Майкл Ридпат - Launch Code

‘What happened to Commander Driscoll? You told me he was dead, and I assumed Bill had killed him to stop the launch.’

‘He did die,’ said Lars. ‘A few months later.’

‘How?’ Toby asked. But he knew as he asked the question what the answer was going to be.

‘Blew his brains out. He was a decent guy, but he couldn’t handle knowing he had nearly destroyed humanity. Once he was sure the cover-up would stick, he checked out. It was sad.’ Lars stared at his feet trudging through the sand. ‘Made me wonder what I was still doing on this earth. Still does, sometimes.’

‘And the XO? He stayed?’

‘Yeah.’ Lars hesitated. ‘He had his own issues. But he’s done well. Vice Admiral. With the captain gone, he’s the one who holds us all together. Goes to the reunions. Keeps the crew in line.’

Toby thought how quick Bill had been to get in touch with Admiral Robinson after Sam’s murder.

‘And it’s held?’

‘It seems to have,’ said Lars. ‘When Sam Bowen came to see me in Wisconsin, he said the rumours about the Hamilton had started from guys who had worked in the Pentagon. I guess a number of people there must have known what happened; Bill told me they set up some commission afterwards to change the launch protocols.’

They walked on in silence. The beach was empty now, apart from the small green boat dragged up against the dunes. Far out to sea, distant windmills waved desultorily towards them.

Toby tried to imagine what it would have been like to have come that close to finishing the world. He couldn’t.

Donna must have felt vindicated. That was probably why she and Bill had got back together again.

Then Toby remembered something.

‘Bill said that the FBI came to see him at the submarine base. And you and Craig. About Donna. Is that right?’

Lars stiffened. ‘I don’t remember.’

Oh yes you do, thought Toby.

‘Yeah. And there was a woman she had been talking to. Pat Greenberg, I think her name was?’

Lars shook his head.

Toby decided to confront him. ‘Lars. You’re holding back on me.’

Lars glanced out to sea before looking straight at Toby. ‘Maybe I am. But don’t go there, Toby. I mean it, don’t go there. I’m really surprised Bill told you about that.’

‘It was only in passing,’ Toby said.

‘He’s losing it,’ said Lars.

‘Why were the FBI interested in Donna?’

Lars stopped. ‘No, Toby. Do you hear me? No.’

They faced each other. Toby knew he was getting close to something. And he wasn’t going to let Lars shut him down.

‘Alice is under arrest; the police think she’s a murderer. If you know something, you have to tell the police. Or at least tell me. We can figure out what to do together.’

Toby could see Lars was wavering.

‘Did you kill Sam, Lars?’

‘No,’ Lars replied firmly, as if relieved to be able to give a straight answer.

‘Then do you know who did?’

There was a loud crack, and a look of surprise flashed across Lars’s face. A crimson hole appeared on his chest. Another crack, another hole.

As Lars’s legs gave way and he slumped to the ground, Toby dived to his right.

There was a third crack, and sand erupted a foot in front of Toby’s face.

The dunes were no more than ten yards away.

Toby pushed himself to his feet and sprinted for them, crouching low.

A fourth shot. Toby didn’t know where it had landed; all he knew was it had missed him.

He flung himself into a shallow gap between the dunes and crawled as fast as he could.

He thought that fourth shot had come from the green boat: he believed he had seen a muzzle flash in his peripheral vision, but he wasn’t really sure. He also wasn’t sure what to do. Hide? Or run?

Toby glanced around him. To his left was the beach and the sea. Ahead was a shallow hollow of beach grass, with the dunes rising in a row beyond it. And beyond that was the marsh and the dyke.

He dashed across the hollow, Rickover on his heels, waiting for the crack of the rifle or the blow of a bullet in the centre of his back, but it never came. He sprinted up and over a dune, and slid down the other side. Here the dunes were bunched more closely together, which was good. He spotted two humps of grass-covered sand, each about ten feet high, and darted between them. Fear spurred him on, but fear sharpened his mind.

The marsh stretched ahead, or rather the fields next to the marsh, surrounded by wire fences, ditches and bulrushes. To the right, the path lay in a high straight line on top of the dyke back to the village.

Exposed. Very exposed.

Over to the left, at least half a mile away along the coast, the dunes rose into something more substantial, crowned with thick green pine trees.

That was a better bet. But how to get there without being seen?

Hide. The ditch would be good, except it ran in a dead straight line, and it would be easy for the shooter to get a good line of sight along it. Toby examined the bulrushes. He would have to cross the ditch and the fence; which should be possible, but would slow him down in the open. Once in the rushes he would be hard to spot.

Rickover was looking up at him, with a confused expression on his face, wondering what he would do next.

Shooing off the dog wouldn’t work. Would he keep quiet with Toby in the bulrushes? Maybe, if Toby hugged him close.

No time to waste. He was just about to make a dash for it, when caution got the better of him, and he tentatively leaned out from behind his dune.

A figure holding a rifle was crouching low and making its way towards the base of the dyke, with its back to Toby. Toby couldn’t see who it was, beyond that it was a man, he was above average height and he was wearing a green coat of some kind and a woolly hat.

Toby didn’t hang around to stare.

Abandoning the bulrush idea, he doubled back through the dunes, across the sandy hollow, and out on to the beach, Rickover keeping pace.

He estimated the pine woods were half a mile away. Toby was reasonably fit, but the sand would slow him down: maybe three to four minutes at full speed. With luck, the shooter would still be creeping around the dyke on the other side of the dunes, out of sight.

Without luck? Better not think about that.

He glanced back at Lars’s body, lying crumpled on the beach, not moving. If he wasn’t dead already, there was nothing Toby could do to save him now. If Toby went back to check on him, he would most likely wind up sprawled on the sand next to Lars, a couple of bullets in his own body.

So he started running, slowing briefly as he passed the boat, which was little more than a fibreglass tub. There were indeed footprints behind it, and a couple of casings. He bent low, grabbed one and ran on. Every few seconds, he looked over his shoulder, but no sign of the shooter.

He was getting closer to the pine woods. His breath was short and his chest was pounding, but he kept his legs pumping. Rickover, now several yards behind him, began yapping with the excitement.

Toby looked over his shoulder to tell the dog to be quiet. Way behind, beyond the green boat, he saw a figure spill out of the dunes.

The figure stopped and raised his rifle.

Once again, Toby darted into the dunes, just as he heard the rifle crack. He had no idea where the bullet landed; all he knew was it hadn’t been in him.

The sand was softer in the dunes and it was slower going. But he was out of sight of the shooter, and soon he reached a barbed-wire fence bordering the pine wood. He flung himself over it, rolled, and pulled himself to his feet. Through the trees he spotted a small car park.

Three vehicles stood close to each other: a white Range Rover and two smaller hatchbacks, one silver and one blue. A tall woman was loading a golden retriever into the back of the Range Rover.