by Peter George
Goldberg was becoming more and more excited. ‘Those bastards must have hit us!’ he said.
‘That’s right,’ Dietrich said loudly. ‘We wouldn’t have started it.’
King turned in his seat. Goldberg and Dietrich became suddenly aware of his jaundiced appraisal.
King said calmly but coldly, ‘Okay, so we’ve been hit. Awright, so where does that leave us? I tell you where it leaves us. We got to hit back! Reprisal! That’s the way it is, they hit us, we got to reprise. Ain’t that right?’
Dietrich exchanged glances with Goldberg. Both of them nodded their heads in assent. King was right, they both realised that.
Goldberg climbed out of his seat and made his way forward. His expression was sheepish. He stuck his hand out to Major Kong.
Having made his point, King once more became his usual affable self. He grasped Goldberg’s hand and shook it energetically.
King said, ‘Fergit it, Goldy. It could happen to the best of us. Now let’s get squared away, fellas, we got some flyin’ to do.’ He watched with paternal affection as the crew got back to their positions and prepared to commence their combat drills.
Dietrich opened a small safe and from among a dozen others selected a thick sealed envelope clearly marked: Plan-R. He held it up so King could see the marking. King looked at it closely and satisfied himself it was the correct envelope.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘open her up.’ He watched with grave approval while Dietrich broke open the seal and extracted from the envelope six individual folders, one for each of the crew.
Sweets Kivel, the navigator, said through the intercom, ‘First course is one-seven-five. Let you have a more accurate figure when I’ve plotted it. Shouldn’t take more than a minute.’
King leaned forward and adjusted his gyro. The great bomber banked, and turned automatically to the new heading.
As it turned, King read from his folder, which was the master copy. ‘Okay. Here’s the check list. Complete radio silence. The CRM-114 is to operate as of now. The emergency base code index for recall is to be set on the dials of the CRM-114. Okay, Goldy, you get that?’
‘Roger. I’m setting it up.’
As Goldberg set the CRM-114, Sweets came up with the heading. ‘One-seven-eight, King.’
‘Roger. One-seven-eight.’ King leaned forward to adjust his gyro and again the plane banked to starboard toward the new heading.
King again read from his folder. ‘Primary target the ICBM complex at Laputa. First weapon fused for air burst. Your second weapon will be used if first malfunctions. Otherwise proceed to secondary target. Borchav, that missile base. Fused air burst. Any questions?’
The crew had no questions.
King went on. ‘Okay now, in about ten minutes we start losing altitude to keep under their radar. We’ll cross in over the coast about fifteen thousand, then drop low level to the primary. Okay, boys, now how about some hot Java?’
WASHINGTON
The Fabulous Hotel occupied an entire city block. Architecturally it was a monstrosity, but throughout its eighteen floors it offered luxury of almost Oriental opulence to those who could afford to stay there. These fortunate people were for the most part top government officers and military chiefs, successful lobbyists and members of Congress.
On the seventeenth floor, in suite 1704, the Chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was in residence. His name was General Turgidson, known to his many associates as ‘Buck.’ He was presently enjoying a cooling and relaxing shower while his secretary, who was known to the crew of Leper Colony as Miss Foreign Affairs, was lying on her stomach on a bed.
Miss Foreign Affairs, a tall shapely brunette, was dressed in a spotted bikini which did more to emphasize than conceal her figure. Over the sound of General Buck Turgidson singing under the shower a telephone rang insistently. Miss Foreign Affairs raised her head, got up on her knees, and looked at the phone. She called out, ‘Buck, should I get it?’
Turgidson’s voice came from inside the bathroom. He said, ‘Yeah, you’ll have to.’
Miss Foreign Affairs switched off the sun lamp under which she had been basking, got off the bed, and leaned forward to pick up the receiver.
