The President was still talking. “Today what we had was a machine-made calamity. And I’m thinking that today you and I got a preview of the future. We damn well better learn carefully from it. More and more of our lives will be determined by these computerized systems.”
“It is true,” Khrushchev said simply. “I wonder what role will be left to man in the future. Maybe we must think of man differently: ‘The computer proposes; man disposes.’”
“Yes, that may be the best we can hope for, but we can’t even be sure of that today. Somehow these computerized systems have got to be brought under control. They represent a new kind of power-despotism even-and we’ve got to learn how to constitutionalize it.”
“Mr. President, that would be a kind of constitutionalism I could approve. But this is a problem for politicians, not for scientists.” He laughed. “Computers are too important to be left to the mathematicians,”
There was another silence, lasting no more than twenty seconds. The President stirred in his chair.
Then it happened very quickly.
“Mr. President, I can hear the sound of explosions coming from the northeast,” the American Ambassador said. “They seem to be air bursts. The sky is very bright, like a long row of very big sky rockets. It is almost beautiful, like a Fourth of July—”
And then his voice was cut off. It was drowned in a screech that had an animal-like quality to it. The screech rose sharply, lasted perhaps five seconds, and then was followed by an abrupt silence.
Buck’s ears could hear the silence broken by a strange sound. It was, he guessed, made by the throats of approximately fifty men who simultaneously remembered that they must breathe. Somewhere there was the sound, discreet and isolated and perfectly audible, of a single sob.
“Gentlemen, we can assume that Moscow has been destroyed,” the President said, He paused, looked at Buck, seemed to be waiting for a miracle, unable to talk. Then he spoke. “I will contact General Black, who is now orbiting over New York City.”
It was a beautiful flying day. Black was flying his “hold” pattern, an effortless oval 46,000 feet above Manhattan. At 15,000 feet there was some small puffy cumulus which gave the firm lines of the Hudson and the East River silvery contrast. Manhattan stood out in clear-cut blocks and rectangles. Even from this height one could make out the soft greenness of Central Park, the odd enclave of grass in a forest of cement. Black had taken the boys there recently with ball and bat- abruptly his mind pulled away from the whole subject. He completed his final check. Everything was in order. The bombs were armed, the crew had been briefed. He had done that first in a very preliminary way over the squadron intercom net,
Black liked the operation of the aircraft, the moving of levers, the pull of the yoke and the sense of control over tons of intricate machinery. There had, he acknowledged to himself, even been a thrill of power when thermonuclear bombs were added to the plane. It was some primordial sense of strength, some childish love of a powerful toy. But above this, and justifying it, was some superior notion of duty. For years Black had thought he was defending his country and he had been right, Again and again he had been assured that either the bombs would not be dropped or they would be dropped only after an aggression against the United
States had commenced. In either case Black would have flown toward the enemy with all the skill and confidence and intelligence he possessed and without a qualm. And he had been assured that there was no third alternative: war by accident was impossible. It was here that Black was in torment. For he had known that it was possible and he had done nothing about it, Now he was being used as the instrument to right the balance. There was a kind of ironic justice in it that appealed to Black…
All was quiet readiness. He turned on the squadron intercom net, asked for and received a check-back signal from each member of the crew. He began speaking quietly and slowly.
“I may not have a chance to finish this, I don’t know. But I have to say a few things. You have been briefed on the mission. But I want to add a few personal comments, I think you all know that I’m from New York. My family is down there now.” The leader to the last, Black mocked himself. He had told them of his family only to make sure that no one held back, that all knew that he was making the biggest sacrifice and was willing to go ahead,
“I have one last simple order for you. That order is that no one else is in any way to have anything to do with the release, I have set this thing up so that I can handle it entirely by myself.”
Black paused. He felt a dullness creep over part of his mind, or perhaps it was his soul or heart. It was an anesthetic sensation. His impressions and memories of New York and of his family were blunted, then almost extinguished. It was a relief. With part of his mind he realized that this was the way the human animal protects itself.
“To repeat. I will fly the plane and launch the bombs,” Black said. “No other person will touch an instrument during the release. You may look up or you may close your eyes. You are accomplices and I would be dishonest with you if I said otherwise. But the ultimate act is mine. I think it is worth it, for it is a chance, the only chance, for peace. Please confirm by stations.”
He waited for the confirmations before resuming. As they came in he looked down for the last time at the great magnificent sweep of familiar landscape. It seemed more beautiful because of its utter innocence. The millions of people went about their tasks and pleasures unaware. It’s better this way, Black thought.
Another voice broke in. it was the President’s.
“Blackie, this is it. The bombs have just fallen on Moscow. Release four bombs according to our predetermined pattern. Report back in three minutes.”
Black turned, looked at the men around him. Slowly they raised their eyes toward the heavens. He wheeled around into the final course, checked his sights, opened the control panel in front of him, moved his index finger steadily toward the button by the numeral 1, pressed it firmly for three seconds, removed his finger, moved it down to the button by the numeral 2, pressed it firmly for three seconds and straightened up. His left hand found its way to his side pocket. He knew now who the matador was, what the final sword would he like. The Dream was over. Carefully his hand felt out a small object nestled in his pocket. The hand jerked sharply. At the same instant his right hand grasped the left arm of the copilot beside him. Black slumped forward in his seat.
Major James Callahan was startled out of his prayer as his left arm was grabbed by General Black seated beside him. He looked to his left to see Black slump down in his seat.
Black’s eyeballs rolled in his head, deep in their pits and pure white. The strong unfinished head rolled back on a loose neck.
Major Callahan knew without thinking what had happened. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He reached over, took Black’s lifeless right hand in his own, bowed his head, held it tight to his tearstained cheek, then placed it on Black’s lap. He composed himself, straightened, looked steadily ahead, and reached forward to turn the bright red key which controlled communications with the White House.
“Mr. President, this is Major Callahan. The mission has been accomplished. The four bombs have exploded 5,000 feet over New York. General Black has killed himself with his suicide kit.”
“Thank you, Major, it is something I expected.”
The President’s voice was still audible but he had apparently turned to an aide by his side.
“Prepare immediately for the consideration of Congress the Medal of Honor in the name of Warren Abraham Black, Brigadier General, United States Air Force. Have the citation read simply: for the highest act of courage and the most supreme conception of duty to his country and to mankind.”
About the Author
Eugene Burdick (1918-1965) taught at the University of California at Berkely and was chairman of the World Affairs Council in San Francisco. Among his many books is The Ugly American, the internationally famous novel written with Bill Lederer.
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