Gunnar watches from the window as protestors position a microphone stand on the flatbed. A cameraman poised on the roof of a nearby BBC van films a well-dressed man now making his way through the crowd. “Captain, who are these people? Greenpeace?”
Botchin takes a deep breath, as if it pains him to respond. “Worse. They call themselves Ploughshares, taking their name from the biblical prophecy, ‘to beat swords into ploughshares.’”
“Ploughshares? Never heard of them,” General Jackson says.
“They were founded in the early 1980s in the States as sort of an underground peace movement. Gained momentum in Britain when a bunch of women caused extensive damage to one of the Hawk jets we were exporting to Indonesia. The women claimed their violence was justified by law, since they believed they were actually preventing an act of genocide. Jury actually acquitted them. Since then, thousands have joined their movement, politicians among them, all calling for global nuclear disarmament, as if that’s ever going to happen.”
“How long have they been storming the gates?” the general asks.
“Since your president announced the Ronald Reagan was transporting nuclear weapons. Believe it or not, some members of Ploughshares actually consider this Covah fella a hero.”
Rocky’s cup slips from her hand, splattering tea and shattered china across the linoleum floor. “Covah murdered eight thousand men and women. How the hell does that make him a hero?”
“Didn’t say it was my view. Most Brits, myself included, agree this whole fiasco was America’s fault.” Botchin nods toward Gunnar. “If your security’d been better, the Chinese would never have got hold of Goliath’s schematics.”
Gunnar feels the familiar burn in his stomach. He stands and exits the barracks, slamming the door behind him.
Rocky watches him go.
The compound is a frenzy of activity, police in riot gear rushing toward the front gate, base personnel loading computers, files, and cardboard boxes onto transport vehicles. Outside the northern gate is a crush of bodies, the crowd pushing, chanting, climbing like a swarm of ants. The scent of sulfur and tear gas wafts through the winter air.
Gunnar takes cover, kneeling behind the front tire of the jeep. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly through his nostrils, filling his lungs from the bottom up until his stomach is distended and his chest cavity can hold no more. He exhales through his mouth, smooth and steady, his pulse slowing, the internal rage leaving his body until only an acrid taste remains.
A squawk of speaker feedback comes from the flatbed. The frenzy at the front gate settles, the crowd quieting as one of the activist leaders takes the microphone. “All right, all right, quiet down. There’s a man here who wants to speak to us, a man who needs to be heard. Michael, come up here—”
A smattering of applause. The tall politician adjusts the height of the microphone stand. “My God, there are so many of you out here. For those who don’t know me, my name is Michael Jamieson and I’m a Labour Party leader in Scotland’s Parliament—”
A chorus of boos rises across the expanse.
“Hold on, now, I’m here today because I support your efforts, because I, like you, want to see change. I want to read something to you … a quote, from the International Court of Justice.” Jamieson removes a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket. “On July 8 in the year 1996, the International Court of Justice, in its advisory opinion, confirmed the general illegality of nuclear weapons, concluding that all states are under an obligation to bring to a conclusion negotiations in regard to all aspects of nuclear disarmament.”
Cheers wash over the catcalls.
Jamieson holds up the paper. “Despite this, despite very clear mandates from the population of the United Kingdom and members of Parliament, our government continues to participate in the illegal proliferation of these weapons of mass destruction.”
Jamieson pauses, the crowd growing attentive. The turbulence of the brisk October breeze rumbles in the microphone’s speakers. “What will it take to change Parliament? What will it take to change the world? Another Hiroshima, another Nagasaki? How many innocent people must die before our leaders realize the destructive path they have placed all of us upon?”
The crowd chants, “No more nukes—no more nukes.”
David exits the barracks to join Gunnar. “Sounds like some of the rallies we had back in college. Next thing, they’ll be chanting about saving the whales—”
Gunnar shoots him a look.
Jamieson raises his hands for quiet. “Within these very gates floats a vessel, paid for by taxes on our labor. Within the bowels of this submarine is enough firepower to incinerate every man, woman, and child in the United Kingdom. The United States, Russia, and China possess enough nuclear weapons to murder all of humanity a thousand times over. Britain and France, Israel and Iran, India and Pakistan and North Korea … all participating in the nuclear arms race—a race toward Armageddon, all proclaiming their own selfish need for nuclear deterrence as they push our species to the brink of self-extinction.”
Gunnar glances at the faces of Jamieson’s flock. Caucasians and blacks, white collar and blue, men and women, schoolchildren and seniors—all united in fear.
“Fellow citizens, I join you here today because, I, like you, am concerned about our future, and our children’s future. These are desperate times, my friends, and though our numbers are growing, we are still but an infinitesimal few compared to the complacent majority who willingly allow themselves to be manipulated and led to the slaughterhouse by the policies of our elected officials. Desperate times require desperate solutions. I stand here today to tell you that change is in the air. Now, one man—one man aboard one powerful vessel commands the world’s attention. Now, one man on a mission of salvation sends the world’s combined nuclear naval forces cowering back to their ports—”
David shakes his head. “This guy’s waving Covah’s flag.”
“Now, my friends, it is up to us to rally around this man’s actions. Now we must demand change. Now we must demand nothing less than total global nuclear disarmament!”
A roar erupts as the crowd swells forward. Men leap onto the fence, their suddenly revealed bolt cutters and hacksaws tearing into the steel links. The outnumbered riot police toss canisters of tear gas, then back away as the fencing collapses under the combined weight of the masses.
Gunnar and David hurry back inside the barracks. “We need to go—now!”
They hurry back to the jeep. Captain Botchin guns the engine, veering away from the crowd, as flaming bottles fly and the recreational barracks becomes an inferno.
The gray bulk of the HMS Vengeance appears in the distance. Piggy-backed to its deck is a small minisub. Several sailors continue securing it in place while dozens of others scurry across the deck, preparing to make weigh.
The crowd at the southern gate pushes its way onto the naval base, torching everything along its path.
The jeep screeches to a halt, nearly tossing Gunnar facefirst over the windshield. Botchin hurries them aboard the nuclear sub as sailors on deck hastily toss mooring lines over the side.
The Vanguard’s engines hum to life, its propeller churning sludge along the bottom as it pushes the vessel away from the dock. The mob races toward them from the pier. Bear pulls his daughter to the deck as Molotov cocktails smash and ignite against the moving steel hull.
Air horns sound as the Coast Guard cutters move in. Within seconds the late afternoon is violated by hundreds of rounds of machine-gun fire. The thunderous warning scatters the protesters, forcing them to take cover as two of the cutters and a tugboat escort Vengeance into deeper water.