Алистер Маклин - Seawitch

Farquharson presented his card to the corporal at the outer reception desk. ‘Colonel Farquharson to see Colonel Pryce.’

‘I’m afraid he’s not here.’

‘Then the officer in charge, man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A minute later they were seated before a young and apprehensive Captain Martin, who had just finished a rather reluctant and very perfunctory scrutiny of their ID cards.

Farquharson said: ‘So Colonel Pryce has been called to Washington. I can guess why.’

He didn’t have to guess. He himself had put through the fake call that had led to Pryce’s abrupt departure. ‘And his second in command?’

‘Flu.’ Martin sounded apologetic.

‘At this time of year? How inconvenient. Especially today. You can guess why we’re here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Martin looked slightly unhappy. ‘Security check. I had a phone call telling me of the break-ins into the Florida and Louisiana armouries.’ Dewings had put through that one. ‘I’m sure you’ll find everything in order.’

‘Doubtless. I have already discovered something that is not in order.’

‘Sir?’ There was a definite apprehension now in Martin’s voice and appearance.

‘Security-consciousness. Do you know that there are literally dozens of shops where I could buy, perfectly legally, a general’s uniform? Those are the speciality shops that cater primarily for the film and stage industries. If I walked in dressed in such a uniform, would you accept me for what my uniform proclaimed me to be?’

‘I suppose I would, sir.’

‘Well, don’t. Not ever again.’ He glanced at his identity card lying on the desk. ‘Forging one of those presents no problems. When a stranger makes an appearance in a top-security place like this, always, always , check his identity with Area Command. And always talk only to the commanding officer.’

‘Yes, sir. Do you happen to know his name? I’m new here.’

‘Major-General Harsworth.’

Martin had the corporal at the front desk put him through. On the first ring a voice answered. ‘Area Command.’

The voice did not in fact come from Area Command. It came from a man less than half a mile away, seated at the base of a telegraph pole. He had with him a battery-powered transceiver. A sheathed copper line from that led up to a crocodile clip attached to one of the telegraph lines.

Martin said: ‘Netley Rowan Armoury. Captain Martin. I’d like to speak to General Harsworth.’

‘Hold.’ There was a series of clicks, a pause of some seconds, then the same voice said: ‘On the line, Captain.’

Martin said: ‘General Harsworth?’

‘Speaking.’ The man by the telegraph pole had deepened his voice by an octave. ‘Problems, Captain Martin?’

‘I have Colonel Farquharson with me. He insists that I check out his identity with you.’

The voice at the other end was sympathetic. ‘Been at the receiving end of a security lecture?’

‘I’m afraid I have rather, sir.’

‘Very hot on security, the Colonel. He’ll be with Lieutenant-Colonel Dewings and Major Breckley?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, it’s hardly the end of your professional career. But he’s right, you know.’

Farquharson himself took the wheel of the car on the three-mile journey, a chastened, compliant Martin sitting up front beside him. A fifteen-foot-high electrical warning barbed-wire fence surrounded the armoury, a squat, grey, windowless building covering almost half an acre of land. A sentry with a machine-carbine barred the entrance to the compound. He recognized Captain Martin, stepped back and saluted. Farquharson drove up to the one and only door of the armoury and halted. The four men got out. Farquharson said to Martin: ‘Major Breckley has never been inside a TNW armoury before. A few illuminating comments, perhaps?’ It would be illuminating for Farquharson also. He had never been inside an armoury of any description in his life.

‘Yes, sir. TNW – Tactical Nuclear Warfare. Walls thirty-three inches thick, alternating steel and ferro-concrete. Door – ten inches tungsten steel. Both walls and door capable of resisting the equivalent of a fourteen-inch armour-piercing naval shell. This glass panel is recording us on TV videotape. This meshed grille is a two-way speaker which also records our voices.’ He pressed a button sunk in the concrete.

A voice came through the grille. ‘Identification, please?’

‘Captain Martin with Colonel Farquharson and security inspection.’

‘Code?’

‘Geronimo.’ The massive door began to slide open, and they could hear the hum of a powerful electrical motor. It took all of ten seconds for the door to open to its fullest extent. Martin led them inside.

A corporal saluted their entrance. Martin said: ‘Security inspection tour.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The corporal didn’t seem too happy.

Farquharson said: ‘You seem to have a troubled conscience, soldier?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then you should have.’

Martin said: ‘Something wrong, sir?’ He was patently nervous.

‘Four things.’ Martin dipped his head so that Farquharson couldn’t see that he had been swallowing. One thing would have been bad enough.

‘In the first place, that sentry gate should be kept permanently locked. It should only be opened after a phone call to your HQ and an electronic link for opening the gate installed in your office. What’s to prevent a person or persons with a silenced automatic disposing of your sentry and driving straight up here? Secondly, what would prevent such people walking through the open doorway and riddling us all with sub-machine-guns? That door should have been shut the moment we passed through.’ The corporal started to move but Farquharson stopped him with upraised hand.

‘Thirdly, all people who are not base personnel – such as us – should be finger-printed on arrival – I will arrange to have your guards trained in those techniques. Fourthly, and most importantly, show me the controls for those doors.’

‘This way, sir.’ The corporal led the way to a small console. ‘The red button opens, the green one closes.’

Farquharson pressed the green button. The massive door hissed slowly closed. ‘Unsatisfactory. Totally. Those are the only controls to operate the door?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Martin looked very unhappy indeed.

‘We shall have another electronic link established with your HQ, which will render those buttons inoperable until the correct signal is sent.’ Farquharson was showing signs of irritation. ‘I would have thought all those things were self-evident.’

Martin smiled weakly. ‘They are now, sir.’

‘What percentage of explosives, bombs and shells stored here are conventional?’

‘Close on ninety-five per cent, sir.’

‘I’d like to see the nuclear weapons first.’

‘Of course, sir.’ A now thoroughly demoralized Martin led the way.

The TNW section was compartmented off but not sealed. One side was lined with what appeared to be shells, stowed on racks, the other with pear-shaped metal canisters about thirty inches high, with buttons, a clock-face and a large knurled screw on top. Beyond them were stacked what looked like very odd-shaped fibreglass suitcases, each with two leather handles.

Breckley indicated the pear-shaped canisters. ‘What are those? Bombs?’

‘Both bombs and landmines.’ Martin seemed glad to talk and take his mind off his troubles. ‘Those controls on top are relatively simple. Before you get at those two red switches you have to unscrew those two transparent plastic covers. The switches have then to be turned ninety degrees to the right. They are then still in the safe position. They then have to be flipped ninety degrees to the left. This is the ready-to-activate position.