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  ‘Dad?’ said Megan. ‘I’ve got a little favour to ask you.’

  Two

  The bath was great. Toby could extend his six-foot-long body, the water was hot, the taps were big and silver and powerful and it was placed right under a window with a view of the pale-blue Norfolk sky, framed by the dead leaves of a climbing rose knocking gently on the glass pane in the breeze.

  He was going to enjoy the weekend.

  Toby was an only child. His mother was a nurse in a GP’s surgery in North London. Toby hadn’t seen his own father for six years; he was a failed property developer who now lived in the Algarve with a third wife from Leicester who was only five years older than Toby himself. Toby was close to his mother, and saw her regularly, but since his grandparents had died the two of them didn’t really seem like a family, more a partnership.

  Whereas the Guth family was a real family. And a family that was happy to include him.

  It was one of the many reasons he was glad to have married Alice.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said when Toby eventually appeared in the kitchen. Bill was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee. Megan was nowhere to be seen.

  It occurred to Toby, not for the first time, that Alice was replacing her mother at the centre of the family, and that Bill was content to let her do it. ‘Replacing’ wasn’t exactly the right word. And it certainly wasn’t ‘displacing’. It was more that Alice was taking on her mother’s tasks, her obligations, in memory of her. Honouring her. Toby had the impression that Alice and her father had developed an unspoken ritual, which Alice was happy to follow.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Toby asked her, kissing the top of her head as she bent over a mixing bowl.

  ‘Just making the stuffing. The turkey should go in in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘I was just telling Alice,’ Bill said. ‘There’s a guy coming to see me from Newcastle at four this afternoon. A historian. Wants to talk to me about the Navy in the 1980s.’

  Toby knew that Bill had served on nuclear submarines before he and Alice’s mother had married.

  ‘Is that stuff still secret?’ Toby asked.

  ‘Most of it. I’ve told him there’s a limit to what I can say, but he still wants to meet me. Would you like to sit in on it?’

  ‘You should,’ said Alice. She had a small smile of pleasure on her face. ‘Dad can’t talk about it, but the historian probably can. I think you’ll find it interesting. I’d like to be there myself, but this turkey needs my attention.’

  Toby felt like he was being cut into a family secret. He liked that. ‘All right, thanks.’

  ‘You can report back,’ said Alice. ‘Tell me all about it.’

  ‘What about me?’ said a voice at the door. It was Megan. ‘Can I be there too?’

  Toby felt a slight pause from both Alice and Bill. An unsaid shared pause of disapproval.

  Megan stared at her father and smiled. A smile of defiance. A what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it? smile.

  ‘Sure,’ said Bill slowly. ‘That would be great.’

  Megan’s smile gained a note of triumph and she left the kitchen.

  Three

  The historian’s name was Sam Bowen. He was small, round and soft, with short spiky black hair, intelligent eyes behind black-framed glasses, and a Brummie accent. He was about Toby’s age, maybe a couple of years older.

  Toby took an instant liking to him, as did Bill, although Toby could sense a wariness on the part of his father-in-law, and he wasn’t exactly sure why.

  Bill had made a cafetière of coffee and he, Sam, Toby and Megan all sat in the living room. It was a bright, pretty room, even in the late afternoon gloom, its yellow walls adorned with pictures of a combination of the Norfolk coast and various mismatched paintings Bill and his wife had picked up over the years. A thick oak beam bisected the ceiling, an inch above head height, pockmarked with age, probably supporting the cast-iron bath above. Two logs glowed in the fireplace. Family photos were scattered about the room: the Guth chin on display on daughters at various ages and sizes, as it was on Alice’s mother, smiling benignly on them all. That’s where they had got it; not a Guth chin originally after all.

  Outside, the marsh brooded, settling itself for the evening.

  ‘Well, thank you for seeing me, Lieutenant Guth—’ the historian began, pulling a notebook out of the backpack he had laid beside his armchair.

  ‘Bill. Call me Bill.’ Bill’s deep voice was welcoming.

