Fail-Safe

by Eugene Burdick

  Surely each one of them in every country was similar. And the men in them, too. Today, throughout the world in each one of the Big Board rooms, staffed by busy, competent, dedicated men, probably the same signals were being received, analyzed, and projected. The big brass everywhere was watching similar strategy boards, studying the same blips, thinking out, or talking Out, the same strategic puzzles Groteschele was now discussing.

  Black plugged back into the discussion. Groteschele was now classifying various types of possible machine errors. Accidental war caused by some machine failure. Miscalculation by the computers, misinterpretation by the staff of human interpreters (the “overriders” as the computer boys call them). And then the big one, electronic failure.

  Big, Black thought, because no one knows anything about it. We just know that in any system so complex and so dependent upon intricate electronic equipment, the possibility of electronic failure or error must always be borne in mind.

  “But the Positive Control Fail-Safe system is the ultimate protection against mechanical failure,” Groteschele was saying, his voice heavily persuasive. This was the ultimate safety factor in the whole system. This was where it all rested. So, we were all reassured. And indeed, Groteschele was very reassuring today, except that his nervous chuckle kept getting in the way. Black understood why. Groteschele knew more than he was saying.

  It just was not that simple. Everyone knew it who had anything to do with the black boxes of the Positive Control system. Their components were 100 per cent double-checked on regular rotation schedules. Every possible condition to which the equipment might be subjected in operation was simulated. It was simulated in actual duplication systems arid it was also simulated on computers with meticulously devised mathematical formulas expressing every possible way the equipment might fail. On computers the bombers were “flown” and the “go” signals were “given.”

  Variable atmospheric conditions could be predicted, operational deterioration of the equipment could be estimated, vibration characteristics of the Vindicator bombers could be factored in. Stress variables could be translated into mathematical formulas, and with these formulas the computers could test out the black boxes.

  But the whole system had one big flaw in it. Nobody could ever be certain that the black boxes would actually work properly in a showdown. The reason was simple. There had never been a showdown, and there could never be a sure test showdown.

  A showdown meant war. The whole Positive Control system really depended on equipment that could never really be tested until the time came for its first use, and because of this nobody could ever really know in advance whether or not it would work right. The Fail-Safe machines could be truly tested only once: the single time they were used.

  There was ample evidence from the experience of the Electra planes and the now obsolete DC-6s that a serious flaw in an elaborate machine could survive every experimental situation-and then in real practice come completely unstuck.

  This was material for the grim inside humor which went the rounds of SAC gossip. The DC-6 had been a beautiful drawing-board plane, except that the first ones to go into service caught fire in flight. Then it was discovered that the one thing they hadn’t calculated was what flight wind currents would do to fuel overflow spillage. The fuel was’ deflected by an invisible band of air to a point directly behind the engines where the air-intake vents sucked in the gas spillage, converting the plane’s storage compartment into a quite unplanned fire chamber.

  Great corporations can also be injured when their computerized positive control systems break down. Black remembered the consternation a few years back when Fortune had demonstrated this point about General Dynamics. The Convair 990 was a 200 million-dollar demonstration of the fallibility of computerized simulation. Convair designed a drawing-board airplane that checked out to be the fastest commercial jet in the computer “flight tests,” so they decided to save money, skip the costly prototype stage, and go directly into production. Only the 990 didn’t perform as designed. Nobody knew why, and the enigmatic computers that had been so reassuring could not be charged with malfeasance.

  General Black also knew that Groteschele was sliding past another important factor. Each machine had to be adjusted and installed by men. And men, regardless of their training, suffered from fatigue and boredom. Many was the time that General Black had seen a tired and irritated mechanic turn a screwdriver a half turn too far, fail to make one last check, ignore a negative reading on a testing instrument. On a plane, such errors would mean only that an expensive piece of machinery and a few men would be lost. On a Fail-Safe black box-and the men who adjusted and installed them had not the remotest notion of what they were- the slightest accident could trigger the final disaster.

  Black glanced around the table. Stark was watching the strategy board. New blips had just appeared and Stark was toying nervously with his pencil as he followed their progress. Black looked at Wilcox. He sensed that Wilcox was mentally rejecting the possibility of accidental war. It depressed Black, and he felt that he should do more, but he knew he could not.

  Groteschele’s patronizing voice reached back into Black’s consciousness. Now the voice was talking about what if there should be an accident. An “interesting” problem, it was saying.

  “Suppose the Russians caused an accident,” suggested Grotesdiele. “Suppose it were a true accident. Suppose it was a 50-megaton missile aimed for New York or Washington, what could be done? How could we really know it was an accident? How could they prove it? Would it make any difference if they could? Even if we believed it to be an accident, should we not retaliate with everything we had?”

  Good questions, Black agreed, but no answers were offered. It didn’t seem to be a real discussion about real problems. Black remembered the flurry of excitement a few years before when some scholar had published a paper on the strategy of surrender. The argument had been simple. If either side strikes first, is not surrender the only possible strategy for the other side? What is to be gained by retaliation? There had been a series of Congressional hearings, and then no one heard any more about the strategy of surrender.

