Fail-Safe

by Eugene Burdick

  “It’s possible,” General Bogan said casually. “But not very likely. The whole picture just doesn’t make sense.”

  The two men smiled at one another, but suddenly General Bogan had the sense that they were in conflict. Colonel Cascio lowered his eyes.

  General Bogan turned to his guests. “The UFO is pretty well established as a BOAC commercial airliner which lost power on its engines and then regained them at a low altitude,” General Bogan said to the visitors. “We have to stay at Condition Green until we have confirmation, but ft is my best judgment that there is no danger.”

  “I kinda like this whole operation,” Raskob said softly. “I mean it’s a nice orderly thing to meet people who can tie everything up with a ribbon and foolproof. And let me tell you, General, in this world there are damn few things that are foolproof.”

  The teletype on the 413-L dattered.

  This time General Bogan waited until the major handed him the tape. He read it to the visitors. It said, “UFO sighted visually and contacted by radio. It is BOAC Flight No. 117. It was off course due to high tail winds and loss of power on two port engines because of throttle failure which locked the throttles in OFF position. It regained power at 850 feet.”

  “That’s it, gentlemen. I am sorry that we alarmed you,” General Bogan said.

  Colonel Cascio bent forward and operated a single lever. Instantly the radio-transmitted order became apparent on the Big Board. The fighters started to move in a long curve back toward their bases. The jet tankers angled away from their Vindicator group. The defensive bombers made a quick 1800 turn. The big light over the Big Board went out. Men began to drift

  At 10:84 Buck left his office. Out of some compulsion to orderliness he had straightened his desk, put on his jacket, and then brushed the jacket with a pig-bristle brush which he kept in one of the drawers of his desk. He thought of going to the men’s room to comb his hair. The moment he stepped outside his door he realized that would be impossible.

  Standing squarely in front of the door and four feet away from it, was a Marine Corps major. He was breathing hard.

  “Are you Mr. Buck?” the major asked.

  “Yes,” Buck said and then after a pause added, “sir.”

  “May I please see your identification, sir?” the major asked.

  Buck fumbled through his wallet looking for the card. Over the years it had become an empty formality when he passed through the White House gate. He merely lifted his entire wallet toward the Pot who nodded and he walked on in. For a moment Buck felt a sense of embarrassment. It was altogether possible that he had left the identification card at home.

  He flipped through the cards in their cellophane holders. The major stared straight ahead, ignoring Buck’s discomfort. The major was still breathless and the sound of air sucked in and pushed out of his nostrils was the loudest noise in the corridor. Diners Club card, law-school library card, a picture of his daughter, a picture of the Porsche just after it had been waxed, a gas-company credit card, a membership card in a professional language association, a picture of his parents. He looked in the billfold of the wallet: seven dollars. Buck looked up at the major. There was one more pocket in the wallet. The identification card was there. He almost sighed with relief.

  The major took the card firmly, and glanced at the identification picture. Then he moved sideways to study Buck’s profile. Buck’s embarrassment deepened.

  “Mr. Buck, this card says you have a small scar on your left wrist,” the major said. “May I see that scar, sir?”

  “Just a little thing from a high.school football game,” Buck said, pulling his sleeve up.

  The major stared intently at the scar. He came back to attention and extended the card to Buck.

  “Follow me, sir,” the major said. He started off down the corridor at a crisp walk.

  “Yes,” Buck said and then hesitated. If the major called him “sir,” perhaps he was not supposed to call the major “sir.” Buck decided not to. It gave him a sense of satisfaction as he stuffed the card back in the wallet.

  By now the major was several steps ahead of Buck. Buck trotted until he had overtaken the major and then fell in stride with him. Buck, who was several inches shorter than the major, found that he was almost at a slow run.

  They passed out of the White House Annex into the White House and down several corridors which Buck had never seen before. They swung around a corner and in midstride the major stopped and came to attention. Walking toward them was a tall lanky man and a woman who was taking notes on a note pad. Immediately to the left of Buck and the major was an elevator. Buck realized two things almost simultaneously: first, the elevator was painted GI green and was operated by an Army officer, secondly, the man walking toward them was the President and the woman was Mrs. Johnson, his secretary.

