by Peter George
Ace Owens shook his head admiringly. ‘Yeah, King,’ he said, ‘you’re lucky. You got taste.’
‘Yeah, I guess I do, an’ I guess I’m lucky about a lot of things. I mean, you name it an’ I’ve had it. Prime cut, right off the top hindquarter. But all kiddin’ aside, Ace, there’s one thing in this ole world don’t have no price tag on. An’ money sure ain’t done me no good there. It’s somethin’ leaves a man, well, kind of incomplete without it.’
Ace Owens looked at King curiously. He could not imagine any way in which King’s life had been incomplete. He said, ‘What’s that, King?’
‘It’s one thing I never had an’ I don’t guess I ever will have now. Combat!’
Lieutenant Dietrich, the defence-systems officer, reluctantly put down the pack of cards he had been manipulating as an electronic sound alarm directed his attention to one of his radarscopes. Dietrich had several of these scopes banked in front of him, but the alarm he had heard was connected to the maximum-range search radar. He made a minor adjustment to the timing of the set, then moved a strobe marker to the blip that had appeared at the outer rim of the scope. He read off the range of the object, then said through the intercom, his voice undisturbed and reporting a routine occurrence, ‘Bogey at one-four-five, approximately a hundred and thirty-five miles.’
Sweets Kivel, the navigator, carefully turned over his copy of the Confectioner’s Journal so as not to lose his place and quickly plotted the position of the bogey on his chart.
King, who had been musing sadly about the one thing lacking in his life, said casually, ‘Probably one of their radar surveillance jobs.’
On Dietrich’s scope the blip suddenly vanished as segments of the scope became obscured by brilliant light. Owens said, ‘He jammed us out. Showing off his ECM. What a jerk!’
Ace Owens, who had taken up the copy of Playboy again, said absently, ‘I wonder just why he’s doing that?’
Dietrich came in quickly. ‘Want me to give him a taste of ours, King?’
Major Kong frowned judiciously. ‘We ain’t up here to play games, Dietrich. You jest tend to your own business back there.’
Dietrich shrugged his shoulders eloquently, removed his attention from the scope, and picked up his cards again.
Beside him Goldberg, who had been dozing over his magazine, suddenly jerked into life as the tone alarm of the Combat Warning and Interference Elimination receiver, known as the CRM-114, sounded. Of all the highly secret equipment carried in the bomber, it was the most guarded. It received coded messages from Burpelson, but also, if the necessity ever arose, it served as a safeguard against enemy interference in transmitting fake messages designed to deceive and divert the bomber.
Goldberg hastily reached for his code book and flipped through it until he found the appropriate section. While doing this he said, ‘Got a message from base, King.’
King was absently regarding his nails, his mind still fully occupied with his regrettable lack of combat. He said, ‘What the hell do they want?’
Goldberg had now decoded the message. He said, ‘I have it, King. Wing to hold at Fail-Safe points.’
Instantly there was a burst of annoyed reaction from the crew. Lothar Zogg gave it as his opinion that it was probably some kind of exercise. Sweets Kivel threw down his Confectioner’s Journal and complained loudly that after fourteen hours he was a bit beat. The others agreed they were beat too.
King was seriously annoyed. Like most flyers he had little affection for the staff officers back at base.
He said, ‘Now ain’t that jest like them damned armchair commandos back there to keep us up here for nothin’!’
There was general agreement from the crew. Then an even more annoying factor occurred to King. He turned to Ace Owens. ‘Boy,’ he said, ‘we fool around here too long, we gonna miss our date. You know that, don’t you?’
Ace Owens nodded glumly and King angrily reached forward and adjusted the autopilot so that Leper Colony went into a shallow port bank, ten miles above the icy Barents Sea.
BURPELSON AIR FORCE BASE
An Air Force base by its very nature can seldom be described as beautiful. Yet Burpelson, with pale moonlight casting grotesque shadows of hangars and aeroplanes onto the concrete of its servicing areas, had a strangely, eerily attractive appearance.
