Suddenly there was a bigger explosion among the lines of tracer. Something glowed, showered out flame, dropped swiftly to earth and exploded. It could have been the fighter which had just made the attack. Brown thought. Pilot probably concentrating on instruments, never even saw it. He said quickly, "What do you make of it, Stan?"
"Looked like they hit an airplane. Maybe the same fighter just tried to take us out."
"Yeah," Brown said, "but I didn’t mean that. You think we should go through. Or try to get round it. Or maybe go over the top?"
"I wouldn’t think it was any use trying to go round it. They’ve probably got Kotlass ringed in. It’s their number one target, the highest of all priority ones. To go over it is out. That’s what it’s there for, to force a low level attacker up where the fighters can get at him with a certain chance of hitting him."
"So we go through," Brown said calmly. He reached forward and adjusted his radio altimeter for two hundred feet. "I’m going right down on the deck. Anything gets us at two hundred feet will be a real lucky shot. Any more speed in hand, Federov?"
Federov shook his head no. "Nothing more," he said sourly. "Not a single, lousy knot. We’re stretched out full now."
"Yeah, I figured that." It was funny, Brown thought, the way the Russians could afford the number of guns to ring a place like Kotlass, still two hundred miles away. He began to figure out the number of guns it would require, then gave the effort up as useless. He only knew it was a hell of a lot.
"How far you make it now?" he asked.
"Guess I underestimated," Engelbach said. "Must have been more than five miles. The target radar shows the first concentration about two now."
"O.K." Brown said easily. He brought the big plane down to two hundred. Ten seconds to go. He hunched a little in his seat, purely instinctively. The movement brought a vicious, unexpected stab of pain. For a moment he almost wished the bomber would be caught right away in the flak. Then the pain would be over. But as it subsided into a heavy but bearable ache he forgot it and concentrated on the delicately precise job of flying the airplane at the ridiculous height of two hundred feet.
In the cold air the lazy arcs of tracer glowed with a white incandescence. They crossed and re-crossed in a graceful, lethal pattern. Here and there the sudden bright red eruptions of explosions were quickly born and as quickly died. Brown forgot his wound, the pain, the numbness which was penetrating inside his shoulder muscles now, in the determination to break through the wall. Maybe it was like the sonic barrier. Maybe, once it was broken, there was smooth air, and quiet, and easy passage. Or maybe it continued all the way to the target. Brown tapped his last reservoirs of energy, and poured his strength into the concentration needed to burst through the flak.
And Alabama Angel, so low as to be almost sliding along the ground, hurled herself at the last obstacle between her and her fulfilment, which was the I.C.B.M. base at Kotlass.
Chapter 20
There was little conversation in the room within the War Room. Since the unconcealed threat by the Marshal, nothing more had come over the air from Moscow. Twice, the President had tried to re-establish personal contact. But the speakers in the room had remained ominously silent.
Steele had reported that there were still no positive signs that the Soviet bomber force was taking the air. Franklin felt a passing regret that Quinten’s plan, which had succeeded beyond all possible doubt, would mean only annihilation for everyone, not the brilliant victory it deserved. Somehow it did not make sense to forge a weapon of the finest metal, temper it to an infinite hardness, polish it to a dazzling perfection, only to find that it could not in any case be employed without destroying its wielder as surely as the enemy it struck down. Well, he thought, that was the twentieth century. They had to live with it. Or rather, he amended, to die with it.
The intelligence colonel came in to report another bomber destroyed. Again the destruction had occurred in an area known to be allocated to the testing of experimental missiles. Three down, but twenty-nine still flying on, most of them only ten minutes away from their targets now.
Zorubin broke the gloomy silence. "How long will we have?" he asked.
"Six weeks, possibly. Perhaps a little less, perhaps a little more. We will of course provide transportation for you to return to Russia, if you wish it."
Zorubin shook his head. "No, Mr. President, I think not. I have no ties in Russia. Most of my life I have passed outside it. I think I will stay here in Washington. It has occurred to me now I no longer have to live a life of the utmost decorum, I can perhaps accept some of the invitations certain of your ladies have hinted they would be happy to extend to me. On the average, they are much more attractive than our Russian women," he continued reflectively. "Excessive concentration on political and economic theory may produce a well informed woman. It certainly produces a dull one, from the point of sexual attraction, don’t you think?"
"No doubt," the President said stiffly. He could understand Zorubin’s attitude, especially when one considered that Zorubin had already accepted and rationalised the fact he must inevitably die. But he could not sympathise with it.
"Eat, drink, and be merry," Zorubin said lightly. "I remember a wily old British diplomat in London who…" he broke off as the call light of General Steele’s phone flickered.
Steele picked up his phone and listened. "Put him through," he said sharply. "Right away." He waited a few moments, then said, "Major Howard? This is General Steele, Chief of Staff. You can pass your message to me, son." He listened for the reply. Then he said, "Hold on son, I’II get him."
Steele laid down the phone. "Mr. President," he said quietly. "The exec at Sonora thinks he knows the recall group. He’ll only pass it to you personally. Shall I get him switched through to your phone?"
The President was already standing. "No," he said quickly, "I’ll come to yours." He moved swiftly round the table. Even with the best run switchboard, calls sometimes got lost when they were switched from one extension to another. One small error by an operator now could mean the difference between life and extinction. He accepted the phone from Steele, and took a deep breath.
"This is the President, Major," he said. "General Steele tells me you might have the recall group for the eight forty-third wing. You may pass it to me."
At Sonora, Paul Howard felt no trace of nervousness. "I don’t know whether I’m right, sir," he said clearly, "but I think I am. You see, sir, General Quinten was talking a lot to me in the last couple of hours. And most of the time he was doodling on his notepad."
The President interrupted quietly. "Keep telling me about it. Major, but first, right or wrong, give me the code letters. Even seconds count now."
"Sir, I think they will be some combination of the letters O, P, and E."
"I’ll repeat those," the President said. "Some combination of O, P, and E." He spoke clearly and slowly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Franklin take off at a run for the door. The wall clock showed five minutes to twelve. He felt a wild excitement mounting in him. Maybe they’d save the world yet. "Now, carry on, Major."
"Well, sir, General Quinten explained to me just how he saw the attack he’d ordered. He saw it as the only possible way to stop an attack on this country he was sure was coming. He figured that all the factors needed for success were present, and the eight forty-third would be able to destroy Russian offensive strength. If things worked out the way he calculated them, he thought this country would not receive any damage. Obviously he must have miscalculated somewhere."