You stated the general instruction just now: whenever anything occurs that looks serious get on the red phone.”
The President paused again. He looked back at the pencil.
“Look. Buck, If things get really serious we might have to use the ‘hot wire’ which connects me with the Kremlin,” the President said and paused. “For the first time.”
Buck knew that late in 1962 Washington and Moscow had agreed to maintain a constant telephone connection between the American President and the Premier of Russia. It had promptly been labeled the “hot wire.” Buck also knew that it had never been used. For the first time since his phone rang that morning, a chill went through Peter Buck.
“Most situations I can handle myself,” the President went on, “but I don’t speak Russian. You do. You might have to translate for me and the translation has to be not only literally perfect, but it should catch every emphasis I intend and the tones I use to convey meaning. Sb from now on you listen to every conversation I have on the phone. As soon as the conversation is over I will tell you what I think of it. Don’t argue with me, but just make sure you understand what I feel. All right?”
“Yes, sir,” Buck said. “It’s new to me, but I’ll try.”
The President leaned back in his chair and dosed his eyes. “That’s all you can do. That’s all any of us can do.” When he spoke again it was in an intimate and completely unguarded manner, a kind of verbal free- association.
“I’ve talked to Bogan in Omaha twice since 10:80,” he said. “Good man. Old type flier. Not afraid of all the new equipment. If he’s worried, I’m worried. O.K. Then I talked to Wilcox. New Secretary of the Army. He’s tough, but too tough for a new man. Too sure. We listen to him, but we take his advice slow. Very, very slow. Now the switchboard is trying to get Swenson. You know Swenson?”
The President did not open his eyes. Buck realized that he was both relaxing and giving instructions at the same time.
“No, sir,” Buck said. “I know he is Secretary of Defense, but that is all.”
“To Swenson we listen and if he gives advice we take it all,” the President said. “Unless I tell you otherwise, whatever Swenson says is what I think.”
The phone rang and the President opened his eyes and nodded at Buck to pick up his phone also.
“Mr. President, it’s Swensom at the Pentagon,” a dry small voice said. “I am in my own office, but have an urgent call to come to the Big Boardroom. There was also the word to call you.” The voice stopped. There was no apology or hesitation, merely that Swenson had conveyed all the information he felt pertinent.
“It might be nothing, Swenson,” the President said. “It might be big trouble. One of our groups of Vindicators flew through its Fail-Safe point and is headed toward Russia. Positive Control has broken down. Omaha doesn’t know how it happened. I talked to Wilcox in your Big Board room and he doesn’t either, but he is talking tough. I’d like you to get down there and be ready for anything. Keep that college professor Groteschele there and don’t let the military boys drown him out. Also Blackie, General Black, is there. Keep him there whatever happens.”
“Any particular reason, Mr. President?” the Secretary of Defense asked.
“No. He is an old friend and a classmate. I know him and trust him in any situation,” the President said with no apology.
“Yes, I understand,” Swenson said. “Anything else?”
“That’s all,” the President said.
The phone dicked dead instantly and without a farewell salutation.
The President grinned at Buck.
“Wastes no time,” the President said. “I wish I liked the sonofabitch a little better. All I can do is respect him. But that’s enough.”
Buck had seen Swenson from a distance, but had never heard him talk. Even so he knew a good deal about the man. He was something of a legend, a fable, in a capital which was accustomed to unusual men. Swenson looked like a clerk who had come to power by mistake. He was thin, shy, easily embarrassed, and at the same time abrupt, incisive, and cold. Socially he seemed to be a man who wanted to blend into the gray background, who shrank from contact. He dressed with an unmistakable flair for the totally inconspicuous, almost as if his clothes were camouflage. A Time cover story had stated, “He is the only self-made millionaire in the United States who looks as if his clothes were bought by his wife off the racks at a discount house.” In high school and college class photographs Swenson was the person no one could remember. Meeting him face to face it was impossible to conceive of Swenson as a bold administrator, a courageous innovator.
It took powerful and sensitive men only a few minutes, however, to realize that when they faced Swenson they faced an equal. If they were especially perceptive they sensed that in a peculiar, understated and almost eerie way Swenson was their superior. He had a calm, steely mind that would, if Swenson had allowed it full swing, have been dazzling. But he went to great pains to conceal his extraordinary intelligence. Swenson listened carefully to everyone in whom he had confidence, his head tilted to one side carefully evaluating what was said. The moment there was a flaw in logic or a missing piece of evidence he asked a quiet question.
Talking to Swenson was not a task that the average man liked. It was too much like a quiet and merciless interrogation. In his months in the Pentagon Swenson had quietly shifted dozens of admirals and generals out of important positions on the basis of a five-minute conversation with them. Men of the first quality, men who possessed the capacity for real power and a deep intuition, responded quickly to Swenson. Lesser men never quite understood Swenson. They were not around him long enough. Quietly and without injury to their reputations, they were disposed of. Swenson could not tolerate incompetence.
The President picked up the red phone. He nodded to Buck to pick up his phone.
“Get Omaha again,” he said.
The big clock on the wall showed 10:40.
Early that morning, while it was still dark, Lieutenant Colonel Grady, the commander of Group 6, had stood beside his Vindicator bomber and examined it in the cold, harsh, unblinking floodlights of the airstrip.
It is a dream bomber, Grady thought. On the ground it looks ungainly. Its wings droop. Its landing gear is very high to allow a great sleek pod to be slung under the regular fuselage. The pod contains extra bombs, or fuel, or air-to-air missiles, or deception apparatus. The pod is beautifully streamlined and makes the Vindicator look somewhat more muscular. On the ground, however, motionless and quiet, the Vindicator has the flamingo look of long improbable legs attached to a powerful body.
Once aloft, however, the Vindicator is sheer beauty. The wings rise, the landing gear retracts, and the Vindicator has a graceful jeweled lapidary look. Inside it is even more sophisticated and elegant. Although it is an enormously intricate piece of machinery, it is flown by only three men. Everything has been miniaturized, transistorized, servo-reinforced, and automated. It is flown by a pilot, a bombardier, and a weapons operator. In fact, the plane has been so mechanized that it could fly, fight, and drop bombs served by only a single man.
There was more than an aesthetic and mechanical reason why older men like Grady who flew the Vindicator loved the plane. They realized, some of them, with all the agony of a doomed love affair, that it was probably the last of its type. Maybe the RS-70 would be something like the Vindicator, but the old-timers knew they would not fly them. For them the Vindicator was the last plane. The Vindicator had pushed the cooperation between men and machinery to its uppermost limit. The next plane would surely be so fast, complicated, and intricate that it would be flown without humans aboard. The plane would, in fact, be a guided missile.
But the Vindicator crew, Grady thought proudly, still exercises judgment, the plane still responds to our bands. Our eyes scan the countless instruments. We must bring her screaming and protesting in for taut landings.
The bombardier and weapons operator walked by Grady and climbed into the plane. Like most of the younger airmen they did not glance at the Vindicator. They squeezed into the plane, map cases in their hands, eager to get into their burrows, fasten on their helmets and set about their tasks.
Grady looked up once more at the molded perfection of the Vindicator’s shape, ignoring her ungainly landing gear, and climbed aboard. Two minutes later he had her screaming down the runway. Behind him five other Vindicators leaned into the takeoff. Three hours later they were 60,000 feet in the chill air over Alaska. It was just turning daylight.
Once seated and strapped into the Vindicator, the three-man crew cannot move about. The plane is so full of machinery that the three tiny places which the men occupy hold them as tightly as individual burrows. They can talk
