Alas, Babylon

The General shook his head, slowly, frowning, lines appearing and deepening around mouth and eyes, his whole face undergoing a transformation, growing older, as if in a few seconds all the strain and fatigue of weeks, months, years had accumulated and were marking his face and bowing his shoulders. the strain and fatigue of weeks, months, years had accumulated and were marking his face and bowing his shoulders.

Hawker said, “This is the witching hour, you know. This is the bad one. Their submarines have had a whole night to run in on the coast if that’s what they’re doing. We’re in darkness. They’ll soon be in daylight. Dawn is the bad time. What time does it start to get light in New York and Washington?” “Sunrise on the seaboard is Seven-ten Eastern Standard,” Ace Atkins said. Washington’s clock read 6:41.

Mark Braggs mind raced ahead, If an attack came, they could count on no more than fifteen minutes’ warning. If they used every one of those minutes with maximum efficiency, retaliation could be decisive. But Mark feared a minute, or even two, might be lost in necessary communication with Washington. He made a bold proposal. “May I suggest, sir, that we ask for the release of our weapons?”

This was the one mandatory, essential act that must precede the terrible decision to use the weapons. Under the law, the President of the United States “owned” the nuclear bombs and missile warheads. General Hawker was entrusted with their custody only. Before SAC could use the weapons, the permission of the President~r his survivor in a line of succession-must be secured. If an attack were underway, that permission would come almost, but not quite, instantly.

The General seemed a little startled. “Don’t you think we can wait, Mark?”

“Yes, sir, we can wait, but if we get it out of the way, it couLd save us a minute, maybe two. The danger, and the necessity of not having a communications’ snafu, must be just as apparent in the Pentagon, or the White House, or wherever the President is, as it is here.”

“What do you think, Ace?” Hawker asked. “I’d like to have it behind us, sir.”

The General picked up one of the four phones on Atkins’ desk, the phone connecting directly with the Pentagon Command

Post. In this CP, day and night, was a general officer of the Air Force. This duty officer was never out of communication with the President, the Secretary of Defense, and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff

The General spoke briefly into the phone and then waited, keeping it pressed against his ear. Mark’s eyes followed the red second hand on the desk clock. This was an interesting experiment. The General said, “Yes John, this is Bob Hawker. I want the release of my weapons.” Mark knew that “John” was Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Yes, I’ll hold,” the General said. The seconds raced away. The General said, “Thank you, John. It is now eleven forty-four, Zulu. You will confirm by teletype? Goodbye, John.”

The General reached across the desk and wrote in Ace Atkins’ log: “Weapons released to SAC at 11:44, Zulu.” The Operations log was kept in Greenwich Time.

Mark said, “I timed it. One minute and thirty-five seconds.” “I hope we don’t need it,” Hawker said, “but I’m glad to have it.” The worry lines became less conspicuous around his mouth and eyes. His back and shoulders straightened. Now that the responsibility was his, with complications and entanglements minimized, he accepted it with confidence. His manner said that if it came he would fight it from here, and by God win it, as much as it could be won.

The General poured himself another cup of coffee. Ace Atkins told the General, “With your permission, I’m going to scramble fifty percent of all our tankers at Bluie West One, Thule, Limestone, and Castle. They’d be sitting ducks for missiles from subs. They’re right under the gun. They wouldn’t get fifteen minutes.” The General nodded. Ace flipped two keys on the intercom and dictated an order.

Beside Ace’s desk, a tape recorder steadily turned, monitoring phone calls and conversations. The General glanced at it and said, “Do you realize that everything said in this room is being recorded for posterity?”

They all smiled. On all the clocks another minute flipped. The direct line from NORAD, North American Air Defense, in Colorado Springs, buzzed. Ace picked it up, said, “Atkins, SAC Operations,” listened, said, “Roger. I repeat. Object, may be missile, fired from Soviet base, Anadyr Peninsular.”

The emergency priority teletype machine from NORAD began to clatter.

It’s only one, Mark thought. It could be a meteor. It could be a Sputnik. It could be anything.

The NORAD line buzzed again. Ace answered and repeated the flash, as before, for the General and the tape recorder. “DEW Line high sensitivity radar now has four objects on its screens. Speed and trajectory indicates they are ballistic missiles. Presque Isle and Homestead report missiles coming in from sea. We are skipping the yellow. This is your red alert.”

The General gave an order.