Grady’s fingers tore open the envelope he Looked at the face of the Fail-Safe box. There were six apertures, each of them about an inch square. Always, until this moment, the apertures had been blank. Now in bold white figures there were three letters and three numbers: CAP-SI 1. The Fail-Safe box was an intricate machine made up of a radio receiving device, plus six wheels, each of which contained either all the letters of the alphabet or the numbers from 1 through 9. When the radio receiver within the box was activated by a direct signal put into the machine by the Intelligence officer on each base and unknown to any crew member,
letters and numbers would appear in the aperture.
Grady got his envelope open and took out a thick white 8-by-8-inch card. On the top line was the date and below it were the words and letters CAP-811. He held the card directly over the machine to make sure that he was not mistaken. Thomas, in the meanwhile, had taken out an identical card which he held next to Grady’s. They both confirmed that the machine was showing the correct code sequence for the day.
“Request permission to authenticate on the secondary channel, sir,” Thomas said.
“Permission granted,” Grady said.
Thomas removed a red plastic cover from a dial which was labeled FAIL-SAFE ALTERNATE CRANNEL.
Without a moment’s hesitation he. turned the dial to the right. Instantly the red light and the beeping stopped. The letters and numbers disappeared from the apertures in the Fail-Safe box. Grady scanned the sky again, felt his musdes bulging against the tight harness. His mind was utterly blank. In three seconds the beeping started and the light went on again. The Fail-Safe box was now receiving its signal on a different channel. When Grady looked at the six apertures they again said “CAP-811.” Again Grady held his card directly over the apertures and Thomas held his card next to Grady’s. They checked.
Grady felt a spasm of doubt, a kind of upwelling of disbelief. It had never happened before, it could not be happening now. He thought of alternatives: he could not radio General Bogan at Omaha. He could keep circling at Fail-Safe, hoping for some other form of verification. And then he looked at Sullivan and Thomas. They were looking at him casually, their eyes unblinking and unquestioning. They were innocently implacable.
Grady felt as if his vertebrae had suddenly fused together. His hands did not shake but he felt all bone and muscle and cartilage. He was aware that Thomas was looking at him with something like puzzlement in his exposed eyes.
Grady felt that something had happened to the vital living parts of his body-the heart, brain, eyes, ears, and tongue had died. He felt for a moment that he would not be able to speak. He ordered his tongue to move, to speak the words he knew he must say.
“I read it as CAP-811,” Grady heard his voice say. This was the procedure in which they had been drilled thousands of times, but the voice did not sound like that of Grady. It seemed to come from somewhere in the intercom system, to be a mechanical and inhuman voice.
“I verify your reading as CAP-811,” Thomas said.
“We will now both open our operational orders,” Grady said, and again the voice did not seem to belong to him.
Grady reached down for the envelope in the map case. For a brief second he saw Sullivan looking at him. Again he had the impression of blankness, the eyes without the mouth and with the exposed flesh squeezed tight by mouthpiece and helmet, told nothing. If the masks and helmets were off, Grady thought, would Sullivan’s face be filled with terror? Somehow he doubted it. Sullivan looked back at his tubes and analyzers. Grady began to open the operational plan.
Squarely on the middle of the envelope containing the plan and in small red block letters were the words Top SECRET. In smaller black letters in the lower lefthand corner was a sentence which said TO BE OPENED ONLY AT SPECIFIC ORDERS AND UNDER CURRENT OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS. In the lower right-hand corner were the words DESTROY BEFORE CAPTURE OR ABANDONMENT OF AIRCRAFT. The flap closing the envelope was sealed at three places. The envelope was well designed to accomplish two purposes: it could not be opened without detection, but it could be opened easily.
Grady broke the seals and looked at the familiar format of the operational plan. It was all contained on a single stiff piece of paper. The rest of the enclosures were alternative plans, escape mutes, survival techniques, a cellophane-wrapped card which Grady knew gave the names of possible American agents within Russia and which would dissolve into a shapeless piece of cellulose the moment it touched water, even the amount of moisture that one had in his mouth.
