by Peter Bryant
Zorubin nodded. "You are right, they will. And you know what it means?"
"We do."
"So that is it." Zorubin shrugged. His face was slowly returning to its normal colour. There it was again, the President thought, the peculiarly Slav acceptance of fate.
"You know, Mr. President," Zorubin said almost lightly, "a little while ago General Franklin said that when the planes turned in from their X points there was two hours to bomb time. I can put it more accurately than that. Not just two hours to bomb time. But two hours to doom."
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Chapter 17
"Alabama Angel"
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11.35 G.M.T.
Moscow: 2.35 p.m.
Washingon: 6.35 a.m.
The grim roll call was over. The bodies of Goldsmith, Minter, and Mellows, had been laid on the floor of the cabin near the rear bulkhead. Each of the surviving crew members had thought for a few brief seconds about the dead men, then got back to work and the difficult job of getting the bomber to the position where it could avenge their deaths and the deaths of millions more back home.
Maybe the dead were lucky, Brown thought. At least they did not have to carry the shapeless weight of pain whose torturing fingers were pressing ever heavier on his back. They did not have to carry the responsibility of taking a crippled bomber in to its bomb point, and muster the determination to get there, which alone would enable the heavy odds against success to be beaten.
Determination. That was what counted now. If he could concentrate hard enough, long enough, he would get Alabama Angel to the target. Maybe, if he concentrated sufficiently hard, his mind would conquer the rolling waves of pain which urged him ceaselessly to seek the easy refuge of a morphia ampoule from the first aid pack. He gazed ahead at the white blur of snow a few hundred feet below, following the slight rises and falls of the ground, knowing his radio altimeter would flash a brilliant red if he went below the four hundred feet altitude he had set on it.
Survival depended on staying low now. At this height the bomber could not be tracked by radar, or so the intelligence reports insisted. Well, they’d been right about most things. They couldn’t be blamed for the missile ship marooned out there in the ice of the Barents Sea. If radar couldn’t track the bomber, it couldn’t control fighters in to intercept and attack. And missiles fired from the ground would be completely ineffective with the bomber at this height.
There were three things might stop the bomber penetrating to the target, he thought. A fighter which picked them up haphazardly, without benefit of radar control. Fast firing light weapons sited to defend targets against low level attack. And, ever present, the danger he might not see an obstacle in time, or that the radio altimeter would suddenly fail to function.
Weapons sited to defend against low level attack he dismissed easily. Kotlass was out of range of the fighter bombers on the N.A.T.O. airfields. A long range bomber like the 52 would never come in at low level. Alabama Angel was coming in low level, but that was one of those things. It was quite unintentional. And you couldn’t plan for the unintentional as well as the intentional tactics in war.
Fighters operating independently of radar control were a slightly bigger threat. They would have scrambled every available all-weather fighter on freelance patrols. It was quite possible one or more of those fighters would pick the bomber up. But Brown remembered how a friend of his, who was the pilot of an all-weather F.104, had described the task of intercepting a fast moving bomber only a few hundred feet above the ground at night. "Ape sweat," the friend said flatly. There were too many factors against the fighter. Bad visibility, poor radar response, danger from the bomber’s jet wash, were just a few of them. Brown’s friend had put the chances of successful interception under those conditions at about one in twenty.
The glaring red light of his radio altimeter blazed in the darkness of the cabin. Brown pulled back on the stick, instantly realising he had been deceived by a gentle upward slope of the ground. The red light disappeared, and he eased forward again before the green winked on. He had set the altimeter so it showed red below four hundred, green above five. In the hundred feet between those heights lay safety for Alabama Angel. But the danger of flying into the ground, or an obstacle in the path of the bomber, remained the greatest of the threats. His concentration had to be absolute. He said, "How many miles to the target, Stan? And how many minutes?"
"I’ll let you know shortly," Andersen said. "Engelbach, keep looking for a big river ahead of us. We should cross it around three minutes from now. Ninety degrees to our track."
"Would that be the Peza?"
"Yeah," Andersen said. "It would." You stupid bastard, he thought, what the hell else would it be? The Dnieper? He checked himself, pulling back the momentary anger that had blazed in him. Engelbach was like that. But he was thorough, and he didn’t make mistakes. "Try and give me an accurate pinpoint when we cross," he went on. His voice was quiet and friendly.
"Sure, Stan," Engelbach said. "I’ll get you a pinpoint."
"Captain?" It was Garcia’s voice.
Brown wriggled in his seat, trying to ease the sticky wetness he could feel between himself and the fabric. The movement sent a fresh spasm of pain through him. He shuddered, said tightly, "Garcia?"
"Captain, I have to know about the bombs. What height you going to bomb?"
"Twenty thousand."
"O.K., so I’ll have to alter the fusing. Otherwise, we drop it and the safety plugs come out, it’ll go off right away."
"Yes." Brown worked on the problem for a moment. What Garcia said made sense. As the bombs dropped away from the plane the last safety devices were made inoperative. If a bomb was fused to blast at twenty thousand feet it would do so, regardless of the bomber a few feet above it. Maybe a delay would do the trick. He said: "If you fuse for ground level, what’s the maximum delay?"
