Harpoon could not control himself. “In the next half-dozen hours?” he erupted. “For Christ’s sake, colonel, they won’t even be able to find them.”
The colonel turned toward Harpoon with a look of triumph. “No, admiral, they will not. But we will. And you want to withdraw the very weapon with which we can do it.” He abruptly turned away and directed the light pointer at the map.
“Mr. President, the green dots represent Soviet leadership bunkers. Inside those bunkers are the party hierarchy, the Presidium, KGB leaders, the military command, and almost surely the Premier or his successor. They are the head of the Soviet chicken. Cut off that head, and the body dies. The system dies. Forever.”
The colonel paused, gazing expectantly at the successor.
“You telling me that a handful of B-52’s can do that?”
“The perfect instrument, sir.” The colonel smiled. “Those bunkers are hardened much like an ICBM silo. Submarine missiles are not accurate enough to take them out. B-52’s are manned. Most of them are carrying at least four one-megaton bombs plus SRAM or cruise missiles. They can drop those babies right down the smokestack. One aircraft could take out half a dozen bunkers, probably more.”
Harpoon studied the successor’s face carefully. The man seemed deep in perplexing thought. Suddenly he turned toward the admiral. “Harpoon?”
“It’s madness, sir.”
“Well, it seems we just got madness piled on top of madness tonight, admiral.”
“The theory’s been examined thoroughly and discredited thoroughly.”
The colonel blustered in, his voice venomous. “Discredited by men who insist on keeping communications lines open to bandits and murderers and assassins. Men who want to send smoke signals”—the words oozed animosity—“to barbarians who have perpetrated the most despicable, the most heinous act in the history of mankind.”
Harpoon shook his head. “Men who want some remnant of America down there when this plane lands, colonel. We can’t stay up here in our splendid cocoon forever. For Gœ s sake, man, what about the Soviet bombers? What about the thousands of warheads they have in land-based reserves?”
“Victory has its price, admiral,” the colonel replied coldly. “The Soviet forces are a reality. Your smoke signal isn’t going to stop them. And, frankly, I believe you’ve been duplicitous about the Soviet bombers.”
“Duplicitous!” Harpoon started to move on the colonel, then retreated.
“They are not due for five hours. Our communications should be functioning at least minimally by that time. We do have some fighters. We also have thousands of commercial jets available. Use them.”
“You’re joking.”
“Ram the bastards.”
Harpoon slowly seated himself. “Colonel, I cannot believe you are serious. I really cannot. Do you actually believe this country—a country full of panicked Baton Rouges—is in any condition to put together a plan like that?”
The successor suddenly stiffened. “Harpoon, are you im-plyin’ that ramming is a possible defense against bombers? Damn you, are you saying that’s possible?”
Harpoon was beginning to feel woozy. “Sir, for God’s sake—”
“Are you saying that, damn you?”
“In isolated cases, sir,” Harpoon said wearily. “But a hundred and fifty bombers coming in low level from all directions? With our radar out? Even if we got ninety percent of them—which we wouldn’t—do you know what fifteen bombers would do? Fifteen of those blue circles”—Harpoon gestured despondently at me map of the United States—“would instantly turn red.”
“Harpoon,” the successor said, his eyes gleaming angrily, “I don’t think I’ve been getting the whole story. I don’t cotton to that thought. Don’t cotton to it at all.”
Harpoon bristled. “What you’re getting now, sir, is maniacal nonsense. What the devil does the colonel want to do about the ICBM’s? Call the goddamn CIA? Get all our moles to run around Russia putting their fingers in the silos? Good God, man, there is no defense against this stuff.”
The colonel methodically tapped the pointer against the map. “The defense,” he said confidently, “is the Soviet people. Take away those green dots—take away their oppressors—and they will stop the ICBM’s. The defense is to cut the head off the chicken.”
Harpoon took a long, deep breath and then riveted his gaze on the successor. “You’re a westerner, sir. Raised on a farm?”
“You find that a disqualification, Harpoon?”
“Not at all, sir. I’m a farmboy too. Kansas. We raised chickens. Got them ready for my mother’s stewing pot with one stroke of the hatchet.”
“Done it myself. Very effective.”
“Yes, eventually. As a boy, I hated it. The chicken didn’t die right away. It flapped around, headless, splattering blood all over the barnyard.”
The successor smiled thinly at Harpoon’s analogy. “Then it collapsed, Harpoon, and ended up in the pot. This here chicken’s already been spreading a lot of blood around.”
“The world’s the only barnyard we’ve got, sir. I can’t believe you would risk it. Are you saying that’s your decision?”
The man reached over and picked up the Seal. “Nope,” he said, smiling enigmatically. “I’m sayin’ I finally got me some options. I also have a few minutes. I’m going to think on it.”
With that, he stood and began to leave for his quarters, pausing briefly to ask: “Would you like to join me, Colonel?”
Beneath him, tugging perversely, Kazakhs could feel the strong drag of the bomb-bay doors. The shifting winds of the low Arctic mountain ridge buffeted at the open panels, swirling up inside the cavernous hold and changing the aerodynamic flow in ways he had not felt before. No practice-run radio chatter interrupted his concentration. Just the quiet drone of Tyler’s drained voice. They were past the thirty-second mark—ready… ready… now—heading directly at the hastily determined drop point—on the racetrack—just over the top of the next and last ridge.
In front of the pilot new lights glimmered. The Master Caution light, reacting to the buffeting, flickered on and off, Moreau punching it with a gloved forefinger each time it warned them of what they already knew. The other lights remained on, three yellow squares in a sequence of four, only the third still dark. Bomb Doors Not Latched. Bomb Doors Open. Bomb Doors Not Closed and Locked. On the red screen, computer-scrambled, Kazaklis could see the last ridge racing at him. Significant terrain, twelve o’clock… .Not so low this time, pal, no belly-scraping, no spine-snapping on this one.
“Bandits five-point-five miles and closing,” Tyler radioed. Kazaklis reached for the red lever, pulled it in sequence with two of his four crewmates, releasing the last safety mechanism.
Briefly the pilot wondered if the Russians could see the looming doors, spot them somehow in the glimmering white starlight, pick up a minuscule distortion on their radar screens. The thought faded, the commitment made. The ridge filled the screen, the groundtracking thermometer plummeting as the frozen slope raced up at them. Two hundred feet, one hundred, seventy-five. That’s it. Ka-whack! The plane shuddered again, less agonizingly this time. The ridge disappeared, the red screen opening to the flat panorama of the river flats. Kazaklis nosed the aircraft over slightly, taking it down the far side, where it would disappear briefly from the eyes of his pursuers. He counted down the last seconds, a fireproofed thumb poised on the release button. Briefly he and Moreau arched the B-52’s nose to give the weapon one small lift before gravity caught it. The pilot depressed his thumb.