James Barrington - Foxbat

‘Authentication is correct, sir,’ Fredericks announced.

‘I concur,’ Whitman replied. ‘Open the box.’

There are two red padded chairs in the missile control capsule, positioned at right angles to each other and a regulation twelve feet apart, into which the duty officers strap themselves when an alert is called. Each chair faces an identical console, on which is displayed the current status of all ten Minuteman missiles, and which also contains the buttons and switches used to launch them.

Between the two chairs, on a wall shelf, is the so-called Red Box. Identical to the boxes found in the cockpits of B-52 and other nuclear-capable bombers and the command and control centres of ballistic missile-carrying submarines, the lid of the box is secured by two combination locks. For added security, each officer knows only one of these numbers. Inside the box is the Emergency War Order containing the Top Secret validation codes that are used to authenticate the Nuclear Control Order when it’s issued, and the two silver keys required for missile launch.

The two officers reached up and spun the numbers on the combination locks, which clicked open almost simultaneously. Whitman reached inside the box and pulled out a sealed folder with a bright red cover, and the two firing keys. He passed one key to Fredericks, and put the other one on the console in front of his own chair.

Whitman unsealed the folder and laid it flat. Fredericks then passed him the hard copy of the Emergency Action Message, and the two officers carefully, letter by letter, compared the teletype message with the Top Secret code in the folder. If there was any discrepancy at all between the two, they were ordered to disregard the message and consider it invalid.

Whitman leaned back. ‘The Emergency Action Message is verified,’ he said, and there was no mistaking the slight tremor in his voice. They’d gone through this routine before, countless times in exercises and endless practise scenarios, but this was the first time, ever, they’d done it for real.

‘I concur, sir,’ Fredericks said.

‘OK, we go to Alert Thirty, by the book. Strap in.’

Both officers moved to their red chairs, sat down and tightened the seatbelts which held them firmly in place.

‘Insert keys,’ Whitman ordered. ‘On my mark, turn to the ready position. Three, two, one, rotate.’

Both keys turned smoothly in their locks, and the two men ran through the well-practised sequence of actions that gradually increased the readiness state of the missiles under their control.

‘What now, Major?’ Fredericks asked, leaning back in his chair and staring across at his superior officer.

‘Now we wait,’ Whitman said, ‘and hope to Christ somebody out there sees sense before we turn those keys again and start World War Three.’

Pyongyang, North Korea

‘Are you certain the Americans now believe we have the capability to strike them at will?’

For a few moments Kim Yong-Su didn’t reply, choosing his words with care. ‘I cannot guarantee that,’ he said, ‘but the operation devised by Pak Je-San went precisely as planned. Faced with unequivocal evidence of the missile launch, and the equally obvious detonation of the weapon, there must be only one logical conclusion they can draw.’

‘And what of “Golden Dawn”?’

Kim shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was always inevitable that the Americans or the Japanese, and certainly the South Koreans, would become aware of our recent troop movements. I was never totally sure we would be able to allay any suspicions that “Silver Spring” was more than just an exercise. As you know, for “Golden Dawn” to work at all, it was essential we moved our ground forces into the correct positions. There was always the possibility that surveillance satellites would detect our new aircraft, and after the missile firing they’ll now be quite certain we have something planned. But we are still not absolutely committed. If you wish it, we can stop “Golden Dawn” even at this stage, and just let the exercise run its course.’

The ‘Dear Leader’ – the North Korean media had recently stopped using that title, but Kim could think of him in no other terms – shook his head. ‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘we will continue as planned. When will you issue the final order?’

‘Today,’ Kim replied, ‘the moment I leave here, if that is still your wish.’

For a few moments the man said nothing, then nodded slowly. ‘We will proceed as planned,’ he said, and stood up, his diminutive five-feet-three-inch stature barely augmented by the three-inch platform heels he habitually wore. He then picked out a phrase he liked from one of the many British and American war films in his personal video collection.

‘Make it so.’

HMS Illustrious , Yellow Sea

The view along the flight deck was just as Richter remembered it. Beyond Cobra One, the black-painted ‘runway’ stretched out in front of his Harrier, the ski-jump at the end appearing disconcertingly vertical. Richter’s aircraft was callsign Cobra Two. The other Harrier was being flown by a senior squadron pilot.

He’d received a full briefing on the GR9 earlier that morning, but it was essentially the same aircraft that he’d flown previously, the principal differences being the enhanced Pegasus Mark 107, which delivers an extra three thousand pounds of thrust, and the notable absence of the excellent Blue Vixen pulse Doppler radar. Richter thoroughly approved of the more powerful engine but, like every 800 Squadron pilot he’d talked to since he’d arrived on board, he thought the decision to remove the radar was simply crass stupidity. It had all the hallmarks of a political decision made by some elected idiot who wouldn’t recognize a Harrier if he woke up inside one.

Richter glanced to his right. The telebrief lead had been removed a couple of minutes earlier, and all they were waiting for now was the green light from Flyco. The ship was swinging steadily to port and picking up speed, turning into the wind to achieve the proper flying course for the Harrier launch.

He felt more than saw the ship’s turn slow, and then stop, and he switched his attention to the Flight Deck Officer, who was dividing his time between the two aircraft and the flight deck lights. As Richter watched, they changed from amber to green, and the FDO immediately acknowledged it.

Thirty seconds later, Cobra One accelerated rapidly along the deck, and lifted apparently effortlessly into the air over the ski jump. The moment the first Harrier had cleared the end of the runway, the marshaller directed Richter forward. He lined up his GR9 on the centreline, set the jet efflux nozzles to the correct angle, and waited expectantly.

Moments later, the FDO signalled him to launch, and he pushed the throttle fully forward, the noise of the Pegasus rising to a scream as the jet surged forward. He mounted the ski jump, the landing gear compressing below him as the Harrier instantly changed direction, and moments later he was airborne, the GR9 climbing rapidly away from the ship. Richter began easing the nozzles back into the fully aft position for normal flight, raised the gear and flaps, then pressed his transmit button.

‘Homer, Cobra Two is airborne, heading zero six five, and passing four thousand in the climb.’

‘Cobra Two, roger. Maintain heading and continue climb to Flight Level three two zero. Cobra One is left eleven o’clock, similar heading and passing seven thousand. Break, break. Cobra One and Two, go tactical.’

‘Homer, roger. Break. Cobra Two from Cobra Leader, stud five, go.’

Richter clicked his transmit button in acknowledgement and changed frequency. The Homer position is normally manned by an air traffic controller, and is responsible for the launch and, more important, the recovery of fixed- and rotary-wing aircraft to the ship. But the patrol and combat phases of a flight are invariably conducted under the supervision of a fighter controller.