“What the HELL is going on in that little fringy program of yours?” the president roared.
The five-star general, among several others at the long, polished mahogany-wood conference table, looked flustered. “I . . . um . . . was unaware of it until recently, Sir.”
“Unaware of it! They’ve got the whole country stirred up — people writing letters, signing petitions, preachers burning books. The military is NOT
supposed to be sponsoring controversial social movements!”
“I just got a preliminary report on the matter this morning, Sir, and it appears that the program is doing exactly what Congress mandated fifteen years ago. If you remember, Sir, it became known that the Beklans were far ahead of us at remote viewing, pre-cognition, and other psychic abilities that gave them . . .”
“I
know what Congress mandated, as I was a senator at the time, remember? But no one in Congress actually thought it would work. We mandated the military look at that . . . psychy stuff . . . to appease the Far Right who jump up and down every time they discover the Beklans can tie their shoes better than we can. The mandate wasn’t intended to actually be followed.”
“Well, Sir, I don’t know what to say, other than it was followed, by military chiefs at that time and ever since, but for several years it had no results. Then, in 3662, they began to report some success, but needed a few years to develop
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a track record. The budget for the program was so small — it shares staff and an old building with an essential safe-house program — that no one had any reason to complain . . .”
“Well, I’m complaining now! I’m getting flack from every direction, people are panicking, and I want it stopped, shut down, cancelled, and its records sealed! And I want the publication of that damn book stopped! By God, my wife has a copy, and my grandson wants one!”
The five-star general sighed. “Yes, Sir.”
An hour later, on that pleasant Monday in early July, the five-star general sat at his desk with a troubled expression as his aides — all lesser generals —
gathered.
“Report,
Percy.”
“The program has never actually published anything, Sir, they’re just endorsing things written by respected scientists. None of it’s political, and none of it reveals any of the top-secret aspects of the program. The operative is never mentioned, nor any of his or her predictions. The publisher is highly respected, and is apparently spending huge amounts of money on publicity, but that money is not coming from any military budget.”
“How do you stop that? ”
A three-star general raised his hand. “National security. Most businessmen will back down at the mention of it.”
“Okay, write up something for me to sign. What about the program itself, Harvey?”
“I immediately spotted it’s weakness, Sir. Ko-fenral and Bo-seklin are both past retirement age. The executive too, Colonel Ma-soran, a woman.
You can force them into retirement with the stroke of a pen, then cancel the program because it’s . . . um . . . lack of useful results . . . do not justify scarce leadership resources.”
“I hate doing that, but I guess it’s the best way.”
“I’m troubled, Sir. They’re doing exactly what Congress mandated . . .”
“I know, Marcus. This is political. I have to take the president’s orders, and this . . . what’s his name? . . . Bo-seklin . . . has to take mine. Congress can deal with the president, if they want to. Write up the retirement and program
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cancellation orders, both effective this Friday at midnight, and I’ll sign them.”
His aides filtered out the door to do their work, but the five-star general called to the last one. “And Percy, get me a copy of that book!”
“Yes,
Sir.”
On Wednesday morning, Harold To-kamra was at his desk when the military courier arrived with the order to cease publication of one of his books on national security grounds. He had to sign once that he had received it, again that he had read it, and a third time that he understood it.
After the courier was gone, the company’s lawyer came in and they read it together, then discussed it for an hour.
Harold To-kamra went to lunch and thought about the order as he slowly worked his way through a sandwich and salad. His mind revisited all the events of the situation, from first meeting the authors more than a year before, to watching another book burning two weeks ago.
Returning to his office, he took care of a couple of small but urgent tasks, then leaned back in his plush chair. His eyes were drawn to the pictures on the corner of his desk, one of them his grandchildren. A minute later, he punched the intercom button on his telephone.
“Sir?” a female voice responded.
“Helen, please bring in your tape recorder for dictation.”
The secretary arrived a minute later.
“From me, blah, blah. To Five-star General Ko-doran, any other military officers involved, and the president himself.”
Helen raised her eyebrows, but didn’t interrupt.
The chief editor smiled at her as he continued the dictation. “You have got to be kidding, exclamation point. You obviously need a dictionary if you think that, quote, national security, unquote, is violated when respected scientists analyze data that has been in the public domain for years, if not decades.
Paragraph.
“You are also out of bounds because the research and writing were not even done in this country, nor do the authors live in this country. Paragraph.
“I recognize that you have the authority to stop publication temporarily pending court review, period. Are you sure you want to use that authority,
NEBADOR Book Nine: A Cry for Help 240
question mark. More than one million copies have already been sold, and the publicity created by a court review, which you would obviously lose, would probably cause another million copies to fly out the door. Paragraph.
“Under law, I have three days to implement your order, period. If I hear from you by five o’clock this Friday, you can avoid the embarrassing court review and resulting increase, underline previous word, in sales. Paragraph.
“Sincerely, blah blah. I’ll sign it as soon as you type it. Delivery by express courier to the general, with signature required.”
The chief editor immersed himself in his work and had nearly forgotten about the issue until the telephone call came through at four thirty that Friday.
“Hello Mister To-kamra, this is Lieutenant Mo-pora,” a female voice said.
“I’m calling from General Ko-doran’s office, and he wanted me to assure you that the national security order you received was sent in error, and he apologizes for any inconvenience.”
Harold smiled, and felt sympathy for the poor lieutenant who had to make the call.
After hanging up, he buzzed his secretary again. “Our letter to that general worked, Helen.”
“It sure sounded like they were over-stepping.”
“Let’s take some precautions anyway. Make copies of the book-printing masters, and all the publicity sheets and tapes, and send the whole works to our overseas office.”
“I could do that this evening and take it right to the airport if you authorized overtime.”
Harold thought for a moment about the elite team tirelessly endorsing the book, the cashier’s checks for a hundred thousand, and his grandchildren.
“Overtime authorized.”