Fail Safe (6 page)

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. Immedi

ately 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."

The President came to a stop in front of the elevator. He shook hands with the major. He turned to Buck,

"Hello, Buck," the President said. "I remember seeing you in your office a while back."

"A while back" had been several years, but even so Buck was flattered.

"Yes, sir," Buck said. "I am the Russian translator." Without a verbal order, but more by motion of his body, the President moved all of them into the elevator, induding the secretary. Despite its GI color, Buck realized that the elevator was new and efficient. Its one odd feature was in the back: a large wheel with a plaque above it which said, FOR ELEVATOR OPERATION

IN CASE OF POWER FAILURE. TURN TO RIGHT TO LOWER. TURN TO LEFT TO RAISE.

The doors of the elevator snapped shut and instantly they were propelled downward. To Buck it seemed that they were dropping like a stone, in a free fall. His knees loosened slightly as the floor dropped beneath him, but he stiffened; he felt a sad and desolate heaviness in his viscera. He braced against the wall for he had the sensation that he might become sick. He had no notion of how far beneath the White House the bomb shelter was located. To vomit here, in this impeccable GI elevator with the officer-operator and the President leaning comfortably against the wall and the secretary listening to his words, and the wooden major standing at an apparently easy attention, would be too much.

They came to a cushioned stop after a few seconds. Buck's knees bent a few inches, but so did those of everyone else in the elevator. He felt relieved.

The doors snapped open. They stepped out into a large room which held half a dozen desks. On the left there was a luminous screen which covered the entire wall. It was somewhat like a movie screen, but it had thickness, a texture to it. Strange objects crawled across it, wormlike and glowing. Buck had only time to no-

rice six green crosses, five of them standing alone, and one with a queer blob of light a few inches from the cross.

Sitting behind the desks were a number of people who were vaguely familiar to Buck. He recognized one, a special assistant to the President, and realized that the others were also special or White House assistants or staff men. All of the men in the room came to a relaxed attention. The President nodded, but did not speak. The heads of all the assistants swung back to the luminous walL The President turned right and led his little group through a door which was swung open by a captain, his naval aide.

"That's all, Major," the President said casually. The major did not go into the other office with them.

Buck felt respect for abilities he did not possess. First, he realized that all of the assistants were at ease with the President, and, considering their credentials, degrees, books written, speeches made, reputations established, crises survived, toughness established, and the rumors of their outspokenness, he was not surprised by their poise. Secondly, he marveled at the peculiar physical ease of the President. It showed in the way he had indicated that the major should not come farther with them. It was not humiliating, it was not brusque, it was not even very obvious. It was merely a kind of easy shrug which told the major a good deal, but was not offensive.

The President led them into a small office. It held a medium-sized desk which had a number of telephones on it. There was a chair on each side of the desk. The sound of the air conditioning was like a massive pulse. The President sat down behind the desk. He motioned to Buck to sit in the other chair. The President turned to Mrs. Johnson.

"Look, Johnnie, it won't work with Pete and the

newspaper people," the President said. "Pete can handle it all right, but someone else will crack and start to call Scotty or one of the wire services or some damned thing." He paused, leaned back in the chair, held a pencil up and studied it carefully. "Tell Pete to let them all know it's urgent, but not a bonebreaker. Not yet. Off the record. No leaks. Any leaks on this and the guy and his paper are dead. Now and forever. O.K.?"

"I'll tell Pete, just like that," Mrs. Johnson said and smiled.

"What about the Pentagon group?" the President said, smiling at Mrs. Johnson, but not responding to her remark. "You're supposed to have a list or something."

"Yes, Mr. President, it's right here," Mrs. Johnson said. She shuffled through the papers she was carrying. She did it with all the expert quickness of a gambler making a fast riffle. A white card appeared in her fingers.

The precision of the riffle again reassured Buck. In the presence of people so poised and prepared he knew he would perform welL

"Give it to Mr. Buck," the President said.

Mrs. Johnson handed Buck a stiff white card. He glanced at it. At the top of the card were the words PENTAGON ALERT GROUP. It had been dated at 0800 that morning and Buck realized that the list was probably made up each day. The list contained all the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretaries, and a representative from the National Security Council. Buck noticed that after the name of the Secretary for Air there was a handwritten sentence which said "In Dallas to dedicate new missile site. Back Thursday."

One of the phones on the President's desk rang and a light went on.

"That will be Bogan at Omaha," the President said.

Mrs. Johnson started to turn toward the door. "Wait just a second, Johnnie."

The President picked up the phone. He did not say "hello," but someone obviously had started talking to him at once.

By reflex Buck looked at his watch. It was 10:87.

Mrs. Johnson moved toward Buck. For the first time he noticed that her middle-aged and very smooth cheeks were flushed 'with excitement. She bent over Buck and spoke to him in a low urgent voice.

"At least we're better off than President Truman was in 1950 when the Korean thing started. That's one of the first things I changed around here," she said primly. "That poor man could hardly find anyone to advise him. He practically had to make the decision single-handed. He called State, the Pentagon, the Hill, here, there, everywhere. Nobody home. So he did it alone."

Did what, Buck thought to himself.

Buck looked up at Mrs. Johnson and smiled thinly. Her memory was said to be limitless, her knowledge encyclopedic, her antagonism fatal. He had heard, and he could not remember where, that when her cheeks showed small patches of pink it was the equivalent of Hitler throwing an epileptic fit.

For the first time Buck realized that this was something more than a drill, that great decisions might have to be made. His throat went dry and then, as he had trained himself to do when he was tense, his smile broadened into a wide and very good imitation of genuine amusement. He saw the President's eyes above the telephone regarding him curiously.

Five seconds after General Bogan had stopped speaking to the President the phone was back on its cradle and he and Colonel Cascio had started toward a door fifteen yards from the desk. Both were aware that they must not alarm Raskob and Knapp. They moved quickly, but without 'haste. It was an old drill. This was the first time their walk had intention and, even so, they walked at drill pace.