"That'll do," said Shadde.
Keely reported, "Missile control wants to know what time the launching caps should be opened, sir."
Shadde looked at the clock. "In two and a half minutes' time. Distance to the firing position, Symington?"
Symington was ready for the question. "Twenty-two hundred yards, sir."
When the clock showed six and a half minutes past midnight, Shadde snapped, "Wake up, Keely! Give the attack center and missile control the three-and-one-half-minute standby."
From the chart table Symington and the doctor kept a covert watch on Shadde. There was only one thought in their minds: Would he use the firing plunger? Normally his demeanor on duty was calm, but tonight he seemed restless and excited. All part of the act, the doctor said to himself, and then his thoughts were interrupted by Symington's voice. "Eleven hundred yards to the firing position. Three minutes to go, sir."
Through his headphones Keely heard: "Inspection hatches on launching tubes shut." He repeated the message to the captain.
"Good," said Shadde. "Revolutions for four knots," and his tone was sharp. "Stand by to open launching caps!"
The sublieutenant repeated the order to missile control and then reported to the captain, "Attack center reports all checks and lineups complete, sir. Ready for launching."
"Very good," said Shadde.
"Seven hundred and fifty yards to the firing position—two and a half minutes to go." Symington wondered how his voice could sound so calm and clear.
Shadde looked at the clock. "Give the attack center the two-and-a-half-minute standby."
"Launching area cleared. Watertight doors shut," said Keely.
Symington reported: "Speed nine and a half knots, sir."
"Open launching caps." Shadde's voice was dry and hoarse.
Standing by the trim control panel the first lieutenant tried to concentrate on the depth gauges, but all his senses were keyed to what Shadde was doing and saying.
"Revolutions for ten knots." Now Symington sounded shrill. The note of the main turbines rose to a higher pitch.
"Four hundred and twenty-five yards to the firing position, sir—one and a half minutes to go!"
Shadde's voice sounded peculiar; it had a sort of hoarse tremble. "Control officers to the firing pedestal."
The first lieutenant joined Gallagher at the pedestal. Then Weddy came in from his post in the attack center. With quick strides Shadde reached them. He opened the stainless-steel door on the pedestal and the four control dials reflected back the red glow of the lights. Shadde leaned down and turned the top dial several times. When he straightened up, there was no mistaking the excitement in his voice as he said, "Put on your control settings."
Cavan quickly set the second dial, Weddy the third, and finally Gallagher bent down. There was a slight delay while the American put his setting on the bottom dial with calm concentration.
Shadde was irritated. "Quickly please, Gallagher."
The American stood up. "O.K., Captain. All settings on now."
Weddy raced back to the attack center and Shadde to the plot. Cavan was at the trim control panel again, and Gallagher remained by the pedestal. The clock snowed nine minutes past midnight.
"Two hundred and ninety-five yards to the firing position—one minute to go, sir!"
He's feeling the strain, the doctor thought, as he listened to Symington's voice.
Symington jerked upright. "One hundred and sixty-five yards to go . . . thirty seconds, sir!"
The doctor looked across at the captain. Beads of perspiration had run down Shadde's face, leaving shiny streaks. The eyes were wide and staring and the facial muscles never stopped working. The tousled black hair was moist with sweat. As O'Shea watched, Shadde shouted to Keely, "Start the telemeter count!"
The first strike of the firing gong sounded, strident and chilling. The count had started. All eyes watched the repeater over the pedestal. At each second the gong struck and the figure in the repeater changed, showing the number of seconds to launching.
Gong! ... 10 Gong! ... 9 Gong! ... 8
With a quick sideways thrust Shadde brushed Gallagher out of the way and put both hands on the T-piece of the firing plunger. He watched the repeater with fierce concentration.
How he's loving it, thought the first lieutenant. Every silly, overacted, dramatic bloody second of it!
But O'Shea was reacting differently. He was looking at Shadde's eyes and all he could think was, Those eyes! My God! Those eyes!
Gong! ... 5 Gong! ... 4 Gong! ... 3 Gong! ... 2
Symington's voice shrilled: "On! On! On!"
With a heave of his shoulders Shadde pushed the firing plunger away from him, away and across the full travel of the metal arc until the pointer came to a quivering stop under the word "Fire."
There was a stunned silence in the control room. From the launching area the loudspeaker relayed the same shrill whistle of high-frequency sound, the hiss of escaping air and the whirr of compressors. There was no change in trim, no sound of the flooding of the launching tubes. Nothing had happened.
Frantically Shadde seized the plunger, wrenched it back across the arc to the "Off" position and then rammed it across to "Fire" again. Still nothing happened.
With wild eyes he turned to Keely. "What's the delay? What's happened?" Lunging at the astonished sublieutenant he wrenched the headset away. "Give it to me, you dumb idiot!" Then he roared into it, "Weddy! Attack center! What's the delay? I've depressed the plunger twice! Order them to fire, man! Order them to fire!" There was hysteria in his voice and he waved his arms.
The first lieutenant dashed past Shadde into the attack center. "Check! Check! Check!" he yelled to Weddy. The gunnery officer pulled off the headset and stared at him in amazement.
"Weddy!" panted Cavan. "There'll be no firing. Those NATO ops signals were bogus! Shadde's off his rocker!"
"But what . . . ? But why . . . ? He's depressed the firing plunger!" Weddy stammered.
"The whole thing's a fraud. I'm telling you, man! The signals were bogus! Order missile control to secure!"
"But what about the captain?"
"He's round the bend! Mad as a hatter! I'm taking over command." He tore back into the control room.
Shadde had seen Cavan run through to the attack center and concluded that he'd gone to find out why the missiles hadn't been launched. "What's happened, Number One?" he cried. Perspiration poured from him and his voice cracked.
The first lieutenant stopped a foot away from Shadde and looked him squarely in the face. "Nothing's happened, sir. But there'll be no firing," he said firmly. "Those signals were bogus."
Shadde's eyes seemed to leave their sockets, then he sprang at the first lieutenant with such violence that Cavan, big as he was, fell back against the chart table. "You bloody traitor!" the captain screamed. "This is mutiny! You're under arrest!" He swung around to Allistair. "This officer's under arrest. He's to be confined to his cabin. Coxswain! Assist Lieutenant Allistair!"
Shadde was still clutching Keely's headset, and now he shouted into it, "Weddy! Weddy! In the control room at once!" Then he turned back, and with flaming, incredulous eyes he saw Symington, the doctor, Keely and Cavan slowly closing in on him. "Keep off, d'you hear? You mutinous swine! Interfere with history in the making, would you?" He danced in an excess of rage. "Allistair! Coxswain! Arrest these officers at—"
Before Shadde could finish the sentence Keely made a flying tackle which brought him to the deck, legs pinned; and Cavan, the doctor and Symington piled in. The struggle was fierce and bloody; Shadde was powerful and he lashed out devastatingly with feet and fists. While they fought, he fumed and shouted. "You bloody traitors! Betray England, would you! Wait for the court-martial! Aah! . . . aa!" he panted, and lay there gasping for breath.