Someone at the White House switchboard had made a mistake, Buck thought. He had been in this office for three years and the red telephone had never rung. Buck was convinced it never would. He pulled open the drawer and instantly the sound of the telephone became more shrill.
Once he saw the red phone something began to nag at his memory; he felt a sharp sense of unease. Then he remembered: the official who had installed him in the office had also given him a logbook labeled “Red Phone Log Book” with instructions to log the precise time that the red phone rang… if it ever rang. Buck had not seen the logbook for over a year. It had become mixed in with the law books, old copies of Izvestia, Russian magazines, notebooks. With both hands Buck pawed through the debris of paper on his desk, pulled open the top drawer, yanked at the three drawers on the left side of the desk. He could not find the logbook. He calmed himself. The call was sure to be a mistake. Nevertheless, he took a dean piece of paper and then looked at his watch. He wrote the time in big black figures in the middle of the white rectangle:
“10:32 A.M.”
With relief he picked up the phone.
“Mr. Buck, this is the President speaking,” a voice said. There was no mistaking the voice. It was calm, New England accented, nas4 “Would you please make your way to the White House bomb shelter as soon as possible?”
“Yes, sir, I…” Buck said and then stopped. As soon as he had said the word “Yes” the President had hung up.
The War Room of the Strategic Air Command at Omaha was not immense. Not in terms of what it had to do. It was no bigger than a small theater. The pools of darkness in its corners, however, gave the sensation of immensity, almost of a limitless reach. The only illumination in the War Room came from the Big Board. It covered the entire front wall and resembled a gigantic movie screen, except that it was made of a kind of translucent plastic. At that moment the Big Board showed a simple Mercator map of the world. The continents and the oceans were familiar, as were the lines of latitude and longitude. But there the similarity to ordinary Mercator maps disappeared. The map was covered with a strange flood of cabalistic signs. Arrows, circles, squares, numbers, triangles were strewn across the screen, sometimes came up bright and clear, sometimes dimmed, and occasionally a sign notation would fade entirely and leave only a phosphorescent glow that persisted for a few seconds.
Even in the uncertain light it was possible to see that there were only a half-dozen men in the War Room. In the dimness the men looked doll-like and diminutive. This added to the impression of vastness.
“I expected a little more action,” Congressman Raskob said. “This is just like a second-rate theater. Where are the ushers?”
Lieutenant General Bogan, United States Air Force, glanced down at Congressman Raskob. The Congressman’s reaction was not uncommon among people who were seeing the War Room for the first time, but General Bogan also knew that he was being baited. He had been briefed on Raskob’s background.
“Right now, sir, we are at our lowest condition of readiness,” General Bogan said. “Right now everything is routine. The moment that something starts to happen there is plenty of action.”
“In a few minutes, sir, your eyes will get adjusted to the light and we can show you some of the more interesting things in the War Room,” Colonel Casdo said. Colonel Cascio was General Bogan’s deputy.
The Congressman grunted. He stood at the raised runway at the back of the War Room, his feet wide apart, his short stocky body held in a posture that was almost arrogant.
He’s going to be a tough one, General Bogan thought. He looked over at the other guest, Gordon Knapp, the president of Universal Electronics. No trouble there.
Knapp was one of the new breed of scientists who, after World War II, had become a scientist-inventor-businessman. Although he was almost six feet tall, Knapp’s body was hunched over as if he had just finished a long and desperate race. In fact it was his habitual posture. Ever since he had discovered science Knapp had run with a zestful enthusiastic desperation which had no element of anxiety. It had taken Bogan some months to realize that Knapp’s adversary was scientific problems. He threw his physical and intellectual power against problems and his record of successes was unbroken. He had become an expert on miniaturization, solid-state physics, semiconductors, and, more recently, problems of data storing. In the process he had become a millionaire and had achieved a high reputation. Both of these facts he forgot constantly. He was oblivious of everything except unsolved technical problems. In the process of mastering them he had ravaged his body, learned to exist on five hours of sleep a night, and was an extremely happy man. He was a man of black coffee, hurried airplane flights, phone calls, technical drawings, intuitions about amperage and voltage, a vast unanswered correspondence, harassed secretaries, rumpled suits, and a burning attention for only one thing: his scientific problems. His wife once said—entirely in jest for she loved and admired him—that she would have divorced him long ago but he was never home long enough to discuss the matter.
This was Knapp’s first visit to the War Room and General Bogan could see that he was quivering with excitement. Many of the mechanisms that he had invented and manufactured were used in the room, and his eyes glittered as he tried to identify the machinery in the gloom.
“It may look simple, Mr. Raskob, but this is one of the most complicated rooms in the world,” Knapp said in a whisper.
“And one of the most expensive,” Raskob said.
