Andersen detected the weakness and pain in Brown’s voice. He said, "Clint, listen to me. Clint, you hear me?"
"Sure." Brown summoned up reserves of strength, fighting desperately against the blackness which was slowly engulfing him. Suddenly it receded. He felt new strength flood into his tired, agonised body. The pain eased a little.
"Clint, you O.K.?" Andersen’s voice was high pitched, anxious.
"I’m O.K. What’s the word?"
"Alter course three degrees port. Estimate twelve zero nine at target. We’ve got a high tail wind down here. You got that, Clint? Set it on your count-down. Twenty-six minutes to run to target."
"Roger. Altering course now." Brown went through the motions mechanically. He altered course, set the count-down time, found a few seconds to ponder just what performance they’d built into this plane. Admittedly the six remaining engines were full out. Sure, they were burning fuel at a fantastic rate. But what the hell. The bomber was going in at a speed not far off sound. They knew how to build them at Seattle.
He knew there was something about Seattle. It worried him. Seattle. Why should it worry him now? There was something, but it didn’t matter. The target did. They’d want to know back home when he’d taken it out. He said, "Owens, how’s the radio?"
"Well, I’m not radio expert. It got hit, but the CRM 114 took most of the impact. The transmitter seems O.K., but the receiver’s out. There’s no current coming through to it."
"All right, you stay there. You know enough morse to get off the attack signal." Brown peered ahead of him, looking past the redness that was trying to push itself in front of his eyes. "The receiver doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing anyone would want to tell us we don’t already know."
Chapter 18
Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Mackenzie, who had led the attack on Sonora, replaced the telephone. "They don’t like it," he said. "They don’t like it one little bit. I told them there was still a chance the two officers were on the base somewhere, but if they aren’t at their quarters and their wives say they went off hunting, it looks hopeless to me. I suppose there’s a chance the whirlybirds might locate them."
Howard looked out at the brilliantly lit base. Every possible light had been turned on, to help the ambulances and the medics locate and care for the casualties. As he watched, an ambulance tore across the concrete, siren howling and red light flashing. It disappeared in the direction of the base hospital. Here and there, groups of walking wounded were being assembled to receive their shots while they waited for ambulances. In the distance, on the broad concrete of the 739th servicing area, men were bending over sprawling figures which would never stand again, and covering them with G.I. blankets.
Howard thought about Bailey and Hudson. They were fanatically keen hunters. They were probably dug in right now in an elaborate hide somewhere a hundred miles away from Sonora, possibly near the coast, waiting for the dawn rise of birds. They had their own favourite places, as all hunters did, and like most hunters they kept it a close secret between themselves. Three whirlybirds had already gone off. Howard watched the fourth rise out of sight, into the darkness above the airfield where the lights did not penetrate. "There’s a chance," he said. "About one in a million. Bailey and Hudson might be anywhere in ten thousand square miles, and it won’t be light for a long while yet."
Mackenzie joined Howard at the window. "It was pretty bad out there," he said quietly. "Those flak towers are hell to pass without artillery support."
"Yeah. You know what all this is about?"
"Well," Mackenzie said cautiously. "The poop is the general here went haywire and mounted a full-scale attack on Russia. Our orders to penetrate here came right from the President. Incidentally, they’re keeping a line open from this office to the Pentagon, in case we locate those guys."
"I don’t get it," Howard muttered. "Maybe Quinten’s action was wrong, but it’s done now. Seems to me the only sensible thing is to follow up on it. Why the hell would they want to sacrifice all those poor bastards out there?"
Mackenzie shrugged. "Don’t ask me, I’m just a foot-slogger. It’s you guys are all mixed up in the big, bomb diplomacy. I heard some more poop from the Pentagon. The officer who passed me my orders used to be my divisional commander. The word is the Reds have a super bomb can wreck the whole of the States."
"Nuts," Howard said angrily. "And even if they did, how could they deliver it? We’ve caught them off balance, Colonel. Quinten may have been sick, but he still knew which end was up when it came to bomber operations. Understand, I’m not defending what he did. Fifteen minutes ago I was beginning to think he was right. Now, I’m not sure. But I do know he wouldn’t miscalculate the effect of his attack."
"Well, I hope you’re right." Mackenzie pursed his thin lips thoughtfully. "Seems to me someone up top must know something more, though. I don’t know the exact figures yet, but I must have lost near on two hundred of my boys in that attack. What did you lose?"
"We don’t know. Certainly over a hundred."
"That’s three hundred men gone, at the minimum. They must figure the position to be pretty serious when they’ll accept casualties like that." He turned away and walked to the door. "Well, I’m going out to see how my boys are doing. Have to take a muster to count just who’s left." He closed the door quietly behind him.
Howard still stood at the window, lost in thought. Some time in the next few minutes two medics entered with a stretcher. Howard looked out at the base while they removed what was left of Quinten, and cleared up some of the mess. When a man puts a four five in his mouth and pulls the trigger, there is inevitably a mess.
He heard the medics leave, and he caught sight of Mackenzie’s slim, energetic figure moving among the troops. Then he turned to the desk.
The medics had removed the gun from the desk, but Quinten’s note pad still lay there. Howard sat down in Quinten’s seat, and idly flicked the pages of the pad. Quinten had found peace now, he thought. Maybe not peace on earth, but peace wherever he had gone to.
It was funny, he thought, flipping the pages and glancing idly at the scrawls and doodles there, how much of a man’s subconscious is revealed when he scrawls on a pad. His conscious mind may be busy with other things. But his subconscious often prompts him to scrawl thoughts which are hidden deep beneath the surface. Here was his own name, he saw. But Quinten had promoted him. He had gone up to light colonel. Howard smiled sourly. After this mess he’d be lucky if he stayed a major. Here was Kotlass, with the K heavily underlined. A double connection there. The I.C.B.M. site, with the K underlined from the bombers heading towards it to take it out. He turned over another page.
Suddenly he stiffened in his seat. He riffed hastily through the other pages. Yes, there it was again. And again. Howard felt his heart pounding heavily with excitement. He thought he knew. No, stronger than that, he was sure he knew.
He stretched out his hand to pick up the telephone with a line held to the Pentagon. Then instantly he saw and heard Quinten again, his face haggard and pale, but his voice calm, and confident and utterly reasonable. He hesitated. The mongoose kills the snake. He does it because that is the nature of things. It is not aggression, it is self defence. We will bury you, the Russians said. We will bury you. He pulled his hand back, stood, and walked slowly to the window.
In his mind reason pitted itself against morality, hard fact against probability. He was sure he had the power to recall the bombers. He was not sure he should exercise that power. He lit a cigarette and glanced at the wall clock. Eleven forty-six. Whatever his decision, it had to be fast.