The vast runways were empty, and no pulsing roar of jet engines, which was the normal concomitant of a working day, could be heard. The desert silence was broken only by the giant cicadas and the occasional shrill whine of an electric tool.
Overhead the sky was clear and through the clear desert air the stars shone with an almost luminous brightness. It was a peaceful night.
Sixty feet below the main administration building six officers manned the Command Bridge of the Base Combat Operations Centre. Five of them were USAF officers; the sixth, and the senior of those present, was from the Royal Air Force. His name was Mandrake – Group Captain Lionel Mandrake, DSO, DFC, RAF.
Mandrake’s presence in the centre was due to the exchange scheme which had long operated between the USAF and the RAF. It was a scheme regarded with great approval by the authorities and even greater approval by the participants. They were always treated by their hosts as honoured guests. They received invitations to all the cocktail parties on the base, and since the saying le goût d’etranger is not altogether without foundation, there were other invitations also.
Mandrake was in his second year of duty at Burpelson. He had greatly enjoyed himself there, though he sometimes found it hard to understand the quirkish and peculiar sense of humour which his commanding officer displayed. Mandrake was a man of medium height and build. His uniform was immaculate, with the four broad rings of a group captain on the sleeve and a healthy display of decorations and campaign medals below his pilot’s wings. His hair was long by USAF standards, but this was understood to be an eccentricity which all RAF officers were prone to. His upper lip sported a bushy and luxuriant moustache. He was chewing absently on the end of a pencil and watching the hands of the big wall clock slowly creep around to the end of his period of duty when the phone near his right hand buzzed.
This was the direct line from General Ripper. Mandrake hastily removed the end of the pencil from his mouth and picked up the phone. He said, ‘Combat Operations Centre, Group Captain Mandrake speaking.’
The gruff and unmistakable tone of General Ripper’s voice announced. ‘This is General Ripper speaking.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You know it’s General Ripper, Group Captain?’
‘Why certainly, General,’ Mandrake said. ‘Why do you ask, sir?’
‘Why do you think I ask, Group Captain?’
Mandrake laughed nervously. ‘Well, I really don’t know, sir. I mean, we just spoke a few minutes ago, didn’t we?’
Ripper’s voice had an edge to it now. ‘You don’t think that I’d ask unless it was important, do you, Group Captain?’
‘No, sir,’ Mandrake said nervously, ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t.’
‘Well, that’s better, Group Captain. Let’s see if we can stay on the ball.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Has the wing confirmed holding at their Fail-Safe points?’
‘Yes, sir, the confirmations have just come in. All of them.’
‘All right, Group Captain. Now listen to me very carefully. I’m putting the base on condition Red.’
Mandrake started in surprise. He held the phone slightly away from him, recovered his breath, and then said, ‘Condition Red, sir?’
‘That’s right,’ Ripper growled, ‘condition Red. I want it flashed to all sections immediately.’
‘But what’s happened, sir?’
For a few seconds there was silence on the line.
To Mandrake it seemed like an eternity. He wondered if perhaps the General had been cut off, but then Ripper spoke again.
Ripper said, slowly and as if he had given the matter some considerable thought, ‘It looks lik
e we’re in a global war.’
‘A global war, sir?’
‘Yes, Group Captain. I’m afraid this looks like it’s going to be it.’
‘Good Lord!’ Mandrake said. ‘Have they hit anything yet?’
‘Group Captain, that’s all I’ve been told. It just came in on the Red phone and my orders call for the base to be sealed tight. And that is precisely what I mean to do.’
‘But won’t that put us a bit, so to speak, out of the picture, sir?’
‘You let me worry about that, Group Captain,’ Ripper said sharply. ‘I’m commanding officer around here, that’s my worry.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mandrake said. His face had all the mournfulness of a disappointed walrus. ‘Naturally, sir.’
Ripper realised immediately from his tone that Mandrake was insulted. He was basically a kind-hearted man, and he hastened to make amends. ‘See here, Group Captain, we don’t want to be vulnerable to commie saboteurs, do we?’
Mandrake was slightly reassured. ‘I see what you mean, sir.’
‘Then you have it straight, do you? You know the plan?’
