Chapter 24
One by one, the B52 bombers banked and turned for home as they received the authenticated recall signal from SAC Headquarters, buried deep within Cheyenne Mountain, Wyoming.
One of the last to turn had been on station, over the Bering Straits, for more than eight hours. Despite the service-issue coffee and stimulants, the crew was tired.
"Looks as if it was just a drill after all." Observed Major Doolan, the co-pilot.
"Sure, but we still play it by the book." Replied Colonel Robson, the pilot.
The Electronic Warfare Officer, a young Captain by the name of Rafferty yawned. For eight hours, he'd stared at the radar console in front of him, probing the airspace around him, alert for any threat. Nothing. He blinked; where had that come from?
"Sir, I have a contact bearing one seven five." Reported Rafferty. "Range three zero zero miles. Speed Mach five. IFF Negative. Engaging ECM"
At the touch of a button on Rafferty's console, immensely powerful radar transmitters, tuned to the known frequencies of the Soviet Air Defence and Missile radars, sprang to life, filling the space around the aircraft with an impenetrable electronic fog. At the same time, Robson started a series of evasive manoeuvres, at the same time pushing the throttles through the gate and into emergency power. Even at extreme range, a missile travelling at speed close to 4000 miles per hour would reach the aircraft in less than four minutes. The extra burst of speed from over-running the engines would never hope to outrun the missile but it might just be enough to bring the aircraft over friendly soil so that the crew could eject safely.
"So, how did the report sound?" Asked Ford.
"The line was a bit noisy but we were able to use most of it" Replied Hooper.
"Most?"
Hooper hesitated. "It was an editorial decision, from the very top"
"Meaning?"
"Most of it was top-quality stuff…"
"Most?"
Hooper sighed and pulled the car off the road onto the hard shoulder. He turned to face Ford. "If I'd left in the Flying Saucer angle, we'd both now be looking for new jobs. I really thought Doug was going to have a seizure when he heard the tape."
"So the world carries on in blissful ignorance of the threat hanging over them?"
"No, I'm sure the Government will have made plans. I'm sure that places like Fylingdales will be keeping watch."
Are you? Snorted Ford. "I wish I shared your confidence. I'll tell you what the Government is doing: They, like the Americans, are watching the Soviets. The Soviets and their allies are watching us. Each is testing the other with incursions into the others' airspace. They're playing their little games, whilst out there…" Ford gestured towards the sky."…an unknown enemy is drawing up plans."
"Oh, Come on." Objected Hooper. "You're starting to sound like H. G. Wells with his Martian invasion"
"Wells predicted Tanks in 1903…" replied Ford
The contact had not gone unnoticed by Soviet Air Defences. The approach, then retreat of the B52 had been tracked, as too, the flight from the Motherland of the unidentified object.
Fighters, on readiness to intercept the Imperialist aggressors, were scrambled. Their pilots' orders were clear; the American bomber was to be left unharmed, unless it turned back towards the Motherland; anything else was fair game.
"Range 100, Speed Mach 6"
Navigator: How long 'til we're over safe ground?"
"Two minutes twenty"
By now, the Engineer was seriously worried; every temperature gauge was in the red. Unless power was reduced, there was a real danger that one or more of the engines could be damaged. Already, the wings were vibrating.
"Range 50. She's unchecked, coming straight towards us."
"Murphy, time to work your magic"
"Aye Sir."
Eyes fixed on his display, The rear gunner, Murphy, activated the targeting radar and the M61 Vulcan cannon, situated in the tail cone of the aircraft
Although capable of speeds in excess of Mach 3, the Mig-25s were soon left far behind by the unidentified object. On their radar screens, they could see the object, partially obscured by the electronic noise as it drew ever closer to the B52.
The six barrels of the Vulcan cannon began to spin. A lethal hailstorm of 20mm rounds ripped through the air at the object, now less than a mile behind the aircraft but significantly above it. Within seconds an attacking aircraft would normally be reduced to shrapnel.
Murphy could only watch, disbelievingly, as the object, trailing a thin veil of smoke but otherwise unharmed overhauled the bomber, then descended and slowed until it was flying straight ahead of the cockpit.
Before Noonan could react, the UFO exploded. Fragments peppered the flight deck, ripping the crew to shreds. The lower-deck crew were no luckier; they had reached for the ejection levers, just as fragments were drawn into the already over-running engines. In less than a second, the innermost engines had exploded, ripping their nacelles free and leaving jagged gashes in the wings. Fuel lines severed, a huge cloud of unburned fuel enveloped the fuselage of the aircraft. A single spark, from a static build-up, ignited the fuel. The resulting fireball immolated the crew and shattered what was left of the airframe.
