/*<![CDATA[*/
<!-- body { font-family:
"Georgia",
"Times New Roman"
"Palatino",
serif;
font-size: 120%; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; }
h1 { font-size: 200% ;
text-align: center ;
margin-top: 2em ;
font-weight: 700 ;
text-align: center }
h2 { font-size: 150% ;
font-style: italic;
margin-top: 0em ;
text-align: center ; }
h3 { font-size: 100% ;
font-weight: 100 ;
font-style: italic;
margin-top: 0em ;
text-align: center ; }
h4 { font-size: 100% ;
font-weight: 100 ;
margin-top: 0em ;
text-align: left ;}
h5 { font-size: 100% ;
font-weight: 100 ;
text-align: right ; }
h6 { font-size: 100% ;
font-weight: 700 ;
text-align: center ; }
p {margin-top: 1.0em ;
margin-bottom: 0.25em ;
text-indent: 1.5em ;
line-height: 1.1em ;
text-align: left; }
p.first {margin-top: 0.25em ;
margin-bottom: 0.25em ;
text-indent: 0em ;
line-height: 1.1em ;
text-align: left; }
p.center {
text-align: center; }
p.indent {
margin-left: 6%;
text-indent: 0em;
margin-bottom: 1.1em ;
margin-top: 1.1em;
}
/*]]>*/
Bone,_J._F._-_Triggerman
TRIGGERMAN
J. F. Bone
(1958)
Early in the 1950s, the military began to develop SAGE
(Semi-automatic Ground Environment), a system designed to protect the
United States from surprise air attack. It was housed underground
inside Cheyenne Mountain near Colorado Springs and became operational
in 1958. Secret though the project was, word of it leaked out. In the
late 1950s, several stories appeared that were about pushbutton
warfare, the term coined to describe the purpose of an automatic
defense system. The earliest such story was J. F. Bone's "Triggerman"
published in the December 1958 issue of Analog. Peter
George's novel Two Hours to Doom, from which the film Dr.
Strangelove was made in 1964, was published in the same year. And
in 1959 Mordecai Roshwald published Level 7, describing an
equipment error that triggers the mechanism for directing rockets
against the enemy. Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler's novel Fail-Safe
(1962) had a similar theme. Most of this fiction about pushbutton
warfare did not anticipate but rather followed actual developments,
usually in terms of the inadvertent activation of the system through
some kind of mechanical failure.
Just such an event did actually occur after it was first described
in science fiction. In 1960, the radar returns in the Ballistic Missile
Early Warning System were interpreted by a computer-based system to be
a flight of missiles approaching North America over the North Pole. The
headquarters of the Strategic Air Command considered the attack so
unlikely that they refused to take action until the report could be
confirmed by contacting the radar site. This took some time because a
submarine cable had accidentally broken just after the first message
but before a correction could be sent. When the radar site commander
was finally reached by phone, the difficulty was cleared up. The
warning system had not been programmed to distinguish between the moon
and a flight of missiles.
J. F. Bone, the author of this story, was a professor of veterinary
medicine at Oregon State University who retired from his field in 1979.
He served as a Fulbright Lecturer in Egypt and Kenya, and his
best-known novel is The Lana People, published in 1962.
General Alastair French was probably the most important man in the
Western Hemisphere from the hours of 0800 to 1600. Yet all he did was
sit in
a windowless room buried deeply underground, facing a desk that stood
against a wall. The wall was studded with built-in mechanisms. A line
of
twenty-four-hour clocks was inset near the ceiling, showing the
corresponding times in all time zones on Earth. Two huge TV screens
below the clocks were flanked by loudspeaker systems. The desk was bare
except for three telephones of different colorsâ€"red, blue, and
whiteâ€"and a polished plastic slab inset with a number of white buttons
framing a larger one whose red surface was the color of fresh blood. A
thick carpet, a chair of peculiar design with broad flat arms, and an
ashtray completed the furnishings. Warmed and humidified air circulated
through the room from concealed grilles at floor level. The walls of
the room were painted a soft restful gray that softened the indirect
lighting. The door was steel and equipped with a time lock.
The exact location of the room and the Center that served it was
probably the best kept secret in the Western world. Ivan would probably
give a good percentage of the Soviet tax take to know precisely where
it was, just as the West would give a similar amount to know where
Ivan's Center was located. Yet despite the fact that its location was
remote, the man behind the desk was in intimate contact with every
major military point in the Western Alliance. The red telephone was a
direct connection to the White House. The blue was a line that reached
to the headquarters of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and to the emergency
Capitol hidden in the hills of West Virginia. And the white telephone
connected by priority lines with every military center and base in the
world that was under Allied control.