‘Hello... Oh yes, General Turgidson is here, but I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone right now... Oh, this is his secretary Miss Wood. Freddie, how are you?... Just fine, thank you... Oh, we were just catching up on some of the General’s paper work... Well, look, Freddie, he’s all tied up right at the moment I’m afraid. He can’t possibly come to the phone... Oh, I see, just a second... General Turgidson, Colonel Puntrich is calling.’
Turgidson shouted from the bathroom, ‘Tell him to call back.’
The girl said quickly into the telephone, ‘Freddie, the General says could you call back in a minute or two... oh I see.’ She called to Turgidson, ‘He says it can’t wait.’
Again Turgidson’s voice was heard. ‘Ah, for Pete’s sake. Well, find out what he wants.’
‘Freddie, the thing is the General is in the powder room right now. Could you tell me what it’s about?... Buck, apparently they monitored a transmission about eight minutes ago from Burpelson Air Force Base. It was directed to the 843 Bomb Wing on airborne patrol – it decoded as Wing Attack Plan-R.’
The sound of water died away. Turgidson was annoyed. He said, ‘Er... um... tell him to call what’s-his-name... the base commander, Ripper. Do I have to think of everything around this place?’
Miss Wood – or Miss Foreign Affairs – said, ‘Freddie, are you there? Well listen, the General suggests you call General Ripper... oh I see... You mean all communications are dead?’
Turgidson said loudly, ‘Tell him to check on that personally.’
Miss Wood said quickly, ‘The General suggests you try him again yourself... oh I see.’ She covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with her hand and spoke toward the bathroom. ‘He says he’s tried several times but just can’t get General Ripper to answer.’
General Buck Turgidson padded out of the bathroom wearing a dazzling robe. He took the receiver from his secretary, who knelt on the pillow of the bed and got a cigarette from her handbag.
Turgidson said, ‘Fred, Buck here. What’s it look like. Ah... ah yeah... is it really Plan-R? Hah... well... well, what’s cooking on the threat board?... Nothing!’ He moved his head to the right to allow his secretary to put a cigarette in his mouth.
‘Nothing at all... I don’t like the look of this, Fred... ah yeah... tell you what you’d better do, old buddy. You give Elmo and Charlie a blast, bump everything up to condition Red and stand by the blower. I’ll get back to you.’ He replaced the receiver.
Miss Wood looked at him. Her big, liquid eyes were devoted. She said, ‘What’s up, honey?’
Turgidson said, ‘Nothing. Where’s my shorts?’
‘On the floor. Where are you going?’
Turgidson moved round to the far side of the other bed. He said, ‘No place special. I just thought I’d mosey over to the War Room, see what’s going on there.’ He bent and picked up his shorts from the floor.
‘But it’s three o’clock in the morning!’
Turgidson quickly slipped on his shorts and then shucked off his robe. He said, ‘Well, the Air Force never sleeps.’
Miss Wood lay back on the bed. She said, ‘Buck, honey. I’m not sleepy either.’ There was a quality in her voice that made Turgidson turn quickly to look at her.
Turgidson said, ‘Ah, I know how it is, baby.’ He crawled across the second bed where she was lying. He said fondly, ‘Tell you what you do. Look, you start your count down right now and old Buckie will be back here before you can say re-entry.’
She looked at him fondly and reached out a hand to stroke his short bristling hair. Then she brought up her other arm around his neck and clasped him tightly to her.
BURPELSON AIR FORCE BASE
The calm and peaceful atmosphere which had previously existed that night at Burpelson had been violently shattered by Ge
neral Ripper’s orders to seal tight the base.
Squads of armed men moved purposefully in all directions, and in many places machine-gun teams were digging in their weapons to command the approaches to the base. Grenades had been issued to those thought competent to handle them, that is, to those who would be less dangerous to their own men than the enemy. There were not many of these, for Burpelson was primarily an air base, and a good mechanic is not necessarily a good combat soldier. However, over a thousand men were now deployed in defence of the base, and General Ripper watched their activities from his huge armoured window with approval and satisfaction.
