Read Online Fail Safe by Eugene Burdick, Harvey Wheeler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Eugene Burdick, Harvey Wheeler
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At Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, the officer in charge of the Second Air Force put down the telephone after he had confirmed General Bogan's order. He pushed a machine which electronically checked to make sure that General Bogan's verbal order had also been fed into the responsible machine at Omaha. He then pressed a button close to the telephone. At once a scream went up from a score of klaxon horns scattered around the base. A gigantic barracks building transformed itself. An entire wall rolled away. Inside were ten station wagons, each with its exhaust plugged into a special hole in the floor, and each turning over slowly. An enlisted man sat behind each wheeL In the area behind the station wagons there were a snack bar, card tables, television sets, sofas and chairs. The space was occupied by approximately fifty men. The mood thirty seconds ago had been tranquil, an odd mixture of a fraternity house, a BOQ, and a ready room. The moment that the door swung open and the klaxons started to wail, each of the men ran for the predesignated station wagon. With a beautiful practiced precision, the station wagons tore across the vast expanse of the field. Each station wagon's journey ended beside a Vindicator bomber and the crews piled out. The supersonic bombers were already prepared by special warmup crews. They not only warmed up the engines but they kept a constant running check on every part of the intricate bomber. The warm-up crews turned over their planes to men who were perfect strangers, keeping their eyes on the instruments until the last moment, then grinning at the strangers and relinquishing command, swinging out of the plane and into the waiting station wagons.
Two and a half minutes after the alert had sounded the first of the bombers wheeled to the head of the runway and started to whine down the long black asphalt track. Five minutes later all of the "ready" planes were in the air.
The activity at Barksdale did not cease. Instead it speeded up. As the first wave of bombers took off another series of bombers were being warmed up and another series of crews had occupied the barracks. The station wagons were back idling.
The barracks doors had slid shut. Neither the people who had gone through them a few moments ago nor the present occupants knew whether they were at war or repeating a familiar drill. The men appeared to be casual. This was also their inner reality. Anxiety had long ago been burned out.
At some bases the metabolic rate was increased so slightly by the Condition Red that it was hardly perceptible. The crews of jet tankers, for example, walked to their huge aircraft knowing there were only two alternatives: if enemy missiles were already in flight not one of the crewmen would reach his plane, but all Would be crisped black somewhere along their leisurely walk. Their tankers were unprotected and in the open. The other alternative was that they were participating in a drilL The crewmen had long ago given up worrying about the two alternatives. They had learned a lesson: there was nothing they could do to alter anything in any situation.
Some parts of the system were nothing more than great offices. They were part of the "logistic pipeline." Their men and their machines performed a clerkly function, but a necessary one. They made sure that everyone in the operation had adequate supplies of everything: chewing gum, one million tons of jet fuel, tiny needles in plastic containers which had a smear of
poison on the tip that could kill a man in three seconds, fresh tomatoes, black boxes in infinite variety, tubes, screws, bolts, typewriters, rubber tires, little gray cubes that, soaked in water, expanded into beef steaks, aspirin, morphine syrettes, paper and carbon paper in every size known to man, "canned" jet engines, ready to ship jet engines fresh and tuned, beans both canned and dried, life jackets, codebooks, cigarettes, leather jackets, brandy flasks, comic books,
At Barksdale Air Force Base, Louisiana, the officer in charge of the Second Air Force put down the telephone after he had confirmed General Bogan's order. He pushed a machine which electronically checked to make sure that General Bogan's verbal order had also been fed into the responsible machine at Omaha. He then pressed a button close to the telephone. At once a scream went up from a score of klaxon horns scattered around the base. A gigantic barracks building transformed itself. An entire wall rolled away. Inside were ten station wagons, each with its exhaust plugged into a special hole in the floor, and each turning over slowly. An enlisted man sat behind each wheeL In the area behind the station wagons there were a snack bar, card tables, television sets, sofas and chairs. The space was occupied by approximately fifty men. The mood thirty seconds ago had been tranquil, an odd mixture of a fraternity house, a BOQ, and a ready room. The moment that the door swung open and the klaxons started to wail, each of the men ran for the predesignated station wagon. With a beautiful practiced precision, the station wagons tore across the vast expanse of the field. Each station wagon's journey ended beside a Vindicator bomber and the crews piled out. The supersonic bombers were already prepared by special warmup crews. They not only warmed up the engines but they kept a constant running check on every part of the intricate bomber. The warm-up crews turned over their planes to men who were perfect strangers, keeping their eyes on the instruments until the last moment, then grinning at the strangers and relinquishing command, swinging out of the plane and into the waiting station wagons.
Two and a half minutes after the alert had sounded the first of the bombers wheeled to the head of the runway and started to whine down the long black asphalt track. Five minutes later all of the "ready" planes were in the air.
The activity at Barksdale did not cease. Instead it speeded up. As the first wave of bombers took off another series of bombers were being warmed up and another series of crews had occupied the barracks. The station wagons were back idling.
The barracks doors had slid shut. Neither the people who had gone through them a few moments ago nor the present occupants knew whether they were at war or repeating a familiar drill. The men appeared to be casual. This was also their inner reality. Anxiety had long ago been burned out.
At some bases the metabolic rate was increased so slightly by the Condition Red that it was hardly perceptible. The crews of jet tankers, for example, walked to their huge aircraft knowing there were only two alternatives: if enemy missiles were already in flight not one of the crewmen would reach his plane, but all Would be crisped black somewhere along their leisurely walk. Their tankers were unprotected and in the open. The other alternative was that they were participating in a drilL The crewmen had long ago given up worrying about the two alternatives. They had learned a lesson: there was nothing they could do to alter anything in any situation.
Some parts of the system were nothing more than great offices. They were part of the "logistic pipeline." Their men and their machines performed a clerkly function, but a necessary one. They made sure that everyone in the operation had adequate supplies of everything: chewing gum, one million tons of jet fuel, tiny needles in plastic containers which had a smear of
poison on the tip that could kill a man in three seconds, fresh tomatoes, black boxes in infinite variety, tubes, screws, bolts, typewriters, rubber tires, little gray cubes that, soaked in water, expanded into beef steaks, aspirin, morphine syrettes, paper and carbon paper in every size known to man, "canned" jet engines, ready to ship jet engines fresh and tuned, beans both canned and dried, life jackets, codebooks, cigarettes, leather jackets, brandy flasks, comic books,
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