General French was that awesome individual often joked about by TV
comics who didn't know that he really existed. He was the man who could
push the button that would start World War III!
French was aware of his responsibilities and took them seriously. By
nature he was a serious man, but, after three years of living with
ultimate responsibility, it was no longer the crushing burden that it
had been at first when the Psychological Board selected him as one of
the most inherently stable men on Earth. He was not ordinarily a happy
man; his job, and the steadily deteriorating world situation precluded
that, but this day was a bright exception. The winter morning had been
extraordinarily beautiful, and he loved beauty with the passion of an
artist. A flaming sunrise had lighted the whole eastern sky with golden
glory, and the crisp cold air stimulated his senses to appreciate it.
It was much too lovely for thoughts of war and death.
He opened the door of the room precisely at 0800, as he had done for
three years, and watched a round, pink-cheeked man in a gray suit rise
from the chair behind the desk. Kleinmeister, he thought, neither
looked like a general nor like a potential executioner of half the
world. He was a Santa Claus without a beard. But appearances were
deceiving. Hans Kleinmeister could, without regret, kill half the world
if he thought it was necessary. The two men shook hands, a ritual
gesture that marked the changing of the guard, and French sank into the
padded chair behind the desk.
"It's a beautiful day outside, Hans," he remarked as he settled his
stocky, compact body into the automatically adjusting plastifoam. "I
envy you the pleasure of it."
"I don't envy you, Al," Kleinmeister said. "I'm just glad it's all
over for another twenty-four hours. This waiting gets on the nerves."
Kleinmeister grinned as he left the room. The steel door thudded into
place behind him and the time lock clicked. For the next eight hours
French would be alone.
He sighed. It was too bad that he had to be confined indoors on a
day like this one promised to be, but there was no help for it. He
shifted luxuriously in the chair. It was the most comfortable seat that
the mind and ingenuity of man could contrive. It had to be. The man who
sat in it must have every comfort. He must want for nothing. And above
all he must not be irritated or annoyed. His brain must be free to
evaluate and decideâ€"and nothing must distract the functioning of that
brain. Physical comfort was a means to that endâ€"and the chair provided
it. French felt soothed in the gentle caress of the upholstery.
The familiar feeling of detachment swept over him as he checked the
room. Nominally, he was responsible to the President and the Joint
Chiefs of Staff, but practically he was responsible to no one. No hand
but his could set in motion the forces of massive retaliation that had
hung over aggression for the past twenty years. Without his sanction,
no intercontinental or intermediate-range missile could leave its rack.
He was the final authority, the ultimate judge, and the executioner if
need beâ€"a position thrust upon him after years of intensive tests and
screening. In this room he was as close to being a god as any man had
been since the beginning of time.
French shrugged and touched one of the white buttons on the panel.
"Yes sir?" an inquiring voice came from one of the speakers. "A
magazine and a cup of coffee," said General French. "What magazine,
sir?"
"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 0817â€Åš
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
overâ€"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 fourâ€"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 evaluationâ€"!"
"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, unlessâ€"his mind faltered at the thoughtâ€" the
Russians were further advanced than anyone had expected. They might be
at thatâ€"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, repeatâ€"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 secondsâ€""
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 Sectorâ€"bogey at twelve o'clockâ€"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 netsâ€Åš no sound of the explosion as yetâ€Åš more
informationâ€"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!â€"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 Chiefâ€"but no one else! Now get off that line!â€Åš Oh, I
see. Then it's my responsibility?â€Åš All right, I accept itâ€"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 blowâ€" 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.
"Centerâ€"French hereâ€Åš Who's that?â€Åš Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Viceâ€Åš er, Mr.
President!â€Åš Yes, sir, it's a terrible thingâ€Åš 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 confirmâ€Åš Yes, sir I knowâ€"but do you
want to take the responsibility for destroying the world? What if it
wasn't Ivan's? Have you thought of that?â€Åš Yes, sir, it's my judgment
that we waitâ€Åš No, sir, I don't think so, if Ivan's back of this we'll
have more coming, and if we do, I'll fireâ€Åš No, sir, I will not take
that responsibilityâ€Åš 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 Russiaâ€Åš Sorry, sir, I can't see it that wayâ€"and you can't
relieve me until 1600 hoursâ€Åš Yes, sir, I realize what I'm doingâ€Åš 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.