He turned away from the window and walked over to his desk, picked up a hand microphone, and switched on the public-address system. He began to speak. This of course was normal procedure. Whenever he had something of importance to say, the commanding general always addressed his troops.
All over the base his voice echoed metallically from the big speakers. Men paused in their activities to listen to him, for Ripper was admired and respected by most of the men he commanded.
‘...is why I am speaking to you at this moment. Many of you may never have seen a nuclear device exploded and because of this may have some exaggerated concern about casualties.’
‘Let me frankly assure you, as your commanding officer, there is very little difference between an ordinary bullet and an H-bomb, except possibly a matter of degree, maybe a lot smaller degree than all these experts say. But there is one thing I have learned – if your number’s up there is nothing you can do about it, and one way or another it amounts to the same thing.’
An airman digging in a machine gun on the main approach road to the base nudged his buddy in the ribs. He said, ‘Well, I never thought of it that way before. The old man sure makes it clear. Whatever it is, you’re just as dead.’
‘That’s right,’ the other airman replied, ‘we’re just as dead.’
Ripper’s voice went on ‘...but there are other types of attack – they are detailed on the operation order – which could be fatal to us here at Burpelson.’
Ripper then detailed the orders required by Operation Oyster. These included: (a) To defend the Constitution of the United States whatever may be the outcome of this defence. (b) To obey without question the orders of the commanding officer and of him alone. (c) To suspect and to fire upon saboteurs, however friendly they may appear to be. (d) To hold our belief in God and rely on the purity of our bodily essences.
Ripper paused, cleared his throat, and reached for a glass of the rain water he had poured before he began to speak to his men. Then he continued: ‘Now I know you men are familiar with the details of this order and I don’t think there’s one of you here will let me down, but I thought it was best to repeat the prime details to you, in all our interests.’
Again he paused, but this time to master the overwhelming emotion, which he was sure would otherwise be reflected in his voice and might affect the men. He did not want them misty-eyed when they might need clear vision to engage the enemy. He succeeded in controlling his emotion and then continued in his normal tone.
‘In conclusion, men, I’d like to say that in the two years that I have been privileged to be your commanding officer, I have always expected the best from you and you have never given me anything less than that. Good luck to you all.’
He sank back in his chair and lit a cigar. He felt tired now, but he also felt an enormous inner satisfaction. It was done. The base was sealed tight. Operation Oyster had been implemented. He knew his boys would never let him down.
The door of his office opened and Group Captain Mandrake entered.
LEPER COLONY
In the narrow, confined space between the pilot’s compartment and the position where the defence-systems officer and radar/radio officer sat, the five members of the crew were crowded together facing King. It was a solemn moment.
Beside him, piled on his seat, which he had vacated while the plane cruised on autopilot, were six plastic packages looking like boys’ Christmas surprise parcels.
King picked up one of the packages and held it up so everyone could see it. He addressed the crew, who maintained a respectful silence.
He said, ‘Okay, boys, I have to hand out these survival kits before we go over enemy territory. In them you will find’ – he began to read on the reverse side of the package – ‘one .45 automatic; two boxes ammunition; four days’ concentrated emergency rations; one fishing line and hooks; six plastic worms for use with fishing line; one pocketknife; one compass; one drug issue containing antibiotic pills, morphine pills, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilliser pills; one miniature combination Russian phrase book and Bible; one hundred dollars in gold; four 21-jewel Swiss watches; one hundred dollars in rubles; five gold-plated fountain pens; ten packs chewing gum; one issue prophylactics; three lipsticks; three pairs nylon stockings.’
The check list finished, King then handed out one of the packages to each of the crew, who stepped forward in turn to receive it. His own package he stowed away at the side of his seat. And Leper Colony continued smoothly and on schedule toward the enemy coast.
