.”

Isaacs suffered the second interruption and
gritted his teeth.

McMasters continued, “You occupy a position
of great authority and the Agency can ill-afford such lapses. I
order you to desist totally in your pursuit of this matter. I will
draft a memo summarizing your ill judgment. If there is any repeat
performance, I will be forced to place that memo in your file and
report your case to the Director.”

Isaacs recognized this as part bluff. His
record was good, and McMasters could not impugn him recklessly to
the Director without endangering his own position. Still, the
Director’s reliance on McMasters for advice on internal affairs was
well-known. McMasters, in turn, used his favored position adroitly.
Isaacs was aware that McMasters could influence the Director in a
manner that could damage Isaacs professionally and, worse, could
interfere with important Agency operations.

Isaacs gestured with his hands at hip level,
tense fingers spread, palms facing each other, an aborted,
instinctive reaction to his desire to clutch and shake the object
of his frustration.

“For god’s sake!” he shot. “You’re taking me
to task for doing my job the best I know how.”

“Perhaps your best is not good enough,”
McMasters replied sharply.

Isaacs raised his arms and eyes toward the
ceiling in dismay. Then he brandished a weapon-substitute finger at
the older man.

“We both know the real reason for this
confrontation,” he said, louder than he intended. “The root of it
is not my competence, but yours. You’re irritated because I managed
to scuttle some of your outdated programs.”

“Don’t raise your voice to me,” McMasters
responded with surprising volume. “My competence is not the issue
here, whatsoever.”

Outside in the anteroom, the secretary smiled
slightly. To this point the conversation within had been entirely
muffled. The latter outbursts did not carry clearly through the
sound-proofed door, but their tone was clear. The two distinguished
gentlemen were, indeed, at each other’s throats.

As if aware of this monitoring, McMasters
lowered his voice, if not the level of his irritation. He
continued, glaring at Isaacs.

“Your suggestion borders on insubordination.
You are not improving your position.”

Isaacs, on cue, lowered his tone.

“This discussion is ridiculous. We both want
what is best for the Agency. You know I acted in good conscience
when I argued against your programs. You are doing neither us nor
the Agency a service by threatening to interfere with me in general
and a potentially critical area in particular.”

“I am threatening nothing,” McMasters
responded. “I am simply carrying out my assigned duty, which is to
see to it that the Agency functions in the most efficient possible
manner. I am putting you on notice that your unilateral
authorization of worthless projects and disrespect for this office
will not be tolerated. I repeat you are to terminate the operation
regarding this insubstantial seismic phenomenon.”

Isaacs calculated quickly. He was in a no-win
situation, with no chance of talking McMasters out of his
vindictive position. He had little beyond his intuition to justify
the effort he had authorized to understand the queer seismic waves.
The expenses involved were small, but still a finite drain on
Agency resources. He did not want the project to come up for a
full-scale Agency review as McMasters could easily arrange. In such
a case he would be forced to rank the seismic project below a
goodly number of others. Even the Director, through no malice, was
likely to suggest a “compromise” in an effort to quell
disagreements among his subordinates. His best hope would be to
lose only the seismic project and prevent McMasters from lopping
off any other projects. He would be no better off than now, but the
disagreement between himself and McMasters would have been aired
widely, and that could only lead to other trouble. He had little
practical choice but to accede to McMasters.

Isaacs stared down at the man before him.

“All right,” he conceded, “both of us stand
to lose if you insist on dragging our personal disagreements before
the Director, but I won’t risk Agency programs being gratuitously
interrupted for the sake of exposing your machinations.”

“You’ll abandon your investigation of this
seismic folly?”

“Yes.”

“You understand that this is an order
carrying the full authority of my office?”

“Yes, dammit!”

McMasters eyed him for a moment, then
snapped, “You are dismissed.”

Isaacs promptly whirled and strode out of the
office. He resisted a temptation to slam the door behind him. The
secretary half expected another wink. Instead he treated her to the
sight of his back as he crossed her office and disappeared down the
corridor.

In his office, Kevin McMasters wrote a brief
note to his secretary, attached it to the file before him and
dropped the file in his “out” box. His gaze lingered on it, and he
smiled a small, self-satisfied smile.

That afternoon Pat Danielson was one of a
handful of people to receive the following memo:

Due to a reordering of priorities, active
investigation connected with operation code name QUAKER will
terminate effective immediately. Please act promptly to deliver to
central inactive files all material relevant to Project QUAKER that
is in your possession.

It was initialed by Isaacs.

Danielson reread the two sentences with
confusion and disappointment. She still had no inkling of what
caused the strange signal, but she was captivated by it and had
spent long hours wrestling with it. Only yesterday she had spoken
briefly with Isaacs about it. They had expressed their mutual
frustration that no solution had been devised, but his interest
showed no sign of flagging, and he had expressed satisfaction with
her work. Stunned by the surprise terse note, she was now assailed
with doubt. Was her enthusiasm for the project misplaced? The
signal a trivial curiosity? Even worse, was it through an
inadequacy on her part that progress toward understanding had come
to a halt?

Without pausing to analyze the propriety of
her actions, she logged off the computer, slammed her notebook shut
and strode off toward Isaacs’ office, the memo crumpled in her
hand.

Kathleen looked up in mild surprise when
Danielson appeared in her office and announced stiffly, “I’d like
to see Mr. Isaacs.”

“He’s in the middle of a conference call. Do
you want to wait until he finishes to see if he has the time? It
may be fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Danielson was taken aback by the
roadblock.