  ‘Bill.’ Sam smiled. ‘As I told you on the phone, I published a book last year on the Cuban missile crisis.’

  ‘Yeah, I read a review of it,’ said Bill. ‘No Cigar. Nice title.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m following it up with a book about the near nuclear-missile launches during the Cold War. All those times when the system would have started a nuclear war if humans hadn’t overridden it.’

  ‘All those times? How many were there?’ Bill asked.

  ‘About a dozen that we know of. And there will have been many more that are still secret.’

  Bill nodded.

  ‘So that’s why I want to ask you about your last patrol aboard the USS Alexander Hamilton in 1983.’

  Toby’s interest quickened. He could see where this was going.

  ‘And that’s why I can’t tell you very much about it,’ said Bill, apologetically. ‘Operations were top secret then, and they are still top secret now. I checked yesterday after you called me.’

  There was a look of mild disappointment on Sam’s face, but he had clearly expected Bill’s response.

  ‘OK. I understand. Can you tell me a little about the patrol that isn’t top secret?’

  ‘That’s not very much,’ said Bill. ‘The Hamilton was operating out of Holy Loch in Scotland at the time. We were flown in and out back to Groton in Connecticut when we were off-crew. I guess it was my first tour on submarines. My fifth patrol.’

  ‘And your last?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Yes. My last.’

  ‘And why was that? You were due to go out on another patrol before your tour ended.’

  ‘I’m impressed by your research. The official reason was that I requested to leave so I could go to graduate school.’

  ‘And the real reason?’

  ‘As I told you, I can only discuss the official reason,’ Bill replied calmly. He seemed unperturbed rather than confrontational.

  ‘OK,’ said Sam carefully. He made a note. ‘Let me tell you what I think happened on board the USS Alexander Hamilton on 9 November 1983.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You were on patrol somewhere in the North Atlantic. For the previous couple of days you had received a series of messages from the National Military Command Center in Washington raising your readiness for nuclear war to DEFCON 2. Then you received an order to launch three missiles targeted at Moscow, St Petersburg and East Berlin.’

  ‘Leningrad,’ corrected Bill.

  ‘Are you confirming that Leningrad was one of the targets?’ said Sam, a hint of excitement in his voice.

  ‘No. I’m merely saying that St Petersburg was known as Leningrad in 1983,’ said Bill with a small smile.

  Sam Bowen hesitated, examining Bill closely to see what the smile meant. Was it confirmation of Sam’s suggestion? Or was Bill winding the historian up? Toby wasn’t sure.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘I don’t mean to tease you.’ The smile went.

  It was confirmation.

  There was silence as Sam processed this. Toby could sense that Megan was following this as closely as he was. He wondered how much she already knew about it, how much Alice knew. His wife’s smile at Bill asking Toby to join him made sense now.

  This was the family secret.

  ‘Commander Driscoll was the commanding officer of the Alexander Hamilton,’ Sam continued. ‘He and the executive officer acknowledged the order as valid. And then a junior officer intervened.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Bill.

  ‘The junio
r officer questioned the order. He pointed out that the target package didn’t make sense and, furthermore, that it was identical to the package included in a drill a couple of weeks before. The drill had been designed to test the readiness of the crew to retarget unexpected coordinates.’

  Sam hesitated, waiting for a response from Bill. He didn’t receive one.

  ‘There was a discussion in the control room, but the junior officer persuaded the captain and the executive officer to change their minds and not launch the missiles.’

  Bill raised his eyebrows.

  ‘That junior officer was you.’

  Toby realized he had gasped. Sam glanced at him and then returned his gaze to Bill, who was motionless.

  ‘What can I say?’ said Bill. ‘I’ve told you I can’t respond.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sam. ‘If I am correct, perhaps you could just scratch your right ear lobe. Off the record. I can assure you scratching can be off the record.’

  Bill laughed at that, but stayed motionless.

  Sam frowned. He couldn’t be sure whether Bill was indicating that his version of events was incorrect, or that he just wasn’t playing along. Toby felt sorry for the historian, but admired the way he kept his cool. This probably wasn’t the first stone wall he had bumped into.

