Eugene Burdick - Fail-Safe

“We must sacrifice some so that the others can survive,” the President said and his voice was weary. “I do not know how the Americans will take my action. It may be my last. I hope they will understand.”

There was another pause. Each of the men on the conference line realized the weird inappropriateness of mere words. Also, each was in his own particular kind of shock. They sat quietly.

“Jay, I am grateful,” the President said to the American Ambassador. “I am also grateful to you, Mr. Lentov.”

“I thank you both,” Khrushchev said. He paused,

“I also admire you.”

“Thank you,” the Ambassador and-the delegate said almost simultaneously.

They waited quietly.

“I must tell my people at the Pentagon and Omaha of my decision,” the President said finally. “I will speak so that you can hear what I say.”

It took only a few seconds for the White House switchboard to make the phone connections. When the President spoke, the War Room in Omaha and the Big Board room in the Pentagon had been added to the conference line. In those two rooms the President’s voice came over the loudspeaker system.

“Gentlemen, I have had to make a terrible decision,” the President said. “It is the hardest I have ever made. I have not asked your advice because this is not a decision on which one needs or can use advice. I want the responsibility to be entirely mine.”

General Bogan listened to the words with his body tensed. He knew fatigue in every bone, but he also knew that in the next moment he might have to direct the attack of hundreds of SAC bombers against the Soviet Union. He felt a basic and immense confusion. He could not conceive of how general war could be avoided. Yet in all of the hundreds of conferences he had attended no situation just like this one had ever been anticipated. He felt crippled, oddly disabled.

In the Pentagon Groteschele whispered to Stark as the President paused.

“He’s going to send in a full strike,” Groteschele said. “He has to. There is nothing else he can do.”

Stark looked at Groteschele and then he licked his lips, cleared his throat. Groteschele realized that Stark was frightened. The fact amazed him. It also started a tiny root of fear twitching in Groteschele. Suddenly it was no longer an elegant and logical game. Real men in real bombers and real missiles carrying real thermonuclear warheads would soon be in motion. Their targets would be millions of unprotected people. Long ago Groteschele had stopped thinking of war in terms of flesh and blood and death and wounds. He thought in terms of neat strategies and impeccable rules. Now, quite suddenly, in a physical way, he understood what might happen. His mind resisted, but his body trembled with a series of small shocks.

“Two of the Vindicators will, apparently, get through to Moscow and will deliver four 20-megaton bombs on that city,” the President said. “Moscow has not been alerted. Premier Khrushchev estimates that it would cause panic and would not save lives in any case. When the bombs fall on Moscow we will know that fact because our Ambassador’s phone will give off a distinctive sound as it is burned by the explosion.”

The President paused. Buck felt that he should look away, but he could not. The President was about to outline the most sweeping and incredible decision that any man had ever made, and it was a decision which he hated. But he was boxed in, cornered by some accident of history, trapped by some combination of mechanical errors not even fully understood.

“I have attempted to persuade Premier Khrushchev that this was a mistake, a tragic error,” the President said. “I have made available to him all of the classified information which his defensive forces required. Premier Khrushchev has not launched his retaliatory forces but he will unless he receives some dramatic evidence of our sincerity. The scales must be balanced—and right away. The discussion we had is not important. The result is. If Moscow is bombed by our bombers, I must order a group of Vindicator bombers now circling over New York to deliver four 20-megaton bombs on that city. That is all, gentlemen.”

Congressman Raskob was the first person at Omaha to respond. For a long moment he was as rigidly uncomprehending as the rest of the men in the room. Like them he stared at the loudspeakers, not sure that he had heard correctly. Then Raskob got to his feet and walked over to General Bogan. He still had the walk like La Guardia, but the cockiness had gone.

“He can’t do it, General,” Raskob said in a quiet voice. His eyes were blank, like something painted on marble. “You can stop him. Even if they call it mutiny you can stop him.” He paused and seemed to be talking to himself. “Emma, the kids, the house, all gone. The whole 46th Congressional District. All gone.” Raskob’s voice took on a lilting, persuasive, hectoring tone. It was the voice he used in the House. “Congress will support you to the hilt, General. You will go down as the most famous patriot of all time.”

General Bogan sensed that by some peculiar psychological quirk the shock had simply turned Raskob’s inner thoughts into words. He was talking to save his sanity.

“I’m sorry, Congressman Raskob,” General Bogan said. “My God, I’m sorry! I know tour family lives in New York. But eighty or ninety or a hundred million lives in America and as many more in Russia are at stake, Congressman Raskob,” and General Bogan realized he was using the title deliberately to bring Raskob back to reality. “Congressman Raskob, think of that. And even if I did not understand his decision, I would not disobey the President.”

Raskob’s eyes came back to life and the look in them made General Bogan turn away. It was a look of pure desolation.

“I can understand the decision if I forget it’s my home, if I just think of politics. The power balance must be reestablished or the world will explode-I can see that. An eye for an eye, a city for a city. It is the way justice works when it rests on power. We sacrifice a city to save the nation,” Raskob said and his voice was gentle and rational. “But my city… my home… my family… mine… mine…” Raskob lowered his head to the table. Both hands were palm up and he buried his face in them. It was a brief reversion to a gesture of sorrow as old as man himselL But Raskob raised his head quickly. His face was composed. “It must be done,” he said simply. “An eye for an eye. There should be some other way, but there isn’t.” His eyes, that had been marble-dead a moment before, were filling with tears, but his voice was controlled. “Politics is filled with hard decisions, but this is the hardest one ever made. And it is correct.”

“I think it is correct, sir,” General Bogan said.

“General, would there be time for me to fly to New York?” Raskob said. “I would like to be with my family.”

“No, sir, there would not be time,” General Bogan said. “And even if there were I would not allow you to leave this room until the situation was resolved.”

Raskob nodded understanding. He walked over and sat down at a desk.

“The machines and the men and the decisions got out of phase,” Knapp told General Bogan. “We knew that something like this could happen in theory, but no one wanted to take it past that. No one knew how to turn it into diplomatic terms without seeming to be dealing from weakness.”

General Bogan listened, but aside from a sense of respect for Knapp, he did not follow Knapp’s words. He was thinking of Raskob.

He sensed somehow the disbelief that must be gripping Raskob. It was almost beyond grasping that all of the skyscrapers, the scores of office buildings, the tenements, the housing developments, the bridges, and the millions of people would, in a few minutes, be gone. It would be a place of fire, dust, great winds, and a landscape of black mounds of melted steel, carbonized flesh.