Fade Out (63 page)

When the nose wheel was on the white centre line, Stover started the water pumping into the jets to augment the thrust for takeoff and put all eight engines through the gate.

Allbright looked at his watch. It was precisely 15:30 hours. Firebreak Two was airborne and climbing, trailing a thunderous cloud of black smoke and on course for Crow Ridge. He looked out of the window and saw Westland's aircraft climbing into position beyond their starboard wing.

As Larsen drove through Broken Mill, Connors spotted a bright yellow blob way out on the plain to his right. He asked Larsen to back up to the junction and take the dirt road west of the highway. From there they forked left on to the track that led up to Bodell's shack. One of the diesels was parked out on the plain with about fifty people strung out in small groups behind it, and a couple of cadets on horseback. It was the work party setting the northern line of flares. Four cadets on the back of the diesel were dumping batches of flares overboard as it moved slowly towards Crow Ridge. Larsen swung off on to the grass and headed towards them, pulling up alongside the main group. Connors jumped down from the cab.

‘Hi – how's it going?'

A cadet named Biggs straightened up. ‘Okay. The thing that's taking the time is linking these goddam things together with this touch wire so that they ignite in series.'

Connors looked towards the Ridge. ‘Doesn't look as if you have too far to go now.'

‘Eight hundred and fifty yards,' said Biggs. ‘That's thirty-four clusters.'

Connors looked at his watch. It was 4:15 P.M. ‘Any idea when you'll get through?'

‘Maybe seven – eight o'clock.'

‘Where are Harris and Cameron?'

‘I don't know. Ask one of the guys on horseback. I think Rizzik is over on the west line.'

‘Okay, thanks.' As Connors turned to go, the sky above his head split open with a thunderous roar. He ducked instinctively along with everyone around him, then looked up. A camouflaged Phantom fighter-bomber was banking away with its wing tip about fifteen feet above the buffalo grass.

‘Where the hell did
he
come from?' asked Connors.

‘I think he came in over the highway,' said one of the cadets.

They watched the plane curve northward. It turned over Broken Mill and came thundering back over their heads at zero feet.

‘He's waggling his wings,' said Connors. ‘Do you think he's trying to give us a message?' He spun around as the aircraft roared overhead and watched it bank right again and circle around them.

Landers, the pilot of the Phantom, was the thirty-two-year-old station commander at Warren AFB, just north of Cheyenne. There'd been no time to prepare a detailed preflight plan. He'd flown at zero feet across the plains of Wyoming, into Montana, picked up the Yellowstone, and stayed with it until he'd reached the Miles City airport, where the two chrome yellow MRDC Hercules aircraft stood with their swept-up tails facing the city dump.

From there, Landers had followed the line of the highway to Crow Ridge. He saw about two dozen abandoned Army trucks. On the phone, General Clayson had told him to look for a black pyramid. It had all sounded incredible, but there it was, rising from the plateau rimmed with pines.

There too, south and east of the highway, were the work parties he'd come to warn. He banked left over the base camp and saw another group laying a line of flares running in from the north. This group had
two
yellow trucks. Maybe one was a command vehicle…

Landers headed towards them, easing down low over the grass, then banked right, heading north towards the highway. He made a low turn over some deserted buildings, then headed back towards the group with his hand on the lever that would release the empty drop tank on which the President's message had been written with a thick felt pen. He pulled the lever and banked right. The group was still standing watching him. Landers glanced backward. The drop tank was still attached to the pylon under the wing. He made another tight turn over the buildings, lined up on the group, pulled hard on the release handle and banked around for a third time. The group was watching him. There were even one or two waving. And the empty drop tank with the urgent message to clear the area was still firmly fixed under the starboard wing…

Flying at twenty thousand feet, the two B-52s crossed over from Colorado into Wyoming. The edge of the cutoff zone lay about a hundred miles ahead of them. Allbright switched on his intercom.

‘Smokey, you and Deke had better go arm the bomb while we still have lights in the bomb bay.'

Stover gave a thumbs-up signal, tapped Deke Shore, his copilot, on the shoulder, and turned an imaginary key. The two pilots switched their oxygen lines on to portable bottles. Allbright folded back the jump seat to let Stover out then took his place. Deke followed Stover down to the bomb bay.

When his copilot was ready at the tail of the first bomb with his intercom plugged in, Stover raised his key. The lock was set in the middle of a numbered dial.

‘Code Insertion.'

Each of them set a secret number they had been given to memorize.

‘Coded. Ready to engage.'

‘Engage locks.' Stover inserted his key.

‘Lock engaged. Ready to arm.'

Stover gripped the dial. ‘First sequence. Set four-zero.'

‘Four-zero set.'

‘Lock in.' Stover turned his key.

‘First sequence locked.'

When all eight sections were aligned, the bomb was primed, ready to explode as soon as it hit the ground. Stover and his copilot moved across to the nose and tail of the second. Before they had finished, the small light in the bomb bay went out.

‘Fuck it.' Stover unclipped his mask. ‘Can you see okay, Deke?'

‘Yeah, it's okay,' shouted Shore. ‘Just give me a couple of seconds… okay, go ahead.'

‘Seventh sequence. Set nine-two.'

‘Nine-two set.'

‘Lock in.'

‘Seventh sequence locked…'

Stover climbed back up to the cockpit and took the right-hand seat. His copilot folded down the jump seat in the doorway.

‘All set?' asked Allbright.

‘Yes. They're both cocked and ready to go. Any trouble when you hit the zone?'

‘Not too much. I've pulled all the gen breakers and the battery circuits. I just hope we don't flame out.'

‘It should be okay. The B-52 doesn't have a surge problem at twenty thousand.'

