1039 HOURS
“There is nothing further to report, Mr. President,” General Bogan said. Colonel Cascio was staring straight at the Big Board. “Group 6 is about two hundred and sixty miles past Fail-Safe and continuing on what is apparently an attack course.”
“Do you know what happened to them?” the President’s voice asked.
“No, sir, we do not,” General Bogan said. “There is a chance, an outside chance, that they made a navigational error and will swing back.”
“Have they ever made a navigational error that big before?” the President asked crisply.
“No, sir,” General Bogan said. “But when you’re traveling over 1,500 miles an hour, a little error can throw you a long distance off.”
“Let’s rule that one out,” the President said. “Why haven’t you been able to raise them yet by radio?”
“We don’t know for sure, Mr. President,” General Bogan said. “We have tried them on all frequencies and can’t make contact.”
“Why?” the President broke in, his voice impatient.
“First, there might be natural meteorological disturbances, and our weather people say there is a big electrical storm just behind the Vindicators,” General Bogan said. “Secondly, the Russians might be jamming our radio reception—”
“Why the hell would they do that?” the President asked.
“I don’t know,” General Bogan said, paused, and then went on. He spoke slowly, his voice unconvincing. “There is a remote possibility that their Fail-Safe black boxes might be giving them a ‘go’ signal and that Russian jamming is preventing our verbal Positive Control system from operating.”
“Is that possible?” the President said sharply.
General Bogan paused. Then his voice gained confidence. “No, Mr. President, the odds against both systems failing at the same time are so high I think that is impossible,” General Bogan said. He was aware that Colonel Cascio was watching him. He felt an undefined and nagging discomfort. “Almost impossible.”
“All right,” the President said. “Now if we do regain radio contact will they respond to a direct order from me to return?”
“They will answer, sir,” General Bogan said, “providing we can reach them by radio within the next five minutes.” Then he paused. “However, if after that time their black boxes still tell them to ‘go’ they are under orders not to turn back even if someone who sounds like you orders them back. You can see the reason for that. The enemy could easily abort a real attack just by having someone around who could make a good imitation of your voice. Those people in the Vindicators have to obey the Fail-Safe mechanism. They can’t rely on voice transmissions.”
Something like a sigh came over the speaker.
“All right, let me sum up,” the President said. “For reasons which are unknown to us Group 6 has flown past its Fail-Safe point and right now seems to be on an attack course toward Russia. We can’t raise them by radio, but there’s an outside chance that we may later. What is their target?”
“Moscow,” General Bogan said bluntly.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” the President said in a low and very slow voice. He said it again, as if to shake off a terrible reality. There was for a fleeting moment something of the acolyte, the altar boy, in his voice. When he spoke again, however, his tone was strong. “What is the next step?”
“If we follow standard operating procedure the next step would be to order the Skyscrapper fighter planes which are standing by at Vindicators Fail-Safe to attack them,” General Bogan said. Colonel Cascio’s head jerked sideways and he stared at General Bogan. “The fighters would first try to raise the bombers visually and divert them. Failing that, they would press home an attack with air-to-air missiles and cannon fire.”
There was a long pause on the line. Then the President spoke.
“Who gives that order, General?” the President asked.
“You do, sir,” General Bogan said.
“General, order the fighters to start their pursuit of Group 6,” the President said without a moment’s hesitation. “I assume that will take a few minutes at least. Tell them to hold fire until they get the direct order from me. I would like to delay the actual firing on the group until the last possible moment.”
Bogan and Cascio heard the click of the President putting down the phone without waiting for an acknowledgment.
Swenson had come into the Big Board room. He was accompanied by two of his aides. They were both tall men and they emphasized his slightness.
Swenson stood at the door for a moment and looked at the people in the room. They had all come to attention, had torn their eyes away from the Big Board. Swenson made his count, nodded, and they all sat down. He walked to the chair at the head of the table, and as he reached it the red phone, which had been moved directly in front of him, rang. As he leaned forward to pick up the phone Swenson looked casually at the Big Board. He seemed little in the chair—little and very confident and orderly. His presence eased the tension in the room.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Swenson said.
It was possible to link the red phone to a loudspeaker so that everyone in the room could hear it. Swenson chose not to do that.
“Mr. Secretary, General Bogan at Omaha has told me that he recommends that we order our fighter planes accompanying Group 6 to shoot them down,” the President said. This was not precisely the truth and the President knew it. However, he wanted Swenson to face the decision most abruptly and nakedly. “The decision is mine, but I would like the advice of you and your people.”
“Mr. President, do you want me to discuss this with them right now or shall we call you back?” Swenson said. He was glad he had not put the conversation on the loudspeaker. In Swenson’s methodical mind was stored the fact that shooting down the bombers was standard operating procedure. By phrasing the problem this way the President was forcing them to make an evaluation rather than follow a set procedure.