  Black’s thoughts were interrupted. Groteschele had stopped talking. Everyone was looking at the Big Board.

  The large alert signal at the top of the board had flashed on. The board still showed the blips Black had just seen Stark watching. The six blips were six bomber groups in the air almost at their Fail.Safe points. There was also an unidentified blip somewhere between Greenland and Canada. Black noted that the clock above the Big Board showed 10:28. Groteschele paused to look around at the Big Board. He turned back to his audience, saying, “Well, we’re in luck. A nicely arranged alert for our discussion. You can’t count on these for a Pentagon lecture any more. The equipment has become so much more accurate that they only óccur about six times a month now.”

  Groteschele tried to recapture the attention of his audience by delving into an explanation of the need for maximum reaction times in evaluating an alert. Even though more and more ICBMs were becoming operational every day, he explained, they would not be used immediately in a crisis. They had the defects of their virtues. They were too quick. They allowed too little time for thought and the detection of error. This had led to a return to manned bombers for a first-strike retaliation rather than immediate reliance on the newer long-range rockets. The bombers provided hours of revaluation and analysis, the rockets only thirty minutes. Besides, regardless of the outcome, even if the entire country were devastated the rockets could always be thrown in at the end.

  The Big Board was proving more seductive than Groteschele. His voice rose slightly.

  “Now if the Soviets really have a high-level satellite which carries a rocket, then we are in danger,” he said and paused, his voice heavy. “Real danger. For then the reaction time would be down to fifty or sixty seconds. Not even enough time to call the President.”

  But Groteschele had lost his audience. All eyes remained glu
ed on the Big Board. Soon the foreign unidentified blip would get identified, and fade off the board—a Canadian airliner off course, a heavily compacted flight of birds, and so on. Then the SAC groups would veer off their lines of flight and disappear from the board. Yes, Black could see, it was happening now.

  The foreign unidentified blip was fading out. The room, which had grown quietly tense, now relaxed. Cigarettes were lit and pencils returned to doodling exercises as men tried to shed their nervousness in their private ways. Soon a messenger would come in with SPADATS’ explanation of what the blip had been. Then Groteschele could resume, happily monopolizing the attention of his audience again.

  One by one, five SAC groups began in turn to veer off. Only one group was left on the board. Then as Black watched unbelievingly it flew past its Fail-Safe point. He glanced at Stark. Stark was erect in his chair. Wilcox was oblivious of what had happened. Most of the other officers had turned back to Groteschele. Stark stared at Black. He raised his eyebrows.

  Black looked at Groteschele. What happened to Groteschele came and went so quickly that Black was not certain he had seen correctly: Groteschele’s eyes glittered and he shuddered. To Black it seemed an expression composed of apprehension, excitement, delight, and opportunity. Then it was gone. Grotesehele stood absolutely still, staring at the board. Black realized that only three men in the room fully understood what had just happened.

  Then the whole board went black. Apparently the operator did not think the action of Group 6 to be important. Maybe he had just not noticed it. Stark scribbled a note to Black. It said, “Ever see a group go past Fail-Safe before?” Black shook his head. Stark started to get up from his chair. Black knew he was going to check with the tactical officers in another office. Stark froze halfway up.

  A phone had rung. It did not ring loud, but it did ring distinctively. A steady persistent unbroken ring. It was the red phone. None of the men in the room had heard it before. Wilcox was not aware of the import of the ring, but he sensed the tension around him. He came to rigid attention. An Army general ran across the room to the red phone. It did not look at all unseemly for a general to be dashing to answer a phone. In fact it seemed to be done in nightmarish slow motion.

  The general listened for a moment. He turned back to the room woodenly. Looking at Wilcox he said with excessive clarity: “Mr. Secretary, the President is calling from the White House bomb shelter. He wants to speak to the senior person present. That is you. I am directed to see that the Joint Chiefs and the Secretaries convene here immediately.” He laid the receiver beside the phone and dashed from the room.

  Wilcox stumbled around out of his chair and virtually fell toward the phone, stealing a look at the Big Board as he did so.

  The Big Board had lit up again. And now it projected just two things; the Fail.Safe point of Group 6 and the blip of Group 6. They were already inches apart. Group 6 was headed toward Russia.

  “There is nothing further to report, Mr. President,” General Bogan said. Colonel Cascio was staring straight at the Big Board. “GrOup 6 is about two hundred and sixty miles past Fail-Safe and continuing on what is apparently an attack course.”

  “Do you know what happened to them?” the President’s voice asked.

  “No, sir, we do not,” General Bogan said. “There is a chance, an outside chance, that they made a navigational error and will swing back.”

  “Have they ever made a navigational error that big before?” the President asked crisply.

  “No, sir,” General Bogan said. “But when you’re traveling over 1,500 miles an hour, a little error can throw you a long distance off.”

  “Let’s rule that one out,” the President said. “Why haven’t you been able to raise them yet by radio?”

  “We don’t know for sure, Mr. President,” General Bogan said. “We have tried them on all frequencies and can’t make contact.”

  “Why?” the President broke in, his voice impatient.

