“Something lights-something with pictures. Use your judgment.”
“Yes, sir.”
French grinned. By now the word was going around Center that the Old Man was in a good humor today. A cup of coffee rose from a well in one of the board arms of the chair, and a magazine extruded from a slot in its side. French opened the magazine and sipped the coffee. General Craig, his relief, would be here in less than eight hours, which would leave him the enjoyment of the second-best part of the day if the dawn was any indication. He hoped the sunset would be worthy of its dawn. He looked at the center clock. The hands read 0817…
At Station 2 along the DEW Line the hands of the station clock read 1217. Although it was high noon it was dark outside, lightened only by a faint glow to the south where the winter sun strove vainly to appear above the horizon. The air was clear, and the stars shone out of the blue-black sky of the polar regions. A radarman bending over his scope stiffened. “Bogey!” he snapped. “Azimuth 0200, coming up fast!”
The bogey came in over the north polar cap, slanting downward through the tenuous wisps of upper atmosphere. The gases ripped at its metallic sides with friction and oxidation. Great gouts of flaming brilliance spurted from its incandescent outer surface, boiling away to leave a trail of sparkling scintillation in its wake. It came with enormous speed, whipping over the Station almost before the operator could hit the general alarm.
The tracking radar of the main line converged upon the target. Electronic computers analyzed its size, speed and flight path, passing the information to the batteries of interceptor missiles in the sector. “Locked on,” a gunnery office announced in a bored tone. “Fire two.” He smiled. Ivan was testing again. It was almost routine, this business of one side or the other sending over a pilot missile. It was the acid test. If the defense network couldn’t get it, perhaps others would come over—perhaps not. It was all part of the cold war.
Miles away, two missiles leaped from their ramps, flashing skyward on flaming rockets. The gunnery officer waited a moment and then swore. “Missed, by damn! It looks like Ivan’s got something new.” He flipped a switch. “Reserve line, stand by,” he said. “Bogey coming over. Course 0200.”
“Got her,” a voice came from the speaker of the command set. “All stations in range, fire four—salvo!”
“My God, what’s in that thing! Warn Stateside! Execute!”
“All stations Eastseaboard Outer Defense Area! Bogey coming over!”
“Red Alert, all areas!” a communications man said urgently into a microphone. “Ivan’s got something this time! General evacuation plan Boston to Richmond Plan One! Execute!”
“Outer Perimeter Fire Pattern B!”
“Center! Emergency Priority! General, there’s a bogey coming in. Eastseaboard sector. It’s passed the outer lines, and nothing’s touched it so far. It’s the damnedest thing you ever saw! Too fast for interception. Estimated target area Boston-Richmond. For evaluation—!”
“Sector perimeter on target, sir!”
“Fire twenty, Pattern C!”
All along the flight path of the bogey, missile launchers hurled the cargoes of death into the sky. A moving pattern formed in front of the plunging object that now was flaming brightly enough to be seen in the cold northern daylight. Missiles struck, detonated, and were absorbed into the ravening flames around the object, but it came on with unabated speed, a hissing, roaring mass of destruction!
“God! It’s still coming in!” an anguished voice wailed. “I told them we needed nuclear warheads for close-in defense!”
More missiles swept aloft, but the bogey was now so low that both human and electronic sensings were too slow. An instantaneous blast of searing heat flashed across the land in its wake, crisping anything flammable in its path. Hundreds of tiny fires broke out, most of which were quickly extinguished, but others burned violently. A gas refinery in Utica exploded. Other damage of a minor nature was done in Scranton and Wilkes-Barre. The reports were mixed with military orders and the flare of missiles and the crack of artillery hurling box barrages into the sky. But it was futile. The target was moving almost too fast to be seen, and by the time the missiles and projectiles reached intercept point, the target was gone, drawing away from the fastest defense devices with almost contemptuous ease.
General French sat upright in his chair. The peaceful expression vanished from his face to be replaced by a hard, intent look, as his eyes flicked from phones to TV screen. The series of tracking stations, broadcasting over wire, sent their images in to be edited and projected on the screens in French’s room. Their observations appeared at frighteningly short intervals.
French stared at the flaring dot that swept across the screens. It could not be a missile, unless—his mind faltered at the thought— the Russians were further advanced than anyone had expected. They might be at that—after all, they had surprised the world with Sputnik not too many years ago, and the West was forced to work like fiends to catch up.
“Target confirmed,” one of the speakers announced with unearthly calm. “It’s Washington!”
The speaker to the left of the screen broke into life. “This is Conelrad,” it said. “This is not a test, repeat—this is not a test!” The voice faded as another station took over. “A transpolar missile is headed south along the eastern seaboard. Target Washington. Plan One. Evacuation time thirty seconds—”
Thirty seconds! French’s mind recoiled. Washington was dead! You couldn’t go anywhere in thirty seconds! His hand moved toward the red button. This was it!
The missile on the screen was brighter now. It flamed like a miniature sun, and the sound of its passage was that of a million souls in torment! “It can’t stand much more of that,” French breathed. “It’ll burn up!”
“New York Sector—bogey at twelve o’clock—high! God! Look at it!”
The glare of the thing filled the screen.
The blue phone rang. “Center,” French said. He waited and then laid the phone down. The line was dead.
“Flash!” Conelrad said. “The enemy missile has struck south of New York. A tremendous flash was seen fifteen seconds ago by observers in civilian defense spotting nets… no sound of the explosion as yet… more information—triangulation of the explosion indicates that it has struck the nation’s capital! Our center of government has been destroyed!” There was a short silence broken by a faint voice. “Oh, my God!—all those poor people!”
The red phone rang. French picked it up. “Center,” he said.
The phone squawked at him.
“Your authority?” French queried dully. He paused and his face turned an angry red. “Just who do you think you are, Colonel? I’ll take orders from the Chief—but no one else! Now get off that line!… Oh, I see. Then it’s my responsibility?… All right, I accept it—now leave me alone!” He put the phone gently back on the cradle. A fine beading of sweat dotted his forehead. This was the situation he had never let himself think would occur. The President was dead. The Joint Chiefs were dead. He was on his own until some sort of government could be formed. Should he wait and let Ivan exploit his advantage, or should he strike? Oddly, he wondered what his alter ego in Russia was doing at this moment. Was he proud of having struck this blow— or was he frightened? French smiled grimly. If he were in Ivan’s shoes, he’d be scared to death! He shivered. For the first time in years he felt the full weight of the responsibility that was his.
The red phone rang again.
“Center—French here… Who’s that?… Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Vice… er, Mr. President!… Yes, sir, it’s a terrible thing… What have I done? Well, nothing yet, sir. A single bogey like that doesn’t feel right. I’m waiting for the follow-up that’ll confirm… Yes, sir I know—but do you want to take the responsibility for destroying the world? What if it wasn’t Ivan’s? Have you thought of that?… Yes, sir, it’s my judgment that we wait… No, sir, I don’t think so, if Ivan’s back of this we’ll have more coming, and if we do, I’ll fire… No, sir, I will not take that responsibility… Yes, I know Washington’s destroyed, but we still have no proof of Ivan’s guilt. Long-range radar has not reported any activity in Russia… Sorry, sir, I can’t see it that way—and you can’t relieve me until 1600 hours… Yes, sir, I realize what I’m doing… Very well, sir, if that’s the way you want it, I’ll resign at 1600 hours. Goodbye.” French dropped the phone into its cradle and wiped his forehead. He had just thrown his career out the window, but that was another thing that couldn’t be helped. The President was hysterical now. Maybe he’d calm down later.