She entered the River Gate of the Pentagon, showed a pass, and pinned a badge to her gray linen suit. She was admitted to the central corridor over which is a sign that reads: “Joint Chiefs of Staff—Restricted Area.” She came to a double door, guarded by Military Police, on which was stencilled: “Planning Division—Authorized Personnel Only.” Passing this barrier she walked to the end of the corridor beyond, and stopped at a door unnumbered and unmarked except for the curt notice: “Entrance Forbidden.” If you could go through that door uninvited you were one of seven people, six men and a woman, who comprised what the Planning Division called its Intentions of the Enemy Group, and unofficially its “dirty trick department,” or “private Kremlin.” The guard on duty smiled and opened the door for her. She was the woman. She represented the Atomic Energy Commission.
The conference room was unusual, even for the Pentagon. It was windowless, soundproofed, and devoid of files or safes. Its secrets were held only in the heads of the conferees. Except for the standard government-issue oval table and chairs of bleached oak, the only furniture was a mobile lunch stand, its electric coffee-maker steaming and cartons of milk and stacks of sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper, on its tray. Maps on sliding panels blotted out three walls. The largest was a target map of the United States, marked with every important military installation and industrial complex, every Navy base and heavy bomber field, population and communications centers, areas of nuclear production and research, hydroelectric sites, refineries, bottleneck roads and bridges. Another map showed the polar approaches to the North American continent, pinpointing picket ships, Texas islands, radar webs, Canadian and Alaskan interceptor strips, and anti-aircraft and guided missile batteries. There were smaller maps of Europe, North Africa, the Middle East, the Pacific, and Iceland and Greenland. On these maps American Air and Navy bases were indicated. Just such maps, it could be presumed, arrayed the walls of the Soviet central command post, and the war plans rooms of the Red Army, Navy, and Air Force. Over the map of the United States was the group’s slogan: “THINK LIKE THE ENEMY!”
Katharine Hume saw that all six of her colleagues were there before her. The attendance and punctuality, unusual for a Saturday morning, reflected the news, not critical news, or even unexpected, but as interesting as the first bold commitment of the queen in a championship chess match. Quietly, she slipped into the vacant chair. Clark Simmons, a spare, balding man who was senior in the group and who represented State, was speaking. “. . . two questions to answer. First, is the Russian announcement true? Recall that in February of ’fifty-five Molotov made a somewhat similar boast, although not quite so explicit. At that time the AEC decided it wasn’t true. Secondly, if true, why a public announcement of H-Parity, and why at this time?” As usual, as he spoke Simmons kept his eyes on the white scratch-pad in front of him and doodled. He raised his eyes to acknowledge Katharine and said, “We waited for you, lady. We’ve just started.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I stopped off at my shop on the way.”
“That’s what I was hoping you’d do,” Simmons said. “Get anything?”
Katharine removed her glasses. They were necessary only when her eyes tired from reading, but she wore them most of the time. She was twenty-nine, an age considered immature for strategic planning. By wearing glasses, adopting a severe hairdo, using little makeup, and choosing clothes of neutral shading, on occasion she managed to look over thirty. “I think I can answer your first question,” she said. “In the past three days there has been intensified radioactivity in the upper air currents over Alaska and northern Canada, and some fallout on Hokkaido. Analysis and seismographic reports indicate that the Russians blew two thermonuclear devices or bombs on Tuesday and two more on Wednesday.”
She rose, went to the side of the room, slid out a map of Asia, and ran her fingers along a loop of the Yenisei River, in Siberia. “I should say about here. The bombs—I believe they were bombs rather than devices—were of four distinct types. Two were rigged with U-238.” She hesitated for a moment, and looked down at the others to invite absolute attention. “The yield of one of these explosions—the last—exceeded thirty megatons.”
Jesse Price, the Air Force major newly assigned to the conference, pretended he was about to duck under the table. Price was a large, loose-jointed man with a black patch over his right eye and an arrow-shaped burn scar that ran from the patch to his chin. He talked flight jargon and behaved with the insouciance of a hot pilot. Katharine had wondered why the Air Force assigned him to the Intentions Group until she looked up his record. This record included graduation from the National War College after Korea, two years as Air Attaché in Moscow, another year as observer in Indo-China, and later service with SHAPE Air headquarters in Fontainbleau. In addition, she reflected that the Air Force would never keep a one-eyed pilot unless he had much else besides. Now that Price saw she was looking at him, he straightened and said, “Are you sure?”
“Very sure, Major. The AEC is now ready to admit that they have maximum capability.” She took her seat. For these men, no further explanation was necessary. Thirty megatons meant the equivalent of 30,000,000 tons of TNT. A five-megaton bomb could kill Chicago; ten, New York. Maximum capability was a phrase newly in use. It meant the capacity to utterly destroy any enemy. It meant all the bombs necessary.
For a moment, each was silent with his private thoughts. Four of the men were married and had children, and for them it was impossible to banish concern for their families from their considerations. Simmons had just bought a home in Chevy Chase, a somewhat overpriced Colonial, a bit extravagant for a Foreign Service career officer without independent income. He and his wife and three children, in the event of trouble, were trapped by an inexorable mortgage within blast radius of a primary target city. Commander Stephen Batt, Navy, was thankful for his cottage on the Severn. Annapolis was by no means safe, when you contemplated the danger of fallout. His whole family could die, horribly, because of a bomb on Washington or Baltimore. But it gave him maneuvering space. Colonel Philip Cragey, Army, had been planning to move his family from Charlottesville, where they would be about as safe as you could get on the eastern seaboard, to Washington. At that instant he decided they had better think it over. Felix Fromburg, the quiet little lawyer who represented the FBI, also made a decision. If the international situation tensed up again, he would talk to that real estate agent who had been trying to sell him a farm in Warrenton. A thirty-megaton bomb was beyond all reason.
Major Price scratched his face at the white border of the scar, and Katharine could see that he was still not satisfied. “They announced they had parity,” he said. “How would they know? How would they know how many bombs we’ve got?”
“I don’t think they know and I don’t think it matters,” Katharine said. Sometimes Major Price flew slowly. He would not proceed until everything on the navigation chart was clear in his head, even the most obvious landmarks. “Force, like space and time, is relative,” she continued, trying not to talk like a schoolmarm. “If they have enough bombs to destroy us, they have maximum capability, which means parity, because we can’t do anything worse than destroy them. Now I’ll make an assumption. For every bomb they blow in tests, they have stockpiled thirty to fifty. They aren’t quite as profligate as we are. Their resources aren’t quite as large. They don’t have tritium and deuterium to burn.”