Mandrake hedged. ‘The plan, sir?’
Ripper sighed. Mandrake was not quick, but he was reliable and loyal. Ripper said, ‘That’s right, Group Captain. Operation Oyster.’
‘Oh, that! Yes, sir,’ Mandrake said enthusiastically. He thought quickly about Operation Oyster, reviewing the main points of it in his mind.
Ripper said, ‘Well, are we on the ball?’
Mandrake chuckled. He had a rich, British chuckle. ‘Oh yes, sir. But I say, I was just thinking of one of the points in the operation order. Something’s just occurred to me. How do I know I’m talking to you now?’
‘Are you trying to be funny, Mandrake?’
‘No, sir,’ Mandrake said hastily, ‘not at all.’
‘Well then,’ Ripper said slowly and ominously, ‘just who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’
‘To you, naturally, sir. But if you take my point, I mean to say, that is, how is one to be sure, sir?’
Ripper paused a moment before replying. He felt it better to do so in the interests of American-Anglo relations. He breathed deeply three times, a practice his mother had taught him to cool his temper. Then he said slowly and carefully, ‘Group Captain, are you deliberately trying to be insubordinate?’
‘Of course not, sir,’ Mandrake said. There was both hurt and indignation in his voice.
‘All right, Group Captain, then let’s stay on the ball.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Okay then,’ Ripper said briskly, ‘do you have a pencil in your hand?’
‘I’ll get one, sir.’ Mandrake fumbled on the desk for the pencil on which he had previously been chewing and picked it up.
‘While you’re implementing Operation Oyster, get the Go-code out to the boys.’
Mandrake said, ‘The Go-code, sir?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go-code, Plan-R.’
‘May I have your confirmation on that, sir?’ Mandrake said firmly.
‘That’s correct, Plan-R. That is to be a transmission using the emergency base attack code group.’
‘Yes, sir. As a transmission using the emergency base attack code group. You will have to give me the code prefix, General.’
Ripper said, ‘What’s the matter, Group Captain, don’t you have it?’
‘Why no, sir. I believe you’re the only one on the base who knows it.’
General Ripper opened the folder that was lying in front of him on his desk. He said, ‘You’re quite right, Group Captain. It is attack code index Fox-George-Dog, Fox-George-Dog, please repeat.’
Mandrake repeated the code.
‘Good,’ Ripper said, ‘very good. As soon as you’ve done that, I want you to come on up here to my office.’
‘But,’ Mandrake said, ‘if I do that, there’ll be no one in control down here.’
‘Are you questioning my orders, Group Captain?’ Ripper snarled.
Mandrake instinctively rose to his feet and assumed a position of attention, holding the telephone rigidly to his ear while Ripper’s voice continued with various uncomplimentary epithets.
When it paused, Mandrake said quickly, ‘Sir, I am not questioning your orders, simply bringing the facts to your attention.’
Ripper’s fingers drummed on the desk top. He breathed deeply the regulation three times. Then he said, ‘You’re a good officer, Group Captain, and you’re perfectly within your rights to bring these facts to my attention, but I am in command here and when I issue orders I expect them carried out. Perhaps we do things a bit differently than you do in the RAF.’
That, Mandrake thought, was an understatement. But General Ripper was his commanding officer and he replied loyally, ‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘All right then, as soon as you’ve done that, I want you to get reports on base security. I want the base perimeter defended and I want road blocks set up a half-mile from the base. These commies are plenty smart and we can’t rule out the possibility of an attack by saboteurs.’
Mandrake, still rigidly at attention, snapped, ‘Yes, sir, will do.’
Ripper heard Mandrake’s quick affirmative, then put down his phone. He leaned back in his chair. Maybe in a little while he could relax, maybe even take a small shot of grain alcohol and pure water. But that was for later. There was still lots of work to do. He sighed and reached for another of his telephones.
LEPER COLONY
Inside Leper Colony, which was now circling gently in the vicinity of its Fail-Safe point, the crew were engaged in much the same tasks as when they had received the order to hold in that area.