THE PENTAGON
It is said that the state of world tension can be accurately assessed by estimating the number of lights which burn through the night at the Pentagon. Normally there are few. They burn in the rooms of the duty officers, the cipher staff, and other officials whose offices need to be manned through all the hours of the day and all the days of every year. On this night many more lights than usual burned in the vast building.
Inside the building there were many elevators. One of these had been seen by very few people. It was now descending to a level hundreds of feet below the ground floor. The doors of the elevator slid open and a huddle of men emerged, rapidly fanning out into a protective cordon, which moved briskly down the bare corridor that confronted the elevator doors.
The secret-service men who comprised this escort, ten in number, ran at a good clip to keep up with the swiftly moving object they were protecting. The object was a small electric car in which sat Muffley, President of the United States.
As the car moved along, with its heavily breathing escort, past immaculate and alert carbine-equipped guards who lined the walls of the corridor at intervals of twenty-five feet, President Muffley was utilising a battery-powered electric shaver. The party pressed on through the labyrinthine corridor, then came to a halt facing a heavy metal door, above which was inscribed the sign: CATEGORY ONE – MAXIMUM SECURITY AREA. The President, after running an exploratory hand round his face, slipped the shaver back into its slot and stepped out of the car.
The metal door was guarded by a captain and two sergeants, armed respectively with a .45 automatic and machine carbines. The three men snapped smartly to attention as the President, now flanked by his secret-service men, walked toward them.
The President stopped in front of the captain. He said absently, ‘Good morning, Captain,’ at the same time motioning with his hand for the door to be opened.
The captain, rigidly at attention, his face a model of military impassiveness, permitted his lips to move enough to say, ‘Good morning, sir. Your pass, please.’
President Muffley frowned and fumbled hurriedly through his pockets. Then he said, ‘Well now, I’m sorry, Captain. I’m afraid I left my wallet in my bedroom.’
He stepped forward but the captain blocked his way, at the same time saying, ‘I’m sorry, sir. This is a maximum security area. Security Regulations, 134B – Section 7 – Sub-section D – Item 6 require...’
‘We know all that,’ the chief of the secret-service men said. Then he lowered his voice to denote respect.
‘This is the President, Captain.’ The captain remained immobile and impassive. The President said, ‘You do recognise me, I take it, Captain?’
‘Yes, sir. I believe I do, sir, but Security Regulations, 134B – Section 7 – Sub-section D – Item 6, state definitely that White House ID pass will be sur
rendered by all personnel entering the War Room. There may be no exception to this regulation, sir.’
President Muffley shuffled his feet embarrassedly. He said, ‘Captain, this is a very awkward and unfortunate situation. The National Security Council is already assembled and waiting for me on a matter of the gravest urgency. Even minutes may count. You have my personal assurance that the rules may be overlooked on this occasion.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I cannot allow you to enter. Security Regulations, 134B – Section 7 – Sub-section D – Item 6...’
As he spoke the President gave an imperceptible sign to the chief of the secret-service men. The entire escort rushed the captain and his two sergeants and overwhelmed them in a welter of heaving bodies. The chief stepped forward and opened the door for the President to enter, then followed him into the room, accompanied by two secret-service men who had not been involved in the fracas.
The room was large and rectangular. It was completely bare of furniture except for a single chair placed at its centre. The President walked rapidly to the chair and settled himself into it comfortably. Then he produced a handkerchief with which he wiped his streaming eyes. He was suffering from a severe cold and a persistent headache.
The two secret-service men waited deferentially for the President to finish using his handkerchief. Then, when he had tucked it away in his pocket, they stepped forward and strapped him securely into the chair. The chief had meanwhile moved across to the wall, which was decorated only by one large hand switch. He was standing beside the switch, poised and ready to operate it at the President’s signal.
The President looked at him and said, ‘Hold it a moment, Charlie. Get this thing straightened out, will you? Send somebody back for the pass.’