The bombs fell free, slamming into the surface of the sea and sinking, finally coming to rest in the silt on the seabed in several hundred fathoms of water, .There they would remain, inert; failsafe systems preventing their detonation.
In total, the remains of the aircraft were scattered over more than 200 square miles of ocean.
Far behind, the pilots of the MiG 25s saw the static on their radar screens clear to be replaced by…
…Nothing!
The voice of their controller crackled in their headsets: "Cobra Flight, Return to Base"
One by one, the flight turned for home. Speculation about what had happened to the B52 would wait until they were safely in the Mess with several glasses of Stolichnaya inside them
Deep inside Cheyenne Mountain, the drama had been played out on the giant screen; from the B52 turning for home, to the appearance of the supersonic object, and the subsequent disappearance of both had taken less than ten minutes
The Duty Officer lifted his telephone: "Get me the SecDef. NOW!"
The newsroom was a babel of jangling telephones and clattering teleprinters. The atmosphere was, again, a blue haze of tobacco smoke.
"Good Grief," said Ford. "What's going on?"
"Search me" Replied Hooper.
"Perhaps Doug can tell us"
As if on cue, Turnbull appeared in the doorway of his office. "In here, Ford, Now!"
Ford Shrugged and walked across the office.
He entered the office and stopped. "I didn't know you had a visitor."
Jackson smiled and rose from his chair. "Hello Keith. Good to see you again"
"Who are you?" Ford was confused; Who was this stranger?
"Now Keith, I've told you about these denials before." The voice was heavily accented but the tone soothing.
Ford turned to Turnbull; "Doug, Who is this man?"
"He's your doctor"
"Doctor? I've never seen this man before in my life!"
Confused, Turnbull looked at each man in turn.
"I knew it," Said Laird, as he heard the report from SAC, "It was just a ploy to catch us off guard. Send the bombers back in."
"Yessir"
The impromptu party was in full swing when the Teletype in the corner chimed and started printing. The room fell silent and everyone crowded around the terminal and its operator. Evidently something had gone wrong
The language specialist started to translate but Straker, reading the plain text from the paper felt his blood turn to ice as the accusation of treachery was hammered out.
A telephone rang; Voyska PVO reported that Enemy bombers had, after turning for home, turned once more towards the Motherland and would enter Soviet airspace in twenty minutes. They had also tracked a fast-moving object pursuing one of the American bombers just before it had disappeared
Straker's mind was racing: could it be…?
He tapped the operator on the shoulder. The young officer looked up in surprise at this Enemy? Straker repeated the question: "Can this thing transmit in English". The reply, heavily accented was unequivocal: "Nyet, I type in Russian, it only print in English"
Straker looked at the keyboard; the 32 Cyrillic characters bore more similarity to Greek than the Roman alphabet he was used to.
"I need to send a message to the Americans"
"Nyet! I can only send messages authorised by the Comrade Chairman"
"Mr Ambassador!" Straker called.
Garvey pushed his way through the crowd.
"Yes Colonel?"
I can defuse this situation 7but I need to send a message to the Americans. This man refuses without the permission of the President. I need you to persuade him to grant that permission.
"He'll probably want to see the message." Replied Garvey.
"It will be a series of numbers which substitute for letters," Replied Straker. "It's the only way that we can transmit the message without any risk of mistranslation."
"I'll ask him."
Straker turned once more to the teleprinter operator: "Do you have a pencil and some paper?"
The Russian offered him a small ring-bound notepad and pencil.
Straker thanked him and began to write.
After a few moments, he passed the notepad back; "Send this."
The Operator looked to his Chairman for approval. Brezhnev nodded.
The operator re-read the message twice before starting to type
'Substitute each number for English character
16 5 14 21 13 2 18 1…'
As the message was entered, Straker explained:
"Two years ago, a secret meeting of the UN Security Council was convened to discuss the threat from Unidentified Flying Objects. If you recall, Mr Komarov, it was agreed that they posed a threat to all nations and that international differences would be set aside to deal with that threat."
"Yes," Replied the Academic. "That message… Penumbra?"
"Yes."
After Straker had left the meeting, The discussions had continued for several days. Apart from appointing Straker as the Commander-in-Chief and setting up the International Astrophysical Commission, it had been agreed that a special communications protocol would be established between the Member States, for use when normal channels were impractical.
