"It has the potential to be," Bush said. "If these aliens can travel across the stars, we have to assume they have incredible weapons, the likes of which we most likely can't even comprehend, never mind defeat. That is why we want to set up this Citadel in Antarctica."

Shaking his head, Truman pulled out his pen. He scrawled his signature on the bottom of the document. "Where is the copy for my records?" he asked.

Vandenberg took the signed paper out of the President's hands. "Sir, it's better if there is no paper trail. We need this"-he held the paper-"to get things going, but the only eyes that will set sight on it are the members of Majestic-12."

"I want a copy," the President said simply.

"Sir-" Vandenberg began, but Truman cut him off.

"Are you saying you don't trust me?" Truman said in a level voice.

Vandenberg's face flushed red.

"Give him a copy, General," Forrestal said.

The room was still for several moments. Reluctantly, Vandenberg pulled a copy of the order out of his briefcase and handed it to Truman.

"And if that is all," Truman said, "I have other business to attend to."

Vandenberg stiffly saluted and led the other men out of the office.

Finally alone, Truman stared at the paper in his hand. He began to put it in his classified out box, then paused. He folded the paper in half, then in half again, and slid it into his suit pocket.

As their car exited the East Gate, Vandenberg turned to Dr. Bush. "Is he going to be a problem?"

Bush frowned at the question. They had left Forrestal at the drive, the Secretary taking his own car back to the newly built Pentagon. "Are you referring to Truman or Forrestal?"

"Good question," Vandenberg said. He flipped up the left lapel of his suit jacket, revealing a finely worked small brooch. It consisted of an iron cross overlaid on a circle of silver. He ran his fingers over it lightly. "Neither are of the Organization, but we need them."

"And if either become problems?"

"They'll be taken care of."

"And the Organization?" Bush asked.

Vandenberg nodded. "As we discussed. We tell Geneva about Area 51. But not about the Citadel. It's our ace in the hole. Just in case."

Bush looked uneasy. "This is a dangerous ploy."

"It's a dangerous world."

Washington, D.C.

22 May 1949

"I'm not crazy, you know." The twitch under James Forrestal's left eye seemed to contradict that statement.

"Of course not," the young doctor said. The small nameplate on his white coat indicated his name was Lansale.

This late at night, just before midnight, the normal sounds of Bethesda Naval Hospital were muted. A corpsman came by every fifteen minutes and peered in the small window set in the steel door of Forrestal's room. "Cell" would have been a better term, but no one used it out loud, at least not around the former Secretary of Defense. The occasional sound of a car on the road outside was muted this high up on the sixteenth floor.

"It's been a bad year, two years," Forrestal said, taking Lansale's agreement as an indicator to keep talking. He'd been denied visitors for months and he was desperate to share with anyone, even this new night shift psychiatrist.

"The goddamn Air Force," Forrestal began. "Money. Money. Money. That's all they want. And Truman wants a damn balanced budget, yet he keeps signing allocations pouring the money out. And they hate me. The Joint Chiefs. They hate me. They have me followed. Followed me right to the doors of this place.

"Men. Dressed in dark suits. They were everywhere. Watching me. And then when Truman removed me, fired me, replaced me. They were in the car after the ceremony. Waiting. Drove with me back to the Pentagon. They told me."

Forrestal fell silent, and Lansale waited with the patience of a man who was working the graveyard shift and had nothing better to do. But after the silence stretched into several minutes, he finally bit. "Told you what?"

"The truth," Forrestal said simply.

Lansale fired up a cigarette and offered Forrestal one. He shook his head. Lansale inhaled. "About?"

"Majestic-12."

Lansale's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"They wanted to scare me, and they did. I was a loyal fellow. Loyal."

"I'm sure you were," Lansale said.

Forrestal snorted. "Aliens. That's what they used as a smoke screen. Even Truman bought into it. Fool."

Lansale glanced down at the medical folder. "It says you tried to kill yourself not long ago."

Forrestal's head snapped up and he stared at Lansale. "That's what they said. But I didn't. Never. I was a loyal fellow. Always will be. No matter what they're planning on doing out there."

"Out where?"

"In the desert," Forrestal said. "And in the icy wasteland."

"This also says you tried to jump out of the car several times on the ride over here last month."

"I was a prisoner," Forrestal said. "I am a prisoner. They won't let my family see me. My friends."

"You're a patient, not a prisoner," Lansale said. "You have involuntional melancholia."

"I have a mind that knows too much," Forrestal countered. "My brother told me that Truman's men took my diaries. They've been reading them."

Lansale became very still. "When was this?"

"On the phone yesterday." Forrestal smiled. "My brother is coming tomorrow. He told me that also. He's getting me out of here. I've been better. They know I've gotten better. Tomorrow I leave this prison."

"We know about your brother coming," Lansale said. He closed the file and stood. "Would you like to go with me and get some food in the diet kitchen across the hall?"

"A last meal?" Forrestal joked as he stood up. He tightened his bathrobe around his waist with its cord.

"Yeah," Lansale said as he pulled out his key ring and unlocked the door.

They crossed the hallway to the small kitchen that served the floor. Lansale let Forrestal go in first, and then locked the door behind them. As Forrestal went to the small cabinet near the window, Lansale reached out and pulled the cord from the small loops of the bathrobe. Forrestal turned, confusion on his face, one hand holding the robe closed, the other holding a can of soup.

"What are you-" Forrestal never finished, as Lansale looped the cord around his neck and stepped behind him, back-to-back, and bent, lifting Forrestal off his feet with the cord. The former Secretary of Defense flailed about, gasping for air. Lansale had already prepared the room: the window was wide open, and he hauled Forrestal like a sack of potatoes on his back toward it.

Forrestal grasped at the edge of the window and managed to get a momentary grip as Lansale spun around trying to toss him out. The former Secretary of Defense teetered in the window, half unconscious from the cord around his next, one hand holding on.

Lansale let go of the cord, stepped back, and then snap-kicked Forrestal in the stomach. With a strangled shriek, Forrestal flew out the window and into the darkness, arms flailing. Seconds later there was the dull thud of his body hitting the ground sixteen stories below.

Lansale exited the room and briskly walked down the corridor, removing the white coat as he did so. He pocketed the small nameplate and tossed the coat in a trash bin. He went down the fire stairs, all sixteen floors. He ignored the growing commotion and walked over to a dark sedan that was waiting, engine running, across the street from the hospital. He slid in the backseat and the car pulled away.

"Any problems?" the man in the front passenger seat asked without turning around.

"None in the mission," Lansale said. "But he said that Truman has his diaries. And I think he's talked about both Area 51 and the Citadel in there."