Taking the Heat

by Paul McDermott

  “Thanks—I think.” Dave risked a quick glance in Groth’s direction and decided to push his luck. “Does that mean you’ve had positive responses from all the places on the map marked with green pins?”

  “Not quite that simple, but in essence, yes. We still have the problem of getting them to suitable launch sites, but that is all I can tell you. We’ve reached a stage where I can make a start on that. Would Eddie be prepared to help me crunch some numbers—pretty big ones?”

  Dave was caught flat-footed at the sudden change of topic but nodded anyway. “I’m sure he’ll be only too glad to help. I’ll send him to your office right away.”

  ***

  Dave didn’t see Eddie until three sleeps after he’d relayed Groth’s request for assistance, and even then, it was purely by chance. Eddie stumbled out of the CO’s requisitioned office bleary-eyed and unshaven as Dave collected empty and unfinished coffee mugs abandoned around the ops room.

  “Don’t ask how it’s going—you know I couldn’t tell you even if I understood a tenth of what’s going on, which I don’t. And don’t tell me I look like shit warmed up. I know that already.

  “But for what it’s worth, you were right about himself not needing sleep. Just before every shift change, he disappears into a back office, runs a shower, then comes out in a fresh, crisp uniform. He must have at least a dozen of ’em hung on a rail in there. He’s a real bundle of energy, and he never breaks into a sweat. He’s an inspiration, seriously. You feel you just have to pull ye finger out and work as hard as he does, d’you know what I mean?”

  Dave thought he did know. He’d met a few happy workaholics in his time. He spotted one more coffee cup attempting to avoid detection and eased around his friend to capture it.

  “You’ll feel better once you treat yourself to a shower and a change of clothes, Ed. I’m sure the Groth effect is more to do with the psychology of keeping up appearances than anything else. Anyway, it’d be a waste of your time trying to explain even the simplest maths equations to me, so sod off, get yourself under a shower. I’ll speak to you after you’ve had a well-earned kip.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dave and Errol were assigned different shifts, and both checked in regularly on Eddie, who slept a full twenty-four hours before showing signs of life.

  “I swear it was the smell of the coffee that woke me as soon as you opened the door,” he said as he accepted gratefully the super-strength, military-issue brew Dave offered him.

  Dave grinned. According to folklore, army coffee was strong enough to wake the dead and persuade them to run a couple of marathons.

  “For the record, you’ve been out of it for a full day, Ed. No panic, we’re not short-handed, and the brig has called a timeout. There’s a briefing for all three shifts at noon. That gives you time to shower and shave before you grab a bite to eat.”

  Brigadier Groth’s public speaking technique mirrored very closely his telephone mannerisms. Once all personnel had been accounted for, he began without preamble.

  “This is the first occasion you’ve all been together in one room at the same time. I’ll start by thanking every single one of you—three teams of forty, if anyone’s counting—for your input over the six weeks since you volunteered to be sealed in this bunker without knowing when or even if you’d be able to re-join friends and family. A simple ‘well done, and thank you’ seems inadequate, but I’ll say it anyway. Thank you, one and all.

  “To business, then. The map on the wall is easy enough to interpret.” He gestured at the display with the swagger stick which was an inevitable part of his habitual pristine parade-ground uniform. Every pair of eyes turned to study it. He allowed them a few moments to drink it all in before continuing.

  “We reached a Green for Go status just over twenty-four hours ago. Those of you who were on duty the last two shifts will have noticed that we’ve had far fewer calls to deal with. That’s because we’re at the end of the preparations stage. We’re now very close to a launch date, with time on our side, and it’s all due to your hard work.”

  What sounded like a suppressed sigh of contentment rustled around the command room, stifled by a peremptory double-tap of swagger stick against podium. Groth wasn’t finished yet.

  “Depending on local weather conditions more than any other factor, it will take another few days for all the weapons to be delivered to their launch silos around the world. Some of the larger sites will receive sufficient weapons to be able to fire a second salvo, but you don’t need to know the logistics of that, other than identifying which sites will be firing and tracking them until they disappear from your screens.

  “Starting with Woomera, which will be at the most advantageous position, firing will commence at 0000 hours Zulu—or midnight in London for the civilians among you—on a day which will be confirmed once we are certain all the missiles have been successfully delivered and installed.

  “Every hour, as the next time zone reaches the position Woomera was in, the strike locations in that zone will fire their missiles. Twenty-four launches spread over twenty-four hours. The largest single strike in peacetime, made possible by your efforts. The future of this planet rides on it being successful.

  “A sobering thought and a tremendous responsibility. I’m sure some of you will have asked yourselves why so much firepower was being assembled and what the effects of such a massive detonation might be, but if you’d been told this, or indeed guessed, during the preparation phase, it would only have served as a worrying distraction when you needed every available moment to concentrate on your professional skills.

  “There is also this to consider.” He paused and looked around the room to make sure he had everyone’s full attention.