The Cuban Missile Crisis, less than a decade before, had shown the need for such a channel when the superpowers had stood on the brink of nuclear war. In that case, a wartime colleague of the then Soviet Premier, Nikita Khrushchev, had been able to act at a 'Back Channel', an honest broker, conveying messages between the two Presidents, free from the political baggage of the 'Official ' advisors.
Consultation with the best cryptographers available resulted in Penumbra. It had been designed to be as simple to use as possible and language agnostic; providing the transmission medium could transmit numbers, the code would work.
Each message consisted of a stream of numbers. The first 8 digits always formed a simple substitution cypher with A represented by 1, B represented by 2 and so on. This header would always be the same and would spell out the key phrase PENUMBRA.
Each subsequent number represented a word or phrase in a small code book, of which there were only 7 copies, each locked in a safe in its respective nation's Defence Ministry.
The Telephone buzzed on the President's Desk.
"Yes?
"Duty Officer, sir. We have a message coming through on the Hot Line"
"On my Way"
Jackson turned to Turnbull: "It is as I feared; a complete dissociation from reality"
Once again, the President was in the Situation Room.
"OK, What do we have?"
The Communications officer turned to face the President.
A message came in on the Hot Line twenty minutes ago but apart from the header, no-one can make anything of it."
" Show me."
The officer passed over the printout
Nixon looked at the sheet
'Substitute each number for English character
16 5 14 21 13 2 18 1…'
The rest of the message consisted of groups of four digits.
He looked up: "And?"
"Apart from one word, it makes no sense"
"One word?"
"Yes, sir. Penumbra
"Penumbra? Penumbra?"
The President looked around. Does this mean anything to ANYONE?
A sea of incomprehension faced him.
Suddenly Laird slapped his forehead. PENUMBRA! OF Course!
"You know what this means? Mr Laird?"
Yes, Mr President
"Why don't I know?"
"You were due to be briefed next week"
"Brief me. Now."
"Your Ears only, Mr President
The President led Laird into an anteroom.
"Ok, Let's have it"
Mr President, what I have to tell you is for your ears only. It is not, under any circumstances to be written down or recorded in any way."
"Understood."
"Penumbra is a code that was devised after a special meeting of the UN Security Council…" He paused.
"Go on"
"Its use indicates that there is a threat greater than that posed by the Warsaw Pact. A threat to global security."
So how do we decode it?
"There's a code book in my office, Get it." The President returned to the Situation Room and turned to the Communications Officer "Acknowledge the message and send that we are waiting for the code book"
"Yessir"
"And recall our forces to Fail Safe Positions
"Yessir.
The Teleprinter pinged and started to chatter:
PENUMBRA ACKNOWLEDGED STOP RETRIEVING CODEBOOK STOP NATO FORCES ORDERED TO FAILSAFE POSITIONS STOP STAND BY ENDIT
Ford's mind was whirling as he stormed down the corridor. What had happened?
Hooper had warned him that Turnbull was angry over the broadcast. Ford had been prepared for confrontation but it seemed that Turnbull's mind was totally closed to any reason.
"So How was the report?" asked Ford.
Turnbull took a deep breath. "You want to hear how it turned out?"
A cassette recorder sat on the desk in front of him. He pressed the PLAY button.
"Sound quality's ok" Ford observed..
Behind him, Jackson made notes in a small notebook.
Ford frowned, puzzled; This wasn't right…
The report came to an end. Turnbull pressed the STOP button. Silence descended
Ford's puzzlement quickly turned to anger and he realized just how much of his report had been edited.
"But this isn't my report…What have you done?"
"Made it fit for broadcasting"
"But…"
"Dammit Keith, I sent you to Turkey to report on the build up to World War III and what do you report? Flying Saucers – AGAIN! I thought I made it clear that they are a non-subject"
"I went where the story took me."
"There IS no Story, Keith. Flying Saucers are a Myth, an illusion, the stuff of Fifties' 'B' Movies".
"Dammit! There IS a Story. This planet is under attack from hostile forces. I have proof. We have a duty to report this threat. The people have a right to know."
Turnbull had shaken his head sadly:. "Can you hear yourself? I'm sorry, Keith, I can't carry you any longer. I really think you need to consider your position."
"Is there any point?"
With that, Ford had stood, slammed his ID onto Turnbull's desk. Ignoring Jackson, still sitting in the corner of the room, he left, the door slamming behind him.
Turnbull stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking through the picture window out into the night.
"TERRIFIC! I've just lost the best reporter this organisation's ever had. Would you care to tell me why, Doctor Jackson?"
No answer.
Turnbull turned. Jackson had gone.
By now, Ford had reached the car park. His car was where he'd left it.