"Flash!" the radio said. "Radio Moscow denies that the missile which
destroyed Washington was one of theirs. They insist that it is a
capitalist trick to make them responsible for World War III. The
Premier accuses the United Statesâ€Åš hey! wait a minute!â€Åš accuses the
United States of trying to foment war, but to show the good faith of
the Soviet Union, he will open the country to UN inspection to prove
once and for all that the Soviet does not and has not intended nuclear
aggression. He proposes that a UN team investigate the wreckage of
Washington to determine whether the destruction was actually caused by
a missile. Hah! Just what in hell does he think caused it?"
French grinned thinly. Words like the last were seldom heard on the
lips of commentators. The folks outside were pretty wrought up. There
was hysteria in almost every word that had come into the office. But it
hadn't moved him yet. His finger was still off the trigger. He picked
up the white phone. "Get me DEW Line Headquarters," he said. "Hello,
DEW Line, this is French at Center. Any more bogeys?â€Åš No?â€Åš That's goodâ€Åš
No, we're still holding offâ€Åš Why?â€Åš Any fool would know why if he
stopped to think!" He slammed the phone back into its cradle. Damn
fools howling for war! Just who did they think would win it? Sure, it
would be easy to start things rolling. All he had to do was push the
button. He stared at it with fascinated eyes. Nearly three billion
lives lay on that polished plastic surface, and he could snuff most of
them out with one jab of a finger.
"Sir!" a voice broke from the speaker. "What's the wordâ€" are we in
it yet?"
"Not yet, Jimmy."
"Thank God!" the voice sounded relieved. "Just hang on, sir. We know
they're pressuring you, but they'll stop screaming for blood once they
have time to think."
"I hope so," French said. He chuckled without humor. The personnel
at Center knew what nuclear war would be like. Most of them had
experience at Frenchman's Flat. They didn't want any part of it, if it
could be avoided. And neither did he.
The hours dragged by. The phones rang, and Conelrad kept
reportingâ€"giving advice and directions for evacuation of the cities.
All the nation was stalled in the hugest traffic jam in history. Some
of it couldn't help seeping in, even through the censorship. There was
danger in too much of anything, and obviously the country was
overmechanized. By now, French was certain that Russia was innocent. If
she wasn't, Ivan would have struck in force by now. He wondered how his
opposite number in Russia was taking it. Was the man crouched over his
control board, waiting for the cloud of capitalist missiles to appear
over the horizon? Or was he, too, fingering a red button, debating
whether or not to strike before it was too late?
"Flash!" the radio said. "Radio Moscow offers immediate entry to any
UN inspection team authorized by the General Assembly. The presidium
has met and announces that under no circumstances will Russia take any
aggressive action. They repeat that the missile was not theirs, and
suggest that it might have originated from some other nation desirous
of fomenting war between the Great Powersâ€Åš ah, nuts!"
"That's about as close to surrender as they dare come," French
murmured softly. "They're scared greenâ€"but then, who wouldn't be?" He
looked at the local clock. It read 1410. Less than two hours to go
before the time lock opened and unimaginative Jim Craig came through
that door to take his place. If the President called with Craig in the
seat, the executive orders would be obeyed. He picked up the white
phone.
"Get me the Commanding General of the Second Army," he said. He
waited a moment. "Hello, George, this is Al at Center. How you doing?
Bad, huh? No, we're holding offâ€Åš Now hold it, George. That's not what I
called for. I don't need moral support. I want information. Have your
radio crews checked the Washington area yet?â€Åš They haven't. Why not?
Get them on the ball! Ivan keeps insisting that that bogey wasn't his
and the facts seem to indicate he's telling the truth for once, but
we're going to blast if he can't prove it! I want the dope on
radioactivity in that area and I want it now!â€Åš If you don't want to
issue an orderâ€"call for volunteersâ€Åš So they might get a lethal doseâ€" so
what?â€Åš Offer them a medal. There's always someone who'd walk into hell
for the chance of getting a medal. Now get cracking!â€Åš Yes, that's an
order."
