on the intercoms and they can, if they wish, also talk normally to one another by removing the lower part of their face plates. But the crew almost never talk except over the intercom; in fact, the crew members make very little small talk with one another, partly because their training has discouraged it, and partly because they are seldom close friends.
It had recently become SAC policy to circulate crew members at random among planes. The objective was to get identical performance from all men so that they acted as identical units of a class rather than as individual personalities. Given the cost and the speed and the importance of a Vindicator, no one wanted to count on camaraderie or crew morale for a mission to be successful.
There were no brothers-in-arms aboard a Vindicator, Grady thought. He had met his two crewmen before, but had never talked with them at any length. He would not, he knew, talk much to them while aloft. Each man’s burrow was also his duty. Within eyesight were hundreds of dials to watch, gauges to check, knobs to turn.
In case of a fatal emergency each man’s burrow would be automatically catapulted out from the plane at an enormous speed and, containing its own oxygen and control system, would bring the crew member safely to earth, or sea. At least that was the theory, but no one had yet been catapulted at maximum speed from a Vindicator without sustaining grave injuries. At maximum speed the ejection capsules were traveling faster than bullets, and the air, so soft and gentle when still, was suddenly hard and brutal. When ejected a man was whacked around unmercifully in the tumbling, spinning capsule. It was something Vindicator crews tried not to think about.
For all these reasons the crewmen of the Vindicator were a proud and highly qualified lot. Even in their loneliness they took a pride, for the great glistening smooth-packed machinery they flew also gave them a sense of self. The fact that they were locked into the mechanism, embraced by it, yet in control while at their positions gave them a feeling both of individuality and of being bound tightly to an organization.
At 0580 the flight of Vindicators was topped off with jet fuel from two huge jet tankers. They performed the operation flawlessly, sucking thousands of gallons of fuel from the tankers in a matter of minutes. They continued their orderly flight plan, each plane locked into the V-shape of the group, not varying position by more than a few feet although they were flying at over a thousand miles an hour. Beneath them the darkness of the land began to break, immense chains of mountains shouldered up into the faint light, a glacier glittered icily.
They received the radio order to fly toward their Fail-Safe point without comment. They had all done it before. Grady led the group in a great sweeping arc through the sky. They picked up speed and still maintained flawless position. Grady felt the pride of a perfect performance as they completed the change of course. They flew in a nonevasive arrow straight line. Evasive action was useless at this point and merely expended fuel.
Captain Thomas, the bombardier, handed Grady a form which said “Fuel range past Fail-Safe estimated 8,020 miles.”
Grady came up on the intercom and acknowledged the written form.
“Thomas seems all right,” Grady thought to himself. He looked over at the captain. All he could see was a pair of fine brown eyes, dark eyebrows, and a few square inches of white skin. The rest of Captain Thomas’ face was covered by. a helmet, oxygen mask, and microphone. Grady looked back at Lieutenant Sullivan, the weapons operator. Seeing only the eyes, he realized with a shock that their acquaintance was so slight he could not even reconstruct in his mind what Sullivan looked like. But he was impressed with Sullivan’s hands: they had long sensitive fingers and when they moved, to touch a knob or control, they moved with an absolute precision and a definite and utter mood of assurance.
Grady, Thomas, and Sullivan, grady thought to himself. No good war novel here. The whole damn crew is Anglo-Saxon. What we should have is a Jew in it and an Italian to give color. He almost came up on the intercom to mention this, but stopped himself short. Because of his seniority, Grady had missed the intensive indoctrination which the younger crew members had gone through at various training centers around the United States. He had noticed that they seemed to have almost no sense of humor about their work, and besides, these boys hadn’t read the war novels. For a moment, a quick piercing slice of time, Grady felt like an old man, part of an older generation.
