Garcia was thinking about a girl in Dallas. He was not thinking of her in any tender way, but with a sense of the infinite fitness of things. She thought she was going to blame him, just because she could produce a bell-hop ready to swear he’d seen them together in a room at the Laredo Hotel where he’d been stupid enough — or maybe drunk enough — to register his correct name and address. As if he didn’t know she was on the make for any serviceman who came into town with a full billfold. Well, she’d have a long way to travel to get any money from him now. He laughed with pure delight. He felt very glad he was going to preserve his record right to the end.
Engelbach, Owens, and Garcia were all content. They were not frightened, because they already counted themselves dead, and had done so ever since Clint Brown said he would have to bomb at low level. They were content, and they had made their peace. The seconds could tick away as fast as they liked.
Clint Brown was actually dead. His last living act had been to depress the release switch which had enabled Engelbach to drop the bomb. When Engelbach pressed the button Brown was already dead, the ultimate reserves of vitality drained from him with the constant loss of blood from his shattered back.
He had trimmed the aircraft for level flight, and so Alabama Angel continued to fly. Very gradually, with a shifting of weight when Engelbach had pressed the button, she had eased round to a south-easterly heading. And she was flying slightly higher now as the ground fell away beneath her. The green light on the radio altimeter glowed, and then abruptly winked out. Seconds later the red light came on. The declination of the ground was past, and now it was sloping gently up to meet the bomber again.
Thirty-five seconds after bomb release point, and nearly six miles from the aiming point, Alabama Angel brushed against the sloping ground. She began to break up, but the impact bounced her up to six hundred feet as she did. Pieces fell away from the stricken airplane, among them the nose section with Engelbach still in it. The main fuselage split open, and something heavy, and cylindrical, fell from the bomb bay, where it had been retained by the wreckage of one of the bomb doors.
The steel pegs were left in the bomber and the bomb, its stabilising fins torn off as it dropped from the plane, turned over twice in the air before hitting the ground and bouncing. Without the stabilising fins to steady it in its descent it fell end over end, and when it struck the ground the outer steel casing burst open. The bomb bounced to a hundred feet and fell back. As it hit for the second time the outer easing broke away, and the core of the bomb tore into a ragged line of conifers before it came to rest.
Alabama Angel hit the same line of conifers, the wings tearing off as the fuselage disintegrated under the impact. Owens and Garcia died in the instant explosion of the fuel tanks, Engelbach a second or two later as the nose section thumped into the ground. Flames leapt three hundred feet in the air as all that was left of Alabama Angel burned.
Thirty seconds after the original impact, the high explosive cartridges hurled together the two plutonium masses. Instantly an atomic explosion occurred, and the tritium core was ignited. But the deuterium filling, which constituted the main charge, had gone with the disintegration of the steel casing. An explosion certainly occurred, and one which was fifteen or twenty times more potent than the bomb which had wrecked Hiroshima. But the main charge was not detonated, because it was no longer there to be detonated.
The explosion was seen by another B-52 of the 843rd Wing, which was heading north-west after receiving a recall while on its way to hit a bomber base at Glasov on the Chepza river. The navigator fixed the position of the explosion exactly, and the radioman got off a message giving the details.
The wreckage of Alabama Angel was completely disintegrated by the explosion, and an area of one mile radius from the centre was turned into a white hot, seething inferno. Thirty seconds after the explosion, the familiar mushroom cloud had burst up to fifty thousand feet. At its base, the crew of Alabama Angel slept their last sleep. They had failed, yet in their failure they had achieved victory. They could sleep content.
Chapter 26
"I am informed the bomber which we reported as still heading in towards Kotlass has made its attack. An explosion has occurred." Zorubin translated smoothly and fluently, transmuting the harsh sounds from the speaker into precise, diplomatic English. "Does the President stand by his agreement that one of his cities shall now be destroyed?"
The President closed his eyes for a moment. Well, this was it. He had given his word, and now he must stand by it. "Yes," he said curtly, "I do."
"Very well then, let us set a time. I propose fifteen minutes from now. That will be at 7.30 your time."
The President nodded absently. He became aware of Steele waving a hand in sudden agitation. Fifteen minutes from now. Fifteen minutes! There was some mistake. The evacuation of Atlantic City would not be anywhere near complete. "You have made a mistake in time," he said. "The staffs have agreed that your bomber cannot be in position much before ten o’clock our time."
Thirty seconds went by while the President’s words were translated in the Kremlin. Then the speakers began to crackle again. Zorubin translated quickly and continuously as the message came over. "I have overruled the staff proposals. Atlantic City will not be destroyed by bomber. It will be destroyed by a missile from a submarine which is lying four hundred miles off your coast. Orders have been given to the submarine commander he is to fire his missile at 7.25 your time. It will take about five minutes to reach its target." Zorubin’s voice was flat. He appreciated exactly the significance of the message. In something under fifteen minutes at least fifty thousand people would die in Atlantic City.
The President swayed. For a moment he felt the onset of actual physical nausea. He fought it down and clutched at the table in front of him to steady himself. He looked across at Admiral Maclellan. "Well?" he asked. His face was white.
Maclellan said quietly, "It could be, sir. They usually have one or two subs lying off four hundred or so miles out. The missiles they carry have that much range."
"And accuracy?"
Maclellan frowned. "At four hundred miles not good. Between five and ten miles."
"I see." The President signalled for the radio link to be opened. "The Marshal’s proposal is unacceptable," he said quietly. "Atlantic City has not yet been evacuated."
The reply came quickly. "Neither had the city of Kotlass."
"It is not solely for that reason the proposal is unacceptable," the President said. "I am informed the missiles carried by Russian submarines are not sufficiently accurate to guarantee a hit on target at four hundred miles. The agreement was that Atlantic City should be hit and nowhere else. I must ask the Marshal to suggest an alternative method."