"Brilliant bit of forethought," said Symington dryly.
Lastly, he told them how the doctor had persuaded Rhys Evans to stay silent, and added, "Thank you, Chiefy, for playing ball." But the Welshman seemed not to have heard; he just sat there gloomily, head sunk on his chest.
"You know the rest," Cavan finished. "You saw it happen."
Nobody said anything for a moment, until Gallagher spoke. "Why did you send Symington to break that circuit? Why didn't you do it yourself?"
Cavan nodded. "Good point. You see, if I'd been caught at it, I'd have had no one senior to myself to turn to. By sending Symington it was different. I was always in the background to protect him if it came to a showdown."
"I see," said the American slowly. "And perhaps—"
"What beats me," interrupted Allistair, "is Shadde's motive. Fantastic bloody thing to do."
Cavan looked at the doctor. "Over to you, Doc."
The doctor shook his head. "Nothing that we'd understand. I'm being wise after the event, but Shadde's insane—manic-depressive—with a bit of the compulsive obsessive thrown in, I'd say." ,. "t "What's a manic-depressive?" asked Weddy's shocked voice.
"In the extreme condition, it's a form of insanity quite often found in people of high ability. Goethe, for example."
"What are the symptoms?"
"Rapid mood swings, from depression to elation. Rapid thinking . . . flight of ideas . . . overactivity . . . overtalkativeness . . . sleeplessness. Lots of people have these, but Shadde's have reached psychotic dimensions. He's lost touch with reality. His judgment is gone."
Gallagher puffed a smoke ring. "How did he get that way?"
"Difficult to say. Might be hereditary, or might be childhood trauma. Severe father . . . bitchy stepmother, maybe. You'd have to know the family history." Then the doctor told them all he knew about the Lombok Strait business and the captain's other problems. "Shadde was obsessed with the idea that you'd spread that Lombok Strait story in the wardroom," he said to Symington.
Symington was pale. "My father never mentioned the Lombok Strait. He had the highest opinion of Shadde."
The doctor nodded sympathetically. "There's no doubt his condition deteriorated after you joined. Then came the breakup of his marriage and all the other things I've told you about. The car accident was probably the breaking point. Anyway, that's how I see it." He looked toward the captain's cabin. "Poor Shadde. We'll never know the hell he's been through."
"What are his chances of recovery?" Cavan's voice was matter-of-fact.
"Probably not too bad," said the doctor.
Gallagher cut in. "In your Navy, can he be promoted now?"
Cavan shook his head. "Afraid he's had it. Public opinion and Parliament are as sensitive as hell about Polaris—danger of unauthorized firings and that sort of thing. He'll be invalided from the Navy, I imagine. Couldn't be more sorry for him."
"What shakes me," said Weddy, "is what might have happened! All the ifs. If Gracie hadn't told Symington. If Symington hadn't told you, Doc. If you'd reassured Number One beyond all possible doubt that Shadde was sane. And of course the big if . . ." He looked around the table. "If the firing plunger hadn't been disconnected. It's pretty frightening to think what might have happened by now."
"Nothing would have happened." Gallagher said it very quietly and simply, but if he had thrown a bomb into the wardroom it wouldn't have caused more surprise.
"Nothing?" said the first lieutenant. "What d'you mean ? "
"Those missiles couldn't be fired, anyway."
Cavan's face was blank. "Are you serious?"
"I certainly am."
"Why couldn't they be fired?"
"There's only one setting on that bottom dial that could make the firing circuit alive. The odds against guessing it are seventeen million to one, in case any of you ever think of trying."
"So what?" said Weddy.
"I didn't put it on."
"But I saw you work the dial."
"I put a phony setting on it."
Allistair broke the stunned silence. "What made you do that?"
"Because I knew that firing signal was phony."
There was a challenge in the first lieutenant's voice. "How?"
Gallagher looked at him coolly. "That's a United States secret. We still have a few, I guess."
Cavan pulled at his ear. "Why didn't you say so when Shadde showed it to you? Might have saved that business last night."
"Might have saved Shadde too," said Rhys Evans.
Gallagher's eyes narrowed. "D'you mind waiting a minute? When that firing signal came in on top of the others, I was very interested. I knew it was a phony, all right. It shouted it at me." He knocked the ash off his cigarette. "But I figured that this must be some fancy British idea for putting on a tough exercise. We wouldn't do it in our Navy, but I thought . . . well, you know, Royal Navy . . . the oldest Navy ... maybe they can do it that way. So I just sat and waited. And . . . well"—he shrugged his shoulders—"I knew those missiles couldn't go, anyway." He got up out of his chair then and his face looked a bit grayer than usual as he leaned against the pantry hatch with his arms folded across his chest.
They were all looking at him now, but he was watching only the first lieutenant. Gallagher had an odd look on his face, and when he spoke it was to Cavan. "If you're finished," he said, "there's a question I'd like to ask you."
Cavan gave him a dry, unamused smile and said, "Go ahead."
"Why did you get Symington to cut that firing circuit instead of coming to me?" said Gallagher. "I'm the weapons control officer in this outfit. I'm assigned here for the express purpose of preventing unauthorized firings or any violations of security measures. You know that as well as I do, and yet when this situation comes up you keep right away from me. Can you explain that?"
Cavan's face was a bit pale, but he showed no concern.
"I don't much like your tone, Gallagher," he said, "but I understand what you must feel; and since you've asked for an explanation I'll give it to you. I did think of going to you at first. But then I realized this was a Royal Navy affair and we had to settle it our own way. I knew that once the circuit had been broken there was no danger of the missiles being fired.
"My problem was to make sure that nothing could go wrong, and at the same time handle things so that I could protect Gracie and Symington and"—he paused and took a deep breath—"and, of course, the skipper. If I'd come to you I'd have"—he smiled— "I'd have let the side down. Don't you see?"
Gallagher gave him a long, hard look, and then he came away from the pantry hatch and moved close to Cavan. "That's a very moving story, Cavan," he said, "but I'll tell you another one that's pretty sad, too, and it's about your captain." He stopped and there wasn't a sound in the wardroom. "He's quite a man, you know—or was. One of your top submariners. But he's been a pretty sick man lately. O'Shea's filled in the gaps about that, but I guess we've all known for some time now that Shadde's been having a tough time. With the exception of Rhys Evans, though, we haven't done a goddam thing about it... haven't tried to help him in any way or anything like that. . . have we?"
The American looked around the wardroom and then turned back to the first lieutenant. "When you heard about those signals, Cavan, you had a pretty shrewd idea your captain was a sick man ... so shrewd that you went and explained to O'Shea why you reckoned Shadde might be out of his mind. And O'Shea wasn't prepared to guarantee that he wasn't. Now if you'd come to me then—as you should have—and told me about the signals, I'd have told you how I could put on a phony setting—that is, if you didn't already know, which perhaps you did."
"I certainly did not," said Cavan, and his face was ashen.
"Anyway," went on Gallagher, "we'd have put our heads together and worked out things so that we could have given your captain the help he so badly needed. We knew he was leaving this boat in two days' time. I could have handled this thing so there'd have been no scene in the control room, no humiliation of Shadde in front of his officers and men, no certainty of disgrace and dismissal from the service."