by Peter Bryant
The reply came almost immediately. "Words are cheap. To pay compensation is easy."
"We are ready to prove our intentions with deeds," the President said quietly. "In fact, I consider we have already done so in the last two hours."
Again the reply was almost immediate. "I wish to ask the President a question. Suppose one of our cities had been destroyed. Would his good faith, his readiness to prove peacable intentions by deeds, have then been so firm he would have allowed one of my bombers free access to a city of his, in fair reprisal for the one an American bomber had destroyed?"
The President pondered. He looked quickly at Zorubin, but the Russian would not meet his glance. "If I considered the peace of the world depended on making that sacrifice, yes I would have allowed it."
"Again I would remind the President that words are cheap."
"My words are never cheap," the President said angrily.
There was silence for all of thirty seconds. Then the Marshal’s voice came from the speakers again. The President saw Zorubin blanch as he listened to the harsh but quietly spoken sounds.
Speaking woodenly, and looking straight in front of him, Zorubin said, "The President has stated his words are never cheap. He will now have a chance to show that. Contrary to his assurances, his bombers have not all turned back. One of them is still flying south over Russian territory. We assume its target is the peaceful city of Kotlass. If it hits that city, then I shall ask the President to show that his words are truthful. I shall demand an American city in reprisal."
The President was very pale. "Does he mean it?" he asked Zorubin.
The Russian ambassador said slowly, "Mr. President, I fear so. You must appreciate the Russian system of government. So long as the people see that the Marshal is all-powerful, then he is in no danger. But if a Russian city should be destroyed, and he was not able to say: "There you are. They destroyed one of our cities, and because I am a man of peace I destroyed one of theirs rather than destroying their whole country. Just to teach them a lesson," then he would be in danger of being deposed. You must remember, we are a semi-Asiatic country. Face does not matter to us so much as it does to the Chinese. But it still matters more than it does to you. I am sure he means it."
"The bomber’s target isn’t the city of Kotlass," General Steele interposed. "It’s the I.C.B.M. base outside."
"How far outside?"
"Six miles, Mr. President."
"And the city will be destroyed?"
"If the bomb is within a couple of miles of the aiming point, yes it will be destroyed."
The President drummed his fingers on the table. He saw General Franklin come back into the room and he saw that Franklin had something important to say. "Yes Franklin?"
"Mr. President, the Distant Early Warning stations are reporting Russian bombers. Not many of them, about a dozen. They’re holding their position four hundred miles off."
The President frowned. "Zorubin," he said, "If I refuse, what would happen?"
Zorubin shrugged. "It depends. Your bombers are on their way home. He may be tempted to launch an attack, to destroy one or two of your cities regardless of your permission. It would probably be a minor attack, no more than a dozen or so bombers. No doubt those General Franklin has mentioned would be employed."
The President made his decision. "I’ll give him a city," he said. "But it shall be a city of my choosing. Further than that I will not go. Franklin, with the state of the prevailing wind, and roughly equating the size of a city to Kotlass, what’s the answer?"
Franklin said, "The wind’s due west, and likely to stay that way for some time. Mr. President, I’d say Atlantic City. There aren’t any visitors this time of year. There are good highways in and out. The population could be evacuated quickly, and any fall-out would be taken away out to sea. If we have to give them a city, then that’s the best, but I . . ."
"It’s my decision, Franklin."
"Yes, sir."
"Keppler?"
"Mr. President."
"I want Atlantic City evacuated right away. I declare martial law in the city, and for an area fifteen miles radius around it. You will take personal charge of the evacuation, and you will act in my name without reference to me. I trust your judgement sufficiently to say here and now I will back any action you take without question."
"Very good, Mr. President." Keppler rose to his feet, a tall, bulky, competent looking man. "One point, sir. Am I to evacuate everyone within the radius of the area you’ve proclaimed martial law?"
The President looked at the SAC commander. "You’re the expert, Franklin. What do you think?"
"It should be enough," Franklin said slowly. "Without looking at the terrain, I couldn’t say positively." He paused. "Maybe I should go along with General Keppler. If that is, the general, if he . . ." Franklin came to an embarrassed halt.
"Be glad to have you along," Keppler said warmly. "Don’t know anything about these contraptions. Don’t want to, either."
"All right then," the President said. "Both of you go. I take it your deputy at Omaha will handle SAC affairs, General Franklin?"
"He’s handling them right now, sir."
"All right. Get moving." The President watched Keppler and Franklin leave. He had noted earlier on how Keppler had reacted when Franklin had aligned himself with him during the altercation with Zorubin. If he could do anything to promote good feeling between Army and Air Force generals he felt he should, if only to cut down the number of squabbles he had to umpire in the future.