"Forty seconds."
Brown calculated quickly. It should be enough. If he turned away right after the bomb was released he should be at least ten miles away when it exploded. The blast wouldn’t destroy as great a ground area as a fused air burst, but it would do the job. He said, "All right, Garcia. Fuse number one for ground, level. Put in full delay. I don’t figure we’ll be able to make the secondary. Remove the trigger primer from number two and check it’s safe. We’ll jettison it when we cross out again."
"Will do," Garcia said. "I’ll report when I’ve finished, Captain."
"O.K., Garcia. How’s the leg?"
"I’ll live," Garcia said lightly. He moved over to begin the delicate process of re-fusing one bomb, unarming the other. His leg wasn’t hurting too badly. He had shot it full of novocain from a first aid pack. Maybe it was against the rules, but the rules had never bothered him. Not like Minter’s sightless gaze did now. He leaned over and gently pulled the eyelids down over the dead eyes. Then he went to work.
Brown said, "Bill, take a look at Mellows’ set. Maybe it’s still working. I’d like to get an attack message off when the time comes."
"O.K., Captain." Lieutenant Owens pushed his way past Federov to Meadows’ position.
"River coming up," Engelbach said sharply. "Crossing, crossing, now."
Andersen glanced at the chronometer, quickly noted the time on his log. Now, if Engelbach had got an accurate pin point, he could navigate.
Engelbach said, "Stan, I’m near enough sure we cross at square H, one five four, two zero five. On the target approach chart."
"Fine," Andersen slid an approach transparency over his chart, plotted in Engelbach’s figures. "It looks about right," he said slowly. "Not far off track. Next thing to look for is a town just to starboard, in about six minutes. Ivanovsk. That’s the name, no kidding. Small town, about the size of—" Andersen hesitated. He had been about to say Dothan, Alabama. He went on quickly, "Well, a small town. Then a minute after that you should see where the Vashka river joins the Mezen. I’d like another pinpoint as we cross the M
ezen."
"I’ll get it," Engelbach said confidently. His radar wasn’t much use at this height. But he hadn’t forgotten the map reading principles he’d learned. Even at this speed, when he knew what to look for and at what time, he could usually pick it out. He marked the time he should expect the pinpoint on his map, and stared out ahead at the white countryside.
Brown had heard the exchanges between Andersen and Engelbach only faintly. He was aware that more and more, when he was not himself receiving information or giving orders, he was concentrating on the flying of the bomber to the exclusion of all else. Maybe, he thought, it was an automatic process. His body knew it had not the strength to participate in everything. It saved itself for the important times. Someone was calling him through the intercom. He forced himself to listen, and to accept the message. It was Garcia, telling him number one bomb had been re-fused, number two made safe.
Then there was Andersen’s voice. But the navigator’s message missed him. He said weakly, "Again, Stan."
Andersen detected the weakness and pain in Brown’s voice. He said, "Clint, listen to me. Clint, you hear me?"
"Sure." Brown summoned up reserves of strength, fighting desperately against the blackness which was slowly engulfing him. Suddenly it receded. He felt new strength flood into his tired, agonised body. The pain eased a little.
"Clint, you O.K.?" Andersen’s voice was high pitched, anxious.
"I’m O.K. What’s the word?"
"Alter course three degrees port. Estimate twelve zero nine at target. We’ve got a high tail wind down here. You got that, Clint? Set it on your count-down. Twenty-six minutes to run to target."
"Roger. Altering course now." Brown went through the motions mechanically. He altered course, set the count-down time, found a few seconds to ponder just what performance they’d built into this plane. Admittedly the six remaining engines were full out. Sure, they were burning fuel at a fantastic rate. But what the hell. The bomber was going in at a speed not far off sound. They knew how to build them at Seattle.
He knew there was something about Seattle. It worried him. Seattle. Why should it worry him now? There was something, but it didn’t matter. The target did. They’d want to know back home when he’d taken it out. He said, "Owens, how’s the radio?"
"Well, I’m not radio expert. It got hit, but the CRM 114 took most of the impact. The transmitter seems O.K., but the receiver’s out. There’s no current coming through to it."
"All right, you stay there. You know enough morse to get off the attack signal." Brown peered ahead of him, looking past the redness that was trying to push itself in front of his eyes. "The receiver doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing anyone would want to tell us we don’t already know."
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Chapter 18
Sonora, Texas
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11.40 G.M.T.
Moscow: 2.40 p.m.
Washington: 6.40 a.m.
Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Mackenzie, who had led the attack on Sonora, replaced the telephone. "They don’t like it," he said. "They don’t like it one little bit. I told them there was still a chance the two officers were on the base somewhere, but if they aren’t at their quarters and their wives say they went off hunting, it looks hopeless to me. I suppose there’s a chance the whirlybirds might locate them."