Lieutenant Goldberg’s attention was suddenly and unpleasantly disturbed by a clicking from the CRM-114. He watched with vague interest while letters and numerals clicked into place on the dials, reached for his code book, and began decoding. When he had finished, he frowned in puzzlement, tapped the defence-systems officer, Lieutenant Dietrich, lightly on the shoulder to draw his attention, and showed him the message pad.
‘Some screwy joker,’ Dietrich said briefly and returned to the new card trick he was trying to perfect.
Goldberg frowned again, thought for a moment, then switched on his intercom. He said, ‘Hey, King, get a load of this off the CRM-114. Just come through. It decodes, Wing Attack Plan-R.’
King considered the matter. He repeated the message musingly. ‘Now what the hell they talkin’ about?’
‘Wing Attack Plan-R,’ Goldberg repeated. ‘That’s exactly what it says.’
Captain Ace Owens lowered his magazine. He looked across at King. ‘Is he kidding?’
King said firmly, ‘Well, check your code again, that just can’t be right.’
‘I have checked it again,’ Goldberg said.
King gestured to Ace, indicating that he was in executive command of the flight deck. He stood up slowly, then said, ‘Goldy, you must have made a mistake, Goldy.’
‘I’m telling you, goddammit,’ Goldberg said irately, ‘that’s how it decodes. You don’t believe me, you come and see for yourself.’
The whole crew had heard this interchange. From the lower deck Lothar Zogg and Sweets Kivel emerged and crowded with King around Goldberg and Dietrich. Ace Owens, leaving the plane to cruise on autopilot, went back to join the group.
Goldberg held out the code book to King. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you want to check it yourself?’
King looked at the book briefly, then he said, ‘All right, git a confirmation on that, Goldberg. Don’t you mention the message, you hear, jest ask fer confirmation.’
Goldberg manipulated various switches on the machine. The whole crew watched as first the letters and numerals disappeared, then reappeared exactly as before. There were a few moments of absolute silence while they thought about the unthinkable.
King scratched his head. He said, ‘You know, I’m beginnin’ to work to certain conclusions.’
In the silence of the next
few moments, while they thought about it, the expressions of the crew became grim. Slowly they all turned toward King, waiting for him to say the definitive word.
When King spoke, it was with quiet dignity. ‘Well, boys, I reckon this is it.’
‘What?’ Ace Owens said.
‘Com-bat.’
‘But we’re carrying hydrogen bombs,’ Lothar Zogg muttered.
King nodded gravely in assent. ‘That’s right, nuclear com-bat! Toe-to-toe with the Russkies.’
Lothar Zogg said thoughtfully and with a note of hope in his voice, ‘Maybe it’s just some kind of screwball exercise, just to see if we’re on our toes. You know the kind of thing they’re always dreaming up to check on us.’
King made a cutting motion with his right hand, dismissing the idea. ‘Shoot,’ he said, ‘they ain’t sendin’ us in there with this load on no exercise, that’s for damn sure.’
‘Yeah, but it could be sort of a loyalty test. You know, give the Go-code and then the Recall, just to find out who would actually go.’
‘Now listen to me, Lothar,’ King said, ‘that’s the Go-code! It’s never been given to anyone before and it would never be given as a test.’
Having delivered himself of this ultimate statement, King turned back to the pilot’s compartment alone. The others continued to discuss the matter, at first in hushed, sombre tones.
‘It’s going to be rough on the folks back home,’ Sweets Kivel said.
‘Yeah,’ Dietrich agreed, ‘really rough.’
Ace Owens said, ‘But how could it have started? It wasn’t supposed to happen.’
Sweets agreed with him. ‘That’s what I can’t figure. Just how it could have started.’
Meanwhile, alone in the pilot’s compartment, King sat in his seat gazing at his ancestral portraits. He fixed on the portrait of Bull Daddy Dawson. There was affection in his gaze and pride too. He said softly as he leaned forward and touched the portrait lightly, ‘Well, ole Bull Daddy, mebbe you won’t be top gun much longer.’ He became aware that the others were still yakking in a group around Goldberg.
