Having thus settled the moral issue for himself, he got busy with the technical problem. That wasn't so hard, because he remembered in detail the lecture on the Polaris firing circuit they'd been given when they were training in the States. Half an hour later he had not only briefed Symington thoroughly on what to do; he had even undertaken to see that the coast was clear.
"But," he said firmly, "make no mistake, George. If you're nabbed, I can't come to your assistance. I want to be terribly frank about this. Even under oath I'd have to deny that I'd any knowledge whatever of what you were doing."
"You're rather franker than you think, aren't you?" said Symington in a bored way.
In the missile attack center, Symington found two men working on the equipment. He chatted with them for a moment while his eyes followed the run of the firing circuit to the point where it entered the next compartment and the black and yellow tracing bands disappeared. He opened the watertight door and went through it into the missile control room, securing the door behind him. As he had expected, it was empty, and he quickly looked through the observation port to make sure that there was nobody in the launching compartment. Once again he traced the black and yellow bands before opening the airtight door and letting himself into the small space, six feet by four, which was the air lock between the missile control room and the launching compartment.
With great care he shut the door and secured the clips. It was pitch-dark in the air lock and he had to grope for the switch, but finally he found it and the lights went on. When he opened the junction box he saw that the black and yellow bands were on the third cable from the left. Slipping on rubber gloves, he took some long-nosed pliers from his pocket. Within seconds he had turned the milled ring on the cable holder until it came clear. Then he jerked the cable out of its socket and was binding the end back with insulating tape when he heard the clips moving on the airtight door. A cold chill swept through him as he looked down and saw them turn. In a flash he switched off the light and pressed into a corner, waiting with bated breath in the darkness. There was a creak as the door opened and the air pressure increased; then the thud of the door shutting, the sound of heavy breathing and the metallic squeak of the clips being pulled tight. In the confined space of the air lock he could hear every movement the newcomer made— he could even feel the warmth of his body. He shrank back, fearful that the man might brush against him. If he would just open the foremost door and leave the air lock without switching on the light, all would be well.
With thumping heart Symington froze against the bulkhead. There was a click and the air lock was a blaze of light. Within inches of him stood the engineer officer, eyes wide as they traveled from the navigating officer's rubber-gloved hands to the open junction box.
The look of blank astonishment was quickly followed by one of suspicion. "What's this, Symington?" Evans said sharply.
The navigating officer knew exactly how dangerous his position was.
"It's a long story, Chief. Can I come to your cabin?" The engineer officer's eyes narrowed. "What is it you've done?" Symington shut the junction box. "Broken the circuit on the firing plunger," he said, as he tightened the wing nuts.
Rhys Evans said incredulously, "What? You're mad, man!" Symington's composure was returning and his brain was beginning to work again. "Let me tell you the story, Chief."
Tight-lipped and suspicious, the engineer officer sat stiffly in a chair while Symington told him his story. Rhys Evans was the last person he would have chosen to tell; the Welshman was far too close to the captain. Symington was counting on one person now — the doctor. Cavan had sent him to see O'Shea, and at this very dangerous moment he realized what a sound move this had been.
"Well, that's the position, Chief," Symington said wearily. "What I've done hasn't been for myself. I've taken a hell of a risk. Obviously I wouldn't do that unless something vital was at stake."
The Welshman's mouth tightened. "Or unless your story's a pack of lies. How do I know it's not sabotage you're after?"
"Test the story for yourself. Ask the doctor what he told me this morning. But please, Chief, not a word to anyone else. Don't you see? If the signals are only for an exercise, then no harm's done, because the firing plunger won't be used. Alter the exercise I'll reconnect it. The only way the skipper could know that the circuit is broken would be if he did use the firing plunger, and if he did you'd all thank your stars I'd made it unserviceable."
There was still a gleam of suspicion in Rhys Evans' eyes. He got up abruptly. "I'll have a talk with the doctor and then decide. You'll know what I'm about soon enough."
The doctor was doubtful. "I know you've got the skipper's interests at heart, Chief, but d'you really think it's wise to tell him about this now?"
"I do think so."
"Let's look at it carefully. If you tell Shadde you caught Symington red-handed, you'll have to tell him why Symington did it. That he knew about the signals and had doubts about Shadde's sanity. What d'you think the skipper'll do when he hears that?"
"Deal with Symington at once, he will. And rightly too."
The doctor nodded. "Yes! And that means a court-martial for Symington. And d'you realize what his defense will be?"
The engineer officer's eyes looked doubtful. "No."
"That he considered the bogus signals to be a gross irregularity, because they could compromise the security measures; so much so that he even had doubts about the captain's sanity; that he consulted me, and that on the strength of what I told him he couldn't exclude insanity as a possibility. He'd call me as a witness and I'd have to confirm what I have told him and describe the captain's symptoms. An eminent psychiatrist would certainly be called by the defense. Can you imagine what that might lead to?"
Rhys Evans shook his head. The doctor went on. "I'm a G.P. and no psychiatrist. I've said I think it's unlikely from his symptoms that he's anything more than neurotic. An expert witness might say that psychosis could reasonably have been inferred. That would be equivalent to saying he was insane. D'you see the danger for Shadde now?"
The Welshman's silence encouraged the doctor. "The court-martial would no doubt finish Symington's naval career. Shadde might be cleared technically. But the mud would stick and he'd probably be finished too."
Rhys Evans' eyes widened. "Finished? What are you saying?"
"Finished," said the doctor. "At the very least he'd be passed over for promotion and retired early. The court-martial would be headline news and the Admiralty wouldn't dare take any chances with Shadde after that. He'd be a ruined man, all right."
With bowed head Rhys Evans brooded over this. "I'd do nothing that could harm the captain, be sure of that."
The doctor looked at him sympathetically. "Leave things as they are, Chief. If it's just an exercise, Shadde will never know about the broken circuit. If it isn't, and he does fire ..."
"You're talking nonsense, man," interrupted the engineer officer. "The captain's as sane as I am."
"You may be right, Chief. But sane or not, that court-martial's likely to be the end of him. I strongly advise you to leave matters as they are."
The engineer officer looked away from the doctor's compelling eyes. "Very well. He has troubles enough just now, poor man. I'll not be adding to them."
There was a note of relief in the doctor's voice. "Thank you, Chiefy. I'm certain your decision's the right one."