The hab theory, p.16
The HAB Theory, page 16
“But why didn’t you call and let me know? You could’ve come back from O’Hare and spent the night here and still have caught the morning flight.”
“Well, it was pretty late by then to make a call, and I knew if I did call it would just wake you up and worry you needlessly. Anyway, I utilized the time in the terminal going over my notes for the interview this morning. But what’s the trouble? Why were you trying to reach me, anyway?”
She hesitated. “You’ve heard about the President?”
“Yes.”
“Two men came to the house early this morning, John. They wanted to talk to you. They were from the Secret Service. Oh, John, I’m scared! Why would they want to talk to you?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Marie. I don’t have the foggiest idea. What did you tell them?”
“I said I’d try to reach you for them, and that’s when I called and couldn’t locate you and began to get frightened. They want you to call them, John, right away. They left a number for you to call collect.”
She read off the number and Grant saw that it was the same number as the one on the slip of paper that Proctor had given him. He grunted and spoke with a nonchalance he didn’t feel.
“Well, I guess there’s nothing for me to do but call and see what they want. Quit your worrying now, honey. I’m all right and I have no idea what this is all about, but I’ll call right away and then give you a ring back when I find out, okay?”
“All right.” She sounded dubious.
Grant said good-bye and hung up, realizing the moment the connection was broken that he should at least have told her that he loved her. He made a mental note to do so when he called back. Picking up the phone again he placed the collect call to the number the agents had left. The man who answered gave his name as he did so, but the name wasn’t Gordon. When the operator asked if he’d accept a collect call from a Mr. John Grant in St. Louis, he told her to hold on a moment and put the phone down. In a few seconds it was picked up again and a different voice, much deeper, spoke.
“We’ll accept the charges here, operator… Hello, Mr. Grant? This is Alexander Gordon. As you’ve discovered, we’ve been trying to reach you. I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to return here right away.”
“Why? What seems to be the matter? And why is the Secret Service interested in me?”
“Mr. Grant, I’d prefer not discussing it over the telephone. Suffice to say we feel it quite urgent that you get here as swiftly as possible. Will you come, please?”
“Well, I suppose so,” Grant said reluctantly, “if it’s all that urgent. I don’t know when the next flight out of here will be, though.”
“You don’t have to worry about that, sir,” Gordon said quickly. “There will be a special plane waiting for you when you reach Lambert Field there. A military officer will be standing at the entrance. Make yourself known to him and he’ll take care of the rest. You’ll leave immediately?”
“Yes, as soon as I’ve placed a brief call to my wife.”
“Mr. Grant, we’d appreciate it if you didn’t. In fact, please don’t discuss this with anyone.”
Reaction to all this was manifesting itself in Grant in a growing agitation and he answered rather sharply. “Mr. Gordon, I don’t know just what’s going on, but I do know you scared hell out of my wife this morning. Now I’m willing to cooperate as best I can, but I have no intention of not calling her to ease her fears and let her know what is occurring.”
Gordon sighed. “All right, sir, but please say nothing to anyone else and ask your wife to kindly do the same.”
“I will,” Grant said brusquely. “I should be at the airport in about forty minutes. Good-bye.”
Immediately upon breaking the connection he called Marie again, told her what had transpired, said he didn’t know what it was all about but that it must be very important if they had a special plane for him, that he loved her, and that he’d call her as soon as possible after his arrival in Chicago. Her fear was not entirely gone when he hung up, but at least it was not as strong as it had been earlier.
Grant momentarily considered stopping by the hotel’s coffee shop to apologize again to Proctor and possibly set up a future date, but then shook his head. Instead, he took a sheet of hotel stationery from the drawer and swiftly penned a note.
Mr. Proctor,
Again, my apologies for this interruption having occurred. Thanks for your understanding and for the use of your room and phone. I’ll be in contact with you or Mr. Farmington again as soon as possible.
Sincerely,
J. C. Grant
The taxi ride to Lambert Field got him there within three minutes of the expected arrival time and the air force captain standing near the entrance snapped to alertness as Grant walked directly to him.
“Mr. Grant?” At his nod, the officer continued. “I’m Captain Builderman. May I see some identification, please?”
Grant showed him his driver’s license and a few credit cards and Builderman seemed satisfied. He motioned with his hand toward the street.
“Come with me, please, sir. We have a car waiting.”
The car was an official airport security vehicle with a revolvable light mounted on the roof and a cigar-smoking, white-shirted man behind the wheel. As soon as they were seated in the back seat, he started driving without a word. They slowed for a gate which was opened for them by a uniformed guard, but they drove through without stopping. The driver tossed a brief wave at the guard. The driver continued past a number of hangars and then swung around one of them toward the flight line. They swept to a stop near a huge jet and as they stepped out of the car Grant looked closely at the aircraft and his eyes widened.
“My God,” he murmured, “that’s Air Force One!”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Builderman replied, “it is.”
CHAPTER THREE
We all agree that your theory is mad. The problem which divides us is this: is it sufficiently crazy to be right?
