Майкл Ридпат - Launch Code

Admiral Robinson extended a hand. Although he must have been a few years older than Bill, he didn’t look it. What remained of his hair was still dark, and there was vigour in his handshake. His dark eyes were quick and intelligent. He looked like a man who got things done, who was used to giving crisp orders which were crisply obeyed. ‘Good to meet you, Toby. And great to see you, Lars. How are you doing?’

‘I’m doing good,’ said Lars, shaking his hand. The admiral clapped him on the shoulder but, despite the admiral’s bonhomie, Lars seemed wary.

Dominic Prestwitch was much younger than his colleague. Early thirties, thick brown hair greased into a fashionable quiff, glasses, a grey suit and a lime green tie. A pair of buck teeth threatened to escape his upper lip, but were successfully contained.

‘Toby. Can we have a word? In the living room?’

Bill led Toby through with the two other men following. They all sat down.

Bill looked to his former shipmate. ‘Glenn?’

The admiral leaned forward, asserting his authority. And he had authority.

‘Bill told me about the death of the poor historian as soon as it happened,’ the admiral started. ‘And I came right away. I’m sorry to hear that your wife has been arrested. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.’

‘So am I,’ Toby said.

‘Bill mentioned that you heard what the historian thought happened on the USS Alexander Hamilton in 1983?’

‘I did, although Bill didn’t confirm it.’ Toby thought there was no harm in letting the admiral know Bill had done what he was supposed to do.

‘I’m sure he didn’t. As he has explained to you, that information is Classified.’

‘He has,’ Toby said. ‘But I know no more than Sam Bowen. Both Bill and Lars da Silva have been discreet.’

‘We’re here to make sure you don’t tell anyone anything you know or find out about the Alexander Hamilton ,’ the admiral said.

‘But presumably those are US secrets. I’m a British citizen.’

‘Precisely,’ said the admiral. ‘This is where Dominic comes in.’

Prestwitch reached into his pocket and produced a warrant card. Toby examined it. ‘MI5? Isn’t it supposed to be secret? I mean, are you allowed to admit that you work there?’

‘I can these days,’ Prestwitch said. ‘Things have changed.’ He bent down and reached into his briefcase, pulling out a one-page form.

‘What’s this?’ Toby asked. But one glance told him. ‘The Official Secrets Act?’ His name was printed in a box near the top. The signature space was blank.

‘That’s right,’ said Prestwitch. ‘As you know, both the UK and the US still operate a fleet of ballistic missile submarines to deter foreign aggressors. And we assess that what happened on the USS Alexander Hamilton in 1983 is still a threat to security. So it’s just as important to our government as to the Americans’ that you don’t talk about it.’

‘But I explained, I know nothing.’

‘You know something,’ said the admiral. ‘And Bill says you are a smart guy. You might end up knowing more.’

‘So this silences me?’ Toby said, picking up the sheet of paper.

‘It does,’ said Prestwitch.

‘But why should I sign it? My wife is in a police station suspected of murder. It seems to me likely that the knowledge of whatever happened on the submarine might help set her free.’

‘It won’t,’ said Bill.

‘You say that, but I don’t know it!’ Toby protested.

‘You should sign it because you are a British citizen, and because it is important to your country,’ said Prestwitch.

‘And my wife?’ A thought occurred to Toby. ‘Can you get the police to release my wife?’

Prestwitch replied carefully. ‘If your wife did murder Sam Bowen, and if the police have solid evidence that she did, then we can’t help her.’

‘Of course she didn’t murder him!’ Toby protested.

‘In which case we may be able to help. I will certainly be speaking to the police and, without being specific, I can provide them with guidance.’

‘So, if Alice is innocent, which she is, you can get her off?’

‘I can help,’ said Prestwitch. ‘I can’t guarantee they’ll let her go.’

Toby flung the form on to the coffee table. ‘Then why should I sign?’

‘There is another way of looking at it,’ Prestwitch said. ‘If you don’t sign, we certainly won’t help Alice.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘Damn it, Toby!’ Bill interrupted. ‘Stop playing games. You should sign this because your country asks you to, and because it might help Alice. Aren’t those good enough reasons? And if they are not, sign it because I am asking you.’

Alice’s father had never spoken to Toby like that before. But there had never been so much at stake before.

Toby was reluctant. But then he asked himself would signing the document make it more or less likely that Alice would be released?

Having MI5 on your side must be a good thing. Bill clearly thought so.

Toby picked up the form, took Prestwitch’s pen and signed.

November 1983, Norwegian Sea

‘Don’t do it, son. Do what you have been ordered to do. You owe it to your country.’

Commander Driscoll’s eyes were steady as they looked down the barrel of the Colt 1911, his left hand clutching the shoulder that had been smashed by Lars’s wrench.

My aim was remarkably firm as I focused on Driscoll’s forehead. The control room was crammed full of men, and they were all staring at me in silence.

‘You gotta shoot him, Bill,’ Lars said. He was standing barely a foot away from the captain, the wrench still in his hand. Williamson, a large navigation petty officer, was poised just behind Lars, ready if Lars took another swing at the captain.

I ignored them all.

Driscoll was right, of course. My duty as a naval officer was to put down the gun and let him go ahead with the launch. My duty as a naval officer was to play my part in sending three nuclear missiles — thirty warheads — to Moscow, Leningrad and East Berlin. Warheads that would flatten cities and kill millions. Warheads that would probably provoke massive nuclear retaliation from the Warsaw Pact.

Certainly provoke it, if what the XO had said the night before about the Soviets’ nervousness was true.

Unless the Soviets had already launched their missiles, getting their own pre-emption in first before NATO could initiate the first strike the Russians were convinced was on its way under cover of Able Archer 83.

In that case, we were the second strike. Our job, our duty, was to launch our missiles.

All of them. Not three of them. Why three? And why the same three targets that we had been given in a training exercise two weeks before? And why East Berlin?

The standard orders for a nuclear submarine launch, the ones that occurred most often in their drills, were a response to an all-out Soviet nuclear strike. That was, after all, the principal reason for the existence of the American ballistic missile submarines. Dotted around the world’s oceans, gliding quietly at three knots several hundred feet down, they were impossible for the Soviets to find and destroy. So if the Russians ever launched a nuclear attack on the United States, even a surprise one, the submarines would be there to retaliate. Between them they had the firepower to destroy every major Russian city, to kill tens of millions of Russian citizens.

Which was why the Russians would have to be insane to launch a nuclear attack on the United States.

But drill EAMs usually contained a section giving background, declaring that the Russians had launched their missiles, or were on the brink of launching their missiles. This one didn’t. In fact, neither had any of the EAMs we had received over the previous twenty-four hours.