Now it was time to let the Marshal know his decision. The big wall clock was showing six minutes after twelve. "This is the President," he said quietly. "I wish to inform the Marshal I understand his position if a city of his is destroyed. I consider the peace of the world to be more important than a city on each side. Therefore I am prepared to give one of his bombers free access to an American City of comparable size. I have selected for this purpose Atlantic City. In the event of a Russian city being taken out, one Russian bomber will be permitted to destroy Atlantic City. But I must point out to the Marshal, in that case there would be no question of compensation for the Russian city destroyed. That would be paid for by the death of an American City. It is for him to choose."
The reply took only a few seconds to come. "The President’s offer is unacceptable. The American, bomber has chosen its target. We wish to choose ours."
"No." The President’s tone was unequivocal. "I will not accept that. My offer is final and I will not argue about it. I am ready to go so far to preserve peace. I will not be pushed further."
The men round the table sat very quietly as they waited for the reply. It seemed an age in coming, but in reality it was only a minute or so. "The President’s offer is accepted. Can the details be left to the staffs?"
"They can," the President replied shortly. "But it must be understood my permission is conditional on Kotlass being destroyed."
"That is understood."
"Then for the moment there is nothing more to be said." The President relaxed in his chair. The wallclock was showing seven minutes after twelve. One way or another, they would soon know now.
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* * *
Chapter 23
"Alabama Angel"
* * *
12.05 G.M.T.
Moscow: 3.05 p.m.
Washington: 7.05 a.m.
Ahead of him, Clint Brown could see the lights of Kotlass. It was quite dark now at this latitude, but it didn’t really matter. The lights were guiding him in. Suddenly as he watched them they went out. All at once, as though someone had operated a master switch and cut the electricity supply off clean at source. Within seconds he found he could still see the town, a vaguely dark mass against the white of the snow covered plains. He continued to fly straight on, confident that the course he was holding would take him over the town and on to the I.C.B.M. base six miles beyond it.
"Time to open bomb doors," Engelbach said calmly.
&
nbsp; "Right. Now." Brown thumbed the bomb door release button, while Engelbach manipulated the opening lever. Both controls had to be operated together, otherwise the bomb doors would not open.
"There’s something wrong with the circuit lights," Engelbach said urgently. "They haven’t gone to green. Hell, they’ve gone out altogether."
Brown forced his tired mind to concentrate on what Engelbach had said. Something about circuit lights. What did lights matter anyway? He’d felt the slight shudder as the doors came open, and the speed of the plane had dropped off a point or so as it always did. "So the circuits are out. Forget it, Harry."
Brown watched the dark mass of Kotlass coming ever closer. Now it was time for the last routine drill, the one he’d hoped he’d never have to go through. "O.K. José, let’s make her live."
"Opening firing circuit," Garcia said.
"Roger." Brown unlocked his master switch, and pulled down on the red lever. Immediately a harsh red light glowed at the top of the instrument panel. Brown mustered just enough strength to force one of his deadening hands to fumble with the rheostat and dim the glaring brightness of the light.
It was done. The bomb was live. Only one safety device now remained, in the shape of two slim steel pegs which connected the fuselage of the plane with two vital parts deep inside the bomb. When the bomb fell away, the two steel pegs would be left, and as they slid out of the falling bomb they would open the trigger primer circuits. Once that happened, the bomb would explode as soon as the pre-set height had been reached. For this particular bomb that meant forty seconds after being dropped, which was the maximum delay after the pre-set height, because it would be dropped near enough the pre-set height anyway.
Kotlass came closer, rushing towards them through the Arctic night. Dimly, Brown felt a vague pity for the people there who had only a few seconds more of life left to them. But he could not spare much thought for them. His hands were numb now, and his vision was becoming misty. It was an effort to say, "Bill, get the message out."
Owens applied himself to the unfamiliar task of radio transmission. He manipulated the key slowly and carefully. He felt confident he had not made a mistake. "I got it out, Clint," he said, just as the town of Kotlass rushed past beneath them.
Engelbach looked ahead. His target radar was indicating some obstruction five miles ahead and slightly off to starboard. He strained to pierce the darkness and identify it.
He checked his bomb release mechanisms, and found them working perfectly. Suddenly he saw the obstruction his radar indicated. It was a launching tower, reaching high in the air, its top lost in the darkness. Engelbach felt a surging elation. They’d made it. In five seconds he would bomb, and he’d guarantee he’d lay it within a half mile of the aiming point.
His hand went to the release switch. "Release switch, Clint," he said.
"Release switch." Brown summoned all his dying resolution. He had to lift his hand, and move it forward six inches. It was impossible. He lifted it. He could not move it forward, he simply could not. Inch by painful inch he moved it forward. Now, he was touching the switch. Pull it down. The cabin was filling with blackness, thick blackness in which he was swimming. He could not see the switch. He had forgotten what it was for. He knew only his life would have been futile unless he operated it. He pulled firmly down and slumped back in his seat, the hand which had pulled the switch hanging limply by his side.
