"It’s my decision, Franklin."
"Yes, sir."
"Keppler?"
"Mr. President."
"I want Atlantic City evacuated right away. I declare martial law in the city, and for an area fifteen miles radius around it. You will take personal charge of the evacuation, and you will act in my name without reference to me. I trust your judgement sufficiently to say here and now I will back any action you take without question."
"Very good, Mr. President." Keppler rose to his feet, a tall, bulky, competent looking man. "One point, sir. Am I to evacuate everyone within the radius of the area you’ve proclaimed martial law?"
The President looked at the SAC commander. "You’re the expert, Franklin. What do you think?"
"It should be enough," Franklin said slowly. "Without looking at the terrain, I couldn’t say positively." He paused. "Maybe I should go along with General Keppler. If that is, the general, if he…" Franklin came to an embarrassed halt.
"Be glad to have you along," Keppler said warmly. "Don’t know anything about these contraptions. Don’t want to, either."
"All right then," the President said. "Both of you go. I take it your deputy at Omaha will handle SAC affairs, General Franklin?"
"He’s handling them right now, sir."
"All right. Get moving." The President watched Keppler and Franklin leave. He had noted earlier on how Keppler had reacted when Franklin had aligned himself with him during the altercation with Zorubin. If he could do anything to promote good feeling between Army and Air Force generals he felt he should, if only to cut down the number of squabbles he had to umpire in the future.
Now it was time to let the Marshal know his decision. The big wall clock was showing six minutes after twelve. "This is the President," he said quietly. "I wish to inform the Marshal I understand his position if a city of his is destroyed. I consider the peace of the world to be more important than a city on each side. Therefore I am prepared to give one of his bombers free access to an American City of comparable size. I have selected for this purpose Atlantic City. In the event of a Russian city being taken out, one Russian bomber will be permitted to destroy Atlantic City. But I must point out to the Marshal, in that case there would be no question of compensation for the Russian city destroyed. That would be paid for by the death of an American City. It is for him to choose."
The reply took only a few seconds to come. "The President’s offer is unacceptable. The American, bomber has chosen its target. We wish to choose ours."
"No." The President’s tone was unequivocal. "I will not accept that. My offer is final and I will not argue about it. I am ready to go so far to preserve peace. I will not be pushed further."
The men round the table sat very quietly as they waited for the reply. It seemed an age in coming, but in reality it was only a minute or so. "The President’s offer is accepted. Can the details be left to the staffs?"
"They can," the President replied shortly. "But it must be understood my permission is conditional on Kotlass being destroyed."
"That is understood."
"Then for the moment there is nothing more to be said." The President relaxed in his chair. The wallclock was showing seven minutes after twelve. One way or another, they would soon know now.
Chapter 23
Ahead of him, Clint Brown could see the lights of Kotlass. It was quite dark now at this latitude, but it didn’t really matter. The lights were guiding him in. Suddenly as he watched them they went out. All at once, as though someone had operated a master switch and cut the electricity supply off clean at source. Within seconds he found he could still see the town, a vaguely dark mass against the white of the snow covered plains. He continued to fly straight on, confident that the course he was holding would take him over the town and on to the I.C.B.M. base six miles beyond it.
"Time to open bomb doors," Engelbach said calmly.
"Right. Now." Brown thumbed the bomb door release button, while Engelbach manipulated the opening lever. Both controls had to be operated together, otherwise the bomb doors would not open.
"There’s something wrong with the circuit lights," Engelbach said urgently. "They haven’t gone to green. Hell, they’ve gone out altogether."
Brown forced his tired mind to concentrate on what Engelbach had said. Something about circuit lights. What did lights matter anyway? He’d felt the slight shudder as the doors came open, and the speed of the plane had dropped off a point or so as it always did. "So the circuits are out. Forget it, Harry."
Brown watched the dark mass of Kotlass coming ever closer. Now it was time for the last routine drill, the one he’d hoped he’d never have to go through. "O.K. José, let’s make her live."
"Opening firing circuit," Garcia said.
"Roger." Brown unlocked his master switch, and pulled down on the red lever. Immediately a harsh red light glowed at the top of the instrument panel. Brown mustered just enough strength to force one of his deadening hands to fumble with the rheostat and dim the glaring brightness of the light.
It was done. The bomb was live. Only one safety device now remained, in the shape of two slim steel pegs which connected the fuselage of the plane with two vital parts deep inside the bomb. When the bomb fell away, the two steel pegs would be left, and as they slid out of the falling bomb they would open the trigger primer circuits. Once that happened, the bomb would explode as soon as the pre-set height had been reached. For this particular bomb that meant forty seconds after being dropped, which was the maximum delay after the pre-set height, because it would be dropped near enough the pre-set height anyway.
Kotlass came closer, rushing towards them through the Arctic night. Dimly, Brown felt a vague pity for the people there who had only a few seconds more of life left to them. But he could not spare much thought for them. His hands were numb now, and his vision was becoming misty. It was an effort to say, "Bill, get the message out."
Owens applied himself to the unfamiliar task of radio transmission. He manipulated the key slowly and carefully. He felt confident he had not made a mistake. "I got it out, Clint," he said, just as the town of Kotlass rushed past beneath them.
Engelbach looked ahead. His target radar was indicating some obstruction five miles ahead and slightly off to starboard. He strained to pierce the darkness and identify it.
He checked his bomb release mechanisms, and found them working perfectly. Suddenly he saw the obstruction his radar indicated. It was a launching tower, reaching high in the air, its top lost in the darkness. Engelbach felt a surging elation. They’d made it. In five seconds he would bomb, and he’d guarantee he’d lay it within a half mile of the aiming point.
His hand went to the release switch. "Release switch, Clint," he said.
"Release switch." Brown summoned all his dying resolution. He had to lift his hand, and move it forward six inches. It was impossible. He lifted it. He could not move it forward, he simply could not. Inch by painful inch he moved it forward. Now, he was touching the switch. Pull it down. The cabin was filling with blackness, thick blackness in which he was swimming. He could not see the switch. He had forgotten what it was for. He knew only his life would have been futile unless he operated it. He pulled firmly down and slumped back in his seat, the hand which had pulled the switch hanging limply by his side.