Fail-Safe

by Eugene Burdick

  Swenson looked back at the Big Board. The fighter blips were very dose to Group 6. He swung around abruptly.

  “In short you believe they are utterly in the grip of an ideology,” Swenson said. “Their logic and their fanaticism will make them act in a perfectly determined manner. Is that correct?”

  Groteschele hesitated. He could not tell how Swenson evaluated this argument. He took a deep breath.

  “Yes, sir, that is what I think,” Groteschele said slowly.

  Again Black felt a flash of admiration. Groteschele was putting a whole career, a reputation, a school of thought, nakedly on the line. There was a good chance that before the day was out it would face judgment.

  Swenson looked around the table, his silence inviting comments.

  Groteschele could not afford the silence.

  “What I am-arguing, Mr. Secretary, is that although my interpretation seems unusual and novel it is Simplicity itself,” Groteschele. said, “We should do nothing. If -I am correct the Russians will surrender, and if our leaders are sufficiently resourceful the threat of Communism is over forever.”

  “Do nothing,” Swenson said quietly.

  Groteschele was tough. Swenson was an amateur historian and a student of modern leadership. He had learned that all of the powerful leaders had known when to wait. The capacity to do nothing at the right time was part of great statesmanship. Swenson did not for a moment accept Groteschele’s analysis or his evidence. But his condusion might be right.

  “Mr. Secretary, I think all of that is a lot of crap,” General Bogan’s voice cut in harshly from Omaha. “Look, I am under the gun more than any of you. I have to take all of this stuff from the computers and translate it into action. Don’t kid yourself. There are going to be three or four Russian generals at crucial spots who will react exactly the way I do: the best defense is a good offense. They will attack without giving a damn about what Marx or anyone else said.”

  “Any other comments?” Swenson asked.

  Groteschele had seated himself, but he was bent forward in his chair, tense with excitement. By his own act of will, he was almost at the point of committing the total energies of one hundred and ninety million people in an enormous military decision.

  Swenson glanced at Black.

  “Everything in Groteschele’s argument depends upon the extent to which Russian leaders are dominated by Marxist ideology,” Black said. “He believes that domination is complete. I think he is wrong. The CIA -did -a long study on this and it came to the conclusion that Soviet leaders made their decisions as

  Russians and later justified them as Marxists. Forget they are Communists and judge their acts objectively and they behave much like leaders in any other country.”

  On the Big Board the fighter blips were seemingly only inches away from the Vindicators. Everyone listened to Black, but they were watching the Big Board. The lead blip suddenly ejected two tiny phosphorescent dots that sped out ahead of it. Then the blip began a long lazy downward curving arc. Black knew that the plane had flamed out because of a lack of fuel, had fired its missiles, and was now falling toward the icy waters. He sensed the pilot’s first sensation of terror, the awful feeling of a dead plane under one’s hands. The suspense of waiting for the capsule to eject, the slow swinging parachute’s descent into the icy arctic waters, and the last few numbing moments before death…

  Swenson’s voice cut in with authority.

  “The lead fighter has gone in,” he said. “We can assume that none of the others will be successful. Now where do we stand?”

  Groteschele made an oblique approach to pin down his position.

  “Mr. Secretary, let me remind you about the Doomsday tapes. Both the Soviet Union and we have the ability to launch a first strike, to have most of the missile sites survive an enemy strike, and to launch a second strike,” Groteschele said. “Assume that every person in America were killed by Russia’s second strike. The Russians know that the Doomsday tapes would then go into operation. This means that weeks or even months after all of us were dead the silos scattered in hard and locked-up sites around the United States would go into action and destroy what is left of the Soviet Union. What is more important is that the Russians know we have those tapes. And that we would use them. Group 6, however its accident happened, has provided a God-given opportunity. One of our groups is well launched toward. Russia with a reasonable chance of success. I am convinced that the moment the Russians realize that, they will surrender. They know they cannot escape our second strike or ultimately our Doomsday tapes. Group 6 has given us a fantastic historic advantage. By accident they have forced us into making the first move, the move we would never have made deliberately. By making that first move, by cracking the gigantic tension, we will get a premature surrender from our enemy. We should advise the President that no efforts be made to recall them. At the same time we should tell the Soviet leaders that they have been launched by accident.”

  The second and third fighters launched their futile missiles and went into the long spiral which ended in icy death.

  Swenson waited a moment, as if allowing the subtleties of Groteschele’s argument to sink in.

  “We must still tell the President how this happened,” Swenson said. “We have heard Colonel Casdo’s theory that it might be a Russian subterfuge or trick. Any other ideas?”

  “I do not think that Colonel Cascio is correct, but one part of his argument is helpful,” Black said. “If the Russians did think that Group 6 was part of a planned attack, they would at once try to jam its radio signals so that we could not give it guidance or instructions.

  “But why would they not leave the channels open so that we could recall the group if it was a mistake?”

  Swenson asked.

  “Because they are as suspicious as we are,” Black said. “Our standard operating procedure is to try at once to isolate any Russian bomber group which launches what looks like an offensive against us or our allies. Here we are both victims of our suspicions.