A green light glowed in Engelbach’s bomb release panel. He saw another launching tower away to port, and he knew he was almost at the aiming point. He pressed the bomb release button and said quietly, "Bomb gone."
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* * *
Chapter 24
The Pentagon
* * *
12.07 G.M.T.
Moscow: 3.07 p.m.
Washington: 7.07 a.m.
In Moscow it was dark now, in Washington just light. The Pentagon and the Kremlin were separated by eight hours of time, and forty years of mutual mistrust. The link between them was as fragile and tenuous as the radio beam which carried their messages to and fro.
In the Pentagon, the President consulted with General Steele about the fate of Atlantic City. They decided there would be plenty of time to evacuate the population. The Russian bombers reported by the DEW line could not possibly get there in under three to four hours. Civil Defence had already started on the evacuation, while Keppler and Franklin were still on their way by helicopter to Marshal Field, where a jet bomber was waiting for them.
The President could not see he had had any alternative but to sacrifice a city. Zorubin should know just how the Marshal would act, and Zorubin had been positive the Marshal would feel he must have an American city if Kotlass was destroyed. The clock moved on to eight minutes after twelve. There was just the one faint hope, the President felt, that even now the Russians might manage to destroy the last bomber. No matter how faint, it was still a chance. He grasped at it eagerly.
"The Russians report it’s still heading in," Steele said quietly, as though he were reading the President’s mind. He saw a worried frown cross the President’s face, and went on quickly, "Of course, there’s a time lag in communications. Four or five minutes at least before the reports from their stations are filtered through the Kremlin and passed on to us."
"Would the same time lag apply to communications from our bombers also?"
"Yes it would, but not in so great a degree. We were getting the acknowledgements on paper here within two minutes of transmission."
The President looked at the clock. Nine minutes after, now. "And you’re sure the bomber would send an attack message when it bombed?"
Steele shrugged. "It’s difficult to say. The way I see it, this bomber has been hit. Maybe the radio’s smashed. That would account for it not picking up the recall message. I’m afraid we can’t rely on it transmitting, sir."
"No, of course. Then the first news is likely to come from them?"
"Probably. Incidentally, those Russian bombers are still holding their position." Steele looked carefully at the President. "The long range fighters from Thule could reach them quite easily," he said with an elaborate casualness. "It’s one thing to mount a reprisal with forces already available, quite another if you have to get more planes off the ground and send them over the ice cap."
"I don’t think we can do that," the President said slowly.
Steele thought he detected a slight hesitancy in the President’s voice. "I only meant it would give time for second thoughts," he said. "Time for tempers to cool off."
"It might also give time for the position to revert to what it was an hour ago," the President said grimly. "No, Steele, it can’t be done. I’ve given my word. Now I have to stand by it, if ever we’re to salvage something of international relations from this mess." He turned away to talk to Zorubin.
Well, Steele thought, that was it. He had no doubt himself the bomber would reach its target. It was probably a little behind schedule, but that was natural if it had been hit. Ten after twelve now. Add four minutes for the time lag, plus maybe another minute for the inevitable reporting delay the shock of the explosion would cause. And bomb time for that aircraft was one minute after to nine minutes after. The next six minutes should bring something in.
He was interrupted by an aide. "General, the Russians report the bomber as through the last defence sector. They say it’s on fire and down to a hundred meters, but it’s heading straight for Kotlass."
"Thank you," Steele said. He wondered if he should pass the news on to the President. He decided not. The news of the explosion would come soon enough now. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined what the crew of the bomber must be feeling. They were down to three hundred feet. Why? Probably because they’d been hit bad and couldn’t fly any higher. But in that case they’d be caught by the blast of the explosion. Yet they were going in at the target regardless of the fact when they killed it they would inevitably kill themselves too. At that moment Steele felt an
even greater than normal pride in his Air Force. And a bitter sorrow that kids had to die that way.
Zorubin was talking to the President. In the last ninety minutes he felt he had come very close to this stooped, scholarly man. He had been immensely impressed with the firm grasp the President had on the reins of government. He achieved absolute command without his leadership becoming obtrusive or unpleasant. Yet he was instantly obeyed.
The Russian Ambassador had noted, too, the stubborn determination the President had shown when he refused pointblank to allow the Marshal to choose an American city. The refusal had been couched in moderate language, but it was no less firm for all that. Zorubin made a mental note for future reference that the President could be pushed only so far. Once he reached the limit he had set he dug his heels in. To attempt to push him further might be dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Zorubin had learned a great deal in the past hour. He wondered if the implications of what had happened had yet struck the President. Zorubin, behind a mask of ignorance, concealed a high degree of general knowledge of missiles, and their guidance systems, and the production difficulties associated with them.
