Steiger’s superiors sat and waited for him to reply. He knew no words worth uttering. He had reached a dead end. The implication dangled over his head like a suspended sword. Either Abe Steiger forgot all about Vixen 03 or his Air Force career would come to a premature halt.

The President stood on the putting green behind the White House and stiffly swatted a dozen balls toward the cup only five feet away. None dropped in, further proving to him that golf was not his game. He could understand the competitive challenge of tennis or handball or even a fast run of pool, but why one would choose to compete against one’s own handicap escaped him.

“Now I can die content, for I have seen everything.”

The President straightened and looked into the grinning face of Timothy March, his Secretary of Defense.

“It all goes to prove how much time I have on my hands now that I’m a lame-duck president.”

March, a short, dumpy man who detested any sort of physical exertion, walked onto the green. “You should be happy with the election. Your party and your man won.”

“Nobody ever really wins an election,” the President grunted. “What’s on your mind, Tim?”

“Thought you might like to know I’ve clamped the lid on that old aircraft found in the Rockies.”

“Probably a wise move.”

“A baffling affair,” said March. “Except for those doctored flight plans in Air Force files, there is no trace-of the crew’s true mission.”

“So be it,” said the President, finally knocking a ball into the cup. “Let’s leave it lie. If Eisenhower buried the answers during his administration, far be it from me to open a can of worms during mine.”

“I suggest we remove the remains of the crew for a military burial. We owe them that.”

“Okay, but absolutely no publicity.”

“I’ll make that clear to the Air Force officer in charge.”

The President tossed the putter to a Secret Service man who lurked nearby and motioned for March to accompany him to the Executive Offices.

“What’s your best educated guess, Tim? What do you really think Ike was trying to cover up back in 1954?”

108 VIXEN 03p>

“That question has kept me staring at the ceiling the past few nights,” said March. “I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

Steiger shouldered his way past the lunchtime crowd waiting for tables at the Cottonwood Inn and entered the bar. Pitt waved from a rear booth and motioned for the cocktail waitress in almost the same gesture. Steiger slipped into a seat across from Pitt as the waitress, seductively attired in an abbreviated colonial costume, arched her blossoming breasts over the table.

“A martini on the rocks,” said Steiger, eyeing the mounds. “On second thought, make that a double. It’s been one of those mornings.”

Pitt held up a nearly empty glass. “Another salty dog.”

“Christ,” moaned Steiger. “How can you stand those things?”