"And so do we." It was Todd again. "Right now, Mr. President."
"Yes, I guess we do," Lyman said reluctantly. "We can't put things off much longer."
"Good," said Todd. Casey thought the Secretary spoke with just a bit too much relish.
"I am now willing to consider a plan of action that can be put into effect tonight. But I want every step thought out with extreme care, and we must consider every possible result of any move we make. I am convinced that one false step will ruin everything. In fact, I have grave doubts that we can succeed, no matter what we do."
"Dammit, Mr. President, that's no way to-" began Todd. The ringing of the phone interrupted him. Lyman answered, listened a moment and said, "Yes, put him on."
The President turned to the others.
"It's Barney Rutkowski from Colorado Springs," he said. "He's calling on the command line."
Friday, 1:30 P.M.
General Bernard Rutkowski, his cap set at a slightly rakish angle, strode along the tunnel. His short, plump body rolled as he walked, and his chubby cheeks glowed with the exertion. His well-polished buttons and the silver decorations on his cap visor gleamed under the bright overhead lights.
It was 1:30 in Washington, and thus 10:30 in the morning in Colorado. But here, half a mile inside Cheyenne Mountain, it might as well have been midnight. General Rutkowski was making his daily visit to the Combat Operations Center of the North American Air Defense Command. As boss of NORAD, Rutkowski never let a day get by without inspecting the center-the focal point of the nation's air defense-but he tried to stagger the pattern and the hours to keep the staff alert.
Today he had ridden from the outside portal along the curving half mile of main tunnel, wide as a highway, that led to the primary lateral. Then he jumped out of his jeep and walked the rest of the way into the self-contained three-story steel blockhouse that cradled the operations center.
He entered the center as an air police sentry at the door cut away a salute so smart that it almost whistled. There were more guards and more salutes inside as Rutkowski hurried to the long, theaterlike room where some forty people, working in two tiers, kept track of every missile, satellite and aircraft aloft over North America.
The General climbed to a balcony and took up a position behind a desk console rimmed with dials, telephones, switches and buttons. The duty controller, Colonel Francis O'Malley, popped up from his chair and stood at attention beside it.
"At ease, Frank," said Rutkowski. "Any problems today?"
O'Malley turned over his duty seat to an assistant and sank into a chair beside the General. In front of them was a huge screen-some public-relations man had christened it "Iconorama"-which showed everything moving in the air over the continent. An electronic computer, fed by wire, telephone and teleprinter from hundreds of airports and military bases, changed the symbols on the screen every few seconds.
"No problems, sir," said O'Malley. "We had a flap a while ago, when they shot a couple of big ones out of Vandenberg without bothering to cut us in on the countdown. The damn things were off the pads before we knew about them."
"That's inexcusable. Did you chew somebody out over there?"
O'Malley grinned in the half-light of the theater-like room.
"Don't worry, sir. I did. That controller at Vandenberg must have thought he was back at the Springs as a Doolie again."
Rutkowski liked this trim young officer. The earliest graduates of the Air Force Academy were beginning to come into responsible positions now, and Rutkowski rated them, on the average, as far superior to his own age group which had schooled at West Point and then transferred to aircraft. These youngsters, he thought, were all Air Force. They had it drilled into them as shaven-headed "Doolies," or first-year men, at the Academy, where no effort was spared to weed out those who might later decide to give up a military career. They were run, shouted at, and worked until instant obedience was instinctive and the hunger for responsibility, for a chance to prove themselves, was ravenous. They were bright and smart and they loved the service. Rutkowski could ask no more of an Air Force man.
The major who had substituted for O'Malley at the controller's post turned around and beckoned with his head. The colonel excused himself and stepped down to the desk. The major handed him a piece of paper and he brought it back to the General.
"We're getting a little static this week, sir," he said. "I thought I could get it cleared up before this, but the thing is getting to be a headache."
Rutkowski took the slip from O'Malley. It was a dispatch on yellow paper, torn from a teleprinter:
o'malley
coc
norad
transports leave our frequency five zero miles out. destination classified.
THOMAS
OPERATIONS
BIGGS FIELD
"What's this all about, Frank?" asked Rutkowski.
"That's what I'd decided to ask you this afternoon, sir," the colonel said. "Wednesday night we were notified of clearance for twelve troop carriers, out of Pope Air Base at Fort Bragg. They were cleared for Biggs Field at El Paso. But they didn't go there. Instead, they went somewhere north and landed. We had them on the radar maybe ten minutes after they should have landed at Biggs. They dropped off the screens out in the New Mexico desert somewhere."
"What were they?"
"By the size and speed of the blips, the controllers figured they were K-212's," O'Malley said. "And that's what they turned out to be."
"Airborne maneuvers?"
"I suppose so, but dammit, General, we can't have planes wandering around our screens and landing God knows where."
"This ever happen before, Frank?"
"Well, yes, sir. It turns out it has, although I never knew about it until Wednesday night. Single planes have landed and taken off from some place between Biggs and Holloman Air Base. Nobody paid much attention until we got this flight of twelve."
"Did you check it out anywhere?"
"Yes, sir," said the colonel. "At Pope and Biggs both. I got Pope operations on the phone. They said they filed a flight plan and clearance for twelve K-212's to Biggs Field. They thought that's where they went. Otherwise they didn't know anything about the flight. Then the officer at Biggs operations told me they switched off his frequency some miles out and he didn't know where they went."
"What about this message?" asked Rutkowski, tapping the yellow sheet in his hand.
"This morning, Biggs notified us that thirty more K-212's would be coming in there at 0700 tomorrow. So I asked Thomas at Biggs operations where the planes would be landing. That's his answer."
Rutkowski studied the slip for a moment, then handed it back to the controller. "Probably something ordered out of Washington, Frank. I'll check it and let you know. But you're sure right-we can't have planes disappearing into the desert. Not if we're supposed to be running an airtight defense. I'm glad you hollered about it."
The General resumed his walk around the big room. He stopped for a moment to say hello to the Canadian officer who shared the control desk with O'Malley, then descended to the floor level, made the rounds there and left the center.
Half an hour later he was back in his "topside" office-seven miles from the main tunnel portal, back in Colorado Springs. Barney Rutkowski lit a cigar and ran his eyes across the great colored map of the continent which covered the end wall of his office.
He was annoyed. His professional competence was involved in this thing. According to the book, his command was supposed to be informed-well in advance-of every friendly airplane, missile, balloon or miscellaneous object that might make the airspace over the United States its habitat for any period, however brief. Sure, the regulations had been violated now and then. Little private planes were always hopping from one cow-pasture airfield to another without filing flight plans. But twelve big jets-Air Force jets!