  Buck had heard of the woman before. Her nickname was “Johnnie” and she had an aura of her own. She walked with authority and self-assurance. She struck a delicate balance in her attitude toward the President: she was both a nanny and a secretary. She had started her career as secretary to the President’s famous father over forty years before. Since that time she had become a competent and efficient instrument of the family without becoming in the least familiar. When the President first entered politics as a candidate for Congress he had begged Johnnie’s services from his father. Years later, when he entered the White House, Johnnie quite automatically accompanied him. Her hair was now white, her figure heavy, but her manner toward the President was completely unchanged. She was not the least afraid of him nor was she the least familiar.

  When the President was five strides away the major snapped off a salute. The President nodded at the major, moved toward the elevator with a springy walk, the stride of an athletic person who liked physical motion. “Tell Pete not to even hint to the newspaper people about an emergency,” the President said to the secretary. She scribbled in her notebook. “Also call the Vice-President and tell him exactly what has happened. He will know what to do. Call Senator Fuibright and ask him to call the Vice-President. Better have him drop by the Vice-President’s office.”

  The President came to a stop in front of the elevator. He shook hands with the major. He turned to Buck,

  “Hello, Buck,” the President said. “I remember seeing you in your office a while back.”

  “A while back” had been several years, but even so Buck was flattered.

  “Yes, sir,” Buck said. “I am the Russian translator.” Without a verbal order, but more by motion of his body, the President moved all of them into the elevator, induding the secretary. Despite its GI color, Buck realized that the elevator was new and efficient. Its one odd feature was in the back: a large wheel with a plaque above it which said, FOR ELEVATOR OPERATION IN CASE OF POWER FAILURE. TURN TO RIGHT TO LOWER. TURN TO LEFT TO RAISE.

  The doors of the elevator snapped shut and instantly they were propelled downward. To Buck it seemed that they were dropping like a stone, in a free fall. His knees loosened slightly as the floor dropped beneath him, but he stiffened; he felt a sad and desolate heaviness in his viscera. He braced against the wall for he had the sensation that he might become sick. He had no notion of how far beneath the White House the bomb shelter was located. To vomit here, in this impeccable GI elevator with the officer-operator and the President leaning comfortably against the wall and the secretary listening to his words, and the wooden major standing at an apparently easy attention, would be too much.

  They came to a cushioned stop after a few seconds. Buck’s knees bent a few inches, but so did those of everyone else in the elevator. He felt relieved.

  The doors snapped open. They stepped out into a large room which held half a dozen desks. On the left there was a luminous screen which covered the entire wall. It was somewhat like a movie screen, but it had thickness, a texture to it. Strange objects crawled across it, wormlike and glowing. Buck had only time to notice six green crosses, five of them standing alone, and one with a qu
eer blob of light a few inches from the cross.

  Sitting behind the desks were a number of people who were vaguely familiar to Buck. He recognized one, a special assistant to the President, and realized that the others were also special or White House assistants or staff men. All of the men in the room came to a relaxed attention. The President nodded, but did not speak. The heads of all the assistants swung back to the luminous wall. The President turned right and led his little group through a door which was swung open by a captain, his naval aide.

  “That’s all, Major,” the President said casually. The major did not go into the other office with them.

  Buck felt respect for abilities he did not possess. First, he realized that all of the assistants were at ease with the President, and, considering their credentials, degrees, books written, speeches made, reputations established, crises survived, toughness established, and the rumors of their outspokenness, he was not surprised by their poise. Secondly, he marveled at the peculiar physical ease of the President. It showed in the way he had indicated that the major should not come farther with them. It was not humiliating, it was not brusque, it was not even very obvious. It was merely a kind of easy shrug which told the major a good deal, but was not offensive.

  The President led them into a small office. It held a medium-sized desk which had a number of telephones on it. There was a chair on each side of the desk. The sound of the air conditioning was like a massive pulse. The President sat down behind the desk. He motioned to Buck to sit in the other chair. The President turned to Mrs. Johnson.