  “First, there might be natural meteorological disturbances, and our weather people say there is a big electrical storm just behind the Vindicators,” General Bogan said. “Secondly, the Russians might be jamming our radio reception—”

  “Why the hell would they do that?” the President asked.

  “I don’t know,” General Bogan said, paused, and then went on. He spoke slowly, his voice unconvincing. “There is a remote possibility that their Fail-Safe black boxes might be giving them a ‘go’ signal and that Russian jamming is preventing our verbal Positive Control system from operating.”

  “Is that possible?” the President said sharply.

  General Bogan paused. Then his voice gained confidence. “No, Mr. President, the odds against both systems falling at the same time are so high I think that is impossible,” General Bogan said. He was aware that Colonel Cascio was watching him. He felt an undefined and nagging discomfort. “Almost impossible.”

  “All right,” the President said. “Now if we do regain radio contact will they respond to a direct order from me to return?”

  “They will answer, sir,” General Bogan said, “providing we can reach them by radio within the next five minutes.” Then he paused. “However, if after that time their black boxes still tell them to ‘go’ they are under orders not to turn back even if someone who sounds like you orders them back. You can see the reason for that. The enemy could easily abort a real attack just by having someone around who could make a good imitation of your voice. Those people in the Vindica. tors have to obey the Fail-Safe mechanism. They can’t rely on voice transmissions.”

  Something like a sigh came over the speaker.

  “All right, let me sum up,” the President said. “For reasons which are unknown to us Group 6 has flown past its Fail-Safe point and right now seems to be on an attack course toward Russia. We can’t raise them by radio, but there’s an outside chance that we may later. What is their target?”

  “Moscow,” General Bogan said bluntly.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” the President said in a low and very slow voice. He said it again, as if to shake off a terrible reality. There was for a fleeting moment something of the acolyte, the altar boy, in his voice. When he spoke again, however, his tone was strong. “What is the next step?”

  “If we follow standard operating procedure the next step would be to order the Skyscraper fighter planes which are standing by at Vindicators Fail-Safe to attack them,” General Bogan said. Colonel Cascio’s head jerked sideways and he stared at General Bogan. “The fighters would first try to raise the bombers visually and divert them. Failing that, they would press home an attack with air-to-air missiles and cannon fire.”

  There was a long pause on the line. Then the President spoke.

  “Who gives that order, General?” the President asked.

  “You do, sir,” General Bogan said.

  “General, order the fighters to start their pursuit of Group 6,” the President said without a moment’s hesitation. “I assume that will take a few minutes at least. Tell them to hold fire until they get the direct order from me. I would like to delay the actual firing on the group until the last possible moment.”

  Bogan and Cascio heard the click of the President putting down the phone without waiting for an acknowledgment.

  1041 HOURS

  THE PENTAGON

  Swenson had come into the Big Board room. He was accompanied by two of his aides. They were both tall men and they emphasized his slightness.

  Swenson stood at the door for a moment and looked at the people in the room. They had all come to attention, had torn their eyes away from the Big Board. Swenson made his count, nodded, and they all sat down. He walked to the chair at the head of the table, and as he reached it the red phone, which had been moved directly in front of him, rang. As he leaned forward to pick up the phone Swenson looked casually at the Big Board. He seemed little in the chair-little and very confident and orderly. His presence eased the tension in the room.

  “Y
es, Mr. President,” Swenson said.

  It was possible to link the red phone to a loudspeaker so that everyone in the room could hear it. Swenson chose not to do that.

  “Mr. Secretary, General Bogan at Omaha has told me that he recommends that we order our fighter planes accompanying Group 6 to shoot them down,” the President said. This was not precisely the truth and the President knew it. However, he wanted Swenson to face the decision most abruptly and nakedly. “The decision is mine, but I would like the advice of you and your people.”

  “Mr. President, do you want me to discuss this with them right now or shall we call you back?” Swenson said. He was glad he had not put the conversation on the loudspeaker. In Swenson’s methodical mind was stored the fact that shooting down the bombers was standard operating procedure. By phrasing the problem this way the President was forcing them to make an evaluation rather than follow a set procedure.

  “I will hold the line for your opinion,” the President said.

  “General Bogan at Omaha has recommended to the President that our fighters be ordered to shoot down Group 6,” Swenson said in a calm voice. “The President is awaiting our advice before giving that order. Gentlemen, what do you have to say?”

  Of the men at the table only Swenson and Black knew that this was standard operating procedure. Of the rest of the group Wilcox was the most shocked. His face flushed.

  “Jesus Christ, order Americans to shoot down other Americans?” Wilcox asked. “It would… it is indecent. I’m against it.”

  Swenson’s eyes were veiled. He looked around the table. Groteschele’s hand went up.

  “Mr. Secretary, I oppose it on the grounds that it is premature,” Groteschele said levelly. He wanted to overcome Wilcox’s apparent hysteria. “After all, sir, our planes have not yet reached Soviet air space. In fact, they are hundreds of miles away from it.”

  Swenson’s face was still impassive; he might have been the presiding officer at a small Midwestern corporation’s board of management meeting.