“Oh, well, yes. Yes. I would like to wait,”
she finished in a strong voice. She looked around and sat briskly
in one of the office chairs.

Kathleen recognized the wrinkled memo. After
a moment, she nodded at it and spoke in a friendly tone.

“Is that the problem?”

Danielson looked at the slip of paper. She
sat back in her chair and brandished the memo at Kathleen. “It was
such a surprise. I’m a bit upset.”

“Not my place to stick my nose in,” Kathleen
said, “but I can give you a little insight. That’s nothing against
you.”

“I’d like to think so, but I’ve done the most
work on it, spent every spare minute since I got back from Boston,
and to have it canceled ... I was afraid . . .”

Kathleen leaned on her forearms. “Do you know
about the tiff between Mr. Isaacs and McMasters?”

“There’s some scuttlebutt. I haven’t paid
much attention to it,” Danielson smiled in self-deprecation. “I
don’t operate in that league.”

“Who does?” Kathleen smiled in return. “But
sometimes some of us get caught up in the battles.” She turned
serious. “For some reason McMasters has it in for Isaacs. Bob, Mr.
Isaacs, is always having to tiptoe around him. It’s too bad. Mr.
Isaacs can be pretty ferocious when he’s worked up, but he really
is very sweet.”

“I’ve enjoyed working with him,” Danielson
admitted. “He takes everything very seriously, but he’s
reasonable.”

“Well, he won’t toady to McMasters, and
McMasters took a dislike to him early on. I don’t know the details,
but McMasters is behind the cancellation of that particular
project. As I say, it’s nothing personal against you, I’m
sure.”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“Do you still want to see Mr. Isaacs?”

“Yes,” Danielson said thoughtfully, “I think
I still would.”

“Well, you’re welcome to make yourself at
home, but I’ve got to finish this briefing paper.”

“Oh, please go ahead.”

Kathleen turned back to her keyboard.
Danielson watched her fingers rap the keys and then began to think
about Project QUAKER. The project fascinated and haunted her. She
also wanted very much to please Isaacs with her performance. How
frustrating to do your best, she thought, try to gain some
appreciation and be thwarted by something beyond your control, in
this case interference by McMasters, some high muckety-muck I
haven’t even met.

She recognized the cord of tension, strong
and familiar, the ambition to go her own way played against the
need to satisfy another authority figure, no stranger at all. She
slipped into a reverie, her thoughts drifting to her childhood, dim
memories of the tragic, premature death of her mother in an auto
collision with a drunk. Her father, a chief petty officer in the
Navy, giving up the sea he loved to take a desk job, trying to be
both father and mother, while she tried to be wife and
daughter.

She had worked hard to do well in school, at
first to protect him from further disappointment, but then more to
satisfy her own drives. She had been only dimly aware of the degree
to which he lived his life through her, of her irrational guilt
that his situation was somehow her fault, of her own repressed
resentment that she had to be strong for him, that she could never,
for even a brief moment, set all her burdens on his broad
shoulders. In hindsight, she saw how the seeds had been slowly
planted for the bitter row that still tainted their relationship
years later, despite their love for one another.

She was finishing high school and planning to
join the Navy as he wished, but she aimed for, insisted on, sea
duty. He wanted her to follow his path, but was too tradition-
bound to countenance women on shipboard, particularly his own kin.
Years of repressed feelings erupted. He called her headstrong and
ungrateful for his years of sacrifice. “It’s not my fault that your
wife died,” she shouted in return, and suffered immediate
remorse.

In the aftermath of their fight, she had
spurned the Navy and gone to UCLA to study engineering. Now she
found the work for the Agency stimulating and enjoyed the notion
that she played an important, if small, role in the strategic
balance of power in the world. Still, during those low points like
the present, she could sense her father looking over her
shoulder.

Her head snapped up as Isaacs’ voice came
over the intercom.

“Yes, sir,” replied Kathleen, glancing at
Danielson. “Do you have time to see Dr. Danielson? She’s waiting
here.”

Isaacs appeared quickly in the doorway.

“Pat, please come in.” He held the door for
her and gestured her to a chair. “I’m sorry that was so
impersonal,” he pointed his chin at the note still wadded in her
hand. “I was too busy to get around, and it did have to be in
writing anyway.”

“I didn’t mind that,” she lied a little, “but
I was shocked.”

“It was sudden, a decision from upstairs.”
Isaacs looked at the young woman, wondering how much of the real
problem he should reveal to her.

Danielson searched for words that would not
seem too bald an appeal for approval.

“I couldn’t help wondering, if I had made
more progress, if I had isolated the source of the signal, would
that have kept the project alive?”

Isaacs spoke thoughtfully.

“Perhaps. Unfortunately, we can’t answer
that, since we didn’t find the source.” He noted the look of
discomfort that passed over her face and hastened to add
reassurance. “Please don’t feel responsible for this. You did some
very good work to get as far as you did. You can’t blame yourself
for getting bogged down. It turned out to be a problem with no
simple resolution, and you had lots of other things to do the last
two or three weeks.”

He disliked the tone of those words. By
weaseling around the real issue, he made it sound as if she might
shoulder some blame for not working quite hard enough or being
quite bright enough. He sighed mentally. If this young woman had a
future in the Agency, she might as well learn the ropes.

“Pat, let me level with you. Unless you had
showed that this was a new Russian weapon aimed at the Oval Office,
the project would have been killed. The decision really had nothing
to do with the project itself. It was strictly politics.”