  “Look, Johnnie, it won’t work with Pete and the newspaper people,” the President said. “Pete can handle it all right, but someone else will crack and start to call Scotty or one of the wire services or some damned thing.” He paused, leaned back in the chair, held a pencil up and studied it carefully. “Tell Pete to let them all know it’s urgent, but not a bonebreaker. Not yet. Off the record. No leaks. Any leaks on this and the guy and his paper are dead. Now and forever. O.K.?”

  “I’ll tell Pete, just like that,” Mrs. Johnson said and smiled.

  “What about the Pentagon group?” the President said, smiling at Mrs. Johnson, but not responding to her remark. “You’re supposed to have a list or something.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, it’s right here,” Mrs. Johnson said. She shuffled through the papers she was carrying. She did it with all the expert quickness of a gambler making a fast riffle. A white card appeared in her fingers.

  The precision of the riffle again reassured Buck. In the presence of people so poised and prepared he knew he would perform well.

  “Give it to Mr. Buck,” the President said.

  Mrs. Johnson handed Buck a stiff white card. He glanced at it. At the top of the card were the words PENTAGON ALERT GROUP. It had been dated at 0800 that morning and Buck realized that the list was probably made up each day. The list contained all the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretaries, and a representative from the National Security Council. Buck noticed that after the name of the Secretary for Air there was a handwritten sentence which said “In Dallas to dedicate new missile site. Back Thursday.”

  One of the phones on the President’s desk rang and a light went on.

  “That will be Bogan at Omaha,” the President said.

  Mrs. Johnson started to turn toward the door. “Wait just a second, Johnnie.”

  The President picked up the phone. He did not say “hello,” but someone obviously had started talking to him at once.

  By reflex Buck looked at his watch. It was 10:87.

  Mrs. Johnson moved toward Buck. For the first time he noticed that her middle-aged and very smooth cheeks were flushed with excitement. She bent over Buck and spoke to him in a low urgent voice.

  “At least we’re better off than President Truman was in 1950 when the Korean thing started. That’s one of the first things I changed around here,” she said primly. “That poor man could hardly find anyone to advise him. He practically had to make the decision single-handed. He called State, the Pentagon, the Hill, here, there, everywhere. Nobody home. So he did it alone.”

  Did what, Buck thought to himself.

  Buck looked up at Mrs. Johnson and smiled thinly. Her memory was said to be limitless, her knowledge encyclopedic, her antagonism fatal. He had heard, and he could not remember where, that when her cheeks showed small patches of pink it was the equivalent of Hitler throwing an epileptic fit.

  For the first time Buck realized that this was something more than a drill, that great decisions might have to be made. His throat went dry and then, as he had trained himself to do when he was tense, his smile broadened into a wide and very good imitation of genuine amusement. He saw the President’s eyes above the telephone regarding him curiously.

  Five seconds after General Bogan had stopped speaking to the President the phone was back on its cradle and he and Colonel Cascio had started toward a door fifteen yards from the desk. Both were aware that they must not alarm Raskob and Knapp. They moved quickly, but without haste. It was an old drill. This was the first time their walk had intention and, even so, they walked at drill pace.

  The door was labeled TACTICAL CONTROL. Colonel Cascio opened the door and the two men walked in. The room was served by a sergeant who even as he snapped to attention continued to let his eyes roam over the controls and lights and mechanisms which filled the room. The central machine in the room was a long lean console with a bank of switches running down its spine. The room hummed, a faint, rather pleasant hum, like beehives heard at a great distance on a warm day. On a table in front of the console was a desk with a single telephone on it.

  “All command posts to Condition Red, Sergeant,” General Bogan said.

  “All command posts to Condition Red,” the sergeant repeated.

  With an expert practiced gesture he ran his hand down the row of thirty switches and beneath each of them a light instantly glowed red. Identical green lights above each switch went off.

  “Verification?” Colonel Cascio said, looking at the sergeant.