The engine, unused for nearly a fortnight, struggled to turn over; the cold and damp of the past few days had taken their toll on the battery.
"Come On, Come On COME ON!" Ford snarled. THIS on top of everything else
Finally, the engine roared into life. Ford stamped on the accelerator and the car leapt forwards. Behind him, a nondescript car pulled away from its space. and began to follow at a discreet distance.
In his anger Ford had driven the car hard to get away from his former office as quickly as possible. The engine roared. After a while, the anger had subsided somewhat.
It had been a long day; Ford was tired and confused. His head ached. His mind was still trying to make sense of the meeting, wondering who the small man with piecing eyes was. Ford yawned.
The traffic was quieter now he'd left the City behind. In the distance, a traffic light changed from green to amber then red at the crossroads ahead. He started to change down. He blinked, his head nodded forward for just a moment…
He jerked back to consciousness. He was almost at the junction; the red lamp glared accusingly as the car approached far too fast. He stamped on the brake. Too late…
Ford wrenched at the wheel, just missing the lorry, its horn blaring in his ears. Before he could recover, the car had mounted the pavement, clipped a lamppost and smashed through a shop window. Ford's head hit the steering wheel. The world went black.
Using the Penumbra codebook, the message should have taken no more than twenty minutes to decode. Straker glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time.
the room fell silent as, finally, the Teleprinter chattered into life:
PENUMBRA ACKNOWLEDGED STOP UNITED STATES ACKNOWLEDGES ATTACKS ON SOVIET PREMIER AND USAF AIRCRAFT ACT BY EXTERNAL HOSTILE FORCE STOP ALL US FORCES STOOD DOWN TO PEACETIME READINESS BUT AVAILABLE TO ASSIST ENDIT
Garvey let out an audible sigh of relief. "Well Done Colonel"
The saloon that had been following Ford's car pulled up across the street and Alec Freeman got out. Apart from the ticking of the now-stalled engine as it cooled, all was quiet. The lorry was long gone; its driver was already late and had no desire to spend any time helping the police with their enquiries.
Quickly, he crossed where Ford's car was buried in the shop window. The driver's window, like the windscreen, had been smashed, the safety glass shattered into a myriad jewelled points, glinting as they caught the glare from the dented streetlight. Freeman reached in and felt Ford's neck for a pulse.. He was relieved to feel a gentle throb under his fingertips.
A quick examination satisfied him that Ford was in no immediate danger but that could quickly change unless he called for help. Looking around, he spotted the reassuring shape of a telephone box..
Quickly, he made his way over to the kiosk and picked up the receiver.
The call took less than a minute. Helpfully, the box had its location printed on a small card so Freeman was able to give precise instructions. He replaced the receiver and walked back to the wreck. Ford was semi conscious and groaning in pain.
"It's OK". Freeman reassured him, "The Ambulance is on its way. Try not to move"
The Fire Engine arrived first, its arrival heralded by blue flashing beacons. This late in the evening, the crew had foregone the use of the two-tone horns, the light traffic had meant they were barely necessary.
The Ambulance arrived a few minutes later. The crew waited patiently whilst the firemen doused the mangled wreck in foam before cutting Ford free..
Finally, they signalled and the ambulance crew quickly wheeled a collapsible trolley into position.
Carefully, with the aid of the firemen, they lowered Ford onto the trolley, then gently but firmly strapped him down. A thick red woollen blanket laid over him would help prevent hypothermia.
Quickly they trundled the trolley back to the ambulance., As they lifted it into position, the legs neatly folded as the stretcher slid onto its securing rack in the back of the ambulance. The Attendant climbed into the back to render initial first aid and monitor the patient's condition whilst the driver secured the rear doors and made his way back to the cab.
Noticing Ford's lips were a cherry red, the Attendant strapped an oxygen mask to Ford's face. He checked the patient's pulse: very rapid, yet his blood pressure was low.
He'd seen the signs before, from suicides in the gas oven, poorly ventilated bathroom geysers or the perennial favourite of the hosepipe from the exhaust. Carbon Monoxide; odourless and colourless; an insidious poison.
In this case, the car's exhaust had probably been leaking and the patient had been overcome. He'd passed out and ended up crashing into the shop window.
He reached for the Oxygen mask, strapped it to Ford's face then called to the Driver: "Oy, Mick, Put your foot down." he called, "Reckon we've got Carbon Monoxide poisoning"
"Right." The Driver pressed his foot down on the accelerator and reached for the radio mike. The Ambulance surged forward.
Unnoticed, Freeman's car followed at a discreet distance, the blue flashing beacon made the ambulance easy to track.