Fail-Safe

by Eugene Burdick

  “We must do it and at once,” Black said flatly. “First, if we do not give the order now the fighters may not be able to overtake the Vindicators. Secondly, if we delay the order we lose any bargaining position that we might need later with the Russians. They are watching Group 6 and our fighters right now and are trying to guess what we are doing. And keep in mind that there are other steps after this and they involve much more than the crews of six bombers. A lot may hinge on the Russians believing what we tell them. You can be damned sure that the moment those planes penetrate Soviet air space the President is going to be in a tough spot talking with the Russians and will need everything he can get to bargain with them.”

  Another point occurred to Black: if only one fighter made it and brought down one bomber perhaps the others would turn back-but he did not really believe

  it. He knew that the Vindicators would bore in even if they had to do it singly. They had been too well trained to panic at the sight of a single bomber exploding. They had also been steeled to the possibility that enemy planes, simulated to look like American planes, might make an attack.

  Swenson’s eyes opened fully; they were bright and attentive. He glanced quickly around the rest of the men at the table. There appeared to be nothing left to say. Black was the one who had summed it up. Swenson knew that some of the others didn’t agree, but sensed that Black had the logic and the facts. He admired Black’s cool presentation and sensed that the President would be thinking in much the same way.

  “Mr. President, it is our belief that it is a tactical decision, but it is our unanimous view that the fighters should be ordered in,” Swenson said, looking directly at Wilcox.

  Swenson put the phone back in its cradle. Wilcox’s face was a mottled pink.

  1042 HOURS

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  Buck had heard all of the conversations. He stared at the President. The President had one leg thrown over the arm of his chair and occasionally he puffed at a long thin cigar. His posture was reassuring to Buck. Everything that Buck had heard on the telephone had tightened his stomach muscles and only the President’s physical ease kept Buck from trembling.

  “Get Omaha again,” the President said into the phone.

  Almost instantly they were through.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” General Bogan’s voice said.

  “General, order the fighters in,” the President said.

  “Let me enfirm that,” a strange voice said on the circuit. “This is Colonel Cascio, General Bogan’s assistant. Do you want the fighters to press home the attack even if they have to go to afterburners? That will nearly triple their consumption of fuel and almost certainly mean that none of them will be able to make it back.” The voice paused, then spoke with more firmness, almost a tough arrogance. “Mr. President, those fighters are America’s first line of defense against a Russian attack. In putting them on afterburners to chase our own bombers we will be sacrificing our fighters’ defensive capability at the very time we may need it most-the Russians may attack at any moment now.”

  The President paused. Buck watched him scribble some words on his pad. They said, “Sacrifice fighters convince Russians an accident? Give up defensive capacity of fighters… will they believe?”

  “General Bogan, I repeat the order,” the President said, coldly.

  “Mr. President, the fighters swung away from the Vindicators when they got the all dear,” General Bogan said. “In effect, the Vindicators and the Skyscrappers have been flying in opposite directions for some. minutes. The Skyscrappers have only a slight edge of speed over the Vindicators. There is some doubt that they can overtake the Vindicators.”

  “I repeat, General Bogan, that the fighters are to overtake and shoot down the Vindicators even if it means going to afterburners,” the President said.

  1044 HOURS

  OMAHA

  “Colonel Cascio, order the fighters to attack Group 6,” General Bogan said as he put the phone down.

  Colonel Cascio came halfway out of the chair in a spasm of protest.

  means that you have decided our bombers are making an accidental strike on Moscow?” Colonel Cascio asked. His voice was shocked, but there was also a hard underlay of rebellion.

  “I have and the whole damn system has,” General Bogan said savagely. “The machines, the men, the 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.

  1044 HOURS

  THE SKYSCRAPPERS

  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.

  1044 HOURS

  THE VINDICATORS

  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.

  1045 HOURS

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  “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 almost as if Bogan were in the room.

  “I agree with General Black, but Colonel Cascio has a doubt,” General Bogan said. “Very briefly his argument is that the Russians have devised a way to mask the real position of Group 6, which is probably flying back toward the States. What we read as Group 6 on the radar is actually a group of Soviet bombers up there for precisely one reason-to lead us to believe that we have accidentally launched a bomber group at Russia. I disagree with this analysis. But it should be considered.”

  Around the table there were multiple signs of restlessness. Groteschele scratched on a pad of paper. Others reached for cigarettes. Stark looked down the table at Black. Black remained impassive, but he tensed for Swenson’s reply. A lot would depend on Swenson’s reaction to Cascio.