— Dr. Niels Bohr
So-called visionaries are violently attacked or, what is often harder to stomach, laughed at condescendingly by their contemporaries.”
— Erich von Daniken
1
Although nearly seven hours of uninterrupted sleep had worked wonders for President Robert Sanders, he was on this awakening a little more disoriented than when he’d given Alexander Gordon his instructions earlier in the day. The dazedness was passing quickly, and while his head still hurt, now it was more soreness from the blow it had received than from the headache. He couldn’t detect any real pain from his side, but that was probably because it was snugly wrapped and he had not yet tried to move. He had not made any sound on awakening, but merely opened his eyes, and so Grace had not looked up.
The First Lady was seated in a comfortable chair a few feet to the right of the bed, an empty cup on a small table beside her and a fairly thick book in her hands. She appeared to be about a quarter of the way into the book and was deeply absorbed in it. Beyond her was another bed which had been moved in for her while her husband was asleep.
He opened his mouth and felt his lips sticking together gummily. His tongue felt thick and coated and he was extremely thirsty. He tried to lick his lips, but it didn’t help much and, when he spoke, his first words were a croaky whisper.
“Good morning, Grace.”
She started a bit and looked up, great relief in her expression. As she came to her feet she dog-eared the page she was on to mark it — a bad habit from early years which she had never been able to break — and then closed the book, setting it on the table. She placed her hands on his forearm and squeezed, bending to kiss him.
“Bob,” she said. “Oh, Bob, how lucky we are!” Her eyes were glinting overbrightly. “How are you feeling? Is there much pain?”
“Thirsty,” he whispered, trying to smile but without much success.
She quickly poured a half-glass of water from the heavily misted stainless pitcher on his table, put a bent glass straw into it, and tried to get him to drink through it.
He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Raise me, will you, and I’ll try to drink sitting up.” He turned his head, looking around the room puzzledly. “Maybe Alex told me but, if so, I’ve forgotten. What hospital is this?”
She told him and, still holding the glass, went to the foot of the bed and pushed a button which slowly raised the head of it, accompanied by a faint whirring sound. When it was high enough she came back and held the glass to his lips and he drank eagerly, emptying it.
“That was good. My lips are so sticky.”
She poured some more water into the glass and then dipped the corner of a small towel into it and gently wiped it across his mouth, dissolving the mucus.
“Better?”
“Much.”
“Good. More when you need it. How do you feel now?”
“Not bad at all. Surprisingly alert, I’d say. Sore a little, but not much pain.”
“Your hand looks bad. It would have to be your left hand, too. Does it hurt?”
He made a negative sound. “Looks worse than it is. I can flex it all right.” He looked at her, pleased she was here. “Were you able to get any sleep?”
Grace Sanders nodded, carefully sitting on the bedside facing him, taking his right hand in both of hers. “Three or four hours, I guess. I’m all right, especially now.” She squeezed his hand, then gave a light little laugh, “But it’s not morning, Mr. President. It’s midafternoon.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Same day, I hope.”
“Same day,” she replied. “Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous, but let’s wait a while for that. What’s been going on? Can you give me a rundown?”
“The whole nation’s in an uproar over this and there’s been nothing else on the air. A fair portion of the world’s press is downstairs drinking coffee by the gallon and wearing holes in the carpeting of the waiting room. Jim Barrington’s handling things very well and managing not to make comments that could be misconstrued as anything but genuine concern for you. Early on, some of the reporters tried to pin him down with remarks about this being his moment of immortality — that was before your condition was known — but he cut them off pretty well in a very dignified way. I must say, Bob, I’m really quite impressed with how he’s reacted.”
She stopped a moment, thinking of what else to tell him, and then went on. “Let’s see now, Mahlora from Hawaii’s already preparing a brand-new gun legislation bill, though no one really believes he’ll be able to ram it through. Telegrams by the hundreds coming here and to the White House. Steve’s taking care of the ones here and Hazel’s got those in Washington. Steve, incidentally, got here around ten this morning.”
“I’ll see him in a little while,” the President said. Steven Lace was his press secretary and a good man. “What else?”
“Communiques from most of the friendly heads of state and even from some who aren’t. Daniel Ngoromu called from New York just after you dropped off. I was here by then and took it. What a baritone he’s got! Very much concerned for you. He and Anita were leaving for home in a few minutes and were very relieved that I could give them a little more encouraging word about you than they’d heard. He’s a good man, and Anita’s awfully nice. I’d like to know them better.
“Oh, incidentally, while speaking of calls, there was one from Mark Shepard over in Ankara. He’d just arrived there from Istanbul and heard the news and was extremely concerned. Offered to come over right away and help if he could be of any use. I told him thanks but that you’d be okay. He was very relieved.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Nothing much, although once he found out you were all right he rambled on a bit.” Her eyes were sparkling at the memory. “He gave me the usual line — that I dump you and marry him or, failing that, to at least have an affair with him. That Mark! At sixty-three you’d think he’d stop that sort of talk.”
“Not Mark,” Sanders chuckled. “Not ever. Okay, anything else?”
