“Richardson!” he yelled, without turning from the window. He’d fired his incompetent predecessor’s secretary the day he’d arrived, and now waited impatiently for her replacement. The door opened, and a tall, composed woman stepped in, notepad and pen in hand.
“Yes, sir?” After 18 years with the agency, Mona Richardson had worked her way up through many types of bosses, and was rapidly figuring out how to be effective with this one.
The DCI didn’t look at her. “Look at this,” he barked and pointed with his chin.
Mona joined him at the window.
“That’s where they’re supposed to be putting up the agency road sign,” he said, staring down at the traffic. “Why is nothing happening?”
“I confirmed with Fairfax County Public Works yesterday, sir. They assured me that they had the sign printed as you requested, and that they would have it installed today. I’ll follow up again.”
He turned and looked at her, eyes dark under heavy brows, then shook his head. They needed a sign showing people where the nation’s intelligence agency was located! “Bring me more coffee, please.”
Mona nodded, quietly making her exit.
Schlesinger turned back to look outside. He reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket, found his pipe and clamped it hard between his teeth. He pulled his lighter from his other pocket and lit the pipe, puffing several times, exhaling slowly through his nose. Nixon was right, as usual. This praetorian guard of outdated, clubby, shoe-leather spies that he’d inherited was smug and self-serving. They needed weeding, and he was the man to do it.
He turned and grabbed a sheet of paper off his desk, reading down the list as he smoked.
He’d fired 837 people, mostly in the so-called Directorate of Plans—the CIA’s clandestine arm. He’d terminated a dozen of its senior management personally, and had changed the name to Directorate of Operations. Cutting deadwood. Making sure these people didn’t screw Nixon. And the country.
His time in the RAND Corporation and the White House budget office had shown him how technology was changing the world. The United States wasn’t going to win the Cold War by using old methods. The two years he’d chaired the Atomic Energy Commission had only highlighted the power of that technology. Mutually assured destruction? He shook his head. MAD was right! America needed better. A CIA that pushed new tech to its limits in order to gather intelligence like no other nation could. Before it was too late.
He went back to the window, glancing up at the blue sky. Our fighters and spy planes aren’t keeping up either. We’re just doing what we’ve always done. Someone needs to shake this place, hard. And let the hangers--on fall by the wayside.
Mona knocked twice on the door and paused, as she’d been instructed. Hearing nothing, she entered with his fresh coffee, placing the tray silently on the desk. She snuck a glance at him, still staring out at the view. He was tall, with thick graying hair, a broad forehead and cleft chin. A handsome man. If only he weren’t such an arrogant ass.
Schlesinger spoke without looking at her. “Get me Sam Phillips on the phone.”
Twenty-three miles to the northeast, on the ninth floor of the National Security Agency, a truly ugly rectangular building on the Fort Meade Army base, General Sam Phillips studied an airplane model he kept on his office bookshelf—the P-38 Lightning. It was the fighter he’d flown over Germany in the war.
The design still amazed him. Big twin turbo-supercharged Allison V-12s cranking out 1,600 horsepower, turning in opposite directions to minimize torque. He’d loved how it had felt to push the throttles to the stops, letting those giant tractors pull him faster and faster. He’d had it up over 400 miles per hour once, out of bullets and outrunning an Me-109, racing for the safety of England.
He bent down and peered head-on at the model, and not for the first time. He shook his head slightly, marveling again at how the airplane almost disappeared from the front—what the wind saw. No wonder she was so fast. Beautiful, purposeful engineering. The Lockheed Skunk Works thought the same way he did. Results are what count.
He took one quick glance at the framed picture the Apollo 11 crew had signed for him of the US flag they’d planted on the Moon. Neil Armstrong had handwritten the dedication: “To General Sam Phillips, with thanks—without you, this flag would not be here.” Then it was back to work.
“Phone call, General,” his secretary called from the adjoining room. “CIA Director James Schlesinger, on Secure One.” A beat. “Are you available?”