  Though we both know that there is a possibility of bombers ‘getting loose’ by accident, we assume the other side would do it deliberately. Hence we try to frustrate their efforts to contact their bombers or to control the flight of their ICBMs.”

  There was a murmur of voices from Omaha. Swenson cocked his bead to one side. Then General Bogan’s voice came out loud and dear. “Knapp probably knows as much about the electronic gear as anyone else,” General Bogan said. “He is a little reluctant to talk but I have asked him to. Is that agreeable, Mr. Secretary?”

  “Yes,” Swenson uttered the single word. It underlined the sense of urgency.

  The new voice came on, weak and reedy at first, then gaining in confidence. “The more complex an electronics system gets, the more accident-prone it is,” Knapp said. “Take our missiles. Each of them is, in the design- stage, checked, double-checked and thoroughly pretested. All of their characteristics have been put through simulated conditions long before the missile is even built. All along the line everything checks out perfectly. Each of the missiles should fire and fly beautifully. But it never happens that way in practice. The Atlas is the most reliable missile we possess. But what happens: we make our first moon shot and it misses by 25,000 miles. Take the old X-15. It was a very small piece of equipment. It was perfect on computers, flew like a dream. It was a beautiful little computerized space needle launched from a mother plane. But there were very few X-15 flights in which something entirely unforeseen did not go wrong.”

  “How does this apply to our situation, Mr. Knapp?”

  Swenson asked abruptly.

  “In this very direct way, Mr. Secretary,” Mr. Knapp said, his voice rising. “Pile all those electronic systems on top of one another and sooner or later there will be a deteriorated transistor or a faulty rectifier, and the thing breaks down. Sometimes even those marvelous computers suffer from fatigue. They start to get erratic just like overworked humans.”

  “Mr. Secretary,
what Mr. Knapp is saying is wrong because it overlooks one factor,” Groteschele cut in angrily. “Even if the machines fail they are supervised by humans. The human could always reverse or correct the decision of the machine.”

  Knapp laughed and it was a thin, abrupt, and pitiless laugh. “I wish, sir, you were right,” Knapp said. “The fact of the matter is that the machines move so fast, are capable of such subtle mistakes, are so intricate, that in a real war situation a man might not have the time to know whether a machine was in error or was telling him the truth.”

  Black felt a sharp sense of relief. If Knapp had not said this he would have had to. Coming from the “outside” it carried more weight.

  “Mr. Secretary, I don’t know if you want a politician’s guess,” Congressman Raskob’s voice said from Omaha, “but you’re going to get it. No politician, and I don’t give a damn whether he is a dictator or a democrat, could survive if he allowed one of his largest cities to be destroyed without taking some kind of action against the enemy. People can be awfully damned vengeful. I don’t know how Khrushchev thinks, but one thing is sure: if he lets Moscow get blown up without taking action against us, he won’t live to write about it in his memoirs.”

  The red phone rang. Swenson picked it up smoothly, with no more emotion than if it were a social call at home. No one in the room knew precisely what he would say. But what he said would be the official opinion of an institution made up of millions of men and billions of dollars of equipment and a staggering amount of information. Black looked at Groteschele. Groteschele had, now that the decision was dose, relaxed in his chair.

  “Mr. President, it is our opinion that Group 6 did actually fly through their Fail-Safe point,” Swenson said. “This was probably due to a compound mechanical error. There is an outside chance that the Soviets might have triggered or contributed to the mistake by making some experiment or jamming procedure of their own. We doubt that there has been a human error or that the Commander of Group 6 has gone berserk.”

  He stared at the pad in front of him. He began to make some notes; There was an almost visible rise in tension in the room. They had given an opinion.

  There was, as yet, no decision.

  Swenson looked up and spoke to the table at large, the phone held loosely in his hand, his voice calm.

  “The President wants to know what the chances are of those six planes getting through to Moscow,” he asked. He looked at Black.

  “One or two of the six will probably get through,” Black answered promptly. “Maybe more.”

  “Two,” Swenson said into the phone. He listened, looked up again.

  “Even with the entire Soviet defensive apparatus concentrating on them?” Swenson repeated the President’s question.

  “Our Vindicators fly so fast that they won’t be able to use all of their defensive apparatus,” Black said. “They just can’t get it in front of the Vindicators in time. They will have to shoot down the Vindicators with what is already there plus maybe a few additional fighters. It’s an intricate calculation, but we have made it scores of times and it is based on a consideration of what the Soviets have in the way of defense and what our Vindicators have in the way of evasive capacity.”

  “They will be unable to concentrate effectively against the Vindicators because of their speed,” Swenson said into the phone.

  Swenson put the phone down.

  “The President is assuming that two of the planes will get through,” he said slowly. “We have moved into a genuine crisis. He is going to talk to Khrushchev on the phone.”

  “I think we are ready to talk to Premier Khrushchev, Buck,” the President said. “The operator is prepared for the call. Just tell her to complete the Moscow-connection.”