  General Bogan felt a flash of confidence as Colonel Cascio spoke. His aide knew every drill, procedure, maneuver, and manual of every room which served the War Room, and it pleased the General. Partly, he thought, because it confirmed his judgment of men, partly because Colonel Cascio’s pure and simple ability was reassuring.

  The sergeant wheeled and looked at the face of another machine. The machine did two things: it verified that the long central console was operating properly and it also confirmed that each of the command posts of SAC throughout the world was actually “cut in” and had received the “Condition Red.” It was merely another precaution to make sure that no mechanical failure could occur.

  “All command posts cut in and tactical control circuits operative,” the sergeant said.

  General Bogan picked up the phone on the table. When he spoke his voice would be transmitted over a network of transmitters on at least three frequencies to each of the SAC command posts.

  “This is General Bogan at Omaha,” General Bogan said. “I am ordering a Condition Red, not a ‘go’; please confirm.”

  This was the “Condition Red” system. It was the step between alarm and action. It was the bringing of a massive network of men and machines to a condition of readiness. Fragments of the system would, in fact, be active, but the enormous bulk would merely come to a tense ready. Long ago the SAC researchers had learned that “color alerts” were confusing. For veterans of World War II “Red” was ominous. For others it simply meant a casual stop at a casual traffic signal.

  Everyone in the widespread system knew that the ultimate alert simply meant a riding of tension, enormous preparation, an intricate series of precautionary steps. The moment that the switches were tripped and the words were spoken, a mechanism went into operation which was such a blending of the delicate and the gross, the individual and the chorus, that it was an orchestration.

  As General Bogan listened to the indi
vidual duty officers confirm both the mechanical and spoken order he remembered something Colonel Cascio had said months ago about Condition Red.

  It’s like the start of a 100-yard dash, the colonel had said. Except that you keep coming through “on your marks” and “gets sets” and you hang there with sweat breaking out on your face and every muscle tensed to go… and the pistol never cracks, no one ever says.

  General Bogan never thought of it that way. But then Colonel Cascio had been a sprint star in college, had run the hundred in 9.6. Even now there was a rumor among the enlisted men that he could run the hundred in under 10 seconds. General Bogan had never asked but the colonel looked it; he had a jaguar-lean look about him. He kept in perfect physical shape, but never made a point of it. He never talked of his workouts at the gym, never lectured anyone on obesity or physical fitness. He merely kept himself taut.

  When General Bogan finished receipt of the acknowledgments, the Condition Red order was completed. It was initiated by a man, checked by a machine, counterchecked by a man, who was countercounterchecked by another machine, and all men and machines were carefully watched by other counterpart men and machines. The immense man-machine activated itself, checked itself, coordinated itself, restrained itself, passed information to itself, carefully filtered incoming information, automatically tripped other systems that were serving it.

  At Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, the officer in charge of the Second Air Force put down the telephone after he had confirmed General Bogan’s order. He pushed a machine which electronically checked to make sure that General Bogan’s verbal order had also been fed into the responsible machine at Omaha. He then pressed a button close to the telephone. At once a scream went up from a score of klaxon horns scattered around the base. A gigantic barracks building transformed itself. An entire wall rolled away. Inside were ten station wagons, each with its exhaust plugged into a special hole in the floor, and each turning over slowly. An enlisted man sat behind each wheeL In the area behind the station wagons there were a snack bar, card tables, television sets, sofas and chairs. The space was occupied by approximately fifty men. The mood thirty seconds ago had been tranquil, an odd mixture of a fraternity house, a BOQ, and a ready room. The moment that the door swung open and the klaxons started to wail, each of the men ran for the predesignated station wagon. With a beautiful practiced precision, the station wagons tore across the vast expanse of the field. Each station wagon’s journey ended beside a Vindicator bomber and the crews piled out. The supersonic bombers were already prepared by special warmup crews. They not only warmed up the engines but they kept a constant running check on every part of the intricate bomber. The warm-up crews turned over their planes to men who were perfect strangers, keeping their eyes on the instruments until the last moment, then grinning at the strangers and relinquishing command, swinging out of the plane and into the waiting station wagons.