She nodded and, in crisp, rapid-fire order went through a raft of matters he needed to be apprised of, including the fact that both of his principal advisers, Oscar McMillan and Albert Jabonsky, were standing by and had much to discuss as soon as he was up to it; that all appointments for the next week had been canceled and those for the week after were now listed as only tentative; that Robbie — their son, Air Force Colonel Robert Sanders, Jr. — had called from Houston, wanting to fly up here immediately, bringing Steffanie along, but in view of the closeness of the Space-Stop VI launching day after tomorrow, Grace had dissuaded him with assurances that his father was in no danger. Finally, the only other thing of immediate importance was that Alex Gordon had located John Grant and that Grant had arrived at the hospital just before noon.
“Has Gordon let him see this man Boardman yet?”
“No. He had the idea you might want to talk to Mr. Grant personally first and, even if not, then you’d probably have some instructions for Alex himself beforehand. You were asleep then, so Alex was going to take a break for some rest, too, before going on with this. Evidently he’s still having a lot of trouble with that Perello man — the police commissioner here. Also, some of the papers are already mumbling about government highhandedness, unjustified secrecy, jurisdictional usurpation and that sort of thing. Both the State’s Attorney and the federal district attorney are pressing for immediate arraignment of Boardman. Everyone’s pretty much up in the air at this point.”
“Well,” he sighed, “guess I’d better start something rolling. Is Alex available now?”
“He’s been sitting outside for the last half-hour or more.”
“Send him in, will you please? Oh, and Grace,” he added as she started for the door, then continued as she paused, “I’m glad you came so quickly. I know it must have been rough for a while.”
“A few gray hairs added,” she admitted with a little smile, “but they won’t be noticed among the others. I just thank God you’ve come through it. When I think—” her voice cracked and she batted her eyelashes rapidly and turned away. “I’ll get Alex.”
2
“Look here, Gordon,” Grant said, leaping to his feet as the Secret Service chief entered the room, “I’m normally a very patient man, but this is getting pretty ridiculous. You’ve had me cooling my heels in this room for,” he shot a glance at the wall clock, “close to six hours now. My requests to see you have been ignored and I’m getting pretty fed up with this whole business. Now either you fill me in on some facts pretty quickly or I’m going to walk right the hell on out of here.”
Alex Gordon held up a hand in a placating gesture, a small apologetic smile on his lips. “Look, Mr. Grant, I’m really sorry. I know you’ve been inconvenienced and I apologize for it, but, as you know, we’ve had something of a situation here. Would you please sit down a moment? I’ll try to explain some things to you.”
John Grant looked at him for a long moment without replying and then he exhaled heavily and let his face soften into a small smile in return. “All right,” he said, taking his seat again. “I guess I did come on a little strong there. But when you asked me to wait in here a few minutes when I first got here, I thought that’s what you meant. That was a pretty extended few minutes. I’m glad you didn’t say it would be a long wait.”
Gordon, still standing, boomed out a deep-chested laugh and then took a seat himself across the low table from Grant. He indicated the tray there with the remains of a light lunch on it. “I see they fed you, at least.”
“Sure. Everyone’s been very solicitous.” He waved a hand with an indication of the room in general. “Lunch, telephone, reading matter, portable television, the works. Cooperation and courtesy up to the hilt, until I start asking questions, and then everyone suddenly becomes quiet and quickly fades away. Now you’re here and maybe I’ll begin to find out what this is all about.”
“That’s what I’ve come for, sir,” Gordon said mildly, leaning back and crossing an ankle over a knee. “You said you were going to call your wife. Did you reach her all right?”
Grant grunted an affirmative. “She’s still a bit upset, although she understood why I couldn’t say much over the phone. Not,” he added with irony, “that I could have told her a lot anyway. She’s most upset now, I think, because I wasn’t able to give her any idea when I’d be home.”
“I have something that I want you to listen to, Mr. Grant,” Gordon said, removing a cassette tape recorder from his pocket. “This will take about an hour, and then after—” He broke off abruptly as there was a light rapping on the door, got up swiftly, and crossed to it in firm strides. For a big man, Grant noted, he was very light on his feet.
The security chief opened the door a little and looked out, then swung it wide to admit a hospital attendant pushing a cart on which there were two dinner trays abundantly provided with steaming food. Instructing the man to put the trays on the table, Gordon turned to face Grant.
“We’ll be in this room for at least an hour,” he said, “and then elsewhere for maybe as long, Mr. Grant, so while he’s getting set up here perhaps you ought to call Mrs. Grant again and let her know you probably won’t be home before…” he paused, “…oh, I’d say nine o’clock, anyway. At the earliest.”
Wordlessly, Grant walked over to the desk near the room’s only window and picked up the telephone. He wished he could call Anne again, as he’d done earlier on this same phone. In a moment he was speaking with Marie, reassuring her that he was all right and informing her of his expected arrival time. “I’ll have eaten already,” he added, “so don’t wait or hold anything. You haven’t mentioned any of this to the kids, have you? … Good … Right, just make it seem normal and say I finished in St. Louis sooner than expected and will be home tonight, okay? … Fine … Chin up, now. Be there before too long.”
