Майкл Ридпат - Launch Code

Should Bill have stood up for him? But then the captain had listened to Lars’s point, had considered it, and made his decision. And the crew had to follow the captain’s orders without question.

Even when nuclear missiles were about be launched. Especially when nuclear missiles were about to be launched.

Three missiles, each with ten warheads, thirty thermonuclear explosions. Millions dead in Moscow, Leningrad and Berlin.

A Russian response was inevitable. Soon thousands of warheads would be criss-crossing the globe. Minutes later, Washington would be obliterated. New York. Chicago. The small town on the banks of the Susquehanna where Bill had grown up. His house. His childhood bedroom. His mom and dad.

Donna.

The whole damned human race.

You could train for this, you could study for it, you could utter the commands and responses as many times as you liked, but nothing could prepare you for thermonuclear war.

A dark wave of dread broke over Bill, but he kept moving, doing what he had been ordered to do.

The captain had successfully established his authority. Lars had backed down. Bill wasn’t sure it was a smart idea on the captain’s part to arm himself. He needed to carry the ship’s crew by his personality, by his authority, not by the barrel of a pistol. If the crew thought the captain believed he needed a gun to make his orders stand, wouldn’t that suggest weakness rather than strength?

But the captain had given the order, and Bill would obey it.

The locker contained an arsenal of weapons: automatic rifles, shotguns and pistols, usually issued to the watch on deck to protect the ship in dock, although since the Hamilton spent most of its surface life tied up to a tender in the middle of a Scottish loch, they were seldom used. Very occasionally they were broken out during exercises simulating crews or even the captain going crazy.

Never for forcing an officer to obey an order.

Bill selected a Colt 1911 pistol and a holster and made his way back to the control room, receiving curious, anxious glances from sailors he passed. Bill proceeded at a rapid walk. He would be needed down in the missile centre where the three missiles were being ‘spun up’. The fire control computer was feeding launch and targeting instructions to the missiles, a process that would take about fifteen minutes, at which point they would be ready to be fired, one by one.

He reached the control room, where he pushed past a petty officer examining a clipboard. Everyone had clipboards and checklists.

‘XO, take the conn,’ said the captain. ‘I’m going to my stateroom to fetch my CIP key and the launch keys. The XO has the conn.’

The Captain’s Indicator Panel key had to be inserted into the missile control panel in the control room to activate the weapon system. That, and the sixteen launch keys, one for each missile, were kept secured in a safe in the captain’s stateroom, a safe to which only he knew the combination.

The captain stepped down from the raised platform next to the two periscopes and moved toward Bill.

He had only taken one step when a figure launched itself towards him. An arm was raised, holding something metal, and in an instant it descended towards the back of the captain’s skull.

‘Sir!’ Bill shouted.

Driscoll ducked and twisted, and let out a cry as the wrench, for that’s what it was, hit his shoulder with a crack.

Lars, legs apart to keep his balance, drew back his arm for another blow, but it was caught by a chief petty officer grabbing his wrist.

Driscoll’s face was contorted with pain as he ducked and tried to get out of the way of his attacker.

‘Guth!’ he cried.

Bill grabbed the Colt from the holster and pointed it at Lars.

‘Freeze!’ he shouted. ‘Put the wrench down or I’ll shoot.’

Lars froze, as did the chief holding him.

‘Shoot him, Bill,’ Lars said, his eyes desperate, pleading. ‘Shoot the captain. Now. Before he gets the keys.’

Bill knew what Lars was thinking. If Bill killed the captain, the combination to the safe in his stateroom would die with him: no one would be able to open it. And if they couldn’t open the safe, they couldn’t get access to the launch keys. And if they didn’t have the launch keys, they couldn’t launch the missiles.

‘Shoot him,’ Lars urged. ‘You can stop a nuclear war if you shoot him. In the head.’

In the head. So he died before he could utter the combination to his safe.

Oh, Christ.

Everyone stood still. The captain was wincing in pain, grasping his shoulder, but he straightened and looked directly at Bill, his blue eyes commanding. ‘Don’t do it, son. Do what you have been ordered to do. You owe it to your country.’

Owe it to your country? What country? A nuclear wasteland?

Bill shifted the barrel of the pistol from Lars to the captain.

Oh, Christ.

Bill Guth made his decision.

Thursday 28 November 2019, Thanksgiving, Heathrow Airport

Toby Rosser grabbed the two large corrugated paper cups of coffee and returned to the scrum around the arrivals exit. He needed the caffeine. He was still recovering from the ridiculously early rise that morning. He and Alice had had to drive from their flat near King’s Cross to Heathrow to meet an 0620 flight, and there was a two-and-a-half hour drive ahead of them, for which he had to be alert.

‘Here you go.’ He handed one cup to his wife. Toby knew he looked like he felt — crap — but Alice looked amazing. Even though she had gone to bed an hour after him because she had some work to finish, even though she was not working that day having taken the whole long weekend off, she looked amazing. Blonde hair cut down to her slim neck, blue sweater and jeans, both casual, both bought for a large sum the week before, cool grey eyes and the bright smile with which she bestowed her thanks. All amazing.

‘Ten after seven,’ said Alice. ‘She should be through by now.’

‘Maybe she checked a bag?’

‘She’s only coming for the weekend. And, believe me, Megan won’t have much stuff.’

A bleary-eyed woman with a thin face, long pointed nose, curly dark hair and glasses emerged through the security doors shepherding two large roller suitcases on either side of her. Although Toby hadn’t met Megan, he had seen pictures. But he wasn’t sure this was her, especially given the suitcases. But then Toby noticed her chin; the Guth chin, a long, thin jaw that came to a square end with a little notch in it. All four Guth sisters sported it.

He glanced at his wife who was absorbed with her phone.

‘Alice?’ He nodded to the woman.

‘Megan!’

The woman spotted her, the suitcases trundled up to full speed, and then the two sisters gave each other a tight hug.

‘Megan, this is Toby.’

Megan looked up at Toby, blinked, and then launched herself at him. ‘Hi, Toby.’

‘Careful, Megan,’ said Alice. ‘Toby’s English. You might confuse him.’

‘Confused or not, I’m always happy to have American women throwing themselves at me,’ said Toby. ‘Especially before breakfast.’

‘He’s cute,’ said Megan, examining Toby.

‘No he’s not,’ said Alice. ‘He looks disgusting. He hasn’t even combed his hair, let alone taken a shower.’ But she glanced at Toby with a suppressed smile of sisterly triumph.

Megan twitched her long nose. ‘Hmm.’ It was a friendly twitch.

Toby led the two women towards the car park.

‘What’s with the suitcases?’ said Alice. ‘That’s a lot for one Thanksgiving weekend.’

‘These are all my possessions,’ said Megan. ‘I’m quitting Tor Pharma and leaving Dallas.’