Howard looked out at the brilliantly lit base. Every possible light had been turned on, to help the ambulances and the medics locate and care for the casualties. As he watched, an ambulance tore across the concrete, siren howling and red light flashing. It disappeared in the direction of the base hospital. Here and there, groups of walking wounded were being assembled to receive their shots while they waited for ambulances. In the distance, on the broad concrete of the 739th servicing area, men were bending over sprawling figures which would never stand again, and covering them with G.I. blankets.
Howard thought about Bailey and Hudson. They were fanatically keen hunters. They were probably dug in right now in an elaborate hide somewhere a hundred miles away from Sonora, possibly near the coast, waiting for the dawn rise of birds. They had their own favourite places, as all hunters did, and like most hunters they kept it a close secret between themselves. Three whirlybirds had already gone off. Howard watched the fourth rise out of sight, into the darkness above the airfield where the lights did not penetrate. "There’s a chance," he said. "About one in a million. Bailey and Hudson might be anywhere in ten thousand square miles, and it won’t be light for a long while yet."
Mackenzie joined Howard at the window. "It was pretty bad out there," he said quietly. "Those flak towers are hell to pass without artillery support."
"Yeah. You know what all this is about?"
"Well," Mackenzie said cautiously. "The poop is the general here went haywire and mounted a full-scale attack on Russia. Our orders to penetrate here came right from the President. Incidentally, they’re keeping a line open from this office to the Pentagon, in case we locate those guys."
"I don’t get it," Howard muttered. "Maybe Quinten’s action was wrong, but it’s done now. Seems to me the only sensible thing is to follow up on it. Why the hell would they want to sacrifice all those poor bastards out there?"
Mackenzie shrugged. "Don’t ask me, I’m just a foot-slogger. It’s you guys are all mixed up in the big, bomb diplomacy. I heard some more poop from the Pentagon. The officer who passed me my orders used to be my divisional commander. The word is the Reds have a super bomb can wreck the whole of the States."
"Nuts," Howard said angrily. "And even if they did, how could they deliver it? We’ve caught them off balance, Colonel. Quinten may have been sick, but he still knew which end was up when it came to bomber operations. Understand, I’m not defending what he did. Fifteen minutes ago I was beginning to think he was right. Now, I’m not sure. But I do know he wouldn’t miscalculate the effect of his attack."
"Well, I hope you’re right." Mackenzie pursed his thin lips thoughtfully. "Seems to me someone up top must know something more, though. I don’t know the exact figures yet, but I must have lost near on two hundred of my boys in that attack. What did you lose?"
"We don’t know. Certainly over a hundred."
"That’s three hundred men gone, at the minimum. They must figure the position to be pretty serious when they’ll accept casualties like that." He turned away and walked to the door. "Well, I’m going out to see how my boys are doing. Have to take a muster to count just who’s left." He closed the door quietly behind him.
Howard still stood at the window, lost in thought. Some time in the next few minutes two medics entered with a stretcher. Howard looked out at the base while they removed what was left of Quinten, and cleared up some of the mess. When a man puts a four five in his mouth and pulls the trigger, there is inevitably a mess.
He heard the medics leave, and he caught sight of Mackenzie’s slim, energetic figure moving among the troops. Then he turned to the desk.
The medics had removed the gun from the desk, but Quinten’s note pad still lay there. Howard sat down in Quinten’s seat, and idly flicked the pages of the pad. Quinten had found peace now, he thought. Maybe not peace on earth, but peace wherever he had gone to.
It was funny, he thought, flipping the pages and glancing idly at the scrawls and doodles there, how much of a man’s subconscious is revealed when he scrawls on a pad. His conscious mind may be busy with other things. But his subconscious often prompts him to scrawl thoughts which are hidden deep beneath the surface. Here was his own name, he saw. But Quinten had promoted him. He had gone up to light colonel. Howard smiled sourly. After this mess he’d be lucky if he stayed a major. Here was Kotlass, with the K heavily underlined. A double connection there. The I.C.B.M. site, with the K underlined from the bombers heading towards it to take it out. He turned over another page.
Suddenly he stiffened in his seat. He riffed hastily through the other pages. Yes, there it was again. And again. Howard felt h
is heart pounding heavily with excitement. He thought he knew. No, stronger than that, he was sure he knew.
He stretched out his hand to pick up the telephone with a line held to the Pentagon. Then instantly he saw and heard Quinten again, his face haggard and pale, but his voice calm, and confident and utterly reasonable. He hesitated. The mongoose kills the snake. He does it because that is the nature of things. It is not aggression, it is self defence. We will bury you, the Russians said. We will bury you. He pulled his hand back, stood, and walked slowly to the window.
In his mind reason pitted itself against morality, hard fact against probability. He was sure he had the power to recall the bombers. He was not sure he should exercise that power. He lit a cigarette and glanced at the wall clock. Eleven forty-six. Whatever his decision, it had to be fast.
Two hundred yards away from his window he saw an ambulance pull up alongside a group of wounded. The medics bent over the stretchers, lifting them smoothly into the ambulance. He watched as a stretcher was brought to the ambulance, and two men bent over it. Even at that distance he saw quite clearly that one of the men shook his head. The stretcher was taken away, and put back on the concrete. Someone walked over and placed a blanket over the still load.