“I will hold the line for your opinion,” the President said.
“General Bogan at Omaha has recommended to the President that our fighters be ordered to shoot down Group 6,” Swenson said in a calm voice. “The President is awaiting our advice before giving that order. Gentlemen, what do you have to say?”
Of the men at the table only Swenson and Black knew that this was standard operating procedure. Of the rest of the group Wilcox was the most shocked. His face flushed.
“Jesus Christ, order Americans to shoot down other Americans?” Wilcox asked. “It would… it is indecent. I’m against it.”
Swenson’s eyes were veiled. He looked around the table. Groteschele’s hand went up.
“Mr. Secretary, I oppose it on the grounds that it is premature,” Groteschele said levelly. He wanted to overcome Wilcox’s apparent hysteria. “After all, sir, our planes have not yet reached Soviet air space. In fact, they are hundreds of miles away from it.”
Swenson’s face was still impassive; he might have been the presiding officer at a small Midwestern corporation’s board of management meeting.
“We must do it and at once,” Black said flatly. “First, if we do not give the order now the fighters may not be able to overtake the Vindicators. Secondly, if we delay the order we lose any bargaining position that we might need later with the Russians. They are watching Group 6 and our fighters right now and are trying to guess what we are doing. And keep in mind that there are other steps after this and they involve much more than the crews of six bombers. A lot may hinge on the Russians believing what we tell them. You can be damned sure that the moment those planes penetrate Soviet air space the President is going to be in a tough spot talking with the Russians and will need everything he can get to bargain with them.”
Another point occurred to Black: if only one fighter made it and brought down one bomber perhaps the others would turn back—but he did not really believe it. He knew that the Vindicators would bore in even if they had to do it singly. They had been too well trained to panic at the sight of a single bomber exploding. They had also been steeled to the possibility that enemy planes, simulated to look like American planes, might make an attack.
Swenson’s eyes opened fully; they were bright and attentive. He glanced quickly around the rest of the men at the table. There appeared to be nothing left to say. Black was the one who had summed it up. Swenson knew that some of the others didn’t agree, but sensed that Black had the logic and the facts. He admired Black’s cool presentation and sensed that the President would be thinking in much the same way.
“Mr. President, it is our belief that it is a tactical decision, but it is our unanimous view that the fighters should be ordered in,” Swenson said, looking directly at Wilcox.
Swenson put the phone back in its cradle. Wilcox’s face was a mottled pink.
1042 HOURS
THE WHITE HOUSE
Buck had heard all of the conversations. He stared at the President. The President had one leg thrown over the arm of his chair and occasionally he puffed at a long thin cigar. His posture was reassuring to Buck. Everything that Buck had heard on the telephone had tightened his stomach muscles and only the President’s physical ease kept Buck from trembling.
“Get Omaha again,” the President said into the phone.
Almost instantly they were through.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” General Bogan’s voice said.
“General, order the fighters in,” the President said.
“Let me confirm that,” a strange voice said on the circuit. “This is Colonel Cascio, General Bogan’s assistant. Do you want the fighters to press home the attack even if they have to go to afterburners? That will nearly triple their consumption of fuel and almost certainly mean that none of them will be able to make it back.” The voice paused, then spoke with more firmness, almost a tough arrogance. “Mr. President, those fighters are America’s first line of defense against a Russian attack. In putting them on afterburners to chase our own bombers we will be sacrificing our fighters’ defensive capability at the very time we may need it most—the Russians may attack at any moment now.”
The President paused. Buck watched him scribble some words on his pad. They said, “Sacrifice fighters convince Russians an accident? Give up defensive capacity of fighters… will they believe?”
“General Bogan, I repeat the order,” the President said, coldly.
“Mr. President, the fighters swung away from the Vindicators when they got the all clear,” General Bogan said. “In effect, the Vindicators and the Skyscrappers have been flying in opposite directions for some minutes. The Skyscrappers have only a slight edge of speed over the Vindicators. There is some doubt that they can overtake the Vindicators.”
“I repeat, General Bogan, that the fighters are to overtake and shoot down the Vindicators even if it means going to afterburners,” the President said.
“Colonel Cascio, order the fighters to attack Group 6,” General Bogan said as he put the phone down.
Colonel Cascio came halfway out of the chair in a spasm of protest.
“That means that you have decided our bombers are making an accidental strike on Moscow?” Colonel Cascio asked. His voice was shocked, but there was also a hard underlay of rebellion.
“I have and the whole damn system has,” General Bogan said savagely. “The machines, the men, the diplomats, the President, all of us. Why the hell do you think we have fighter planes following the Vindicators? Just to protect them if they ‘go’? Don’t be silly. We always knew that one of their tasks was to shoot down the Vindicators if there was a mistake. All right, there has been a mistake. Get on the horn to the fighters, Colonel.”