  Buck picked up the phone. Instantly the operator said, “Yes, sir?”

  He gave her the instructions. At once there were the sounds of a long-distance call being completed, but there was a strange lack of static on the line. As the operator worked, Buck looked at the President.

  The President seemed almost asleep. Buck had heard of his capacity to take quick short naps. Buck realized that the President had also developed a capacity to live with crisis. If he allowed each crisis to take its toll he would have died long ago of anxiety.

  Now, his eyes half-closed, his face relaxed, the President looked younger, closer to his real age. No one, Buck thought, ever makes the complete adjustment to constant tension. Responsibility had laid pouches under the President’s eyes, etched lines around his mouth, given his powerful hands the slightest tremor.

  “Hello,” a voice said suddenly in Russian. “Khrushchev is here.”

  “Premier Khrushchev, the President of the United States is calling,” Buck said quickly.

  The President came quickly forward in his seat, picking up his phone.

  “Who else?” Khrushchev said. Incredibly, his tone sounded almost jovial to Buck. “That is what the line was set up for.”

  Buck translated for the President.

  “Premier Khrushchev, I am using the telephone line which your government and mine agreed should always be kept open. This is the first time it has been used. I am calling you on a matter of great urgency.”

  This time another voice on the Moscow end of the line began to translate what the American President had said. At once the President nodded to Buck and then began to speak. Buck translated quickly, speaking over the voice of the Moscow translator.

  “Premier Khrushchev, because of the urgency of the matter I hope that you will agree to the use of a single translator,” the President said. “Of course, I have no objection to your translator listening to make sure that my translator is giving you a faithful rendition of what I say, but time is very short and the problem is urgent. Two translators would only complicate it.”

  There was a long moment of tension after Buck had translated. Buck felt squeezed buglike between the wills of two men. Although they were separated by thousands of miles it was almost as if their strength poured through the line. Buck, for the first time in his career, felt uncomfortable while translating. He sensed that this first clash of wills was important. He wanted to -be out of the room, to remove himself physically, yet, at the same time, he was fascinated by what was happening.

  Khrushchev yielded, but without giving much. “It is a little thing,” he said. “I agree to using your translator.”

  “Premier Khrushchev, I am calling you on what may turn out to be a small matter,” the President said. “But it is the first time it has happened and it could be tragic if it is misunderstood.”

  “Does it have to do with the aircraft we have detected flying toward Russia from - the Bering Sea?” Khrushchev asked bluntly.

  The President’s eyes widened a bit. He recovered and then incredibly, he winked at Buck.

  “Yes, Premier, that is why I am calling,” the President said. “I am sure that your radar and tracking devices are as competent as ours and that they detected a somewhat unusual pattern.”

  “They reported it to me fifteen minutes ago,” Khrushchev said. His voice was flat. It revealed nothing. Buck felt a game of word-poker was being played through him. Khrushchev continued speaking levelly. “We have not yet made a positive identification. I presume you are calling to inform me that it is another of those allegedly off-course reconnaissance flights. Mr. President, I have warned you in speeches, in diplomatic notes, through military channels, that your constant flying of armed planes around the periphery of the Soviet Union was a menace to peace. The scandalous U-2 incident was only the most dramatic example of your constant provocation. Have you ever wondered how long the patience of-”

  “This is a mistake and it is a serious mistake,” the President cut in coldly. Be nodded for Buck to translate, Buck talked over the voice of Khrushchev, his voice somewhat shaky. Khrushchev came to a halt. Buck repeated what the President had said.

  Khrushchev grunted. “All right, tell me,” he said, in a tough peasantlike voice. “Tell me t
he secret.”

  “It is not a secret,” the President said. “A group of bombers has flown past its Fail-Safe point. I assume that you understand our Fail-Safe system?”

  “Yes, I understand what you call your Fail-Safe system,” Khrushchev said. “You have talked enough about it in the papers. Has it turned out not always fail-safe?” What sounded like a laugh came through the phone.

  The President turned white at the corners of his mouth. Then he also laughed.

  “That is correct,” he said. Buck sensed that the laugh came hard, but was somehow necessary. “A group of our bombers with a speed of over 1,500 miles per hour and each loaded with two 20-megaton bombs is flying toward Russia.”

  Khrushchev, spoke in a musing, tolerant, shrewd voice, the voice which an older man uses when rebuking a boy.

  “We shall watch with great interest while you recall them. Only two weeks ago in a speech you gave to the young soldiers of your Air Academy in Colorado you said that the Air Force could never be a threat to peace, only a deterrent to war,” Khrushchev said softly. “I hope this little incident will change your mind.”

  The President moved a pencil in his fingers, drew a hard circle on the yellow pad in front of him.

  “Premier Khrushchev, this is not the time for moral-lung. It is much more serious than you think. So far we have been unable to recall them,” the President said, and his voice also was soft and tolerant. “Accidents can occur anywhere and be made by anyone. If the captain of your submarine the Kalinin were alive he could tell you that.”