by Peter Bryant
He saw an aide approach General Steele, and hand him a message sheet. Steele read it quickly, his face impassive. He walked over to where Zorubin and the President stood together. Just as he reached them the wall clock clicked on to eleven minutes after twelve.
"Mr. President, Your Excellency," Steele said formally, "I have here a message from the one bomber of the eight forty-third we have been unable to contact. It says merely that the bomber has attacked. The time of origin is nine minutes after twelve."
"Thank you," the President said quietly. His expression was sad. The last chance had gone.
Go to Contents
* * *
Chapter 25
"Alabama Angel"
* * *
12.10 G.M.T.
Moscow: 3.10 p.m.
Washington: 7.10 a.m.
Engelbach slowly relaxed his pressure on the bomb release button. Already the count-down clock was showing only thirty-five seconds before detonation. Engelbach recalled a book he had read somewhere about the way executions were carried out in various countries. The British, he remembered, still executed their murderers by hanging. They prided themselves on the efficiency of their system. Inside thirty seconds after the executioner entered the cell, he had read, the convicted man was dead. Apparently it never bothered the man who was to be hung. The time interval was too short. All right, Engelbach thought, it wouldn’t bother him either. He watched the racing second hand sweep past thirty. Now he would discover for himself just how a man did feel. So far he was fine.
Bill Owens was looking up at the stars. There were so many of them, he thought, and they were so remote. As soon as he had sent out the attack message he had gone to stand in the astrodome, where Stan Andersen had been standing when the shell had killed him. Owens thought about Andersen. A hell of a nice guy, Stan. Always a little reserved, but dependable in a tight corner. A nice guy. Owens picked out the planet Mars. Maybe he was a little colour blind, but he’d never been able to detect the red tint other people said it had. He rememberd when he was a boy he’d gone with his grandpa to the top of a hill near where they lived, and grandpa had brought his telescope along. It was a beautiful telescope, all shining brass and polished lenses. They’d looked for the men who were supposed to live on Mars, and he’d been disappointed when they couldn’t see any. He smiled in remembrance of his childish disappointment. In a way he was lucky. Pretty soon he’d know all about Mars, and the other stars and planets too. He’s see Stan Andersen again. There couldn’t be more than twenty seconds left now. Maybe he’d see Grandpa, as well. He turned in the astrodome, trying to locate the Square of Pegasus. He was content.
Garcia was thinking about a girl in Dallas. He was not thinking of her in any tender way, but with a sense of the infinite fitness of things. She thought she was going to blame him, just because she could produce a bell-hop ready to swear he’d seen them together in a room at the Laredo Hotel where he’d been stupid enough—or maybe drunk enough—to register his correct name and address. As if he didn’t know she was on the make for any serviceman who came into town with a full billfold. Well, she’d have a long way to travel to get any money from him now. He laughed with pure delight. He felt very glad he was going to preserve his record right to the end.
Engelbach, Owens, and Garcia were all content. They were not frightened, because they already counted themselves dead, and had done so ever since Clint Brown said he would have to bomb at low level. They were content, and they had made their peace. The seconds could tick away as fast as they liked.
Clint Brown was actually dead. His last living act had been to depress the release switch which had enabled Engelbach to drop the bomb. When Engelbach pressed the button Brown was already dead, the ultimate reserves of vitality drained from him with the constant loss of blood from his shattered back.
He had trimmed the aircraft for level flight, and so Alabama Angel continued to fly. Very gradually, with a shifting of weight when Engelbach had pressed the button, she had eased round to a south-easterly heading. And she was flying slightly higher now as the ground fell away beneath her. The green light on the radio altimeter glowed, and then abruptly winked out. Seconds later the red light came on. The declination of the ground was past, and now it was sloping gently up to meet the bomber again.
Thirty-five seconds after bomb release point, and nearly six miles from the aiming point, Alabama Angel brushed against the sloping ground. She began to break up, but the impact bounced her up to six hundred feet as she did. Pieces fell away from the stricken airplane, among them the nose section with Engelbach still in it. The main fuselage split open, and something heavy, and cylindrical, fell from the bomb bay, where it had been retained by the wreckage of one of the bomb doors.
The steel pegs were left in the bomber and the bomb, its stabilising fins torn off as it dropped from the plane, turned over twice in the air before hitting the ground and bouncing. Without the stabilising fins to steady it in its descent it fell end over end, and when it struck the ground the outer steel casing burst open. The bomb bounced to a hundred feet and fell back. As it hit for the second time the outer easing broke away, and the core of the bomb tore into a ragged line of conifers before it came to rest.
Alabama Angel hit the same line of conifers, the wings tearing off as the fuselage disintegrated under the impact. Owens and Garcia died in the instant explosion of the fuel tanks, Engelbach a second or two later as the nose section thumped into the ground. Flames leapt three hundred feet in the air as all that was left of Alabama Angel burned.
