The Road to Omaha (25 page)

“We read you loud and clear, Colonel,” came the reply from Offutt’s control tower, using its UTF radio band, otherwise known as Ultra Tropopausic Frequency, which, unfortunately, had a tendency to pick up cartoons from Mongolian television but otherwise had a clear range throughout the Pacific. “We’ve handled the complaints on this end very effectively. It’s a pretty good bet you won’t be missiled down, how about that?”

“You get our maximum leader on the horn or I’m heading off your screens to Pago Pago and sending for my wife and kids! I’ve
had
it—
we’ve
had it!”

“Easy, Colonel, there are five other aircraft in roughly your same predicament. Think about them.”

“I’ll
tell
you what I think about them. I think we’ll rendezvous, head to the Australian Outback, auction off these electronic tubes of spaghetti to the highest bidders, and have enough cash to start our own country!… Now get that clown of a commander on the phone!”

“I’ve been on it, Colonel Gibson,” said a distinctly different voice over the radio. “I’ve got a patch here to all airborne equipment.”

“Eavesdropping, General? Isn’t that against the law?”

“Not in this outfit, fly-boy.… Come on, Hoot, how do you think
I
feel?”

“I think you feel your ass in a cushioned chair inside a building on dry ground, that’s what I think you feel, Owen.”

“I suppose you also think I issued those orders myself, don’t you? Well, I’ll let you in on a little national security secret: I’m not permitted to. They were issued to
me
—code Red
Plus.
”

“To repeat myself, what the
hell
is going on?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, but then I couldn’t, because I didn’t understand a word the trench coats said—well, I understood most of the specific words, but not what they meant when put together.”

“What
trench coats
?”

“Again, you wouldn’t believe me. It’s hot as hell down here, and they kept their coats and hats on, and they don’t open doors for women.”

“Owen … 
General
Richards,” said the pilot, with firm gentleness. “Have you been to the base hospital lately?”

In his office, the commandant of SAC sighed as he replied to the pilot 800 miles west and 40,000 feet above. “Every goddamn time the red phone rings I want to turn myself in.” So, of course, the red telephone hummed as its red light flashed on and off. “Holy shit, there it goes!… Hang on, Hoot, don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m not canceling the Australian Outback, Owen.”

“Oh, shut up,” ordered the commandant of SAC as he picked up the red telephone. “Rec-Wing Headquarters, General Richards,” he said with ill-felt authority.

“
Beam
’em down, Scotty!” cried the half-whining, half-wheezing voice of the Secretary of Defense. “Beam ’em
all
down!”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary?”

“I said bring ’em back, soldier! We’ve got ourselves a little breathing room, so stand down till I call you again and then be prepared to send up the whole
flotilla
!”

“Flotilla, sir?”

“You heard me, whatever your name is!”

“No, Mr. Secretary,” said Richards, a calm suddenly spreading through him. “You hear me,
sir
. You’ve just given your last order to whatever-my-name-is.”

“
What
did you say,
mister
?”

“You heard me, sir, and my title is ‘general’ in contradistinction to the civilian ‘mister,’ not that either term would mean anything to you.”

“You being
insubordinate
?”

“To the fullest extent of my vocabulary, mister.… Why we put up with you Washington sewer pipes is something I’ll never understand, but I’m told it’s spelled out somewhere by somebody who never ran into anyone like you, and I’m not about to introduce you because all the rules would be changed—like opening doors for ladies—and I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Are you
sick
, soldier boy?”

“Yes, I’m sick, you sniveling, tiny rat with a rug on your tiny head,
sick
of you dumb politicians who think you know more about my business than I do after thirty years in this uniform! And you can bet your butt I’m beaming them all down,
Scotty
, and I would have done so whether you called or not!”

“You’re
fired
, soldier!”

“Stick your head in a toilet, toupee and all,
civilian
. You
can’t
fire me. You can relieve me, and I hope to Christ you do, but you can’t
fire
me. It’s in my contract. Good-bye and have a rotten fucking day!” The general slammed down the red telephone and returned to the UTF radio connection. “You still there, Hoot?”

“I’m here and I heard you,
Private
Richards. You ready for latrine duty?”

“Is that son of a bitch ready for my press conference?”

“Good point, Corporal.… I gather we’re coming back.”

“Everybody. We resume normal operations as of
now.
”

“Call my wife, will you?”

“No, I’ll call your daughter; her head’s on tighter. Your wife thinks you were shot down over Mongolia and she’s enshrined a plate of roast beef hash.”

“You’re right, talk to the kid. And tell her to wear longer skirts.”

“Over and out, Colonel.” General Owen Richards hung up the UTF receiver and pushed his chair back, pleased with himself. Career be damned, he should have done what he did a long time ago. Retirement wouldn’t be so awful, although he had to admit it would not be all that easy to put his uniform in a cedar chest. He and his wife could live wherever they wanted—one of his pilots told him that American Samoa was a terrific place. Still, it was going to be rough sledding leaving the one thing he loved best outside of the wife and children. The air force was his
life
—to
hell
with it!

And, naturally, the red telephone erupted. Richards picked it up, his temper in flames. “What is it, you fucking
skinhead
?”

“Golly, gosh, and gee whillikers, General, is that any way to answer a friendly telephone call?”

“
What
?” The voice was familiar but Richards couldn’t place it. “Who the hell
is
this?”

“I think I’m called your Commander in Chief, General.”

“The
President
?”

“You can bet your socks on it, sky jock.”

“
Sky jock
?”

“Different uniform but pretty much the same equipment, General, except for the high-tech jet stuff.”

“
Equipment
?”

“Ease off, pilot. I was there when you were in diapers.”

“My
God
, you are him!”

