After the match he went back on board and changed into uniform. Looking through the file of signals on his desk he found one from Massive notifying her intention to enter Oslo at 0900 the next day, and another from Deterrent reporting her departure from Loch Ewe at 1630.
He then settled down at the desk to write a letter to his mother. He mentioned briefly that he was finding the captain a little difficult, but on rereading he decided that this was risky; mothers were apt to talk and it was unwise to have it known that you were not getting on with your captain. He crossed out the offending sentence. Then he went to the wardroom, where he accepted the drink Weddy offered him.
"Where's Symington and Keely?" he asked.
"On a run ashore with the doctor and Gallagher."
"Wine, women and song again? The eternal search."
"Could be," said Weddy. "They went off in great style."
Just then Mr. Buddington came diffidently into the wardroom and said, "Good evening, gentlemen."
Weddy smiled. "Hullo, Mr. B. What'll you have to drink?"
"That is very kind of you. A glass of sherry, please." He cleared his throat. "What time are we sailing tomorrow?"
"O-eight-thirty," said the first lieutenant.
Mr. Buddington picked up the Daily Express and pointed to a headline, Commons Uproar on A-Subs. "Did you read it?" he asked Weddy.
"Yes. Usual tripe about unauthorized firings."
"I suppose those who bring this matter up in the House are reasonably well informed?" Mr. Buddington asked.
Weddy shook his head. "Lot of ignorant B's—take it from me. Unauthorized firings are impossible."
"Impossible?" said Mr. Buddington.
"Yes, impossible. The security precautions look after that. You'd need collusion between too many different people in too many different places for an unauthorized firing."
"That's very reassuring," said Mr. Buddington. "What are the precautions, or is that a state secret?"
"There's no secret about the general procedure. There are checks and controls on firing at all stages. They start at NATO and run down through FOS's operations room to the final control here."
"What happens at NATO?"
"Roughly this: There are always several senior staff officers on duty in the ops room representing the NATO chiefs of staff. In the case of the Polaris boats there's also a bloke representing the U.S. chiefs of staff. Our operational authority is Flag Officer Submarines. He can only order us to fire if he's told to do so by NATO. Then there's another sort of three-way control. NATO can only order us to fire by means of a special transmitter, and FOS can only order us to fire by the same means. The NATO transmitter won't work unless the NATO staff officers, and the U.S. chap, too, set the control dials with readings which only they know. FOS's transmitter to us won't work unless the NATO transmitter has actuated it first, and even then three different people in FOS's ops room have to put special settings on their control dials."
Mr. Buddington wasn't altogether satisfied. "How would we know if an ordinary W/T transmitter had been used to send the firing signal to us?"
Weddy nodded. "Good point! Because the firing signal contains special address, prefix and target coordinate groups, which are top-secret ciphers. Only NATO and the firing submarine have them."
"I see," said Mr. Buddington. "And what would happen if someone on board—you, for example—decided to fire a missile? What could stop you?"
"Lots of things," said Weddy. "Takes a lot of people to fire a Polaris—they'd have to agree first. Then the firing circuits can't be actuated until our local control has approved the firing."
"And the local control is ....?" prompted Mr. Buddington.
"Firing signal has to be seen, and its import agreed upon, by the four different people on board who control our firing circuit. Unless each puts his own secret setting on a control dial, it's mechanically and electrically impossible for the missile to be fired."
"Remarkable. Who are the four people on board who do this?"
"Captain, first lieutenant, me, as gunnery officer, and Dwight Gallagher, representing the United States chiefs of staff. You know that they gave us these boats subject to their right to veto firings at all control levels. That's why we cart Dwight around the ocean with us."
"I must confess I feel happier now," Mr. Buddington said. "The possibility of unauthorized firings is something I have always worried about. I expect most thinking people do."
Target came in from the wardroom pantry. "Dinner's ready, sir," he said to the first lieutenant. "Care to 'ave it served now?"
The first lieutenant stood up, stretched his arms and yawned. "Yes, please, Target. Come on, chaps, to the trough."
At ten thirty that evening, while the captain was still happily sipping liqueurs with Margrethe, Mr. Buddington was deep in the reports that had come from Naval Intelligence. Then he set his alarm clock, put it under his pillow and fell into a sound sleep.
It seemed only a moment later that he was jangled awake although his watch showed three thirty. With the black leather box over his shoulder, he left the cabin. Outside the storeroom he looked around to make sure the coast was clear before opening the door and locking it behind him. From the top shelf he took a silk lampshade, and from his pocket a magnifying glass. When he compared the silk of the lampshade with the piece of gray silk in his hand, he found that the scissor marks on the cut edges corresponded exactly.
A few moments later Mr. Buddington was back in his cabin doing some hard thinking. Shadde had said, "Find the owner of the gray silk and you've got your man." Shadde might be right. The case against Shepherd, weak and fanciful at first, was becoming substantial. He was the maker of the silk lampshades; he had been in charge of the men in the steering compartment in Stockholm; he had access to the machinery and the technical knowledge necessary. Lastly, the confidential material received by Mr. Buddington the day before contained the ingredients of a motive: it revealed that Shepherd was having a clandestine affair with his sister-in-law, a Mrs. Hindle, and that she was a prominent member of the ban-the-bomb movement.
But Mr. Buddington never jumped to conclusions—particularly when the evidence was circumstantial. Besides, a great deal depended on the outcome of some tests he planned to make in the steering compartment. There were others who might be implicated.
Chief Shepherd returned on board just before midnight. As soon as he reached the CPOs' mess the duty petty officer reported to him. "We can't find Kyle. He was on watch in the engine room with Dobbin, but he's disappeared."
"Disappeared? What d'you mean?"
"Told Dobbin he was off to the heads about half an hour ago. Fifteen minutes later he hadn't shown up, so Dobbin went looking for him in the stokers' mess. He wasn't there."
"Reported this to the duty officer yet?"
"No. Not had a proper search yet. I've checked on the machinery spaces. I'm just off now to the forward compartments."
"Carry on forward. I'll do a double check aft. If we don't find him chop-chop we'll report it. He may have gone over the side."
As he searched, Shepherd noticed that the clips on the watertight door between the mess deck and the steering compartment were not secured. When he entered, the lights were off and he sensed at once that something was wrong. He switched them on and there at the far end of the compartment was Kyle, sitting on a folded watch coat with his back to the bulkhead. In his right hand was a half-empty bottle which he was raising to his lips. He blinked at Shepherd with bleary, hostile eyes and waved the bottle feebly.