Thirty seconds after the original impact, the high explosive cartridges hurled together the two plutonium masses. Instantly an atomic explosion occurred, and the tritium core was ignited. But the deuterium filling, which constituted the main charge, had gone with the disintegration of the steel casing. An explosion certainly occurred, and one which was fifteen or twenty times more potent than the bomb which had wrecked Hiroshima. But the main charge was not detonated, because it was no longer there to be detonated.
The explosion was seen by another B-52 of the 843rd Wing, which was heading north-west after receiving a recall while on its way to hit a bomber base at Glasov on the Chepza river. The navigator fixed the position of the explosion exactly, and the radioman got off a message giving the details.
The wreckage of Alabama Angel was completely disintegrated by the explosion, and an area of one mile radius from the centre was turned into a white hot, seething inferno. Thirty seconds after the explosion, the familiar mushroom cloud had burst up to fifty thousand feet. At its base, the crew of Alabama Angel slept their last sleep. They had failed, yet in their failure they had achieved victory. They could sleep content.
Go to Contents
* * *
Chapter 26
The Pentagon
* * *
12.15 G.M.T.
Moscow: 3.15 p.m.
Washington: 7.15 a.m.
"I am informed the bomber which we reported as still heading in towards Kotlass has made its attack. An explosion has occurred." Zorubin translated smoothly and fluently, transmuting the harsh sounds from the speaker into precise, diplomatic English. "Does the President stand by his agreement that one of his cities shall now be destroyed?"
The President closed his eyes for a moment. Well, this was it. He had given his word, and now he must stand by it. "Yes," he said curtly, "I do."
"Very well then, let us set a time. I propose fifteen minutes from now. That will be at 7.30 your time."
The President nodded absently. He became aware of Steele waving a hand in sudden agitation. Fifteen minutes from now. Fifteen minutes! There was some mistake. The evacuation of Atlantic City would not be anywhere near complete. "You have made a mistake in time," he said. "The staffs have agreed that your bomber cannot be in position much before ten o’clock our time."
Thirty seconds went by while the President’s words were translated in the Kremlin. Then the speakers began to crackle again. Zorubin translate
d quickly and continuously as the message came over. "I have overruled the staff proposals. Atlantic City will not be destroyed by bomber. It will be destroyed by a missile from a submarine which is lying four hundred miles off your coast. Orders have been given to the submarine commander he is to fire his missile at 7.25 your time. It will take about five minutes to reach its target." Zorubin’s voice was flat. He appreciated exactly the significance of the message. In something under fifteen minutes at least fifty thousand people would die in Atlantic City.
The President swayed. For a moment he felt the onset of actual physical nausea. He fought it down and clutched at the table in front of him to steady himself. He looked across at Admiral Maclellan. "Well?" he asked. His face was white.
Maclellan said quietly, "It could be, sir. They usually have one or two subs lying off four hundred or so miles out. The missiles they carry have that much range."
"And accuracy?"
Maclellan frowned. "At four hundred miles not good. Between five and ten miles."
"I see." The President signalled for the radio link to be opened. "The Marshal’s proposal is unacceptable," he said quietly. "Atlantic City has not yet been evacuated."
The reply came quickly. "Neither had the city of Kotlass."
"It is not solely for that reason the proposal is unacceptable," the President said. "I am informed the missiles carried by Russian submarines are not sufficiently accurate to guarantee a hit on target at four hundred miles. The agreement was that Atlantic City should be hit and nowhere else. I must ask the Marshal to suggest an alternative method."
Again the reply was quick. "They are sufficiently accurate." There was a short pause, and when the next sentence was spoken there was no mistaking the bitterness and determination of the voice. "I will not consider any alternative. The missile will be fired seven minutes from now."
"Zorubin," the President said quietly, "I have been trapped. You realise what it will mean if the missile is fired?"
"I do." Zorubin’s voice was low. "And I am sorry. But it seems his mind is made up. I can tell."
The President thought for a moment of the SAC wings which were still airborne, of the bombers of the 843rd which, many of them, were still over Russian territory. It would be so easy for him to threaten action. And so futile. The position had not changed in the last hour or so. The ultimate threat still lay beneath the Urals, ready at any moment to poison the world. He thought too, after all a Russian city had been destroyed. If it had been his own decision he would not have insisted on a meaningless reprisal. But it was not his decision, and perhaps to the man in the Kremlin it was not meaningless. He waved a hand for the radio link to be opened.
"Wait!" General Steele’s voice was loud and sharp. "Mr. President, wait a minute."
"The President looked at him. Steele held a message form in his hand. "Well, Steele?" he asked.
