Read Online Secret of the Seventh Son by Glenn Cooper - Free Book Online
Authors: Glenn Cooper
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well-defensible geographically, with multiple surrounding hills and mountains. The Army Corps of Engineers is making excellent progress. They are very much on schedule. A good runway has been constructed, there are hangars and rudimentary barracks."
Truman clasped his hands behind his neck, relaxing at the good news. "That's fine, go on."
"Excavation has been completed for the underground facility. Concrete is being poured and the ventilation and electrical work will commence shortly. I am confident the facility can be fully operational within our projected time frame."
Truman looked satisfied. His man was getting the job done. "How's it feel to be general contractor to the world's most secret building project?" he asked.
Forrestal reflected on the question. "I once built a house in Westchester County. This project is somewhat less taxing."
Truman's face crinkled. "'Cause your wife's not looking over your shoulder on this one, am I right?"
Forrestal answered without levity. "You are absolutely correct, sir."
Truman leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. "The British material. Still high and dry in Maryland?"
"It would be easier to get into Fort Knox."
"How're you going to move the goods across the country to Nevada?"
"Admiral Hillenkoetter and I are still in discussion regarding transport issues. I favor a convoy of trucks. He favors cargo planes. There are pros and cons to each approach."
"Well, hell," Truman piped up, "that's up to you fellows. I'm not gonna manage you to death. Just one more thing. What are we going to call this base?"
"It's official military cartographic designation is NTS 51, Mr. President. The Corps of Engineers has taken to calling it Area 51."
On March 28, 1949, James Forrestal resigned as Secretary of Defense. Truman hadn't spotted a problem until a week or so earlier when the man suddenly became unglued. His behavior began to be erratic, he looked ruffled and unkempt, he stopped eating and sleeping, and was clearly manifestly unfit for service. The word spread that he had suffered a full-blown mental breakdown from job-related stress, and the rumor was confirmed when he was checked into the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Forrestal never left confinement. On May 22 his body was found, a suicide, a bloody rag doll sprawled on a third-floor roof under the sixteenth floor of his ward. He had managed to unlock a kitchen window opposite his room.
In his pajama pockets were two pieces of paper. One was a poem from Sophocles's tragedy, Ajax, written in Forrestal's shaky hand:
In the dark prospect of the yawning grave--
Woe to the mother in her close of day,
Woe to her desolate heart and temples gray,
When she shall hear
Her loved one's story whispered in her ear!
"Woe, woe!" will be the cry--
No quiet murmur like the tremulous wail
Of the lone bird, the querulous nightingale.
The other piece of paper contained a single penned line: Today is May 22, 1949, the day that I, James Vincent Forrestal, shall die.
J UNE 11, 2009
N EW Y ORK C ITY
T hough he lived in New York, Will was no New Yorker. He was stuck there like a Post-it note that could effortlessly be peeled off and pasted somewhere else. He didn't get the place, didn't connect to it. He didn't feel its rhythm, possess its DNA. He was oblivious to all things new and fashionable--restaurants, galleries, exhibitions, shows, clubs. He was an outsider who didn't want in. If there was a fabric to the city, he was a frayed end. He ate, drank, slept, worked, and occasionally copulated in New York, but beyond that he was a disinterested party. There was a favorite bar on Second Avenue, a good Greek diner on 23rd Street, a reliable Chinese take-away on 24th, a grocery and a friendly liquor store on Third Avenue. This was his microcosm, a nondescript square of asphalt with its own soundtrack--the constant wail of ambulances fighting traffic to get the flotsam of the city to Bellevue. In fourteen months he'd figure out where home was
Truman clasped his hands behind his neck, relaxing at the good news. "That's fine, go on."
"Excavation has been completed for the underground facility. Concrete is being poured and the ventilation and electrical work will commence shortly. I am confident the facility can be fully operational within our projected time frame."
Truman looked satisfied. His man was getting the job done. "How's it feel to be general contractor to the world's most secret building project?" he asked.
Forrestal reflected on the question. "I once built a house in Westchester County. This project is somewhat less taxing."
Truman's face crinkled. "'Cause your wife's not looking over your shoulder on this one, am I right?"
Forrestal answered without levity. "You are absolutely correct, sir."
Truman leaned forward and lowered his voice a notch. "The British material. Still high and dry in Maryland?"
"It would be easier to get into Fort Knox."
"How're you going to move the goods across the country to Nevada?"
"Admiral Hillenkoetter and I are still in discussion regarding transport issues. I favor a convoy of trucks. He favors cargo planes. There are pros and cons to each approach."
"Well, hell," Truman piped up, "that's up to you fellows. I'm not gonna manage you to death. Just one more thing. What are we going to call this base?"
"It's official military cartographic designation is NTS 51, Mr. President. The Corps of Engineers has taken to calling it Area 51."
On March 28, 1949, James Forrestal resigned as Secretary of Defense. Truman hadn't spotted a problem until a week or so earlier when the man suddenly became unglued. His behavior began to be erratic, he looked ruffled and unkempt, he stopped eating and sleeping, and was clearly manifestly unfit for service. The word spread that he had suffered a full-blown mental breakdown from job-related stress, and the rumor was confirmed when he was checked into the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Forrestal never left confinement. On May 22 his body was found, a suicide, a bloody rag doll sprawled on a third-floor roof under the sixteenth floor of his ward. He had managed to unlock a kitchen window opposite his room.
In his pajama pockets were two pieces of paper. One was a poem from Sophocles's tragedy, Ajax, written in Forrestal's shaky hand:
In the dark prospect of the yawning grave--
Woe to the mother in her close of day,
Woe to her desolate heart and temples gray,
When she shall hear
Her loved one's story whispered in her ear!
"Woe, woe!" will be the cry--
No quiet murmur like the tremulous wail
Of the lone bird, the querulous nightingale.
The other piece of paper contained a single penned line: Today is May 22, 1949, the day that I, James Vincent Forrestal, shall die.
J UNE 11, 2009
N EW Y ORK C ITY
T hough he lived in New York, Will was no New Yorker. He was stuck there like a Post-it note that could effortlessly be peeled off and pasted somewhere else. He didn't get the place, didn't connect to it. He didn't feel its rhythm, possess its DNA. He was oblivious to all things new and fashionable--restaurants, galleries, exhibitions, shows, clubs. He was an outsider who didn't want in. If there was a fabric to the city, he was a frayed end. He ate, drank, slept, worked, and occasionally copulated in New York, but beyond that he was a disinterested party. There was a favorite bar on Second Avenue, a good Greek diner on 23rd Street, a reliable Chinese take-away on 24th, a grocery and a friendly liquor store on Third Avenue. This was his microcosm, a nondescript square of asphalt with its own soundtrack--the constant wail of ambulances fighting traffic to get the flotsam of the city to Bellevue. In fourteen months he'd figure out where home was
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