was right. Chuck Gregory reached out and the man behind the desk handed him a fresh sheet of read-out paper, saying, “Today’s.”
“Everything is coded,” Gregory said. “When the Hot Line opened after the near-disastrous communications delays we suffered during the Cuban ruckus, we sent them a batch of codes and prepared decoding tapes. We use a privacy scrambler at this end and they use one at the other end. So while the message remains identical, it never reads the same as transmitted and received.”
North appreciated that this test phrase had been thoroughly scrambled, even to the number of letters in individual words.
“The code is the security heart of this matter,” General Armiston remarked. “So far as we know, it’s safe. But too often we’ve regretted taking things for granted in the past, haven’t we, Colonel?” He puffed hard on his pipe and turned away.
Aware of the skill of cryptographers, no matter what their nationality, the G-2 Colonel decided to learn roughly about how the hookup between Washington and Moscow was made. It was one thing to transmit and receive with security at the terminal points, he knew very well, but quite another matter to maintain security along the thousands of miles stretching between the business ends of the apparatus.
When Gregory on being asked launched into that subject Hugh’s confidence in the lanky technician grew even stronger.
“To start with, normal transmission circuits were through leased commercial cables,” Gregory explained, “starting with a trans-Atlantic cable from here to London. Then the routing went through Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Helsinki and finally to Moscow.”
There must be more to the scheme than this, North surmised: cables are too easily interrupted. He recalled that in the summer of 1966 the Dashava, a Russian freighter, had gone aground on a sand bar near Korsder, Denmark. Another Russian ship had rushed up to free her and had sliced the cable, thus breaking contact between Copenhagen and Stockholm.
“Why so much reliance on wire circuits?” he asked General Armiston.
“Good question. At first the technicians proposed a desk-to-desk radio telephone between the White House and the Kremlin so the Heads of State could talk to each other mouth-to-mouth just by lifting the receiver and using translators. But the President worried about that and finally ruled it out. He was afraid that even with the best translators there was the chance that some words spontaneously spoken could be misinterpreted at either end. The result could be deadly. So we had to settle for the slight delay involved in telegraph wires and the rest of the problems that go with that kind of a system.”
He paused and tamped his pipe. “But we did insist on a back-up radio telephone system and we got it. Eh, Mr. Gregory?”
“Right. Colonel North, the reason I was called in has to do with the fact that I was involved in establishing the original system. I’m in Tangier now, and that’s where the relay for the back-up system is located. In fact I suppose that’s really why I’m in Tangier—anybody could handle my technical duties on the Voice of America transmitter.”
North smoothed crisp dark hair and nodded. Aside from wondering how this crisis had come about in the first place the only question in his mind was how long it would be before he would be starting for Tangier of unhallowed memories. Not very long, he surmised.
“The back-up system is a radio-telegraph circuit,” Gregory informed. “Same codes, same decoding keys, but a flick of a switch at both ends kills transmissions along the cables and swings them through the air. We test that circuit every day, too, and we’ve never had any trouble.”
North could understand that. He knew that Tangier’s “radio power” was legendary. Deservedly it was one of the great wireless crossroads of the world partly because of its location on the tip of the African continent but mostly because of its enviable equable climate. Tangier suffers practically no radio interference; good transmission is possible twenty-four hours a day, twelve months a year. Sundays thrown in free.
All that made the site a Grade A relay point with which to reach virtually every listening target on the European continent, Africa and the Middle East.
“Aren’t RCA and Mackay still operating there, too?” he asked the Voice of America man.
Gregory replied that they were going full blast and complimented the G-2 man on the possession of such obscure knowledge. He checked the time and turned briskly to General Armiston. “My time is up, sir. If there are no more questions I’d like to get going.”
“Just one,” North said. “Where in Tangier is the relay point?”
Gregory chuckled. “You’ll think I’m kidding, but what can I say? It’s in the Casbah or the Medina, which is the same thing. Just where a movie director would place it, but we put it there because of its elevation. I gather you’re familiar with the Casbah?”
“I can assure you the Colonel is,” General Armiston put in. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if he renewed his acquaintance with that pseudo sink of iniquity before long, Mr. Gregory, so please be on the alert for his call in Tangier. Thank you for your help.”
Gregory shook hands and departed with a wave to Colonel North. As he disappeared through the door, the General muttered, “Strange fellow. He’s one of those whizzes who’s really brilliant in any number of fields; electronics and communications is only one of his specialities—keeps himself from getting bored in Tangier by conducting special chemical researches for the Defense Department—even operates a little private lab. Nothing very elaborate. He works there on theoretical problems. Seems he started out in chemistry but when he found out how easy it was going to be for him he chucked it and only uses it as a hobby now.”
As they started down the escalator the General said, “One more stop, Colonel, and probably the most important of all. Don’t be surprised over whom you’re about to meet; we’re about to join some of the most important men in this country. They’ll give you the rest of the story.”
By the time they had reached the concourse level Hugh North realized they were heading for the Pentagon’s most secure elevators before which armed guards always were posted. He was aware also that he was en route to the core of the America’s defense and communications center—far enough underground to be sale from atomic attack—and the site of emergency operations coordination.
“One more thing,” General Armiston added. “This crisis is so new we’re nowhere near estimating all its potentials so please be prepared to listen closely and think fast. These men know of your record and have deep confidence in your ability, but this morning they’re mighty nervous.”
They strode from the elevator through another guarded door and into the nerve center of America’s vast and incredibly complex defense system.
3
Despite General Anniston’s briefing, Colonel North was shaken by the cast of top personalities present in the communications hub. It was not that he was awed by being in their presence but by the fact of their being assembled like this—no question remained that the peril point of this crisis was very near.
At the deep end of a U-shaped table sat the Secretary of Defense. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was to his right. To his left sat the Under Secretary of State and arrayed along the legs of the U were not only the Chiefs of Staff of the various Armed Services but the Chiefs of a number of Intelligence agencies. Decision-making power was assembled in this room, Hugh North realized—and on the highest level.