"Kotlass was not destroyed, Mr. President. Neither the city nor the I.C.B.M. base. This message is from a SAC crew who actually saw the explosion, as they were heading out after recall. They state definitely the explosion occurred fifteen miles south-east of the city of Kotlass, in an entirely uninhabited area. They further state the explosion was a small one, in the kiloton rather than megaton range."
"I don’t understand," the President said slowly. "They were carrying the normal weapons, I take it?"
"They were, sir. This is just guesswork, but I’d say what happened was this. We know the particular bomber was hit, and we know from what the Russians told us it was flying at very low level. It could well have suffered damage to some of the bomb release mechanisms and carried the bomb on past the target. Then, when the bomb dropped, it may not have had time to stabilise itself in flight, and perhaps hit the ground in such a way the primer exploded but not the main charge. That would cause an explosion in the kiloton range. Say between one and two hundred kilotons."
"And that is technically possible?"
"It is," Steele said. "What the report means, Mr. President, is that no city has been destroyed, and no military base. The actual explosion probably caused no casualties at all. There’ll be a fall out hazard, of course, but nothing compared with an H-bomb explosion. If they get to work quickly they should be able to evacuate in plenty of time to avoid radiation casualties."
"Has the report been confirmed?"
"It has sir."
"Very well." The President’s voice was full of new hope. He glanced at the clock. Six minutes to go before the missile was fired. There was time. He saw the green light wink on to indicate the opening of the link for him.
"I have just received a report," he said, "which enables me to request the Marshal to cancel his orders to the submarine. I suggest this be done as a matter of urgency. The report gives the news that the town of Kotlass was quite untouched by the explosion. Further, the explosion itself was a comparatively small one, of the kind usually associated with atomic rather than hydrogen weapons. I am sure the Marshal will join me in expressing satisfaction that Kotlass has been spared, and Atlantic City can be spared too."
"I know nothing of that. The missile will be fired," the reply said flatly.
"But Kotlass was unharmed," the President said quickly.
"I know nothing of that. Your bomber dropped its bomb. My submarine will fire its missile."
The President turned away abruptly. He was fighting to control himself, to hold back the bitter words which were shaping themselves on his tongue. "It had better not," he said at last. His voice was calm, but it had in it a note of bitterness which had never been there before. "I gave my word that I would give a city for the one destroyed. Your city has not been destroyed. And so I will not accept the destruction of Atlantic City. That is all I have to say."
Zorubin looked carefully at the President. He realised instantly that the President had reached the brink. He could be pushed no further. Zorubin sensed that in the final analysis the President would not now hesitate to take action. Once again, the fate of the world was trembling in the balance. But did the Marshal know that? Or was he merely playing a cynical game of bluff, under the impression the President was bluffing too? Zorubin made up his mind.
He stepped forward. "Excuse me, Mr. President," he said formally. "I wish to speak to the Marshal direct." He flicked his fingers for the opening of the link. The green light winked on. Before anyone in the room could recover from the surprise of his action, Zorubin was speaking in Russian.
He spoke fast but clearly, pausing twice to allow questions to be put from Moscow. For nearly two minutes the conversation continued. Zorubin finished with a long burst of speech followed by a single sentence whose intonation made it clear he was asking a question. He waited impassively for the answer. Finally it came, a sharp monosyllable.
Zorubin turned to the President. His forehead was glistening with perspiration. But he was smiling. "The missile will not be fired, Mr. President. The Marshal states he had no real intention of firing it. He merely wished to make sure you and your staff knew what it was to see a city of yours in immediate danger of destruction."
"I see," the President said thoughtfully. "I must thank you, Your Excellency, for your good offices."
Zorubin formally bowed his appreciation. It had been very close, he thought. Only the trust which his old friend placed in his evaluation of the situation had enabled him to obtain the cancellation of the firing order. The Marshal had been quite sure the President would do no more than protest the action. Zorubin had assured him differently. And fortunately the Marshal had believed him.
"Now," the President said. "We must take steps immediately to see this does not happen again. Steele."
"Sir?"
"Plan R must be abolished. See to that immediately."
Steele shrugged. He would carry out the President’s order, but he felt compelled to point out the removal of plan R would leave a gap in the defences. He did so.
The President heard him out. Then he said, "I think not. I venture to think the events of the
last two hours have shown that a Russian attack on this country will not now take place. Not in our time, at least."
Zorubin looked at him sharply. He thought that the President had probably assessed the situation correctly. He wondered just how he had arrived at his conclusion.
"The Russians have a lead with the I.C.B.M.," the President said slowly. "We will need six months or so before our Minuteman sites will be ready, so that retaliation would become inevitable and infallible. On that day, I believe, war will not only become impossible but will be recognised by both sides as such."
