"It's too simple not to," said Blake, clutching the suitcase—on whose side a large red "Top Secret" had been stenciled—to his chest, and shouting over the scream of the plane. "The radar-resistant device is nothing more than a radio-receiver that blankets the structure, making the entire plane a receiver. If it receives the radar impulses, they can't bounce back and make a blip on the enemy radar screens."
The President sighed. "You make it sound almost too easy. Very well." He shook the man's hand. "Good luck."
"Thank you, sir," said Blake, patting the suitcase. "I'll take good care of Teddy."
The President nodded and moved away. Blake boarded the jet, and, minutes later, the President was watching a last fading streamer of the twin exhausts dwindling upon the eastern horizon.
"I shan't sleep till he's back," said the Secretary.
"Nor I," said the President. "I have the weirdest damned apprehension...."
"About what, sir?" asked the Secretary, as they made their way from the field.
"About the—" the President looked around, then lowered his voice to a whisper—"the Russians. There's something in their makeup we may have overlooked."
"Impossible, sir," said the Secretary of Defense. "Blake is our top psychologist."
"I hope you're right. If this fails, I'd hate for it to be traced to us."