Fade Out (62 page)

Fraser, Clayson, and Wills came across town from the Pentagon by helicopter and McKenna flew in from Virginia. They joined the President in the Situation Room, in the basement of the White House. One of Will's staff colonels projected a colour slide that had been prepared as soon as they had received news of Brecetti's predictions.

‘It's bad,' said Fraser. ‘If the time interval between jumps is being divided by three, the whole of the USA could be blacked out by three A.M. tomorrow morning.'

Three hours after midnight… The President tried hard to fix the time in his mind. Every high-speed form of transport immobilized, every communication link severed, industry crippled, cities strangled, the armed forces and law enforcement agencies paralysed, the interwoven power structure of state and federal government
struck blind, deaf, and dumb. How could he hold it together? How could
anyone
hold it together?

The telephone rang. Fraser picked it up. ‘Good. Send it up.' He replaced the receiver and turned to the President. ‘A message from the Soviet Premier just came over the hot-line teleprinter.'

The President managed to get his brain back on line. ‘Oh, good.' He coughed to loosen the clamped muscles in his throat.

There was a knock on the door. An Air Force Lieutenant Colonel from the Communications section came in with the message. Fraser passed it to the President.

The President put on his glasses and scanned it quickly. ‘I'll read it out. It's timed at 01:06 hours – What's that?… six minutes past one, Tuesday morning. Hell, is it already tomorrow over there? – and it's addressed to the President of the United States and begins “Dear John” – ' He looked up with a forced smile. ‘This must be the “Dear John” letter to end them all.' He went on reading. ‘“We have just learned that the neutralizing field around Commissar has expanded to eleven hundred kilometres. In view of the imminent threat of a further expansion, we propose to advance the time of our attack by twenty-four hours to 06:00 hours today, Tuesday morning. We believe it is vital we synchronize attacks. Failure to act together could have incalculable consequences. I therefore urgently request you advance time over target accordingly.

‘“We thank you for your recent exchange of scientific research data and look forward with renewed hope to a further period of close co-operation” – snide bastard – “Please advise me of your affirmative decision no later than 17:30 hours Washington time. Your friend, Alekseii Vasilyievich Leonovich, Premier of the Council of Ministers of the Supreme Soviet,” et cetera…'

The President dropped the teleprinter message on the table and looked at the wall clock. The time was 5:13 P:M.

‘That makes it thirteen minutes past three in Montana,' said Fraser. ‘If we go with the Russians, that means our planes have to hit Crow Ridge at five P.M., local time.'

‘But Mel, for God's sake, the place is surrounded with people putting down those flares! The Air Force cadets, Mack's people, half the research group – there're nearly two hundred and fifty people out there! Are you asking me to just wipe them out without giving them a chance to get away? Isn't there any way to get a message to them?' The President looked anxiously at the others. ‘Mack? Chuck, Vernon? Surely to God you can come up with something!'

‘What's more important,' asked Fraser, ‘the lives of two hundred and fifty people or the future of two hundred and fifty million?'

One of the battery of telephones rang. Fraser answered. ‘… Good… hello, Mitch? Stand by –' Fraser covered the phone. ‘Pending your decision, do I have your permission to order the B-52s to bomb up?'

The President's hand went to grip the bridge of his nose, then dropped back on to the table. ‘Yes… tell him to keep that line open and stay close to the phone.'

Fraser looked across at Clayson. ‘Is it okay if I short-circuit the chain of command?'

Clayson nodded. ‘Go right ahead.'

‘Mitch? This is a CAMPFIRE takeoff alert. Bomb up and stand by for an immediate Go signal…No, we'll try to contact the people on Crow Ridge, but you'll have to go in without the flares. Hold this line open… Okay.'

Allbright hooked the phone into the amplifier and looked out of the window of the operations trailer. The hardstand
on which the B-52s had been parked for the last five weeks was empty. He turned to his senior SAC controller.

‘What was the last signal we received from Firebreak One and Two?'

‘They just entered the approach pattern.'

