"Main switch off." Brown looked at his watch again as Garcia checked the bomb release link switch with Engelbach. Exactly eight minutes. "Men, you’ve earned some coffee. Eight minutes flat." He sounded very pleased.
Garcia grinned. Minter managed a fleeting, economical smile. "Coffee coming right up," Garcia said.
Brown looked at his count-down clock. Fifty-nine minutes to go. He accepted a cup of coffee from Garcia, sipped it. It was good and hot. "How long before we cross in, Stan?"
"We should cross in at eleven twenty-two. Sixteen minutes from now."
"O.K." Brown finished his coffee. "Speed working out all right?"
"I think so. Let you know a little later."
"All right, men. Combat ready. Have the pressurisation and emergency oxygen ready and set for full, Federov."
"Set for full, Captain."
"O.K. Everyone make sure your oxygen supply is linked to emergency as well as normal." Brown checked that his own supply was doubly connected. He wasn’t anticipating trouble yet. That would come later, when the coastal radar had identified them as hostile and the defences had been alerted. He felt sure from what he knew about the Russian radar net on this coast they hadn’t even picked up Alabama Angel yet. But it never hurt to be prepared. Maybe nothing would get through to hit the bomber. But if it did, and if the pressure cabin was perforated, then the emergency oxygen and the pressure breathing system linked to it would enable the crew to live while he took the bomber down below forty-six thousand feet, where breathing was possible without pressure systems.
Lieutenant Owens, radar officer, said, "You see Kolguev Island yet, Stan?"
"I don’t think so," Andersen replied. He adjusted the brilliance control of his radarscope, which was a repeater fed from Owens’ scope.
"11 o’clock, about a hundred and thirty." Owens’ attention was suddenly drawn to his other scope. Two flashes of light had appeared where no flashes should be. There they were again. "Holy cowl" he yelled. "Missiles, captain. Sixty miles off, heading in fast from twelve o’clock. Steady track, they look like beam riders."
"Roger, keep watching them." Brown’s voice was calm and assured. Well, they’d soon know if the Wright Field boys had been on the ball. He reached forward and took the controls out of auto-pilot. Strangely, he felt not in the least scared. They were committed. The missiles were on their way. Maybe the brain could divert them, maybe not. There was nothing he could do about it.
"Forty-five," Owens said. His voice was higher pitched than usual, but he was not conscious of that. "Still coming straight and fast."
"Any idea on speed?"
"Between two and three thousand."
"Keep watching. Call them every five miles."
"Roger. Thirty-five. Still straight."
The crew waited silently. They too accepted the fact there was nothing they could do. Goldsmith’s hornets were no use against things travelling at that speed. They would have to sweat it out. Mellows concentrated on his set. Federov made a few meaningless notations on his fuel analysis sheet. Minter was apparently unmoved, but Garcia found himself repeating words he had not used since he was a boy. He was unaware that it was a simple prayer.
"Thirty. Still twelve o’clock. Speed around two thousand six hundred."
Brown became conscious he was tightening his grip on the controls. He eased it off. The palms of his hand were wet and cold.
"Twenty-five. Still straight."
Stan Andersen completed another series of calculations. They were starting to run behind time. He heard Owens call the missiles at twenty miles. They’d have to beef up the power a little. Another two or three hundred revolutions would be enough. But that could wait until after. After? He shrugged, and returned to the private world of abstruse calculations and meticulously accurate plotting that was his own.
"Fifteen. Still straight."
Brown felt a sudden irritation on his forearms, the kind of irritation that comes with a bad dose of prickly heat. It had to be soon now. One way or the other.
"Ten miles, still heading straight. Hey, wait a minute, they’re splitting up. One’s showing ten o’clock now, going away. That won’t hit us. The other’s coming into five. Five now, still coming. Still twelve o’clock, maybe a little to starboard, it’s swinging away. Four miles, two o’clock, three miles, three o’clock, it’s going past to the starboard. They’ve gone, Captain, both of them."
Brown grinned. He had caught a glimpse of the missile that passed them to starboard, seen it momentarily as a bright red streak across the sky. "Well, fellows, that’s it. Let’s not relax, but I guess we can all feel a little happier. The brain works," he said.
"Man, I would like to do something for the guy dreamed up that brain. For him I would do anything. But anything." Goldsmith’s voice was happy and relieved.
"Even make him a present of your little black book, hey Herman?" Andersen asked quietly.
"Well, maybe not quite that much. But…"
Owens broke in on Goldsmith. "Two more, Captain. Coming in from twelve o’clock like the last pair. Same speed. And a third, ten miles behind the other two. Fainter blip, probably a bit smaller. Not so fast, either."
"O.K. Call them." Brown wondered why they were meeting missiles so far out. He shrugged. It didn’t matter much so long as they weren’t hitting.
The crew listened to Owens call the ranges and bearings. But this time the tension was gone. They had seen that the brain worked, and they had faith in it now.
Andersen requested and got an engine adjustment to push up the speed another ten. He began to work on a new series of calculations. He heard Owens call the two missiles in to ten miles, and again they were diverted, both of them to port.
The third missile was slower than the other two. It was still fast, of course, but under two thousand. Owens found he had plenty of time to compute its speed. He worked it out at eighteen hundred and fifty, and passed the information to Brown.
Brown said, "O.K. Call it at ten."
"Coming up to ten now. Wonder which way this one will go. Eight miles now, still coming steady. Six, no change. There she goes, out to two o’clock now. Four miles. Four o’clock, three miles. Three miles! Captain," his voice was loud and high, "this one’s turning in on us. Five o’clock, two miles. Six o’clock, one mile. My God, it’s…"
Brown never heard the rest of the message It was drowned out by the explosion.
Chapter 11
"Only an hour to go for some of them," Quinten said quietly. He smiled tiredly at Major Howard. "Paul, you’re about as stubborn as a Missouri mule. You understand the nature of this thing we’ve been fighting. You understand that we have been fighting although we’re officially at peace. It seems the only thing you can’t understand is we’ve finally been given a chance of winning the fight."
Howard shrugged. "There are lots of people wouldn’t agree about the fighting part. At least, they haven’t slung any nuclear weapons at us."
"You think they wouldn’t?"
"I can only repeat they haven’t."
"Not yet," Quinten said slowly. "Not yet. Because they can’t be sure of winning, yet. But on the day they are sure, they’ll sling them. They’ve spent long enough planning for it."
"Well, I don’t know. Whenever we’ve met them firmly, they’ve pulled back. I agree we had to be as strong as they were, and show them we were prepared to use our strength. But they’ve always pulled back. I take that to mean our policy’s paid off."
"Policy!" Quinten said bitterly. "What policy? Did it rescue Hungary? Or Poland? Did it stop them taking over the majority of people in the Far East? Or keep them out of the Mediterranean? Have you ever really thought what our policy is?"