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Tale of a maverick American commander, driven insane by stress and the Russian invasion of Hungary in '56, who deceives his men about orders, and sends nuclear bombers to Moscow. The source for Dr. Strangelove.
back until at a descent rate of ten thousand per minute the plane was holding a steady point nine one. There was little vibration. It was a comparatively slow rate of descent, but it would have to do. Anything faster meant shaking the bomber to pieces. “Hostile at twelve miles, four o'clock,” Owens said, “Turning in.” Brown frowned, glanced at the altimeter. Still at twenty-seven thousand. He hoped the Russian pilot wouldn't turn too tight, and wasn't too expert at recovering and straightening
the possibility of instructions to saboteurs coming over them. For the same reason, all Air Force owned radios impounded too. Those first, and fast, while I see just what we're going to hit.” Howard swung into action, flipping switches on the intercom, sometimes with a phone in each hand while he gave out orders on one, received reports on the other. Among the reports was one from PBX that the General's orders had been carried out. Every extension had been contacted and had acknowledged, the
hurled herself at the last obstacle between her and her fulfillment, which was the I.C.B.M. base at Kotlass. THE PENTAGON 11.50 G.M.T. Moscow: 2.50 p.m. Washington: 6.50 a.m. THERE WAS LITTLE CONVERSATION in the room within the War Room. Since the unconcealed threat by the Marshal, nothing more had come over the air from Moscow. Twice, the President had tried to re-establish personal contact. But the speakers in the room had remained ominously silent. Steele had reported that there
be almost certain of a promotion on the next list. So maybe Quinten had known something when he'd scrawled that rank on the notepad. It was two or three minutes before he remembered he'd forgotten to thank the President, or even acknowledge the message. The President heard the click at the other end of the line, and replaced his phone with a smile. He walked back round the table to his own seat. Zorubin offered him a cigarette, and he accepted it gravely. He limited his smoking as much as
to stay on your own?” Garcia remembered back to the tin building in the slums of the Californian town where he had grown up. He remembered the comfort that came when he needed it. He hadn't needed it for years now, or maybe he had and just didn't know it. Now he did. But with Clint Brown, and Harry Engelbach, and Bill Owens. They'd come a long way together in the last two hours. They'd stick together now. He said, “It doesn't seem to matter now, Clint. There's some things right, some wrong, hell