Allbright and the SAC controller went outside and scanned the sky. The SAC controller pointed at the sky over the southwest corner of the airbase.

‘There they are – look…'

The two aircraft were in loose formation, heading towards the runway, but they were still just specks with wings. Allbright cursed himself for not having kept one aircraft on the ground.

‘Call them up and get them down here fast – and hit the siren.'

The SAC controller shot back into the trailer. The siren wailed. The ground crews tumbled out of the ready room and came on the double towards Allbright. He gave his voice a parade-ground boom.

‘Gentlemen, your planes will be coming in over the fence in about two minutes. The White House has just called a CAMPFIRE runway alert. I want those planes bombed up, refuelled, checked out, and ready to roll in under ten minutes.'

‘But sir, they haven't even landed yet. They have to come off the runway, taxi – '

‘Exactly.' Allbright cut the crew chief short. ‘You're going to make this the fastest turnaround time in the history of the Strategic Air Command. Get moving!'

Fraser looked at the wall clock. ‘Five-fourteen… It's about eight hundred miles from New Mexico to Montana,
and the maximum speed of a B-52 is six hundred and sixty miles an hour. Chuck?'

‘Minimum flight time, runway to target with a hot start is one hour eighteen minutes – but that's at optimum altitude. At forty thousand feet, their speed will be trimmed by fifty knots. From the latest weather reports they could have a tail wind on the last half of the trip.'

Fraser looked at the President. ‘If Moscow is going to receive your message by five-thirty, you have a maximum of eight minutes to decide. Personally, I don't think there are any other options open to us. Every second we hold back reduces the time Mitch's aeroplane will have to get lined up on the target.'

‘Chuck, if Mitch's plane can fly in there, can't you contact the nearest airbase and ask for a volunteer to fly in and drop a message to the people around the Ridge?'

General Clayson opened his thick data file and checked the list of active airbases outside the cutoff zone. ‘The nearest is Warren AFB on the southern edge of Wyoming. It's an ADC fighter base. Nearly four hundred miles away from Crow Ridge.'

‘What's that, thirty minutes' flying time?'

‘Yes, plus the reaction time. They'll have to rig up a message canister and find some way to drop it. The release gear for underwing stores is electrically operated.

‘So throw it out of the cockpit.'

‘Sir, this is a Mach 2 aeroplane we're sending in, not an old barn-storming JN-4.'

‘Chuck, I don't give a shit how it's done, just get on to it right away.'

Clayson picked up one of the phones at the far end of the room. It was five-fifteen. The President reached for the pencil and pad in front of him and wrote swiftly in sloping capitals.

He tore the sheet from the pad and passed it to Fraser. ‘How's that?'

‘Fine…'

‘Make sure they spell out the time… you know – so there's no – '

‘Confusion. Right.' Fraser handed the message to McKenna. He took it over to Clayson.

‘Does that note mean we can give the Russians an affirmative on CAMPFIRE?'

The President closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead and nose, then looked up at Fraser. ‘I'd just like to hang on till Chuck fixes something.'

‘Should be no problem. You called a full alert last night. Warren's an ADC base so they must have a third of their pilots strapped in on cockpit alert.' Fraser swung round in his chair. ‘Any movement on that aeroplane, Chuck?'

Clayson was busy talking quietly in the background. He raised his thumb.

‘Make sure whoever goes in knows he'll have no electrics,' called Fraser.

Clayson signalled he understood.

The President saw Fraser, McKenna, and General Wills look at him expectantly. All through his term of office, he had been dreading this moment. Under him, America's military forces had been spared an armed conflict. No soldier had died as a result of a Presidential decision. He had been the Peace candidate. Now he had to face the idea of sentencing two hundred and fifty people to instantaneous oblivion or – depending on how far they
could run – hideous burns or a slow death from radiation sickness…

Fraser lifted the red telephone linking them with New Mexico. He gave General Allbright a quick rundown on the view from Washington and got a situation report on CAMPFIRE. Fraser held out the phone to the President. ‘Firebreak One and Two were returning from some last-minute target practice when we called the runway alert. They're being armed and refuelled now. They'll be ready to go at 17:30. Mitch would like to talk to you.'

