weight they could approach 2,000 miles an hour and slip through for the Moscow bomb run.
The sound of a commotion came over the touch phone. Muffled voices in Russian weie interrupted by a louder noise. Then a single Russian voice caine over the line. The translator’s flat English explained: “Marshal Nevsky has just collapsed. It appears to be—I don’t know. He is being carried out of the room. General Koniev is now in command.”
Simultaneously the voices of the President and Swenson interrupted, demanding an explanation.
“I think I can explain,” General Bogan broke in. His voice was sympathetic and full of understanding. “Marshal Nevsky sent his fighters after our No. 6 plane, though I told him it carried no bombs. This final diversion let the other two planes through. But he did what any good officer would do. He followed standard safeguarding procedures. He went after all three. Our final approach tactic is based upon the assumption this will occur. Moscow will shortly receive 80 megatons. Marshal Nevsky realized this almost immediately.”
The Big Board quickly verified General Bogan’s prediction. The two remaining Vindicators went into a steep dive and fifteen seconds later they disappeared.
The Soviet fighters began to disperse again in a random pattern.
“The two Vindicators have gone off our screen,”
General Koniev said. “Do you still have them?”
“No, General, we have lost them too,” General Bogan said.
General Koniev paused. General Bogan sensed that he wanted reassurance. General Bogan also sensed that the best way to give it was to remain silent.
“Can you raise them by radio?” General Konlev asked.
“No,” said General Bogan. “The bombers resumed silence after the President’s recall attempt failed. However, we’re still trying.”
“What defensive capacity do they still have?” General Koniev asked.
General Bogan pushed a lever and the thin mechanical voice from the appropriate desk said, “We are not sure of their defensive capacity. Things got a bit confused for a few minutes there. We estimate it as no less than fifty per cent and no more than seventy-five per cent. They have almost one hundred per cent of their decoy and masking devices, but these are not very great.”
“We are unable to pick them up on radar and they are traveling so fast that visual sighting by antiaircraft cannon is almost useless,” General Koniev said slowly. “I must assume that the two planes will get through.”
“I think you are correct,” General Bogan said.
“We have only one chance left,” General Koniev said. “That is to focus all our remaining rockets in their estimated path and fire them simultaneously at the right moment in an effort to set up an impenetrable the thermonuclear barrier.”
“It has a chance,” General Bogan admitted admir. bigly. “Let us pray that it succeeds.”
“I am trying it, but I’m afraid your estimate is right. Two planes will probably get through. And then, however it goes, whether just your four bombs or our thousands of bombs and your thousands of bombs, it is all over. We will have devoted a lifetime to assuring our own destruction.”
General Bogan rocked back in his chair and looked at the empty seat that had been Colonel Cascio’s. He thought of the other room and the empty chair of Marshal Nevsky. They had both been honest and pathotic craftsmen. Each had worked with courage and determination to win. Each had lost. Everyone had lost.
“Are there surprises that you have left for us?” General Bogan asked.
“None, General Bogan,” General Koniev said. “Your people,” he paused, “have been honest with us. The simple fact is that they were also better than we thought. Six hours ago I would have guaranteed that we would have shot down one hundred per cent of a single wing of your planes. If you had sent a massive first strike, we knew our record would not have been so good. But I could not have believed that our forces would prove incapable of handling just six planes, as they seem to have been.”
There was a heavy silence between these two professional soldiers. Each roughly knew what the other was thinking. They bad never met. They had never talked. They had known of one another’s existence, but only as names in an “order of battle” schedule. But each had a sense of how identical the careers, the risks, the chances, the ambitions, the losses, the gains, and, most telling, the ignorance, on both sides had been.
“General Koniev, how many minutes do we have?” General Bogan asked.
“I should say about eighteen to twenty minutes, depending on how much decoy and masking capacity your two planes have,” General Koniev answered. “We are shooting off everything we have. Our antiaircraft rings are having a field day. One of our fighter-bombers fired a rocket into a forest and it has lit up the landscape for miles around. He fired at a short-range radar station which had not turned on its IFF and he thought it was a Vindicator although it was completely stationary. Tomorrow I will have to pass judgment upon the pilot of that plane. If there is a tomorrow.”
General Bogan mused. This was like the idle conversation that truck drivers used to exchange when he was a college undergraduate and drove trucks during his vacation. The crisis was over, the long haul made.
They were engaged in shoptalk. It was a way to pass the time until the final decision.
“General Koniev, what is your location right now?” General Bogan asked suddenly.
It had occurred to General Bogan that General Koniev might not be in the equivalent of Omaha. He felt a sense of alarm for the man on the other end of the phone.
“I am several hundred miles from Moscow,” General Koniev said. “It was not an orderly dispersion. When Premier Khrushchev left he ordered a handful of us to leave. I was among the handful.”
General Bogan was about to speak and then he fell mute. He wondered if General Koniev had left his family in Moscow. But he did not want to know.
“It is a hard day,” General Bogan said to the translator.
There was a long pause.
The word came back from the translator. General Bogan knew the response before it was translated.
“This is a hard day, General Bogan,” General Kon1ev said. “Good-bye, comrade,” General Koniev said.
“Good-bye, my friend,” General Bogan said.
The translator paused, hesitated, and then knew it was unnecessary to translate. Everyone waited.
which sent them flaming dramatically into the black night sky. Grady turned to the defense operator.
“How much more speed can you get from the Bloodhounds by putting them on fullblast?”
“Five hundred miles an hour, but it will increase the fuel consumption,” the operator said quickly. “At that angle they would probably get no higher than 120,000 feet before they ran out of fuel.”
Grady was doing his calculations by eye and intuition. He estimated that when the Soviet missiles reached 20,000 feet the two Bloodhounds would be 2,500 feet above them. He was gambling that although they had probably been set to explode at 20,000 feet there was also an “overriding command” built into them that if they perceived a target within range that they would pursue it. He knew that they would be keyed to detonate at something less than 2,000 feet from the target. If he could keep the Bloodhounds 2,500 feet above the wave of Soviet missiles, there was the possibility that they would all start to home automatically and senselessly on the Bloodhounds.
“Give the Bloodhounds just enough extra boost, In little shots, so that they stay at least 2,500 feet above the enemy missiles,” Grady said.
The operator’s face swung toward Grady and the eyes were full of a savage admiration and a gleam of understanding. His long, sensitive, musicianlike fingers reached for the controls.
“They’re at 18,000, now 19,000, now 20,000,” the operator sang out. This highly unorthodox procedure seemed to fill him with delight.
Then they both fell silent and stared at the scope. The wave of missiles was now directly overhead and Grady’s hand, without thought and quite by reflex, went to the lever which controlled the lob device, if the rockets exploded in the next second, he would have
time to lob the two bombs toward Moscow-just before the Vindicator was beaten to earth by the blast.
The line of missiles came to 20,000 feet and then passed 20,000. Then the perfect line began to angle off as the outer missiles turned toward the Bloodhounds.
Instantly Grady recognized that the tactic had succeeded. ,The missiles were now chasing the two Bloodhounds and those that were the farthest away were losing some altitude as they angled toward the two decoys. The operator was whispering to himself as he watched the instruments. He reached for control, pulled it