The top line of the plan said: “Target: Moscow.” The second line said “Approach and penetration,” and described the altitude and speeds at which they were to fly. No. 6 plane was to take the lead. There were detailed instructions on what to do under varying conditions of fighter plane, missile, and antiaircraft attack.
On another line there were instructions as to bomb placement and settings. Under optimum conditions twelve bombs would be laid symmetrically over Moscow to explode at an altitude of 5,000 feet, Vindicators to bomb from an altitude of 60,000 feet.
In some unguarded and unclassified part of Grady’s mind there was a stunning montage of old motion pictures of bombs exploding at Eniwetok and Los Alamos and Bikini. The twelve great fireballs would gently touch and then feeding upon one another would gradually mold into a huge shuddering second-long unbearable white and heloid shimmer of pure heat. Deliberately, and aware that this vision was part sensual. Grady snapped off the picture. Thomas’ large cool blue eyes were looking at him.
“Do you want to come up on the TBS, sir?” Thomas said.
The TBS was a very low-powered radio which would carry only a few miles and was designed for communication between the planes in the group. Its signals were deliberately designed so that they could not be heard beyond a short radius.
“Just a minute, Thomas,” Grady said. He felt a strong necessity to do something more but was not dear what. A dread sense of lonely helplessness engulfed him. He knew there was only one explanation for his jammed radio and the “go” order on his Fail-Safe box: the Russians had started an attack. Further hesitation might play into Russian hands. He must follow his orders. This was what all his years of training had been about. No time now for doubt& He shook his head clear.
Grady looked into the eyes of the two strangers-the two magnificent technicians who might have been hundreds of other anonymous experts. Behind his mask he licked his lips. The four eyes rested lightly on him. They were without accusation. He imagined them to be burning with certitude, glowing with an innocent assurance. Indeed, why shouldn’t they be? The machines were with them. Somehow, in a way he could not understand, the four cool eyes soothed the nerve in Grady’s mind. He felt the surety of command flow back into him. When he spoke, his voice was for the first time his own and it was confident.
“Switch on the TBS, Thomas,” Grady said. With utter confidence he picked up the microphone and began to give penetration orders to the group.
There was a sergeant standing at the door of the conference room. He saluted Black as he approached.
“General, they have moved the conference to the Big Board room,” the sergeant said. He shrugged before Black asked the question. “I don’t know why, General. Scuttlebutt is that the Secretary of Defense is going to be there. That draws the flies, so they needed more room.”
Black smiled at the ramrod-straight sergeant’s jazzy lingo (probably a college boy “doing his time'), turned and almost bumped into General Stark. Stark had heard the sergeant. The two men started off for the elevator which would drop them down into the suspended concrete cube hundreds of feet below the Pentagon.
“I think Swenson wants to see Wilcox in action,” Stark said. “I hear that he doesn’t think Wilcox was the best choice for SecArmy, so he may be along to roast him a bit.”
“Maybe,” Black said, but he doubted it. Swenson would size up a new man but not roast him.
The. briefing was for Wilcox, the new Secretary of the Army, but beyond that Black did not try to follow Stark’s logic. Stark was a contemporary of Black’s, they were both young generals on the way up, but they were very different. Stark had made his way politically.
He was quick, but he relied on the brilliance of others to form his career. Black had concluded that Stark would have made general on his own talents, but he enjoyed the Machiavellian role. He traded in gossip, inside dope, and a prescience for what would happen in the future. Stark’s being political was not because of laziness or doubts of his own ability. Indeed he worked with great energy and had ability, but he loved the intricacy of personality conflict, was fascinated with the struggle between powerful men. Had he been dull, he would have been a superb manager of prize fighters. Being brilliant, he was a manager of men with ideas. Stark had discovered