"No," the President said. "He didn’t miscalculate. His plan, as far as it went, has worked out with complete success. He didn’t miscalculate on the information he had, but his information wasn’t complete."
"Then there was a good reason why this base was attacked?"
"A very good reason."
"Oh," Howard said. "I figured there had to be. Anyway, after telling me how it would work, Quinten explained why he had taken the action. His reasons sounded pretty convincing to me. They boiled down to the fact if we didn’t destroy the Russians now, they would certainly destroy us in the next year or so. He said the only way we could ensure peace was to kill them now. He told me a story about some mongoose breaking a cobra’s eggs to illustrate what he meant."
"Rikki-tikki-tavi," the President murmured.
"Yes, sir, that was the name. The general kept talking about peace, and he used the expression peace on earth at least twice. Once when he asked me what the sound of a SAC wing going off really meant, and once when he said the men he was allowing to die on the airfield were dying for that.
"After the medics had taken his body away, I glanced through the note-pad he’d been using to scrawl in. Most of the scrawls I could read seemed to have some connection with what he’d been telling me about, which I figured must have meant he was thinking about those things deep down. There was my own name, and the names of the targets. I remember one of them was the Kotlass I.C.B.M. base. Then I noticed on one page he’d written down the phrase Peace on earth. I looked back through the pages and I found it was written again and again. Not only that, but on one page he’d underlined the initial letters of each word, and written them down below in all their possible six combinations. Right then, something told me that was it. One of them was the code group."
"Hold it," the President said. Franklin had come back into the room. The SAC commander was smiling.
"It worked," Franklin said. "OEP was the correct group. The acknowledgments are coming in now."
The President looked at Zorubin. He could not resist saying, "A pity you won’t be able to take up those invitations after all."
The Secretary of State laughed out loud. No-one had ever seen him do that before. The Russian Ambassador beamed. "Perhaps another time," he said mischievously.
"I hope not." The President suddenly realised he was still holding the phone. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Does anyone know this Major Howard?"
"I do," Franklin said. "A good boy. Got brains as well as the ability to fly. There’s plenty of room for people like him in the Air Force’s T.O."
"He showed a lot of courage insisting on speaking to me personally," the President said slowly. "He worked things out on his own, and he came up with the right answer. I feel we owe him our thanks."
"He must be promoted," Zorubin said emphatically. "He must be made a full colonel at least."
General Steele smiled. "Well no, Your Excellency," he said. "We don’t work things quite that way. But when General Franklin reviews the next promotion list for his command, I’ve no doubt he’ll take into consideration what Howard’s done today."
"Most certainly," Franklin said.
The President uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone. "Major Howard?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You’ll be glad to know your assumption was correct. The group was OEP."
"OEP," Howard muttered. "I suppose that would stand for ‘on earth peace’, sir?"
"‘On earth peace, goodwill to all men,’" the President said quietly. "Yes, it’s a variant. Now then, Howard. Before I finish I wish to congratulate you. You’ve acted in a manner fully in accordance with the highest traditions of your service. The Joint Chiefs, and His Excellency the Russian Ambassador, wish to join their congratulations to mine. I feel sure you’ll go a long way in the Air Force."
At Sonora, Howard slowly replaced the phone on its stand. The President’s words could only mean he’d be almost certain of a promotion on the next list. So maybe Quinten had known something when he’d scrawled that rank on the note-pad. It was two or three minutes before he remembered he’d forgotten to thank the President, or even acknowledge the message.
The President heard the click at the other end of the line, and replaced his phone with a smile. He walked back round the table to his own seat. Zorubin offered him a cigarette, and he accepted it gravely. He limited his smoking as much as possible, but he felt this was an occasion he could afford to relax his strict regimen.
A constant stream of Air Force aides was coming into the room bearing acknowledgment messages as they were received. General Franklin was ticking off the acknowledgments against the list of bomber numbers.
"How many so far, Franklin?" the President asked.
"Fifteen, sir."
"You consider they will all have received the orders?"
"I don’t see why not. Yes, I think they will."
The President glanced at the clock. Two minutes to twelve. He decided to wait one more minute before he informed the Marshal of their success.
"Let me know as soon as twenty have acknowledged," he instructed Franklin.
"It’s seventeen now, sir." Franklin accepted another piece of paper from an aide and marked off two more numbers.
"Nineteen now." Another aide came in. Two more ticks were entered on the list. "That makes it twenty-one, Mr. President."
"All right. Zorubin, I’m going to speak to the Marshal now. I may ask you to confirm we have succeeded in recalling the wing."
"I will be pleased," Zorubin said. Much of the familiar charm was back in his voice the President noted.
The President saw the hands of the clock indicated one minute before twelve. He signalled for the radio link to be opened. Something told him he was going to enjoy the next few minutes.
Chapter 21
There was a saying about flak in world war two. Probably it originated with the R.A.F., because they were the first to experience really heavy flak, and was taken up by the Eighth Air Force later. ‘Seeing flak doesn’t matter,’ it said. ‘When you can hear it, it’s getting close. And when you can smell it, you’re in trouble.’ Alabama Angel had been smelling it for ten minutes now, and Alabama Angel was in bad trouble.
The first shell to hit had struck somewhere in back of the fuselage. It didn’t seem to have done much harm, except the fore and aft controls had become stiffer. It was an effort for Brown to make the small corrections necessary to keep the airplane at a height of two hundred feet.
The second shell had done the real damage. It had exploded between Stan Andersen, standing in the astrodome, and Federov as he stood next to Brown, killing them both. Andersen’s body, which had absorbed most of the explosion, was a red, shredded thing on the floor of the cabin. Federov’s body had protected Brown, and now slumped against the side panels of the cockpit, the head hanging loosely forward and swinging grotesquely with the movement of the aircraft.
Garcia and Bill Owens had been shocked by the explosion, but Andersen’s body had screened them. Physically, they were untouched. Engelbach, forward and crouched over his radar and bombsight, had not felt or heard anything except a sudden, heavy shudder behind him.
Brown was reaching certain conclusions. He knew now that they would never make it out from the target. The numbness was creeping into his upper arms. Movement of the controls was becoming increasingly difficult. He knew that once he had brought the bomber to the target his strength would fail. The alien piece of metal inside him had destroyed his ability to generate fresh power. All that kept him going now was the knowledge he must not fail. Millions of lives depended on his hitting the target and taking it out. He felt as if he were drawing a little power from each one of the millions who depended on him, to keep his weary body working until he hit the primary. He had been planning on Federov taking over then to fly the bomber out. It had been a slim chance. But now Federov was dead, and so was the navigator. The slim chance had become no chance at all.