‘Craig?’ I stood close to him, my voice low. I addressed him as ‘Craig’, not ‘Weps’.
‘Yes?’
‘That target package makes no sense, right?’
Craig turned to me. ‘Someone in NMCC must think it makes sense.’
‘There is a chance it’s an error, don’t you think?’
‘Hey, Bill. We only have ninety seconds to 1SQ. You said the captain and the XO discussed this. You and I have to obey orders.’
I glanced at the safe, positioned right above Craig between the fire control and the launch control consoles. ‘You don’t have to open that.’
Craig’s eyes darted to the combination lock and then back to me. He was hesitating.
‘If you don’t open it, and you refuse to tell anyone else the combination, then the birds won’t fly.’
Craig closed his eyes. Then he opened them. Doubt was replaced by determination. ‘Lieutenant Guth. We have our orders. You will follow them, as will I.’
‘Craig?’ I pleaded.
‘Back to your station, Lieutenant Guth.’ Craig grabbed the intercom.
I went back to my post. I glanced at the panel. The missiles would be spun up in less than a minute.
Then the captain would give Craig permission to fire and he would open the safe.
Lars’s words came back to me. You can stop a nuclear war if you shoot him. In the head. Because the captain’s head was where the combination to the safe in his stateroom was stored.
It was too late to stop the captain fetching his launch keys from the safe in his stateroom. The only way now to prevent the launch of the missiles was to stop Craig from opening the missile control centre safe and extracting the trigger. He was the only one who knew the combination. So he had to be stopped in such a way that he couldn’t tell a fellow officer those numbers.
He had to be killed.
My friend, one of my best friends, had to be killed. By me. In the next few seconds.
I didn’t have a gun. But Lars had chosen a good weapon. There were wrenches stowed all over the submarine in positions that were easy to grab in the event of a leak. In peacetime submarines didn’t leak, but in wartime when under attack from enemy torpedoes or depth charges, it could easily happen.
The nearest wrench was hanging in a pouch just behind me, maybe three feet from Craig.
Missile number nine spun up first, swiftly followed by number two.
Then the last 1SQ button turned from red to green.
‘Conn, weapons. The weapons system is at 1SQ.’ Craig was speaking into the intercom. He listened to an instruction and repeated it. ‘Permission to fire, aye.’
Do it!
I slowly got to my feet and moved nonchalantly towards the wrench as Craig stood and reached up to the safe, his fingers touching the tumbler.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Petty Officer Morgan watching me: he was the missile tech who had overheard what Lars had tried to do in the control room.
In one swift movement I whipped the wrench out of its pouch and lifted it. But Morgan was quick. He threw himself at me. I leapt backwards, crashing into an instrument panel, as Morgan clutched my free arm, the arm not holding the wrench.
I brought the tool down hard on his shoulder. He released his grip and fell to the floor screaming.
The other missile techs were slower than Morgan. They were still at their positions, staring at me and at their colleague writhing in agony on the floor. They hadn’t trained for this; it took them a second or two to tear themselves away from the procedures on which they were so totally focused.
Craig’s fingers were on the combination as he glanced swiftly back at me.
If he had turned to face me, he could almost certainly have protected himself from my blows for the couple of seconds necessary for the rest of the crew to overpower me. He would then have had plenty of time to open the safe.
But he didn’t make that choice. He turned his back on me and spun the dial five times to the left, stopping on the first number of the combination, and then spun it to the right to the next number.
Perhaps he thought the other missile techs’ reactions were as quick as Morgan’s. Perhaps he thought he had time to set the final number on the dial and return it to zero before I got to him.
He had misjudged.
Just as he was setting the third number, and the missile chief was finally rushing me, I brought the wrench crashing down on the back of Craig’s head.
TWENTY-SIX
Saturday 30 November 2019, Norfolk
Toby went with Bill to the police station in King’s Lynn, an imposing 1920s building just off the main road through town, with four brick pillars and a large blue light over the entrance. They waited half an hour for Robinson and Prestwitch to get there first, in the hope they might pave the way for Alice’s release. Toby felt the tension in Bill. He wanted to lash out at his father-in-law, blame him for getting Alice locked up, but he knew it was fruitless, so he held back.
He sensed a similar grudging self-control on Bill’s part.
If Prestwitch had spoken to the police, it hadn’t yet secured Alice’s release. And, as expected, the police wouldn’t let Toby speak to his wife. But he did get five minutes with Lisa Beckwith, Alice’s new solicitor from London, who took him to a coffee shop round the corner from the station, while Bill was being interviewed again.
She was very small, very thin with hard brown eyes and an air of suppressed aggression that Toby found comforting in the circumstances. Her advice to Toby was to say as little as possible to the police; she was gratified to hear that he had signed the Official Secrets Act. He should stick to the story he had given them about Alice’s whereabouts, and resist the urge to expand on it or embellish it.
She said she was confident that Alice would be released, but Toby didn’t believe her. She also told him she had advised Alice to say nothing.
‘Why do you do that?’ Toby asked. ‘It’s not as if she’s guilty or has anything to hide. We want the police to figure out the truth, so why don’t we help them do it?’
‘That’s not exactly what we want the police to do,’ said Lisa firmly. ‘We don’t need to prove she’s innocent. We don’t need to show the police who did kill Sam Bowen. All we need to do is prevent the police from gathering enough evidence to convict Alice.’
‘But—’
‘Toby. I know what I’m doing. Please help us. Keep quiet.’ It was more of an order than a request.
Back at the station, DC Atkinson wanted to speak to Toby again. He looked on edge. Excited. Impatient. He led Toby through to a featureless interview room and switched on the recording equipment.
No small talk.
‘Did Sam Bowen ask Bill Guth about the death of Lieutenant Craig Naylor on the submarine?’
‘As I believe you know, I have now signed the Official Secrets Act,’ Toby replied.
‘What Sam Bowen asked Mr Guth is not an official secret.’
Wasn’t it? Toby didn’t know. So he answered the question. ‘Yes, Sam did ask Bill about Craig’s death.’
‘Good. And what was Mr Guth’s reply?’
Toby wanted to answer. He wanted to help. But he had signed the act, as Bill had said, for his country and for his father-in-law. And although he disagreed with Lisa Beckwith’s strategy, there was no doubt that she knew more about keeping suspects out of jail than he did.
‘That is secret,’ said Toby. ‘It relates to what happened on the submarine.’
DC Atkinson couldn’t hide his irritation. He leaned forward. Tried a smile. ‘Look, Toby. You have to help us here. We’re just trying to find out what really happened. If your wife is innocent, she has nothing to fear from that, right?’
Toby didn’t answer.