With quick, jerky movements he marked the target coordinates with a pencil and handed the book to Weddy. "Two-sector spread on both. You'll find all the data there. Look sharp! Get that onto your computers right away. It's already midnight! We've got ten minutes! Sound off missile launching stations, Number One."
In the control room Cavan turned the wheel on the alarm panel until the pointer stopped at "Missile Launching Stations." While the clamor of the buzzers vibrated throughout the submarine, the crew hurried to their stations. Some men looked calm and normal, but most showed alarm, many of them fear. Shadde ordered a shift from automatic to hand steering and depth keeping. The scene was one of intense activity, and reports poured in from the missile attack center and the missile control room and launching area.
The clock above the chart table showed 0002—two minutes past midnight. Shadde ordered Symington to plot the firing position at 0010, and Keely to pass the data to the attack center. Then he was back at the broadcast, his voice hoarse. "This is the captain. We've just received a NATO 'flash' message." He paused, and there wasn't a sound except the crackling of the loudspeaker and Shadde's breathing. "We're to launch four Polaris missiles at ten minutes past midnight. That's in about six minutes. The targets are Kronstadt, Russia's principal naval base, and the industrial area around Leningrad. These are about twenty-five miles apart."
Shadde paused and cleared his throat. "Range from the firing position to the targets will be about seven hundred and fifty miles. That means our warheads should reach them about three minutes after firing. Immediately after launching we'll go deep, and retire into the North Sea at maximum speed and await further orders."
Again he stopped, and his listeners wondered what there was left to say. There was a dreadful, numbing finality about what they had heard that left little to the imagination. But the captain went on, his voice rising with what might have been exultation. "I'd like to remind you that in these waters the Royal Navy once broke the power of a mighty alliance which threatened England. Nelson's victory at Copenhagen smashed the confederacy of Prussia, Denmark, Sweden and . . . Russia. We are about to do for England what Nelson did at Copenhagen." He paused. "May we do it as well. That is all. God bless you." This wasn't the cold, calm Shadde the crew was used to; the occasion had choked him with emotion.
Symington tapped the doctor on the shoulder. O'Shea turned from watching Shadde and saw Symington's eyebrows raised in silent question. He gave the slightest of shrugs and shook his head.
Though the broadcasts had prepared the crew to some extent, Shadde's last statement came as a profound shock. This was it; the much talked about, much prepared for, it-can't-happen-here nuclear war with Russia had started. There were thoughts of wives and children and parents and girl friends, of homes in towns and villages and countryside. And unspeakable, inadmissible nightmares about what might already be happening in England.
Keely touched the captain on the arm. "Attack center reports missiles ready for launching, sir." The sublieutenant's face was bathed in perspiration and his eyes seemed larger than usual.
"Very good," said Shadde. "Confirm firing time—o-o-ten— six and a half minutes to go."
The night's events had shattered Mr. Buddington. It was now unmistakably clear to this intelligent and unbelligerent little man that he was caught in the van of a nuclear war. His thoughts flew to the little house near the river where Mrs. Buddington and Annabelle and Rosemary lived. Life had been good to Mr. Buddington, and he was blessed with its greatest gift: utter contentment with his wife, his daughters, his home and his work. But now, in five minutes, this submarine would fire four Polaris missiles on Russian targets, and he had no illusions about what that would mean.
Sick with anxiety, he sought the company of someone with whom he could talk. One look into the buzzing control room, however, made it clear that nothing could be done there. Then he thought of Rhys Evans—calm, friendly, sound as a drum. Mr. Buddington sped aft to the engine room. There was the engineer officer standing on the control platform, surrounded by a maze of machinery, the main turbines purring rhythmically below him. Mr. Buddington raised his voice above the sound of the machinery. "I'm sorry to worry you, but I feel I must speak to someone."
Rhys Evans nodded, smiling. "Certainly, Mr. Buddington."
"You see," panted the little man, "I'm gravely concerned about my wife and children in London."
"Indeed, and who is not worried, Mr. Buddington?"
"Nuclear war with Russia," he stammered. "May already have started."
"Better not to think of that," said Rhys Evans.
"Impossible not to." Mr. Buddington's eyes rolled. "What happens when a missile's fired? Is there a loud explosion?"
Evans shook his head. "No explosion. It's fired from the launching tube by compressed air. No sound unless you're in the launching compartment. Rocket motor doesn't ignite until it's clear of the water. Nothing to be heard of that either, down here."
"So there's no noise?" Mr. Buddington said with relief.
"Little enough, anyway. When the launching tubes flood, just after the missiles have gone, you'll hear the roar of water and the hiss of escaping air. They're flooded automatically to keep the trim on the boat. We'd pop up like a cork otherwise."
Mr. Buddington was not listening now. Annabelle and Rosemary were running down the garden path toward him. "Daddy! Daddy!" they were calling. With a heavy heart he turned away.
For the two stewards this was a deadly time of watching and waiting; at least the other crew members had duties to perform which distracted their attention, but not these two. All they had to do was to stand by in the wardroom, on immediate call. Target picked his teeth with a match, his eyes on the wardroom clock. "O-o-o-four," he said. "Six minutes to go."
Miller nodded. "Glad I ain't a flippin' steward serving gin in Kronstadt."
Target eyed him. "'Ave the Commies got wardrooms?"
"Sure to 'ave. They got officers, ain't they?"
There was a long silence. Target blew his nose. He looked utterly miserable. "Bit of a cold," he explained.
"That's right," said Miller absently.
Another long pause was broken by Target. "These Polaris jobs doesn't 'alf nip along. Hear what the skipper said? Seven 'undred and fifty miles in three minutes."
Miller sighed. "It'll be flippin' lights-out in Kronstadt."
"Flippin' lights-out for the 'ole world. Mark my words."
The clock over the chart table showed 0005: five minutes past midnight. Tension in the control room was mounting. The faces of the men at their stations were strained and apprehensive. A constant stream of reports flowed in and voices rose and fell above the hum of the main turbines and the chattering of the instruments.
Suddenly came an urgent report from the asdic operator: "H.E. dead ahead, sir! Fast twin screws. Range about two miles. Closing at about twenty knots. Bearing steady, sir!"
In a quick movement Shadde was at the plot. He nudged Symington. "Bloody thing's on our firing course." His voice was husky and anxious.
The navigating officer did some rapid mental arithmetic. "If our combined speeds are forty knots, we're closing at the rate of about a mile every one and a half minutes, sir. In three minutes we'll meet. When we reach the firing position at o-o-ten we'll be about one and a half miles past him."
"Thank God for that," snapped Shadde. "Now, soundings, please."
"Aye, aye, sir." Symington switched on the fathometer. When the trace appeared he started calling: "307—305—306—306 . . ."