General Bogan resisted the tendency to sigh. Raskob was a tough and intelligent man. He came from a congressional district in Manhattan which was made up partly of new and expensive apartment houses and partly of old tenements gradually being taken over by Puerto Ricans and Negroes. The first time he had been elected it was by a narrow margin and Raskob had known he must work out some formula of political appeal which would be equally attractive to the new and poor and to the old and wealthy. His political reputation was as carefully hewn as the work of a master sculptor. On every welfare and civil-rights issue he voted liberal and made sure that this fact was widely disseminated among the Puerto Ricans and Negroes. On military appropriations he was invariably critical, stating that they were inflationary, were expended by shortsighted generals and admirals, and only added to the tax burden. This posture benefited him in two ways: his constituents in the big expensive apartments saw him as anti-inflation and pro-lower taxes; his working-class constituency, too poorly skilled to qualify for entry into the big unions or for work in the large armaments industry, saw him as antimilitarist, and thus attractive. He had been reelected eight times, each time by a higher plurality.
Raskob’s squat figure was somewhat reminiscent of La Guardia and Raskob played on the similarity. He wore a wide-brimmed fedora hat and when he made speeches he constantly banged the fedora against the podium. Whenever he spoke before a foreign-speaking group he had at least a few lines which he could render in the language of the group. In the wealthy part of his constituency his speeches were calm, deliberate, short, and concerned with the future. In the working-class district he was more flamboyant and talked of pay checks and pork chops. In hard fact his voting record was almost straight Democratic but few in his district knew that. Nor did they care. Raskob was a personality.
“Where are you from, son?” Raskob asked Colonel Cascio. His eyes were still peering, not yet adjusted to the thin light. His words were an automatic political response to fill vacant time.
“New York City, sir,” Colonel Cascio said.
Raskob’s head swung around and he stared at Colonel Cascio. His interest now was real.
“What part of the city?” Raskob asked.
Colonel Casdo hesitated a moment. “Central Park West,” he said, “in the Seventies,”
“Probably in the Twentieth District,” Raskob said speculatively. “You’re getting some Puerto Ricans in there now. It’s one of those swing districts. Might go either Democrat or Republican. In a few years it will be solidly Democratic.�
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“Actually, Congressman Raskob, my family moved over to the East Side some years ago,” Colonel Cascio said. He turned his head sideways and glanced quickly at General Bogan. Then he added as an afterthought, “As a military man I really don’t follow politics very closely.”
General Bogan felt a slight sense of unrest, a barely recognizable sense of protectiveness. Then he recalled the carefully buried memory. It was during one of the frequent visits that General Bogan and Colonel Casdo made to New York City. One night General Bogan had been called and told that SAC was staging one of its endless surprise drills. He must be back in Omaha by morning. An Air Force car was already outside of his hotel and General Bogan ordered it to the address where Colonel Cascio was “visiting his family.”
The address was an old apartment house, aged with wind and soot, but respectable. There was, however, no cascio on the long line of door bells. Impatiently General Bogan pushed the MANAGER button and a neat, hard-faced and stocky woman appeared at the door.
“I’m looking for the Cascio apartment,” General Bogan said. “It’s rather urgent.”
“He in trouble again?” the woman asked. “You from the police?”
She squinted, made her watery blue eyes come to a focus, but could not distinguish the uniform.
“Casdo’s got no apartment here,” she said. “He lives in the janitor’s quarters down the steps to the left. If it’s a police thing you can tell him for me it’s the last time. He can just dear out.” She leaned forward, sharing a confidence in a faintly whining voice. “Officer, I’d of fired the sonofabitch a long time ago, but janitors are hard to keep.”
General Bogan went down the steps two at a time and rapped on the door at the bottom. There was a shuffle inside and he heard a Southern-accented voice say, “You got no right, son, to barge in and start in on us like this. Damn it, I won’t stand for it.”
The door swung open and the light from four naked bulbs in an old brass chandelier caught everything in the room in a pitiless and hard illumination.
The man at the door was unquestionably Cascio’s father, they had the same features. But the man was drunk, his face slack, his eyes bloodshot, his pants baggy. He had the pinched, furtive, crabbed look of the long-time drunkard. He looked like an older, ruined version of his son.
Colonel Cascio was sitting behind a table covered with a linoleum cloth. He sat straight in the chair, an untouched plate of barbecued spare ribs and black beans in front of him. Leaning against a stove was Colonel Cascio’s mother. She had a waspish look and was very thin and wore an old cotton dress and black felt slippers which were too large for her. General Bogan realized that she also was a drunkard… and not only because she held a pint of muscatel in her hand. It had to do with the posture, the beaten face, the suspicious eyes.
“Sir, I am General Bogan and I am calling for Colonel Cascio,” General Bogan said. Standing in darkness he realized that his aide had not yet recognized him. At his words Colonel Cascio came half out of his chair, a look of pure agony on his face.
“Let the gennelmun in, Walt,” Colonel Cascio’s mother said. Her face spread into a mask of welcome, so broad it was grotesque. She stepped toward the door, her feet spread, balancing carefully. An amber thread of muscatel flowed from the bottle onto the floor.
The father, cued on some deep level, bowed to General Bogan. He muttered some extravagant words of welcome. “Son always speaks well of you, sir… honored have ya’ eat with us… or anything… just anything.”
