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 queer 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