‘You ready to jump?'

‘Do we have a choice?'

‘You can take it up personally with the President later.'

Stover looked out of the window. ‘This is going to be like stepping off the moon. Are you planning to lose any altitude?'

‘We're on our way down now,' said Allbright.

‘Have we passed Casper?' asked Deke.

‘Yes,' said Stover. ‘The next bus stop's at Buffalo. Not that there's anything moving at either place –
or
in between. Okay, let's go. We've got the wind on our tail. If we wait any longer, it'll blow us right into the fire zone.' Stover tapped Allbright's shoulder. ‘We'll go out of the rear escape hatch. Can you throttle back to two-fifty?'

Allbright nodded, throttled back, and pulled on some flap. Stover watched the air speed drop. He looked out of the window to check the position of Firebreak One. Westland was still to starboard and above their tail.

Stover turned back to Allbright and held up a gloved hand. ‘Three minutes.'

Allbright nodded.

Stover paused halfway out of his seat, searching for something appropriate to say. Allbright held up three
fingers, then jerked his thumb towards the cockpit door behind him.

Stover led the way to the rear of the aircraft and jettisoned the hatch. They checked each other's chutes before Stover stepped aside and let his copilot jump first.

Colonel Westland saw the two men drop away from Firebreak Two. A minute later, the flaps retracted as Allbright increased his speed.

Westland dropped his left wing and crossed over to the port side of Firebreak Two. ‘Can anybody see the chutes?'

‘Yep, they're both looking good,' said his radio man.

Landers made several low passes over each of the groups, pulling the release handle on the drop tank. But it remained stubbornly in place. Finally, he had an idea and mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. He banked around towards the northern group, climbed up to about two hundred feet, and turned back to make a slow pass over their heads with his flaps down.

Connors, Wedderkind and the cadets on their truck had pitched in to help finish laying the flares.

‘Maybe he's come to check up on how we're doing,' said Larsen.

‘Or to tell us to hurry up,' said the cadet next to him. ‘Can you pass me that roll of ignition wire?'

Connors straightened up and looked at the approaching aircraft. The pilot had lowered his undercarriage. As he flew over their heads he raised it, banked round, then came back towards them, and lowered his undercarriage a second time. Connors watched the Phantom sweep. The pilot lifted his wheels again.

‘Why does he keep doing that?' asked Wedderkind. ‘Does he want to land?'

‘If he does, this is the wrong place,'said Connors. ‘What the hell is he trying to tell us? Look, he's got his wheels down again…'

The Phantom came right down to ground level, with its wheels almost touching the grass. Then the pilot put on full power and climbed away, retracting the undercarriage.

‘Takeoff…' Connors' brain lit up like a pinball machine as the quarter dropped. ‘He's telling us to
take off
! Arnold, do you suppose –?'

‘The cutoff zone …'

‘Jesus Christ… it's expanded and… those goons are on their way to blow up the Ridge!'

Another diesel came racing down the dirt road from Broken Mill.

‘Looks as if someone else has got the message,' said Wedderkind. The diesel swung off the road and headed towards them. It was Kinner. He was driving the second diesel they'd left on the airstrip at Jordan. Volkert was in the cab. Connors ran over as it stopped.

‘Jordan's blacked out!'

‘When did it happen?' asked Connors.

‘Three o'clock. About ten minutes after you left. We didn't know what to do at first – I thought maybe we should go to Glasgow. Then Volkert suggested we'd better tell you.'

‘No point in tellin' Glasgow,' said Volkert. ‘They got the news same time as we did.'

‘We went down straight to the base camp, and of course nobody knew where you were.'

‘Yeah, we turned off.' Connors looked at Wedderkind. ‘That's it. They must have got together with the Russians and decided to advance the attack. But by how much?'

‘Well, if the cutoff zone expanded at three o'clock our time, that's the middle of the night in Russia,' said
Wedderkind. ‘That means the earliest time they could attack in reasonable light would be six A.M. –'

‘Five o'clock our time,' said Connors. He looked at his watch. ‘Jesus Christ, it's nearly four-thirty! How are we going to get these guys out of here?' He grabbed Biggs' arm. ‘Listen, drop everything! Get everybody on that diesel, drive north, and don't stop until you're twenty-five miles away! A B-52 is going to drop a fifty-kiloton nuke on the Ridge in thirty minutes.'

Biggs dropped the flare he was holding.

‘Holy shit –' said Kinner.

Connors jumped on to the running board of Kinner's diesel. ‘Head over to the west of the Ridge. Tell the party over there what's happening – then keep going west!'

Connors jumped off the running board and cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Larsen!'

‘Right behind you!'

Connors spun round and grabbed Larsen's arm. ‘We've got thirty minutes to warn the other two parties and get out of here before the Ridge goes up. Do you want to drive or duck out now?'

‘I'll drive – hell, we don't have much chance either way.'

‘Okay. The east group must be near the base camp. Arnold, come on, get in!' Connors spotted the two cadets on the horses. They were turning around indecisively. He bundled Wedderkind into the cab of the diesel and called out to them, ‘If you think you can ride twenty-five miles in thirty minutes get going. If you can't, dump the horses and get on that northbound diesel!' Connors jumped in and made a grab for the door as Larsen put his foot down. He swung the truck around and headed straight across country, towards the base camp.

‘Hang on,' he yelled. ‘This is going to get a little rough!'

Circling low overhead, Landers saw two of the diesels go speeding off in different directions, and people clambering hurriedly aboard the third. They had finally got the message. He looked at his watch. 4:28 P.M…. Good luck… Landers pulled up his flaps, put the throttle through the gate, and headed eastward, climbing clear of the path of the approaching B-52.