  Sam put down his pen. ‘Bill. We all know why this had to be top secret during the Cold War. It would have given the Soviets information about the US Navy’s launch procedures, and it would have highlighted shortcomings in those procedures. But the Soviet Union doesn’t exist anymore.’

  ‘We still have nuclear submarines,’ Bill said. ‘And they still go out on strategic patrol. They could still be ordered to launch nuclear missiles.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Sam. ‘What my book will show is that there have been many times when governments’ controls on the launch of nuclear missiles have failed. When the world nearly came to an end. And that we are still relying on many of those same controls. You, of all people, should be able to see how important it is to demonstrate that?’

  Bill was very serious now. All trace of a smile gone.

  Sam continued. ‘You know that the reason the details of this patrol are still secret is to keep what really happened from the public, right, not the enemy? To stop the American people from knowing how close they or their parents came to being blown to kingdom come. It’s a cover-up. They are making you cover up a mistake that was so serious in its consequences it almost finished the world.’

  Sam stared at Bill intently through his glasses. ‘And it wasn’t your mistake. In fact, you are the one who fixed it.’

  Bill winced and ran his fingers through his thick hair. ‘It seems completely understandable to me that details of nuclear launch procedure are still top secret thirty-five years later,’ he replied. ‘You may be right that the powers-that-be want to cover up something that may or may not have happened then. But I am still bound by my obligation to respect that secrecy. Apart from anything else, the law is very clear. But it’s also my duty to my country as a former naval officer. As I said, I checked yesterday, and what happened on that patrol is still Classified.’

  Sam was getting close. He had a mild manner and a gentle voice, but one that suggested sincerity, and a certain power.

  ‘Admiral Robinson?’ he asked.

  Bill nodded. ‘The XO at the time. He stayed in the Navy and he’s done very well. We’ve kept in touch.’

  ‘I bet you have,’ said Sam, a sharp note tingeing his words for the first time.

  Bill noticed it, and Sam looked down at his notes, seeming to regret his lapse.

  ‘Have you spoken with the admiral?’ Bill asked.

  ‘Yes. And a few others on the submarine. I couldn’t speak to Commander Driscoll, of course.’

  ‘No. But Lars da Silva said he had spoken with you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sam.

  ‘And none of them have told you anything?’

  ‘No one on the Alexander Hamilton,’ said Sam. ‘But you can imagine the incident made waves in the Pentagon. Top-secret waves, but waves nonetheless. I have two sources so far in Washington who were tasked with figuring out how to change things afterwards.’

  ‘I see,’ said Bill.

  There was silence.

  ‘Can I ask something?’ Toby said.

  Bill nodded.

  ‘Did these “sources” tell you what the problem was?’ Toby asked Sam. ‘Presumably this message was indeed a false one?’

  ‘It was,’ said Sam. ‘There had been a software upgrade, and the Emergency Action Messages were supposed to be operating on a ring-fenced part of the system to test it. But they were upgrading at the same time as NATO was running a command-and-control exercise to practice giving orders to launch nuclear strikes.’

  ‘Able Archer 83,’ said Bill.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Sam. ‘Of course those messages had to be ring-fenced from the operational system too. It was all too much for the new software, and no one noticed the glitch for forty-eight hours.’

  ‘How could they let that happen?’ said Toby.

  ‘That is a very good question. You could almost use it as the subtitle of my book. It was a cock-up, of course. And the company involved was big and reputable. But something very similar had happened four years earlier when they were upgrading the NORAD nuclear warning system. Someone ran a training cassette on the live operational network that simulated two thousand two hundred Soviet missiles heading towards the United States. For six minutes the Pentagon thought nuclear war had started. They woke up Zbigniew Brzezinski, the National Security Adviser. Fortunately, just as Brzezinski was about to call President Carter and suggest full-scale retaliation, the Pentagon called back having checked with their radar units directly. None of them had actually picked up any incoming missiles.’