The President took hold of the telephone. The time was 5:17 P.M.

Allbright called the twelve crewmen into the operations trailer. The four SAC controllers stood at the back of the room.

‘Gentlemen, as you know, we are now on full alert, but due to certain last-minute developments, we are going for a stripped-down operation that will give us the maximum chance of success.'

Allbright got the two captains to cut a deck of cards. Colonel William ‘Smokey' Stover won the cut with a jack of clubs.

Stover handed the card back to Allbright. ‘Glad to have you aboard Firebreak Two, sir.'

‘Thank you.'

Allbright turned to the SAC weapons controller. ‘John, get Firebreak One's bomb transferred to Smokey's aircraft.'

‘Yes, sir.' The SAC officer went off at the double.

Allbright raised his voice slightly. ‘I want the captains and copilots of each aircraft to remain. The rest of you can dismiss.'

As the room emptied, the SAC officers moved up to the front. Allbright turned to Colonel Westland, who'd drawn the eight of diamonds.

‘Ned, your aircraft will track us to the edge of the fire zone, monitor our attack, then fly to SAC headquarters at Omaha and report the result. You can take your full crew.'

‘I understand, sir.'

‘Good.' Allbright picked up the telephone. ‘The President wants to have a few words with the four of you.'

The President spoke briefly to Stover and his copilot first, then Westland and his copilot. Allbright had a final word with the President, then put the phone down. The four pilots looked at one another.

‘There has to be another way, sir. This is crazy,' said Stover.

‘We have a final approach run of three hundred and fifty miles without electrics,' said Allbright. ‘The weather is starting to break twenty-four hours earlier than expected and there will be
no
marker flares. There is only one way to ensure that we hit this target, gentlemen – and that is why I propose to take Firebreak Two right down the wire.'

‘Yes, but – '

‘You heard what the President said. You and your copilot will arm the bombs and bail out.'

‘But, sir – '

‘Colonel Stover, effective 15:21 hours today, Monday, September 24, you are relieved of the command of your aircraft. That's official, Smokey. So get in line.'

Stover's lips tightened. ‘Whatever happened to SAC's two-man concept?'

‘Nothing,' said Allbright. ‘That's still intact, but I have never been an advocate of overkill.'

At 15:22, the order from SAC headquarters in
Nebraska, confirming the cut-down CAMPFIRE mission, came up on the teleprinter. Over the line from Washington came the Presidential ‘Go Code' without which no nuclear weapon could be launched. The four pilots opened their sealed envelopes and verified the authenticity of the coded mission order and the signal from the President.

Two of the four senior SAC officers assigned to the operation unlocked a blue briefcase and took out two keys, each attached to a fine chain. They gave one key to Stover and the other to his copilot. The two men signed for the keys, put them around their necks, strapped on their parachutes, and doubled out to the aircraft.

The ground and fire crews and their equipment were already in position around the two aircraft.

Stover paused by the nose access door of his B-52. ‘Where do you want to sit, Captain?'

‘You two go ahead,' said Allbright. ‘I'll take the jump seat. We can change over when we reach the cutoff zone.'

‘Crazy,' said Stover. ‘We broke our asses all day trying to hit the centre of those flares, we cut the error down to three hundred feet – '

‘Yes, but not by midday. Let's go, Smokey.'

The crew chief shut the access door and plugged the lead of his headset into the side of the fuselage so that he could talk to Stover.

Allbright strapped himself into the jump seat just behind Stover and his copilot while they rapidly began switching things on with precise co-ordinated movements, the product of years of training.

Firebreak One's four pairs of powerful turbojets roared into life, and a split second later Westland got Firebreak Two turning.

Stover shouted through the static on the long-wave band that linked them with the tower and got clearance
for an immediate takeoff. He opened the throttles and sent Firebreak Two rolling, flaps down, towards the active runway. Firebreak One followed, trailing about fifty yards behind on the starboard side.