“ ‘He’ is better grammar, Owen. I only know that because my secretary tells me.”

“I’m sorry,
sir
!”

“Don’t be, General. I’m the one who’s apologizing. I just got off the horn with our Secretary of Defense—”

“I understand, sir. I’m relieved of my command.”

“No, Owen,
he
is. Well, not actually, but he’s not making any more decisions where you’re concerned without checking with me. He told me what you said, and I couldn’t have put it better with my best speech writers. You have any more problems, you call me direct, got it?”

“Got it, Mr. President.… Hey, you’re
okay
!”

“Let’s just say I kicked a little ass—but for God’s sake, don’t quote me.”

Sam Devereaux paid ten dollars for the doorman to shriek his whistle at all points of the compass so as to find him a taxi. For three minutes none were to be had, although two swiftly passed a frustrated Sam in the middle of the street, the drivers’ eyes focused on his trousers. He rejoined the doorman as a couple arrived at the Four Seasons’ curb, said couple somewhat flustered as Sam threw their luggage out of the trunk and ignored their objections, opting only to leap into the cab and scream the address of his own residence in Weston.

“What the hell are you
stopping
for?” yelled Devereaux after several blocks.

“Because if I don’t, I’ll hit the jerk in front of me,” replied the driver.

It was an early-morning traffic jam in Boston, as always, extended by the insane one-way streets that forced unfamiliar drivers to travel eleven miles to reach an address fifty feet away. “I know a shortcut to the Weston road,” said Sam, leaning far forward and embracing the rim of the front seat.

“So does everybody else in Massachusetts, buddy, and unless you got a gun, get the hell away from me.”

“No gun, no threat. I’m just a nice person in a terrible hurry.”

“I figured you took care of that ‘hurry’ by what I seen of your pants. If you got another ‘hurry,’ get outta here!”

“No—
no
, that’s coffee! I spilled a cup of
coffee
!”

“Who am I to argue? Would you mind sitting back in the seat—it’s in our insurance?”

“Sure,” said Sam, moving back but still on the edge of the rear seat. “Look, I’m just trying to impress upon you that this is an emergency, a
real
one! A lady whose name I don’t know is heading out to my house and I’ve got to get there before she does. She left a few minutes ago from the hotel in another cab.”

“Naturally,” said the driver with philosophical resignation. “She got your address from your wallet during the
night and now she figures she can pick up a little extra mattress money by dropping in on the missus. When will you fishtails learn?… Hey, we got a break up ahead. I’ll swing down Church Street and up to the Weston road.”

“That’s the shortcut I was talking about.”

“With any luck, not too many of the summer crowds know about it.”

“Just get me home as fast as you can.”

“Listen, mister, the law says that without indications of harmful intent or abusive language or unsanitary appearance, I gotta take you where you tell me. Now, you are close to the line on all three counts—over it on one, in my opinion—so don’t push, okay? Nobody wants you home and out of this cab faster than me.”

“Of course it’s the law,” rejoined a slightly bewildered Devereaux. “You think I don’t know that? I’m an attorney.”

“Yeah, and me, I’m a ballet dancer.”

Finally, at
last
, the cab swung into Devereaux’s street. Checking the meter, Sam dropped the amount of the fare over the front seat along with a generous tip. He opened the door, leaped out on the pavement, and saw that there was no other taxi in sight.

He had
done
it and, boy, was that woman in for the surprise of her life! Just because a female using minimal language of the law was outrageously gorgeous, with a face and body created by a straight Botticelli, she had no right to give
his
address to a cabdriver and imply some vague legal threat without being properly introduced! No, sir, Samuel Lansing Devereaux, attorney of high regard, was made of sterner stuff.… Maybe he
should
change his trousers. He started toward the path that led to his private entrance when the front door opened, revealing Cousin Cora beckoning him rather wildly, even for her.

“What is it?” he asked, instantly vaulting over the white picket fence and rushing up to the steps, with a slight inkling of impending doom.

“What
is
it?” repeated Cora in high dudgeon. “Maybe you’d better tell
me
what it is you’ve done, other than the obvious,” she added, glancing at his trousers.

“Oh, oh.” It was all Sam could think to say.

“I guess that’s a start—”

“What happened?” interrupted Devereaux.

“A little while ago, this long-legged sunburned dish who musta stepped out of one of them California beach commercials came to the door inquiring about a certain unmentionable person. Well, Sammy, I thought your mother was goin’ to have a stroke, but the leggy lady with a face you could
kill
for calmed her down and now they’re both inside the living room with the doors closed.”

“What the
hell
is all this?”

“I can only tell ya that the hoity-toity went into the pantry for her teapot but she didn’t order no tea.”

“Son of a
bitch
!” cried Devereaux, racing across the marble hall and flinging open both French doors of the living room as he burst inside.

“
You
!” shouted Jennifer Redwing, lurching out of the brocaded chair.

“
You
!” yelled the furious son and attorney. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“I used to live in Boston. I know several shortcuts.”

“Several …?”

“
You
!” shrieked Eleanor Devereaux, rising from the brocaded couch, her mouth agape as she stared at Sam. “Your
trousers
, you terrible, incontinent boy!”

“It’s coffee, Mother!”

“It’s coffee,” said the bronzed Aphrodite. “He says.”

“Now you’ve got the broad outlines of the Mac-and-Sam international blackmail carnival as it pertains to the general’s ability to dig way down deep and come up with indictable dirt,” said Devereaux. They had moved to his château’s lair, into his office now stripped of all photographs and newspaper articles, without his mother, who found it imperative to take to her bed with “the vapors.” Sam sat at his desk, Jennifer Redwing in the chair in front of him, which still had strips of torn sheets tied to the arms.