Colonel Cascio lifted his hand. It was a peculiar gesture. It was partly a plea for time, partly as if he were warding off some grotesque thing, partly the gesture a child makes when threatened.
“General, the fighters—”
“Colonel, get on that horn and give the order,” General Bogan said. “Every second you delay takes them further away from the Vindicators.”
Colonel Cascio began to move the levers and buttons that would put him in direct voice communication with the fighters. But even as he did this he kept talking.
“Even if they catch the bombers, General, which isn’t likely, they won’t have enough fuel to get back,” Colonel Cascio said. “They’ll go down in the ocean or on enemy territory.”
A voice came up on the War Room intercom. It was the officer in charge of Fighter Direction.
“General Bogan, we are in voice communication with Tangle-Able-1,” the voice said. “You can talk to them on Channel 7. Single Side Band.”
General Bogan nodded and Colonel Cascio lifted a lever. Instantly there was the blurred static-heavy sound of long-distance radio transmission.
“Do I tell them in code or clear language?” Colonel Cascio asked.
“Clear language,” General Bogan said. “That is standard.”
Colonel Cascio knew this. It had been hammered out after months of discussion that if a situation arose in which our own fighters must shoot down our own planes there would be no disadvantage and, possibly, some advantage in having the enemy hear the transmission.
“This is Tangle-Able-1,” a young strong voice said through the static. “I read you five by five at last transmission.”
Colonel Cascio bent forward and spoke into a microphone, his voice only slightly thin and weak. “Tangle-Able-1, this is Colonel Cascio on the Omaha staff.” Sweat now stood out on his forehead. “Group 6 has flown through the Fail-Safe point and is on an attack course towards Moscow. It is a mistake. I repeat: it is a mistake. Go to afterburners and overtake and attack Group 6.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then the young voice came back loud and clear.
“Roger. Go to afterburners and overtake and attack Group 6,” the voice said.
Colonel Cascio leaned forward and switched the lever off. To General Bogan, watching, Colonel Cascio’s posture was that of a child crying soundlessly.
The lead plane of the six Skyscrappers made a long sweeping turn. The voice of the captain in charge of the flight came up on the TBS radio. He knew he could be heard only by the six planes in the flight.
“I don’t know what those mother-grabbers back in Omaha are doing, but you all heard the order,” the captain said. “We overtake and shoot down the Vindicators.”
“That will be the day,” a twenty-one-year-old pilot of one of the fighters said. “Us with a 50-mile-an-hour edge on the Vindicators and those bastards halfway to Moscow already.”
“By SOP they will divert a KC-135 to refuel us,” another voice said sweetly. “It does 560 an hour, we do 1600. By the time we run out of fuel they’ll be about a thousand miles away. Everything is beautifully organized.”
“Don’t knock the staff people,” a voice said mockingly. “After you run out of fuel you make a thousand-mile glide back to the tankers. Any flier worth his salt should be able to do that in a Skyscrapper.”
Someone laughed briefly. They knew that the elegant little plane with its short wings would start to drop like a stone as soon as it lost power.
None of the six pilots thought they would overtake the Vindicators. They knew they would not be able to fly their fighters back to their bases. If they thought of anything they thought of two things. First, would the ejection capsule and parachute really operate at 1600 miles an hour? Second, how long could a man live in arctic waters?
“Cut the chatter,” the captain in command said. “On the mark, go to afterburners.”
The captain counted from five down to one and then said quietly, “Mark.” Six fingers shifted six levers. Against the six young and doomed bodies the seat-backs slammed relentlessly. From a hundred tubes toward the end of the jet engines raw fuel poured into the hot flames of the exhaust. The planes trembled under the instantaneous acceleration and then steadied down to the chase.
1044 HOURS
THE VINDICATORS
Lieutenant Colonel Grady looked out and down. In front of the Vindicators the surface of the Pacific was black, so black it was purple. It looked not at all like water, but like thickened darkness.
Grady felt motelike, tiny, pushed by the great expanding aura of light behind him. He wished, in a quick irrational flash, that the sun would hold. To fly in darkness seemed protective.
Grady glanced quickly at the other two men in the Vindicator. They were intent on their instruments.
Suddenly Grady envied them their innocence with a remorse so great that it was close to hatred.
1045 HOURS
THE WHITE HOUSE
“Get the Pentagon back again,” the President said.
The President’s leg was still tossed over the arm of the chair, his cigar had developed only a small ash.
Swenson came up on the telephone.
“Mr. Secretary, if our fighters shoot down the Vindicators it will be tragic, but the big problem will be over,” the President said. “I would like your people to be thinking about what we do if the fighters cannot shoot down the bombers.”