  “Thank you, General Bogan,” Swenson said, without taking his eyes from Black’s face. “I agree with your evaluation of Colonel Cascio’s argument. Now, General Black, will you continue?”

  “Every surveillance device we have has been thrown on the Russians,” Black said. “They have seven bomber groups in the air at this moment. None of these can- reach America without refueling. None f them is flying an attack course. All are following -hold pasterns inside Soviet control borders. An abnormally large number of Russian fighters are in the air, in fact approximately half of their fighters are air-borne. However, a simultaneous computer analysis of their flight patterns does not reveal a definite aggressive pattern. The Russians have launched no rockets as yet. Our devices which pick up sudden discharges of energy are probably our most reliable surveillance instruments. “I am confident that the Soviets have not used their ICBMs as yet.”

  “What do you make of it?” Swenson invited anyone’s comment but his tone said “keep it short.”

  “They have the same problem with our Group 6 as we had earlier with the UFO,” Allen of the National Security Council said. It was the first time he had spoken. “They don’t know what it is, why it is there, or even if it is ours.”

  “The best answer happens also to be the simplest,” Black said calmly. “The Russians probably picked up the same unidentified object we did. They can’t understood why our planes started to fly toward their Fail-Safe points. This thing has happened scores of timed and they have gotten familiar with the sweat. But when one of our groups did not turn back they knew it as soon as we did. That accounts for their launching an abnormal number of fighter planes. My guess is that right now they do not consider our Group 6 to be hostile or aggressive although the behavior of our fighter planes will probably begin to worry them in a few minutes. If they see the fighters actually try to shoot down the Vindicators, they will know there has been some big and dangerous mistake.”

  “Or they will think we are sending them in as a ruse,” Groteschele said sharply.

  “That is correct,” Black said. “Whichever of these interpretations they make will be alarming to them. Even so, I would not expect them to take any kind of retaliatory or offensive action that could not be recalled unless Group 6 actually invades their air space or we start to take what appears to be broader hostile action in support of Group 6.”

  Allen of the NSC walked back to his chair at the table. He had been speaking on a phone at the far end of the room.

  “Mr. Secretary, I have been talking to the National Security Agency people,” Allen said. “As you know they keep a 24-hour a day surveillance on Soviet communications, making tape recordings of everything that is said.” (Black looked at Stark. They bad both heard that when the U-2 went down with Powers the NSA people had listened to the Soviet antiaircraft crews talking on the radio and knew that Powers had lost power and dropped to 86,000 feet.) Allen went on, “The
y tell me that there is no significant increase in Soviet military communications and they estimate that right now, the Soviet military apparatus is not on a full alert or in aggressive position.”

  “Professor Groteschele, would you care to comment on what the Russians might be thinking?” Swenson said.

  General Bogan’s voice cut in flatly and without apology from Omaha.

  “Who is this Groteschele, Mr. Secretary?” General Bogan asked. “Why is he sitting in?”

  Swenson’s reply was polite but edged with ice. “Professor Groteschele is a recognized authority on many of the matters before us and was invited here at the express wish of the President.”

  Groteschele smiled. Quite unconsciously, he stood up, the posture of the professor addressing students. He chuckled and then abruptly broke it off. He had seen Swenson’s face, stony hard, eyes a flat commanding blue. The look Swenson gave Groteschele was as explicit as a command.

  Then Groteschele, to Black’s astonishment, spoke crisply, without ambiguous words and without evasiveness. The Russian leaders are Marxist ideologues, he said, not normal people. They believe history is determined by nonhuman events which will assure the victory of Communism. Nuclear war would interrupt the process of this historical determinism. Russians have more to lose by war than we. Therefore, an American first attack would bring Russian surrender rather than nuclear retaliation.

  Black felt a reluctant admiration for Groteschete. He disagreed with most of What Groteschele said, but when the chips were down and the crisis came, the man had stated his position without reservations.

  “Just why would they surrender if we hit them?” Swenson asked.

  “They are human calculating machines, Marxist fanatics, not motivated by rage or hate,” Groteschele said evenly. “If they are hit first, even with H-bombs, they know that if they retaliate they can destroy us or a substantial part of our people and resources. But they also know that we would have a second strike capacity which would devastate them. The important thing, for the Marxist, is to keep at least part of the Soviet Union intact. They would not be particularly worried about the survival of a capitalist country. In fact, many of them believe that capitalism must play itself out to its inevitable historical defeat before Communism can really succeed. To put it crudely: they want to be around for a while, and if the price they have to pay is that some free countries are also around they will pay it. They will not allow the world to be destroyed. They aim to dominate it eventually and they want it reasonably intact. So they would surrender.”