The office door opened and his exec walked in, as he was privileged to, without first knocking. Major Paul Howard, the exec, was tied to ground duty while waiting for a leg badly broken in an auto smash to heal. It was nearly well now, and Howard was counting the days until he could return to his crew. He did not enjoy staff work and administration, but he was a graduate of the National War College, a man marked for high rank in the future if he did not foul up on the way. He performed his exec’s duties efficiently and well, if without any great liking for them.
He placed a sealed envelope on Quinten’s desk. "My red line’s still out, General," he said. "They haven’t located the fault yet."
"All right, Paul." Quinten slit the envelope open neatly with an ivory paper knife, and unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. "Let me know immediately they fix it, will you?"
"Yes, sir. Right away." Howard turned and walked out of the office, closing the door softly behind him. He was thinking how old Quinten had got to look in the two years he had known him. Too much responsibility, Howard thought, too many long hours of sweating it out at a desk while crews carried out their training missions. Quinten had children and grandchildren. At least, one grandchild. Howard smiled as he remembered the party there had been at the club to celebrate that. But his crews were his children, too. As long as they were airborne, Quinten would be awake and at work, watching the plots of their progress round the globe. And if as happened very occasionally a crew was lost through accident, Quinten suffered all the grief of a deep and personal loss.
As soon as the door shut behind Howard, Quinten read the letter from SAC. It was a personal letter from the commander. It thanked him for his work over the past four years, assigned him to duties in the Pentagon, and informed him his relief would arrive the next day. Quinten had been expecting the letter for some time. He had already heard unofficially that he was to be relieved. He knew it was right, that every day he was pushing himself a little closer to the edge of complete breakdown. But to hear about it unofficially was one thing, to see it actually in writing another. He knew the move would mean a second star on his shoulder, but the knowledge was joyless. He knew, although the Air Force did not, that he was a very sick man. The specialist he had consulted privately in Boston during his last visit there had left him in no doubt of that.
He folded the paper. It was only when he tried to replace it in the envelope that he noticed how badly his hands were shaking. Without being really conscious of it, he watched the big second hand sweep once round the dial of the electric wall clock. 09.58 G.M.T. Quinten pressed twice on the button that would summon his exec.
Howard entered the office within twenty seconds of the bell. As he came in he saw that Quinten was holding the red line telephone in his right hand. His face was very pale, Howard thought, but his voice was quite firm as he said, "I understand," and replaced on its rest the red instrument, the telephone which linked directly with SAC operations room.
Quinten took a deep breath. "Major, hold them at their X points," he said. "Use the intercom in your office, mine might be busy. Right away." His voice was calm and quiet, the impersonal voice of an officer trained to command, and experienced in the exercise of command.
Howard acknowledged the order, turned and hurried into his own office. His training forced him to pass the orders without letting his mind speculate on their implication. That could come later. For the present it was sufficient that within a minute of Quinten’s order the word had gone out to the 843rd. He returned to the commander’s office, and stood at the side of the desk ready for any further orders. So far he was not greatly disturbed by the order to hold. It had happened before, several times. Then it had been training, an exercise to test the efficiency of communications between base and the widely scattered bombers. Maybe this was the same.
The red line phone clamoured loudly and imperatively. Howard stiffened as Quinten reached for it. Maybe this was the call-off. But Howard thought not. He could not pin down any definite reason why he should be disturbed, yet somehow he was.
Quinten held the smooth red plastic to his ear, and listened for a few moments. His face was pale, his eyes haunted. He said, "Okay, I hear you. All right," and reached out to replace the receiver. Howard noticed his hands were shaking badly, and he had difficulty in getting the instrument back on to its cradle. And at once Howard knew that this was it. This time it was real. An attack on the United States was under way, and the bludgeon of massive retaliation was about to start its swing.
Quinten said quietly, "All right Paul, you’ve probably guessed. We’re in a shooting war. Get the word out to the boys. Plan R. Use your office, and wait for acknowledgments. I’ll bring the base to Warning Red conditions." He watched Howard swing round and walk quickly into the adjoining office.
Quinten first called the PBX. His mind was working fast, forgetting nothing. A mind not at its best, but still capable of carrying out an operational plan whose every detail was engraved on it with the heavy clarity of innumerable repetitions. He lifted the phone to the PBX, and was put through to the supervisor. He said, "This is the Commanding Officer. You recognize my voice?"
Second Lieutenant Manelli, drowsy towards the end of his spell of duty in the air conditioned PBX sunk fifty feet below administration building, forced himself to immediate alertness. "Yes, sir," he said. "I recognise your voice, General."
"All right, Manelli. I want Warning Red passed to all sections. Report back personally on any extension doesn’t answer or acknowledge. Got that?"
"Sure, General. Warning Red, report back personally any extension we can’t raise. Anything more, sir?" Manelli was itching to ask the C.O. if this was really it. But he didn’t. Like the rest of SAC he had been trained to know that needless questions wasted precious seconds.
"Yes, there is. From here on in the base is sealed tight. That includes incoming calls, as well as outgoing. We may have to deal with saboteurs pretending to be anyone from the President down. No calls from inside go out. No calls from outside are even answered, let alone put through. No calls. You understand?"
"Yes, sir. No calls in or out without your personal say so."
"No calls at all, with or without my personal say so," Quinten said patiently. "My voice can be imitated too, Lieutenant."
Manelli swallowed. He was very young, and very proud of the responsible position he held on the base. He said, "No calls at all, General. Rely on me, sir."
"I will, Manelli." Quinten replaced the phone, lit a cigarette. He knew he could depend on Manelli. He was a good kid, keen on his job, not afraid of responsibility. Now, after goofing off like that, he would make sure he didn’t goof again. The PBX was tight.
Quinten drew on his cigarette. He could not expect Howard back with him for three or four minutes yet. He ran briefly in his mind the main features of plan R. Then he flicked the lever of the intercom set, brought in the Communications Officer and the Tower. He said, "Close down your sections. Just as soon as all the eight forty-third have acknowledged. There’ll be nothing further for you to do, so you can get below ground."
The Communications Officer, Captain Masters, said, "General, I have to ask for clarification of those orders. If I shut down, and the Tower, there’ll be no radio or teleprinter communication in or out of the base. Is that your intention, sir?"
"That is. Get moving on it. And Masters."
"Sir?"
"You were quite right to ask. For your information, all that side will be handled from SAC. Now get started — Tower?"
"Sir?"
"Have all the acknowledgments come in?"
"Working on the last six, General."