  Sam looked directly at Bill. ‘That was what was so scary about your incident. The Alexander Hamilton couldn’t transmit to confirm the orders for fear of giving her position away to Soviet attack submarines. And the protocols forbade it. The protocols said that the captain should follow a properly formatted order to the letter without questioning it, and should launch his nuclear missiles. So it was impossible to do a reality check.’

  ‘That is scary,’ said Toby.

  ‘The Fail Safe Commission changed the protocols in the 1990s, partly as a result of this incident. After that, if the captain didn’t understand the reason for the order or suspected it might be an error, he was supposed to delay launching until he had had an opportunity to confirm.’

  ‘That was very sensible,’ said Bill.

  ‘Did they consult you about that?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No. I had left the Navy by then. But I am sure they spoke to Glenn Robinson.’

  ‘So I’m on the right track, then?’ said Sam. ‘I’ve just got one or two details wrong?’

  Bill shrugged.

  ‘Can I ask you about Lieutenant Naylor?’ the historian said. ‘I believe he was a fellow officer on the patrol. I understand he died?’

  ‘Craig?’ said Megan in surprise. Everyone turned to her and she looked embarrassed. ‘Oops.’

  ‘Yes, Craig,’ said Bill. ‘He was a good friend of mine,’ Bill explained to Sam. ‘We still speak about him in the family.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Was his death anything to do with the launch orders?’

  ‘Oh no. That was an accident. He somehow fell down a ladder and hit his head. He died a few days after the . . .’

  Bill realized he had come close to admitting there had been a launch order. ‘He died a few days after November ninth. His date of death will be on file.’

  ‘It is,’ said Sam. ‘The eleventh of November.’

  ‘Well then.’

  The historian glanced at his notes, hesitating. ‘One last thing. Did you know a woman named Pat Greenwald? A peace activist?’

  ‘No. But I think my wife knew her. Back in the eighties.’

  ‘You never spoke to her yourself?’
/>   Bill shook his head.

  The historian sighed. ‘All right, thank you,’ he said, packing up his notebook. ‘But I will find out what happened that day on the submarine. I’m very persistent and I will give this project as long as it needs. There were a hundred and forty crew members on the Hamilton. Most of them will still be alive. Some of them will talk. And I have filed Freedom of Information requests with the US Navy and the Department of Defense.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help,’ said Bill. ‘Genuinely.’

  Sam smiled half-heartedly.

  ‘There is one thing I can say,’ said Bill.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good luck.’

  He seemed to mean it.

  Sam didn’t answer. If his patience had been stretched by Bill’s stonewalling, he wasn’t showing it, but it seemed to Toby he had come a long way for not very much.

  ‘Hey, Sam,’ Bill said. ‘Are you driving back to Newcastle tonight?’

  ‘No. I’m staying at the pub in the village. I’m going on to Cambridge tomorrow morning, and then I’m flying back to America for some more research.’

  ‘Well, how about joining us for dinner?’ said Bill. ‘It’s Thanksgiving.’

  ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Have you ever experienced a genuine American Thanksgiving?’

  The historian hesitated, but then responded to Bill’s warm, generous smile. ‘All right. That would be nice. Thank you.’

  Toby wondered whether this was just Bill’s natural hospitality which was at its peak at Thanksgiving, or if he felt guilty about being so unhelpful. Or both. Probably both.

  ‘Great. Be back here at about five-thirty. Lars da Silva will be here. But don’t mention anything about Lieutenant Naylor. Craig’s son will be here also, and it’s a difficult subject with him.’

  Four

  As Bill ushered Sam Bowen out of the front door, Toby went back to the kitchen where Alice’s sister Brooke was helping her with vegetables. The two sisters were talking over one another in their excitement to see each other.

  ‘Hey, Toby!’ said Brooke, flashing her broad white smile. She put down her knife and gave him a hug. This was only the third time they had met, but she had always been very welcoming. Of the three sisters, Brooke was probably the one Alice was closest to. She was smaller than Alice, at twenty-nine a year younger, and her blonde hair was longer and curlier. She was a dentist in a suburb of Chicago: whether that was a cause or effect of her brilliant white teeth, Toby wasn’t sure.