The radio came on again. "First reports of the damage in
Washington," it chattered. "A shielded Air Force reconnaissance plane
has flown over the blast area, taking pictures and making an aerial
survey of fallout intensity. The Capitol is a shambles. Ground Zero was
approximately in the center of Pennsylvania Avenue. There is a
tremendous crater over a half-mile wide, and around that for nearly two
miles there is literally nothing! The Capitol is gone. Over
ninety-eight percent of the city is destroyed. Huge fires are raging in
Alexandria and the outskirts. The Potomac bridges are down. The
destruction is inconceivable. The landmarks of ourâ€""
French grabbed the white phone. "Find out who the Air Force
commander was who sent up that recon plane over Washington!" he barked.
"I don't know who he isâ€"but get him now!" He waited for three
minutes. "So it was you, Willoughby! I thought it might be. This is
French at Center. What did that recon find?â€Åš It did, hey?â€Åš Well now,
isn't that simply wonderful! You stupid publicity-crazy fool! What do
you mean by withholding vital information! Do you realize that I've
been sitting here with my finger on the button ready to kill half the
earth's population, while you've been flirting around with reporters?â€Åš
Dammit! That's no excuse! You should be cashieredâ€" and if I have any
influence around here tomorrow, I'll see that you are. As it is, you're
relieved as of now!â€Åš What do you mean, I can't do that?â€Åš Read your
regulations again, and then get out of that office and place yourself
under arrest in quarters! Turn over your command to your executive
officer! You utter, driveling fool!â€Åš Aaagh!!" French snarled as he
slammed the phone back.
It began ringing again immediately. "French hereâ€Åš Yes, Georgeâ€Åš You
have?â€Åš You did?â€Åš It isn't?â€Åš I thought so. We've been barking up the
wrong tree this time. It was an act of God!â€Åš Yes, I said an act of God!
Remember that crater out in Arizona? Well, this is the same thingâ€"a
meteor!â€Åš Yes, Ivan's still quiet. Not a peep out of him. The DEW Line
reports no activity."
The blue phone began to ring. French looked at it. "O.K.,
Georgeâ€"apology accepted. I know how you feel." He hung up and lifted
the blue phone. "Yes, Mr. President," he said. "Yes, sir. You've heard
the news, I supposeâ€Åš You've had confirmation from Lick Observatory?â€Åš
Yes, sir, I'll stay here if you wishâ€Åš No, sir, I'm perfectly willing to
act. It was just that this never did look rightâ€"and thank God that you
understand astronomy, sirâ€Åš Of course I'll stay until the emergency is
over, but you'll have to tell General Craigâ€Åš Who's Craig? Why, he's my
relief, sir." French looked at the clock. "He comes on in twenty
minutesâ€Åš Well, thank you, sir. I never thought that I'd get a
commendation for not obeying orders."
French sighed and hung up. Sense was beginning to percolate through
the shock. People were beginning to think again. He sighed. This should
teach a needed lesson. He made a mental note of it. If he had anything
to say about the makeup of Center from now onâ€"there'd be an astronomer
on the staff, and a few more of them scattered out on the DEW Line and
the outpost groups. It was virtually certain now that the Capitol was
struck by a meteorite. There was no radioactivity. It had been an act
of Godâ€"or at least not an act of war. The destruction was terrible, but
it could have been worse if either he or his alter ego in Russia had
lost control and pushed the buttons. He thought idly that he'd like to
meet the Ivan who ran their Center.
"The proposals of the Soviet government," the radio interrupted,
"have been accepted by the UN. An inspection team is en route to
Russia, and others will follow as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, the
UN has requested a cease-fire assurance from the United States, warning
that the start of a nuclear war would be the end of everything." The
announcer's voice held a note of grim humor. "So far, there has been no
word from Washington concerning these proposals."
French chuckled. It might not be in the best taste, and it might be
graveyard humorâ€"but it was a healthy sign.
Wyszukiwarka
Podobne podstrony:
Xenogenic demineralized bone matrixles08 man triggers tellmeDiet and bone health by S Walsh Vegan Societytriggeroption textarea triggerManual therapy for trigger pointsDawning Star Terraformer 02 Bone Orchard EncounterEnvelopes gates and triggerstriggered modifiersles08 use triggers whylearnit13 BONE FRACTURESTNFa and pathologic bone resorptionboneHigh speed photography sound trigger ZPTlearn bone zone torsofunction trigger errorles08 audit trigger1 tellmeoption?d form submit triggerwięcej podobnych podstron