Eugene Burdick - Fail-Safe

Colonel Cascio stood up and, although his face was smiling, his pink tongue licked at the corner of his mouth.

“General, they’ll orbit whatever we do,” he said, “it’s SOP. But I’m still not sure about that UFO. Couldn’t the Russians anticipate exactly the way we would interpret it and just add a couple of jet pods to the mocked-up plane and turn them on when they get within range of 4l3-L System?” out of the room. The hum of the machines diminished.

It was Raskob who first noticed. He stared at the Big Board for a moment and turned to General Bogan with a grin.

“Now what the hell is that blip up there at No. 6 doing?” he said. “It’s gone right by the Fail-Safe point and is moving toward Russia.”

General Bogan spun around, his elbow lashed into the taut nervous body of Knapp and he was quite unaware of it. He stared at the board, his body suddenly felt like a terrible tortured muscle. His mind was white-hot and utterly blank. It perceived only one thing. Group 6 had flown past its Fail-Safe point. He spoke out of the side of his mouth, suddenly and comically aware of how much like a movie character he seemed.

“Colonel Cascio, get on the red telephone to the President,” General Bogan said, in a firm low unnatural voice.

As he handed General Bogan the red telephone Colonel Cascio picked up the Red Phone Log. He glanced at the clock on the wall and wrote down “1030.”

“It’s possible,” General Bogan said casually. “But not very likely. The whole picture just doesn’t make sense.”

The two men smiled at one another, but suddenly General Bogan had the sense that they were in conflict. Colonel Cascio lowered his eyes.

General Bogan turned to his guests. “The UFO is pretty well established as a BOAC commercial airliner which lost power on its engines and then regained them at a low altitude,” General Bogan said to the visitors. “We have to stay at Condition Green until we have confirmation, but ft is my best judgment that there is no danger.”

“I kinda like this whole operation,” Raskob said softly. “I mean it’s a nice orderly thing to meet people who can tie everything up with a ribbon and foolproof. And let me tell you, General, in this world there are damn few things that are foolproof.”

The teletype on the 413-L dattered.

This time General Bogan waited until the major handed him the tape. He read it to the visitors. It said, “UFO sighted visually and contacted by radio. It is BOAC Flight No. 117. It was off course due to high tail winds and loss of power on two port engines because of throttle failure which locked the throttles in OFF position. It regained power at 850 feet.”

“That’s it, gentlemen. I am sorry that we alarmed you,” General Bogan said.

Colonel Cascio bent forward and operated a single lever. Instantly the radio-transmitted order became apparent on the Big Board. The fighters started to move in a long curve back toward their bases. The jet tankers angled away from their Vindicator group. The defensive bombers made a quick 1800 turn. The big light over the Big Board went out. Men began to drift

At 10:84 Buck left his office. Out of some compulsion to orderliness he had straightened his desk, put on his jacket, and then brushed the jacket with a pig-bristle brush which he kept in one of the drawers of his desk. He thought of going to the men’s room to comb his hair. The moment he stepped outside his door he realized that would be impossible.

Standing squarely in front of the door and four feet away from it, was a Marine Corps major. He was breathing hard.

“Are you Mr. Buck?” the major asked.

“Yes,” Buck said and then after a pause added, “sir.”

“May I please see your identification, sir?” the major asked.

Buck fumbled through his wallet looking for the card. Over the years it had become an empty formality when he passed through the White House gate. He merely lifted his entire wallet toward the Pot who nodded and he walked on in. For a moment Buck felt a sense of embarrassment. It was altogether possible that he had left the identification card at home.

He flipped through the cards in their cellophane holders. The major stared straight ahead, ignoring Buck’s discomfort. The major was still breathless and the sound of air sucked in and pushed out of his nostrils was the loudest noise in the corridor. Diners Club card, law-school library card, a picture of his daughter, a picture of the Porsche just after it had been waxed, a gas-company credit card, a membership card in a professional language association, a picture of his parents. He looked in the billfold of the wallet: seven dollars. Buck looked up at the major. There was one more pocket in the wallet. The identification card was there. He almost sighed with relief.

The major took the card firmly, and glanced at the identification picture. Then he moved sideways to study Buck’s profile. Buck’s embarrassment deepened.

“Mr. Buck, this card says you have a small scar on your left wrist,” the major said. “May I see that scar, sir?”

“Just a little thing from a high.school football game,” Buck said, pulling his sleeve up.

The major stared intently at the scar. He came back to attention and extended the card to Buck.

“Follow me, sir,” the major said. He started off down the corridor at a crisp walk.

“Yes,” Buck said and then hesitated. If the major called him “sir,” perhaps he was not supposed to call the major “sir.” Buck decided not to. It gave him a sense of satisfaction as he stuffed the card back in the wallet.

By now the major was several steps ahead of Buck. Buck trotted until he had overtaken the major and then fell in stride with him. Buck, who was several inches shorter than the major, found that he was almost at a slow run.

They passed out of the White House Annex into the White House and down several corridors which Buck had never seen before. They swung around a corner and in midstride the major stopped and came to attention. Walking toward them was a tall lanky man and a woman who was taking notes on a note pad. Immediately to the left of Buck and the major was an elevator. Buck realized two things almost simultaneously: first, the elevator was painted GI green and was operated by an Army officer, secondly, the man walking toward them was the President and the woman was Mrs. Johnson, his secretary.

Buck had heard of the woman before. Her nickname was “Johnnie” and she had an aura of her own. She walked with authority and self-assurance. She struck a delicate balance in her attitude toward the President: she was both a nanny and a secretary. She had started her career as secretary to the President’s famous father over forty years before. Since that time she had become a competent and efficient instrument of the family without becoming in the least familiar. When the President first entered politics as a candidate for Congress he had begged Johnnie’s services from his father. Years later, when he entered the White House, Johnnie quite automatically accompanied him. Her hair was now white, her figure heavy, but her manner toward the President was completely unchanged. She was not the least afraid of him nor was she the least familiar.

When the President was five strides away the major snapped off a salute. The President nodded at the major, moved toward the elevator with a springy walk, the stride of an athletic person who liked physical motion. “Tell Pete not to even hint to the newspaper people about an emergency,” the President said to the secretary. She scribbled in her notebook. “Also call the Vice-President and tell him exactly what has happened. He will know what to do. Call Senator Fuibright and ask him to call the Vice-President. Better have him drop by the Vice-President’s office.”