diplomats, the President, all of us. Why the hell do you think we have fighter planes following the Vindicators? Just to protect them if they ‘go’? Don’t be silly. We always knew that one of their tasks was to shoot down the Vindicators if there was a mistake. All right, there has been a mistake. Get on the horn to the fighters, Colonel.”
Colonel Cascio lifted his hand. It was a peculiar gesture. It was partly a plea for time, partly as if he were warding off some grotesque thing, partly the gesture a child makes when threatened.
“General, the fighters-”
“Colonel, get on that horn and give the order,” eral Bogan said. “Every second you delay takes them further away from the Vindicators.”
Colonel Casdo began to move the levers and buttons that would put him in direct voice communication with the fighters. But even as he did this he kept talking.
“Even if they catch the bombers, General, which isn’t likely, they won’t have enough fuel to get back,” Colonel Cascio said. “They’ll go down in the ocean or on enemy territory.”
A voice came up on the War Room intercom. It was the officer in charge of Fighter Direction.
“General Bogan, we are in voice communication with Tangle-Able-l,” the voice said. “You can talk to
them on Channel 7, Single Side Band.”
General Bogan nodded and Colonel Casdo lifted a lever. Instantly there was the blurred static.heavy sound of long-distince radio transmission.
“Do I tell them in code or dear language?” Colonel Cascio asked.
“Clear language,” General Bogan said. “That is standard.”
Colonel Cascio knew this. It had been hammered out after months of discussion that if a situation arose in which our own fighters must shoot down our own planes there would be no disadvantage and, possibly, some advantage in having the enemy bear the transmission.
“This is Tangle-Able-1,” a young strong voice said through the static. “I read you five by five at last transmission.”
Colonel Cascio bent forward and spoke into a microphone, his voice only slightly thin and weak. “Tangle- Able-1, this is Colonel Cascio on the Omaha staff.” Sweat now stood out on his forehead. “Group 6 has flown through the Fail-Safe point and is on an attack course towards Moscow. It is a mistake. I repeat: it is a mistake. Go to afterburners and overtake and attack Group 6.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then the young voice came back loud and dear.
“Roger. Go to afterburners and overtake and attack Group 6,” the voice said.
Colonel Casdo leaned forward and switched the lever off. To General Bogan, watching, Colonel Casdo’s posture was that of a child crying soundlessly.
The lead plane of the six Skyscrappers made a long sweeping turn. The voice of the captain in charge of the flight came up on the TBS radio. He knew he could be heard only by the six planes in the flight.
“I don’t know what those mother-grabbers back in Omaha are doing, but you all heard the order,” the captain said. “We overtake and shoot down the Vindicators.”
“That will be the day,” a twenty-one-year-old pilot of one of the fighters said. “Us with a 50-mile-an-hour edge on the Vindicators and those bastards halfway to Moscow already.”
“By SOP they will divert a KC-135 to refuel us,” an-other voice said sweetly. “It does 560 an hour, we do 1,600. By the time we run out of fuel they’ll be about a thousand miles away. Everything is beautifully organized.”
“Don’t knock the staff people,” a voice said mockingly. “After you run out of fuel you make a thousand-mile glide back to the tankers. Any flier worth his salt should be able to do that in a Skyscrapper.”
Someone laughed briefly. They knew that the elegant little plane with its short wings would start to drop like a stone as soon as it lost power.
None of the six pilots thought they would overtake the Vindicators. They knew they would not be able to fly their fighters back to their bases. If they thought of anything they thought of two things. First, would the ejection capsule and parachute really operate at 1,600 miles an hour? Second, how long could a man live in arctic waters?
“Cut the chatter,” the captain in command said. “On the mark, go to afterburners.”
The captain counted from five down to one and then said quietly, “Mark.” Six fingers shifted six levers. Against the six young and doomed bodies the seat-backs slammed relentlessly. From a hundred tubes toward the end of the jet engines raw fuel poured into the hot flames of the exhaust. The planes trembled under the instantaneous acceleration and then steadied down to the chase.
Lieutenant Colonel Grady looked out and down. In front of the Vindicators the surface of the Pacific was black, so black it was purple. It looked not at all like water, but like thickened darkness.
Grady felt motelike, tiny, pushed by the great expanding aura of light behind him. He wished, in a quick irrational flash, that the sun would hold. To fly in darkness seemed protective.
Grady glanced quickly at the other two men in the Vindicator. They were intent on their instruments.
Suddenly Grady envied them their innocence with a remorse so great that it was close to hatred.
“Get the Pentagon back again,” the President said.
The President’s leg was still tossed over the arm of the chair, his cigar had developed only a small ash.
Swenson came up on the telephone.
“Mr. Secretary, four fighters shoot down the Vindicators it will be tragic, but the big problem will be over,” the President said. “I would like your people to be thinking about what we do if the fighters cannot shoot down the bombers.”
Swenson looked around the room. For a moment he debated whether or not to turn the Big Board off, but decided to leave it on as a reminder of the urgency of the situation. The problem was to get the fuziest possible answers to the questions in the least amount of time.
“Gentlemen, Omaha is plugged in with us and General Bogan and Colonel Casdo are listening in at that end,” Swenson said. “Mr. Knapp, the president of Universal .Electronics, and Congressman Raskob are also at Omaha on a visit. I have given them permission to listen to our discussion and to comment if they have something to say.”
Swenson’s voice had been almost excessively calm. Now when he spoke again, there was in his voice the sharp metallic ring of urgency.
“In a very short time the President will be back to us and he will Want answers to some questions,” Swenson said. “First, what happened? Secondly, what to do if the fighters cannot overtake the Vinclicators? Thirdly, what are the Russians going to think of all this? Fourth, what will they do about it? The discussion will be only on these points.”
Swenson glanced around the table. His eyes stopped when they came to Black. Black’s unblinking eyes, deep-sunken, almost invisible, looked steadily at him.
“General Black, will you very quickly bring us up to date on what has happened,” Swenson said.
“Mr. Secretary, the first thing to face is the fact that we are flying blind,” Black said. “No one knows exactly what has happened. All we know for sure is that SAG Group No.6 flew through its Fail-Safe point and, unless stopped, will attempt to make an attack on Moscow. Basically only two things could have happened: a compound mechanical failure or someone in Group 6 has gone berserk.”
“Statistically a double mechanical failure is almost impossible,” Groteschele growled.
“But it is conceivable, is it not?” Swenson asked the question so sharply that Black wondered if somehow he had been briefed on the earlier discussion.
Groteschele hesitated. “Of course it is possible, but…” Groteschele said, but stopped when Swenson swung his head away.
Bogan’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. Somewhere a technician adjusted the volume and it seemed