There was a long moment of silence, a moment in which General Bogan understood something which he had never bothered to analyze before. Colonel Cascio’s parents had Tennessee accents; they were hill people who never adjusted to the city life. And they were the reason that Colonel Casdo never spoke with a Southern accent, never drank, and was unmarried. His military career was everything.
Colonel Casdo had broken the squalid tableau. He stood straight, walked to the doorway and saluted General Bogan.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and he was under perfect control. “I gather we’re needed for a drill.”
“That’s it, Colonel Sorry to break up your time at home.”
Colonel Cascio smiled thinly at him. He turned and, deliberately and heavily, as if he were swinging shut a bank vault, dosed the door. Behind the thin panels his father’s voice yelped, “Ungrateful damned snot-nosed kid. So damned uppity.”
They got quietly in the car and neither of them had ever spoken of the episode.
General Bogan himself came from a Tennessee family with a strong military tradition. They had always lived in the high hills of Tennessee and the land had never been able to support all of the sons. The milltary had been the only acceptable nonfarsning occupation for Bogan’s family. Ever since colonial days at least one Bogan had been in the armed forces of the United States. Some had been enlisted men, some officers. During the Civil War, Bogans had fought on both sides. Bogan’s grandfather had been a naval captain and an aide to Admiral Mahan. His father had been a sergeant in the infantry and had been decorated twice in World War I with the Silver Star. General Grant Lee Bogan’s first and middle names came to him, not because his father had a sense of humor, but because he thought that General Grant and General Lee were the greatest generals in American history. The fact that they had fought on opposite sides did not appear to him to be ironic. Grant Lee Bogan was the first of the Bogans to be a general officer.
Bogan’s attention snapped back to the War Room. It was Knapp’s voice saying, “It’s almost like working in a submarine, isn’t it, General?”
“Only the air lock reminds me of a submarine,” General Bogan said. “After a while you get used to being four hundred feet under the surface and it’s just like any other job.”
General Bogan was not telling the complete truth. In fact he had disliked the War Room when he was first assigned as its commander. He had joined the Air Force back in the l930s for one specific reason: to fly planes. For almost thirty-two years he had done precisely that. He had flown the early biplane fighters, later the P-38, the P-5l, and after the war he had moved into the jet bombers. He flew “by the book” and had a reputation for being more methodical than imaginative. But to his methodicalness there was also added courage. These two things had earned him the Distinguished Flying Cross during World War II.
He had been flying a P-38 escorting a group of B-17s on a day raid over Germany. It was early in the war and the fighter pilots could not resist temptation. Some of them made passes at Focke-Wulfs which were still at a considerable distance. Others could not resist joining in a dogfight which was already being amply handed by other fighters. General Bogan flew a perfectly mechanical and orthodox flight. He stayed with the bombers he had been ordered to defend, he nursed his fuel supply, he fired only in short bursts. The result was that every other one of the escorting fighters had reached its fuel range fifty miles before the target was in sight. One by one they swung away for the flight back to England. When the B-17s came over target General Bogan was the only fighter with them. He stumbled into a perfect setup. The Focke-Wulfs, thinking that all the fighters had left, became careless. A long string of eight fighters came up from below to strike at the bellies of the B-17s. Bogan put on additional speed and methodically began to clobber the line of German fighters. He came in on the blind port quarter of each of the Focke-Wulfs, gave a short burst directly into the cockpit hoping to kill the pilot before he could give a warning. Neatly, following the instructions he had been given during months of training, Bogan shot down six of the eight Focke-Wulfs. In avoiding the exploding debris of the six planes he pulled back quickly on the yoke and gained several hundred feet of altitude. In that moment the seventh and eighth planes saw him and instantly put on speed and began to loop back toward him. Again Bogan followed the book. Using the slight speed advantage which the P-38 had he kept just far enough ahead of the two German fighters to be Out of cannon range. They followed him almost to the English Channel, tantaliz
ed by the prospect of a kill, made reckless by the death of their six comrades. Bogan had calmly called ahead on his radio and twenty miles from the English Channel a group of P-38s were circling high in the sky waiting for him. They came screaming down, every advantage on their side, and thirty seconds later the last of the Focke-Wulfs were destroyed.
Bogan always felt guilty about receiving the Distinguished Flying Cross. All he had done was follow instructions. Like everyone that flew in combat he had felt fear, deep and rooted and unending, as long as he was in action. But on the operation which earned his decoration he felt no special danger or risk-only the same familiar fear.
The last plane which General Bogan had flown in operation was the B-58, the Hustler. Then he had almost failed a physical examination. It was not clear-cut. The flight surgeon had hesitated, evaded his eyes, talked about the kinesthetic atrophy and its correlation with age, eye-hand reflex and reaction times. The discussion had been general but they both knew what it meant. If General Bogan insisted on flying the Hustler he would be labeled physically unfit. If he would content himself with flying the slower bombers or, fly as a copilot he could stay in the air. It had been a hard moment. Then General Bogan had mentioned, quite casually, that he’d been thinking of turning his efforts away from operations and more to strategy. “Flying is a young man’s game,” he lied. “We oldsters have to accept the responsibility for the big picture.”
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