Ian Slater - World in Flames

David had come to tell the Malmédys about Lili, but within minutes, people were rushing for shelters, Parkin and David finding themselves separated, calling out, agreeing to meet back at the Humvee parked outside the Café Renoir. Soon they lost sight of one another, Parkin finding himself carried by the crowd into a shelter holding about sixty people. Mostly locals, they went out of their way to make Parkin feel welcome, telling him, as if it were somehow a comfort, that the Russians launched their rocket attacks only in bad weather when Allied bombing of their launch sites was limited, and that the Russians were not really trying to hit Bouillon but the Fabrique Nationale small-arms complex north of Liege and Allied supply depots that had been identified by SPETS dropped behind Allied lines into the Ardennes. The CEP — circular error of probability — one of the elderly Bouillonese told him, was plus or minus two hundred meters, “well over,” the man explained to Parkin slowly in English, “how do you say, monsieur — over ‘alf a mile, eh? Bah! The Russians cannot hit anything.”

“Then, monsieur,” said another elderly gent, “why are we in here?”

They had to remain in the shelter for over an hour, and with the sharp splitting sounds of wood exploding in the Ardennes and the earth-shuddering thumps of hits on Bouillon, Parkin, pushing his schoolboy French to its limit, asked if anyone knew of Monsieur Malmédy and where he lived.

“C’est moi,” came a friendly voice in the crowded shelter. All Parkin could see was a beret and a hand. There followed a rattle of French that Parkin didn’t have a hope of understanding. He was grateful his French was so poor. He had no desire to tell the old gentleman. That was Lieutenant Brentwood’s job, and Parkin was praying Brentwood had made it to a shelter.

When the “all clear” sounded, even before Parkin helped the frail Monsieur Malmédy up the stairs to street level, they could hear a commotion. People were pouring out of the shelters, but suddenly all movement seemed to cease, many standing with mouths agape — like stunned mullet, thought Parkin. A huge cloud of dust and smoke obliterated the castle, its eastern ramparts no more than an avalanche of smoking rock and debris that had cut a great swath out of the forest beneath the castle, some of the rubble having taken out a dozen or so trees and houses along the esplanade. Fire trucks were already screaming across both bridges, and over the river they could see trees near the railway station aflame, despite the drizzling rain. Parkin looked about for the Humvee, relieved to see it still there, but Brentwood was nowhere in sight. “Bloody hell!”

“Pardon?” asked Monsieur Malmédy.

“Where are the other shelters?” Parkin asked him, gesticulating back to the one they had just emerged from, but Malmédy was unsure of what he meant, another man helping out, pointing to the white office building off to their right. Parkin indicated to Malmédy that he should follow him. Malmédy hesitated.

“Lili,” said Parkin.

“Ah!” the old man happily exclaimed, and graciously motioned Parkin to go before him.

Bloody hell, thought Parkin. He thinks I’m taking him to Lili. Parkin looked about for Brentwood but couldn’t see him. Surely he couldn’t be far from the Café Renoir. Policemen were already on duty on the nearest of the two bridges, stopping outgoing traffic from the old part of the town to allow an ambulance, its siren blaring, to pull out of the congested line leading from the rail station.

Deep in the Montana missile silo, it didn’t matter whether it was night or day. Only the clock told Melissa Lange and her co-team member, Shirley Cochrane, that it was 1730 hours. Having received the command, Melissa sat in the high-backed, red upholstered chair, slid it forward on its glide rails and buckled up, waiting for Shirley. When Melissa heard the click, she began the litany. “Hands on keys. Key them on my mark. Three — two — one — mark.” Both watched the clock, its long, white second hand having passed zero and now sweeping to ten seconds before 1731.

“Light on,” confirmed Shirley. “Light off.” The second ten seconds passed, both women tense. “Hands on keys,” instructed Melissa.

“Hands on keys,” came Shirley’s confirmation.

“Initiate on my mark. Five, four, three, two, one. Now, I’ll watch the clock.”

“I’ve got the light,” said Shirley. “Light on. Light off.”

“Release key,” ordered Melissa.

“Key released.”

They waited for the launch code to come in, their one-crew key-turn having initiated only one “vote” in the launch process. The ringing, indicating “launch message coming through,” sounded like an old telex chattering inside a metal box. They were now on “standby,” requiring another vote from another LCC — launch control center — in order to go to “strategic alert,” the yellow lights changing to white as they moved from the “key release” waiting mode to “launch-fire-release” mode, after which the five nuclear warheads would be sent streaking toward their targets, their “infinity” delay shifting to a ten-second delay from target, each of the two women praying for the ILC — inhibit launch command’—to be activated instead of the “valid” word/numeral message for Armageddon.

They began to relax, waiting for the instructor to call it off and tell them it was a drill. Suddenly there was a high-pitched electronic tone and a man’s even, modulated voice above a sizzle of static. “Charlie… Tango… Papa… Sierra… Oscar. Stand by. Message follows.” Then came the repeat, “Message follows.”

Both women, heads bent, pencils poised, waited, then they began to copy. “Victor… November… Uniform… Oscar… Charlie… Tango… Hotel… X-ray… Sierra… Papa… Papa… Lima… Two… Seven… November. Foxtrot… Echo… One… Lima. Acknowledge.”

“Copied,” said Shirley, her voice without a quaver. “I see a valid message.”

“I agree,” confirmed Melissa. “Go to step one checklist. Launch keys inserted.” Both women unbuckled, went to the midpoint “red” box. As Melissa and Shirley each took out her respective round, red-tagged brass key, their eyes did not meet. Both returned to their consoles, flipped aside the plastic safety cover, inserted the keys, and then buckled up once more in their seats. “Ready,” said Melissa.

“Ready.”

“Okay, hold it!” said the instructor. “It’s a drill.” Melissa felt her whole body sag, then she sat up briskly again so as not to show it.

“Shirley,” said the instructor. “What’s the matter with your chair? You wasted three seconds back there.”

“Don’t know sir. Strap won’t reach…”

“Give it play. Let the strap run back and pull it right out again. Just like you do in your automobile.”

Shirley gave the strap more play. This time the buckle clicked in.

“Damn belt,” Shirley complained to Melissa as the door of the silo elevator shut silently and they began to rise. “Happens to me all the time.”

“I’ve had the same problem. Something wrong with that seat,” said Melissa. “The guide rails. Don’t worry, they’ll fix it. Wasn’t your fault. You were cool as a cucumber down there.”

“Oh yeah?” said Shirley, slipping into her cheeky Harlem accent. “Were you?”

Melissa thought for a second, wondering if the elevator was bugged. Would they do that? She looked across at Shirley and shook her head.

Shirley burst out laughing. “I wet my pants, honey.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence, relieved the drill was over but still too tense to come down from the adrenaline high.