"Concur," Admiral Maclellan said precisely.
"Concur," Keppler growled.
The President stood up abruptly. He paced down the long room to where the semi-circle of chairs faced the big wall maps. He watched as the plotters neatly drew intersecting lines across the tracks of the target-bound bombers. Each little intersection represented another five minute advance towards the target, based on the flight plan estimates. He sighed.
It was so simple. An elementary exercise in military theory. The Joint Chiefs were professionals, and their solution was undoubtedly the right one. He continued to gaze at the central map.
Slowly the officers and civilians who had been sitting at the big table drifted down to group themselves behind him. In a time of national emergency, the President stands at the very apex of the councils of power. Through him must flow the proposals and counter-proposals on all matters affecting the national security. From him must come the ultimate policy decisions. That is the constitution.
He stood silent for a full two minutes in front of the central map. He tried to think himself into the position of his opposite number in the Kremlin. All his life, even when at a comparatively late age he had found himself sucked into the hurly burly of politics, he had read and admired the great Russian novelists. Now he bent the knowledge he had acquired from them of the Russian character into an attempt to solve the one great dilemma with which he was faced. He did not believe the character of a people can change overnight, whatever change of government there might have been. He thought of the Russian peasant; stubborn, obstinate, accustomed to suffering and perhaps even welcoming it. Latent in all the Slavs, he thought, is the urge for self destruction, the mute acceptance of nemesis once nemesis is seen to be at hand.
He turned abruptly to the waiting group. "Gentlemen," he said, "we’re not going to do it." His tone was crisp and authoritative. "General Steele."
"Mr. President?"
"Recall the SAC wings. Keep them airborne if you feel it necessary for their safety, but they are not to proceed to their X points without direct authority from me."
Steele turned away abruptly. He moved over to Franklin. "You heard, Keith," he said. "Bring them on back." He dropped his voice a little. "But not too far. Arrange for tankers to meet them not more than four hours from their targets. Prepare them to stay airborne just as long as is necessary. If they get hungry, all right they get hungry. But I want them kept airborne, and I want them kept topped with fuel. I still think they’re going to be needed."
"I know they will," Franklin said. It was a definite statement of fact. Like Quinten, Franklin had no great opinion of politicians, especially when they interfered with the weapon he had helped to forge. But Franklin was not a sick man. More important, he had not the same freedom of action Quinten had. He went away to give out the orders. Steele turned back to the group around the President.
The President spoke directly to him. "General Steele, you think my decision is madness." It was phrased as a statement, but everyone in the group took it as a question.
Steele looked at the President. Never in his life had he evaded the truth when asked for his opinion. He did not propose to begin now. He said, "Sir, so far as I can see, it is madness. You have overlooked that if we succeed in recalling the eight forty-third, we can easily recall the other wings. If we do not succeed those wings are going to be necessary. I will go further than that. Not only will they be necessary, they will stand between life and death for millions of people in this country."
The President smiled. "Thank you, General. Let me assure you I have not taken the decision lightly."
Well, Steele thought, they would see. Meanwhile, he could rely on Franklin holding the wings where they could be sent in to their targets with the minimum delay.
The President looked at the map again. He gazed particularly at the heavy brown shading of the Urals. He said, "Get me Moscow. I want to speak to the Marshal himself. No-one else will do."
The senior of the two presidential aides said nervously, "Mr. President, it’s possible the Marshal will not be available."
"Tell him this," the President said, his words coming slowly and distinctly. "Tell him in an hour and a quarter from now his major cities, including Moscow, will be taken out. He’ll be available."
"Taken out?" the aide queried.
"Taken out, destroyed, obliterated, phrase it how you like. The words don’t matter. The cities and the people do." He paused, considering carefully what else there was to be said. "Tell him also," he continued very quietly, "I’m greatly afraid I won’t be able to prevent it."
The aide hurried away. The President glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to six, Washington time. He turned briskly to the group. "Now gentlemen, things to be done. NORAD alerted. Steele?"
"It’s been done, Mr. President."
"Good. The fleets at sea, Admiral Maclellan?"
"They’ve been alerted, sir."
"All right. I don’t consider there is a need to evacuate the cities yet. Any threat against them won’t develop for some time. Maybe," his voice was thoughtful, "for some considerable time. I’ll need a complete communications system between this room and Moscow. At least a dozen independent outlets. The Russian Ambassador will be arriving shortly, and I want him brought right in with no unnecessary formalities. Yes, Keppler?"
Keppler flushed. He did not like bucking authority, but this was madness. Within minutes of entering the War Room the ambassador could not fail to assimilate the most vital of all defence secrets. "The communications system is easy, sir. We already have all the outlets here we need. It’s just a question of hooking them to a radio net." He paused, not too sure just how far he should go. "About the Russian Ambassador," he began hesitantly.
"He enters on my personal orders." The President’s voice was quiet, but firm. "Now I wish to talk to the Joint Chiefs in private."
Individuals broke away from the group and dispersed down the room. At the long table they merged into a group again, as though the table acted as a focal point, bringing them together to converse in low, excited voices. Twenty yards away, the President was talking to the three service officers.
"A few moments ago," he said, "I made a decision you thought was military nonsense. As far as your information and your knowledge goes, I’ll agree that it was. But I happen to know a little more than you.
"I’m now forced to let you into a secret which up to the present has been known only to the President himself and the Secretary of State. It was passed on personally to me by my predecessor when ill health finally forced him to relinquish the Presidency. In my opinion, the knowledge he had to bear contributed directly to the decline in his health, but that is by the way. There are reasons you have not been allowed to have this information. The most important of them is that once you have it, you will see than an all-out attack on Russia is futile. Obviously, that would affect your attitude to your duties, and that would have been fatal, for it would have encouraged the enemy to attack, in the knowledge that though our defences are strong, yet we would hesitate to use our powers of retaliation.
"General Steele, I can see you don’t agree. Let me ask you a question. Could you, as Chief of Air Force, order an all-out attack on Russia if you knew that attack would inevitably mean the destruction of the United States?"
"Mr. President, the premises are false. If I ordered an all-out attack on Russia now, the United States would not be destroyed."
"You’re wrong. Not only would the United States be destroyed, but all the rest of the world too. Not spectacularly, and not at once, but quite inevitably. Radio-activity, you will agree, can destroy life just as effectively as blast or heat?"