Eugene Burdick - Fail-Safe

“Get Omaha again,” the President said into the phone.

Almost instantly they were through.

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” General Bogan’s voice said.

“General, order the fighters in,” the President said.

“Let me enfirm that,” a strange voice said on the circuit. “This is Colonel Cascio, General Bogan’s assistant. Do you want the fighters to press home the attack even if they have to go to afterburners? That will nearly triple their consumption of fuel and almost certainly mean that none of them will be able to make it back.” The voice paused, then spoke with more firmness, almost a tough arrogance. “Mr. President, those fighters are America’s first line of defense against a Russian attack. In putting them on afterburners to chase our own bombers we will be sacrificing our fighters’ defensive capability at the very time we may need it most-the Russians may attack at any moment now.”

The President paused. Buck watched him scribble some words on his pad. They said, “Sacrifice fighters convince Russians an accident? Give up defensive capacity of fighters… will they believe?”

“General Bogan, I repeat the order,” the President said, coldly.

“Mr. President, the fighters swung away from the Vindicators when they got the all dear,” General Bogan said. “In effect, the Vindicators and the Skyscrappers have been flying in opposite directions for some. minutes. The Skyscrappers have only a slight edge of speed over the Vindicators. There is some doubt that they can overtake the Vindicators.”

“I repeat, General Bogan, that the fighters are to overtake and shoot down the Vindicators even if it means going to afterburners,” the President said.

“Colonel Cascio, order the fighters to attack Group 6,” General Bogan said as he put the phone down.

Colonel Cascio came halfway out of the chair in a spasm of protest.

means that you have decided our bombers are making an accidental strike on Moscow?” Colonel Cascio asked. His voice was shocked, but there was also a hard underlay of rebellion.

“I have and the whole damn system has,” General Bogan said savagely. “The machines, the men, the diplomats, the President, all of us. Why the hell do you think we have fighter planes following the Vindicators? Just to protect them if they ‘go’? Don’t be silly. We always knew that one of their tasks was to shoot down the Vindicators if there was a mistake. All right, there has been a mistake. Get on the horn to the fighters, Colonel.”

Colonel Cascio lifted his hand. It was a peculiar gesture. It was partly a plea for time, partly as if he were warding off some grotesque thing, partly the gesture a child makes when threatened.

“General, the fighters-”

“Colonel, get on that horn and give the order,” eral Bogan said. “Every second you delay takes them further away from the Vindicators.”

Colonel Casdo began to move the levers and buttons that would put him in direct voice communication with the fighters. But even as he did this he kept talking.

“Even if they catch the bombers, General, which isn’t likely, they won’t have enough fuel to get back,” Colonel Cascio said. “They’ll go down in the ocean or on enemy territory.”

A voice came up on the War Room intercom. It was the officer in charge of Fighter Direction.

“General Bogan, we are in voice communication with Tangle-Able-l,” the voice said. “You can talk to

them on Channel 7, Single Side Band.”

General Bogan nodded and Colonel Casdo lifted a lever. Instantly there was the blurred static.heavy sound of long-distince radio transmission.

“Do I tell them in code or dear language?” Colonel Cascio asked.

“Clear language,” General Bogan said. “That is standard.”

Colonel Cascio knew this. It had been hammered out after months of discussion that if a situation arose in which our own fighters must shoot down our own planes there would be no disadvantage and, possibly, some advantage in having the enemy bear the transmission.

“This is Tangle-Able-1,” a young strong voice said through the static. “I read you five by five at last transmission.”

Colonel Cascio bent forward and spoke into a microphone, his voice only slightly thin and weak. “Tangle-Able-1, this is Colonel Cascio on the Omaha staff.” Sweat now stood out on his forehead. “Group 6 has flown through the Fail-Safe point and is on an attack course towards Moscow. It is a mistake. I repeat: it is a mistake. Go to afterburners and overtake and attack Group 6.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then the young voice came back loud and dear.

“Roger. Go to afterburners and overtake and attack Group 6,” the voice said.

Colonel Casdo leaned forward and switched the lever off. To General Bogan, watching, Colonel Casdo’s posture was that of a child crying soundlessly.

The lead plane of the six Skyscrappers made a long sweeping turn. The voice of the captain in charge of the flight came up on the TBS radio. He knew he could be heard only by the six planes in the flight.

“I don’t know what those mother-grabbers back in Omaha are doing, but you all heard the order,” the captain said. “We overtake and shoot down the Vindicators.”

“That will be the day,” a twenty-one-year-old pilot of one of the fighters said. “Us with a 50-mile-an-hour edge on the Vindicators and those bastards halfway to Moscow already.”

“By SOP they will divert a KC-135 to refuel us,” an-other voice said sweetly. “It does 560 an hour, we do 1,600. By the time we run out of fuel they’ll be about a thousand miles away. Everything is beautifully organized.”

“Don’t knock the staff people,” a voice said mockingly. “After you run out of fuel you make a thousand-mile glide back to the tankers. Any flier worth his salt should be able to do that in a Skyscrapper.”

Someone laughed briefly. They knew that the elegant little plane with its short wings would start to drop like a stone as soon as it lost power.

None of the six pilots thought they would overtake the Vindicators. They knew they would not be able to fly their fighters back to their bases. If they thought of anything they thought of two things. First, would the ejection capsule and parachute really operate at 1,600 miles an hour? Second, how long could a man live in arctic waters?

“Cut the chatter,” the captain in command said. “On the mark, go to afterburners.”

The captain counted from five down to one and then said quietly, “Mark.” Six fingers shifted six levers. Against the six young and doomed bodies the seat-backs slammed relentlessly. From a hundred tubes toward the end of the jet engines raw fuel poured into the hot flames of the exhaust. The planes trembled under the instantaneous acceleration and then steadied down to the chase.

Lieutenant Colonel Grady looked out and down. In front of the Vindicators the surface of the Pacific was black, so black it was purple. It looked not at all like water, but like thickened darkness.

Grady felt motelike, tiny, pushed by the great expanding aura of light behind him. He wished, in a quick irrational flash, that the sun would hold. To fly in darkness seemed protective.

Grady glanced quickly at the other two men in the Vindicator. They were intent on their instruments.

Suddenly Grady envied them their innocence with a remorse so great that it was close to hatred.

“Get the Pentagon back again,” the President said.

The President’s leg was still tossed over the arm of the chair, his cigar had developed only a small ash.