Two hundred yards away from his window he saw an ambulance pull up alongside a group of wounded. The medics bent over the stretchers, lifting them smoothly into the ambulance. He watched as a stretcher was brought to the ambulance, and two men bent over it. Even at that distance he saw quite clearly that one of the men shook his head. The stretcher was taken away, and put back on the concrete. Someone walked over and placed a blanket over the still load.
Howard knew then what he had to do. He didn’t believe the story about the super bomb. That was just the politicians pressing the panic button again. Nor did he believe the attack on Sonora had been motivated by anything much more than an attempt to conciliate world opinion. But he had just seen a man die. Not a mongoose, or a cobra, but a man. That was where Quinten was wrong. It was all right for animals to kill by instinct. It was all wrong for men to kill except in direct self defence. Nothing could justify it. He crossed to the desk and picked up the telephone. For a few moments he had held the fate of the world in his hands. But he did not know that. He only knew that he could see what was right, and he had to act in accordance with what he saw.
The connection with the Pentagon was almost immediate. His call was answered by a colonel whose name was unfamiliar. "Pass your message, Major," the colonel said.
Howard took a deep breath. "I’ll pass it to the President," he said firmly. "No-one else."
He braced himself for a storm of angry words from the other end. But they did not come. Instead, there was a moment’s silence, and then a new voice said, "Major Howard? This is General Steele, Chief of Staff. You can pass your message to me, son."
Howard hesitated. This was the big brass. If he bucked it his career was finished for sure. But he stuck to his guns. "General, I’m sorry, sir," he said. "I don’t recognise your voice. I think I have the recall code group for the eight forty-third, but I insist on passing it to the President personally. I’ll know his voice all right."
Again Howard was surprised by the response. General Steele said nothing more than, "Hold on son, I’ll get him."
Howard felt an intense nervousness come over him as he waited. He’d stuck his neck right out now. He’d insisted on direct access to someone outside of the proper military channels. His military sense of fitness was outraged, yet his common sense insisted he was right.
He heard a few faint noises in the background, and then a voice he knew was speaking to him. The tones were quiet, precise, cultured. He identified them instantly. The voice said, "This is the President, Major. General Steel tells me you might have the recall group for the eight forty-third wing. You may pass it to me."
Howard found his nervousness had left him. There was something about the voice had given him confidence and assurance. He began to speak.
Chapter 19
Lieutenant Stan Andersen was satisfied. The new course was working out fine, taking them in a straight line to the target. He laid his pencil down and said, "Clint."
"Yes, Stan?"
"How’re you doing? Anything I can get you?"
"I’m making out," Brown said quietly. "Don’t worry about me, I’m not hit bad." The pain was less savage now, or maybe he was more used to it. It didn’t worry him nearly so much as the numbness which was gradually moving up his back and into his shoulders. He knew he was getting weaker, that his reserves of strength were fast being expended. Well, in another half hour or so it wouldn’t matter. Federov could take over, and he could sleep. He was beginning to feel very tired.
"That’s great," Andersen said. But he wasn’t too sure. He’d seen the mess the fragment had made of Brown’s clothing, and the wide area soaked with blood. He went on, "Shouldn’t need any alteration in course now. Estimate twelve zero eight at target. We’ve been lucky, there’s a dandy of a tail wind. Engelbach, you can take her in on visual and target radar. We start climbing at twelve hundred exactly, so you’ll have about five minutes after reaching height to pick up the aiming point and make corrections before you let her go. O.K.?"
"O.K., Stan," Engelbach said. He arranged in order the series of strip maps prepared for just such an eventuality as a bomber having to run the last two hundred or so miles to target at low level. Ordinary maps were little use at this height. The low level strip maps showed only the prominent landmarks, one every three minutes flight. From these the bombardier could make the small corrections which might be necessary to keep the bomber heading straight in. The first of the landmarks was the Pinega River as it flowed across the track from east to west, and the next the same river nearer its source flowing west to east. He looked out ahead into the white blur of the approaching landscape.
Ahead of Alabama Angel a dozen red flames appeared, coming down from above, getting further away and lower, moving much faster than the bomber. They exploded on the ground, a vivid cluster of brilliant flashes. Seconds later the bomber flew over the point where the explosions had occurred, and rocked in the violently churning air they had left.
"Rockets," Brown said quietly.
"There he goes, overshooting to port." Andersen, now he had finished navigating, had his head up in the astrodome. "Looks like a delta-wing type. See him, Clint?"
Brown had caught the merest glimpse of a slim delta-wing shape, black against the surrounding whiteness. "I think so," he said cautiously. "Think he’s coming in again?"
"I lost him. He aimed off too high on that one."
"Yeah," Brown said. There was an intolerable itching in his left foot. He tried to wriggle the toes of the foot, and found he couldn’t move them. Then he tried to move the whole foot. Again, no response. He realised his left leg had died on him, and he began to have an idea just how badly he’d been hit. He thought for a moment that he’d conceal it from the rest of the crew. But that was futile. If he passed out without warning at this height they’d be into the deck in less than a second. He said, "Federov."
"Captain?"
"Federov, I want you to stand by my seat. Keep watching me. If I look like going forward, haul her up higher fast until you can drag me out. You understand?"
"Sure," Federov said. He moved forward to stand beside Brown.
"Clint, you’re hit bad." Andersen’s voice was urgent. "How do you feel?"
"I’ll make it." With the assertion Brown’s confidence returned. It had wavered for a few moments. Now it was strong again. He’d make it because he had to. He’d hit the target because the target just had to be hit. It was as easy as that.
"Fighter," Andersen shouted. He had picked out the dark blur as it dived, lost it momentarily, then seen the red flare as it fired its rockets. This cluster hit a half mile behind Alabama Angel. One or two strays carried further, but the nearest was two to three hundred yards behind the bomber. Seconds later the black delta shape flashed by above them.
"My God," Engelbach said. "Solid wall of flak ahead. Maybe five miles. Man, it’s solid. No space to squeeze through."
Brown looked out ahead, lifting his gaze from the point of ground a mile ahead of the bomber he had been concentrating on.
Englebach was right, he thought. It was a wall. As far as he could see ahead the sky was criss-crossed with arcing lines of tracer, laced with hundreds of small explosions. He looked quickly to port and starboard. The flak wall seemed to extend without limit in both directions.