"O.K. Get your personnel under ground as soon as you can."
Quinten flicked off the intercom. He thought about Masters. The Communications Officer had been absolutely correct to make sure he had understood the orders. In the same way, he felt there had been a duty on his part to convey to Masters his approval of the query. An individual infantryman saw only his small part of the battle. The commander had to take account of the whole. Masters’s transmitters and receivers were his part of the battle. In the big picture, which Quinten saw over all, they had no place. Then he dismissed Masters from his mind as Howard walked back into the office. "All on their way, Paul?"
"Everyone, General. All acknowledged. General, Tower told me we’re closing down on communications."
"Sure." There were a hundred and one things Quinten wanted to start on. But this was his exec. He would have to sit in on the battle. Quinten lit another cigarette. "Here’s the way it is, Paul. The eight thirty-ninth will be kept airborne. No point risking them being caught on the ground. They aren’t armed, but the Russians don’t know that. The eight forty-third are off our hands. We won’t see them back here. By the time they’ve hit their targets and fought their way out it should be over one way or the other. Meanwhile, we’re liable to be attacked. No point in sacrificing personnel. That answer you?"
"Sure thing, sir."
"All right. Let’s get to work. The base is at Warning Red. That’s from SAC. In addition I want the following implemented. Double up on defence combat teams. There’s no reason why there shouldn’t be an attack on this base by conventional forces. All privately owned radios impounded. Air Police will have the lists of owners. Got to face the possibility of instructions to saboteurs coming over them. For the same reason, all Air Force owned radios impounded too. Those first, and fast, while I see just what we’re going to hit."
Howard swung into action, flipping switches on the intercom, sometimes with a phone in each hand while he gave out orders on one, received reports on the other. Among the reports was one from PBX that the General’s orders had been carried out. Every extension had been contacted and had acknowledged, the report added.
Quinten opened the safe built into the right pedestal of his steel desk. From it he took a bulky briefcase which was chained to a securing staple in the wall of the safe. He unlocked the case, fumbled inside it for a moment, then pulled out a sealed fifteen by ten envelope. He broke the seals of the envelope, and extracted a folder with a big red R stamped on it. He put the folder on his desk.
Howard replaced a phone on its rest, and made a final tick on his check list. "All cleared, General."
"Fine. I’ll speak to personnel over the address system in a while. They’re too busy right now." He opened the folder at the first page, scanned quickly down it. Needlessly. The words were etched indelibly on his brain. He was one of the five officers who had done the detailed planning on "R", and on several other letters too. There was no aspect of the plan with which he was not minutely familiar. He looked up at Howard. "This is the big time," he said softly. "The real big time. Moscow, Leningrad, Sverdlovsk, Stalingrad. Plus fourteen of the biggest bomber bases, the really important ones. Their one operational I.C.B.M. launching site, and the three they’ve almost completed. The biggest, Paul. That’s why it’s been assigned to the eight forty-third."
"Sure," Howard said. His own Wing was the 839th, but he recognised the rightness of Quinten’s assessment. The 843rd had the B-52.K’s. They were the first wing to have the K’s, the only wing which was fully trained on them. It was right those targets should be assigned to the 843rd, because they were the targets that mattered. Once they were destroyed there would be no further massive attacks on the States.
At the back of his mind he was still conscious of a vague disquiet. He sought for it desperately. There was something he had to ask Quinten, he knew. His eye fell on the intelligence summary he had placed on Quinten’s desk an hour earlier. He said, "Sir, that base isn’t operational. The I.C.B.M. one I mean. According to today’s summary, they’ve hit trouble. It’s out for anything up to a month. Something to do with faults showing up in the metal structure of the firing pits. You read it?"
"Why no," Quinten said, "I didn’t read it yet. But I can’t say I’m surprised. The way they rushed the construction job through to frighten the N.A.T.O. politicians, they were bound to hit trouble some time." He got up from his desk, paced to the window, stood looking out "That only leaves the manned aircraft: the Bison. Jets and the Bear turboprops, which means we’re in with a real fighting chance. Better than evens, much better."
"Seems kind of funny though, General."
"What does?" Quinten swung round to face him.
"Well, sir, you wouldn’t figure they’d pick a time their only operational missile battery that can hit the States is out. I don’t get it."
"Maybe they intended us to think that way, Paul." Quinten’s voice was quiet, reflective. "Maybe they thought we’d get the news and write off the threat for a week or so, lift our guard a little. It’s been known to happen before in the history of war."
"Sure. I suppose so. It’s peculiar, though."
Quinten smiled briefly. There was no humour in the smile, just a passing half second’s bitter amusement. "They’re peculiar people," he said. He was going to say something else, but again the red line phone shattered the quiet.
Howard said, "I’ll get it, General," and began to walk over to the telephone.
Quinten said sharply, "Leave it to me, Major. I want to speak to the Security Officer. Personally. Have him come up, will you?" He walked back to the desk, picked off the receiver, listened to the message as Howard went out of the office. Then he began to speak.
Chapter 3
The order to hold at X point left the crew of Alabama Angel quiet and uneasy. Like Major Paul Howard, back at Sonora, they had known it happen before. But never quite so late. Usually the warning order was issued at least twenty minutes before X point. They told themselves this was just another exercise, another of the endless variety of surprises SAC kept dreaming up to ensure that, when the time really came, nothing could surprise them. But Goldsmith did not continue with his story. Garcia slowly screwed the top of a Thermos tight again, replaced it and its companion in the rack. Nobody said anything much, because nobody wanted to risk disturbing Sergeant Mellows, the radioman. Right then, Mellows was the most important man in the crew.
Clint Brown held the plane in a steady port orbit. As soon as Mellows had passed the word to hold at X point he had taken over manual control of Alabama Angel. There was no particular need for him to have done it. The autopilot could hold height, speed, and rate of turn, just as well as he could. Better in fact, he thought wryly, as he noticed he had lost a hundred or so feet since he took over. He made the small correction required, and wondered just why he had taken over. He thought it was almost certainly because, if the word came, he wanted at that particular moment to have the bomber under his control as well as his command. It occurred to him he had never felt that way before when the order had come to hold. He concentrated grimly on his instruments, waiting like the rest of the crew. But with a chill presentiment that he already knew what the message would be.
Sergeant Mellows’ whole being was concentrated on the green flicker of his visual tune indicator. He was very conscious that for the moment he was the centre of attention. Later his role would probably be unimportant, but for now he was carrying the ball. His sensitive, technician’s fingers caressed the tune and gain controls of the receiver. For one long, frightening second he wondered whether he would suddenly forget all his training, forget his tune technique, even forget the morse code. He was the youngest of the crew, and the least experienced. He came very near to panic, until suddenly, magically, the first stammer of morse in his earphones was coming through clear and slow. He scribbled down the message letter by letter. No possibility of a mistake at that speed. He thought scornfully that the operator back at Sonora was pretty punk. He was not aware that SAC instructions limited the speed of attack orders to the equivalent of twelve words per minute. SAC did not intend to have a target spared because of an error in transmission or reception.