In the next moment he forgot everything, for Thomas handed him the clipboard with the information that they were a hundred miles from the Fail-Safe point. At once, with a sense of exquisite control which was very deep in. his muscles and his brain, he began a long sweeping curve which would bring him just to the edge of the Fail-Safe point. He knew without having Thomas check that the other five Vindicators had begun to turn with him. This, for Grady, was why he had joined the Air Force. It was an act of pure artistry and it filled him with a thrill of pleasure. He felt the Vindicator tilt, saw the wings move, felt a slight change in pressure against his harness and knew that they had probably lost 125 miles an hour by their long skidding maneuver movement across the sky. Grady hoped that they would stay at the Fail-Safe point for a few minutes this morning. It was the one time when he could still fly the plane with a sense of independence and autonomy. For at the Fail-Safe point the group commander could fly random patterns at random speeds as long as he did not go beyond the Fail-Safe point, and did not vary his altitude by more than 1,000 feet.
The sun shone jaggedly on the western horizon. It shot out long rays of bright light which illuminated the high darkness, but left the land black. The outline of distant mountains was etched sharp. Once, by some mirage of refraction, a whole glacier flamed blue-white for a moment and then died. The flash of the glacier reminded Grady that the people on the land were still in darkness and it gave him pleasure. In a few more minutes they would be in first light, but now the great altitude of the Vindicators gave them sole possession of the light. The knowledge of dark and lightness allowed Grady a sense of satisfaction. He knew it was a childlike sense of superiority. It meant nothing. But it was precisely for these seemingly childlike reasons that Grady had wanted to fly. This time his pleasure was short. At once he was thinking of the day when planes would fly themselves; when flying would become a combination of engineering and science and men would be merely spectators.
Quite reflexively, as if to demonstrate his control, he put the Vindicator into a.sharp turn. The enjoyment of it, Grady thought, can be only man’s. Machines could probably do it just as well, but they would have no sense of excitement, no pleasure at the beauty of the six planes holding their positions while traveling at high speeds. The outboard planes, with longer sweep to cover, would put on just enough speed to maintain the V-shape.
“Sullivan, how is the group holding formation?” Grady asked over the intercom.
“Perfectly, sir,” Sullivan said instantly. “Even No. 6 is not out of position by more than five yards.”
Grady smiled behind his oxygen mask. He must remember to compliment Flynn, the pilot of No. 6, when they landed. The No. 6 plane labored under a special disadvantage. Although she carried no thermonuclear weapons, the No. 6 plane was, paradoxically, the most heavily laden of any plane in the group.
In every group this was the plane that carried a maximum load of defensive apparatus and devices. It was this plane which could jam the enemy radar gear, receive and analyze and attempt to foil enemy attack, spread decoys throughout the skies, and act, as Grady had always figured in his mind, as a wise but tuskless elephant might do in leading a group of muscular young bulls into action. The No. 6 plane was always flown by specialists who thoroughly understood the incredible intricacy of its weird perceptions, methods of analysis, and means of defense.
Grady moved the yoke and the Vindicator leveled off. The slight strain on his harness relaxed. He glanced around his limited arc of sky and saw it turning from a crystal gray to a deep endless blue. Then he received two signals which made his body go rigid even before his mind understood fully what had happened. In his earphones there was a sudden beeping noise repeated in short staccato bursts. Automatically he looked down at the Fail-Safe box which was installed between him and the bombardier. For the first time in his flying career the bulb on top of the box was glowing red. Then his intellect caught up with his reflexes: this was the real thing. Both he and Thomas looked up from the Fail-Safe box simultaneously. Thomas’ eyes seemed nonchalant. Grady’s response was unhesitating. He reached for the S.S.B. radio switch. This would put him in direct contact with Omaha. It was the Positive Control double-check. mediately, Grady knew, he would hear from Omaha the reassuring “No go.” Something had gone wrong with the Fail-Safe box. It would all be corrected. He flipped on the S.S.B. switch. A loud, pulsating drone filled his ears. No voice signal was possible.
“Request permission, sir, to verify,” Thomas said crisply.
“Permission granted,” Grady said automatically.
To his own ears Grady’s voice sounded small and chilled. He was stunned at the tonelessness in Thomas’ voice, the expressionless look in his eyes.
Grady reached into the map case beside his seat and took out a pure red envelope which bore in black letters the words “Fail-Safe--Procedure March 18.” Thomas was taking out an identical envelope from his map case. As