  “By calling for every country’s known stockpile of ‘Weapons of Mass Destruction’—a term with which the news media is enamoured and, in this case, has made our job easier to sell to the public—and firing them all at a target far from our home planet, we are in effect making this world a safer place. Irrespective of whether certain countries withhold a cache of undeclared weapons, there will still be far fewer in the world than there are today, even following the recent weapons purge to collect sufficient power to collapse the fault in the Mariana Trench.

  “We have already demonstrated these missiles are more than weapons for destruction. They are powerful tools in our planet’s defence. There is every chance that a genuine, permanent peace may be brokered, and war could become a thing of the past. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the legacy of your efforts for your children and grandchildren to enjoy.”

  There was more than a suggestion of emotion in Groth’s voice as he ended his impromptu speech, delivered without hesitation…and also without notes of any sort. The full complement of volunteers spontaneously broke into cheers and applause, many offering the brigadier their own civilian idea of what a smart military salute ought to look like.

  ***

  The drum-tight security surrounding the unique World Summit was reflected in the fact that it was three full days before anyone—even the most obnoxious and persistent wolverines of the tabloid press—realised that none of the 250 participating world leaders had been seen in public or in their respective offices.

  Naturally, a brilliantly inventive press statement had been prepared in advance, a masterpiece in sound and fury, signifying nothing and containing precisely zero information. Crucially, this bought a further forty-eight hours of debating time; by Friday evening, there was a broad consensus of agreement.

  “We have been given adequate time to prepare ourselves, but we must respond swiftly. Every country in the world must contribute what they can. Our whole planet is under threat. Working together, without panic or alarm, is the only way we can succeed.”

  The US President was first to fold and admit that his administration had ‘revised their records’ and in the process ‘discovered’ there were still some tactical missiles that had been ‘overlooked’ when they had made their contr
ibution to the sealing of the Mariana Trench.

  Similar discrepancies were swiftly found in the records of other countries, which surprised nobody, and an amended, more truthful stocktaking of the planet’s arsenal was swiftly compiled, together with a list of suitable launch sites and the rocketry needed to launch the weapons.

  Once the first barriers crumbled, the floodgates of unprecedented international cooperation opened wide. Time was suddenly too precious to waste on prevarication, posturing and near-paranoid distrust of a neighbouring country’s possible intentions. The survival of the planet was all that mattered.

  The ending of the year was uncharacteristically quiet. The commercial scramble of the festive period was more subdued than any since the austere years of World War Two, but the religious services of all denominations were noticeably better attended.

  Early in January, with practical preparations well in hand, it was possible for the political delegates to extract themselves from the summit and return to their respective countries, where they were without exception welcomed as conquering heroes. They were in an ideal position to win the hands and hearts of the countries they had been born or elected to rule and encourage them to ‘keep up the good work’.

  The reduced rump of the summit, consisting of professional military minds, was now able to surge ahead with confirming the complicated logistics essential to the audacious project they had undertaken.

  “We only get one shot at this. We’ve neither the time nor the resources for any field tests,” Groth said at the end of yet another intense, somewhat bad-tempered meeting. “It’s got to be right, first time.”

  Pete Whelan was in on the meeting, by Skype video link.

  “You saw the model I put together,” he said. A three-dimensional cube appeared on-screen at Western Approaches and key locations worldwide. “I got the idea from Spock playing 3D chess, with eight boards and two hundred and fifty-six pieces. Each piece on the schematic represents a launch site somewhere in the world.” The display had been put together to simplify the technical aspects of the operation for presentation at the summit.

  “As we discussed, the tilt of the planet’s axis means that sites in the Southern Hemisphere will be best placed for the main strike, with a window of early March as the optimum time for the launch date…”

  “You make it sound childishly simple, Doctor Whelan,” Groth remarked blithely, gathering his papers.

  “Oh, it’s complicated, Brigadier, no question. But Doctor Hart and I agree. The computer model has made it possible for us to run some test firings, and we’re confident we’ve covered all the bases. It will work.”

  ***

  17th March, 0000, ACST: Woomera range, Australia

  “First Base, Australia. This is Whisky Alpha. You are clear to fire. Confirm.”

  “Whisky Alpha, this is First Base. Stand by.”

  Thirty tense seconds ticked past. From the throats of hundreds of refurbished concrete silos, the silver spears carrying the first wave of the Southern Hemisphere’s contribution rose on pillars of flame and leapt into the cloudless sky, accelerating out of sight in seconds. Their flight path was recorded on every conceivable form of tracking device. The timing of the launch of each missile was crucial. Each had been calibrated to reach the same target zone while maintaining a safe distance between them to avoid mishaps and collisions.

  Back on the ground, crews were already in action reloading the silos with a second volley, timed to be released a fraction short of twenty-four hours after the first. In the command bunker, the calibrations were already being adjusted to allow for the Earth’s rotation and the slightly different orbital position as the planet continued its unchanging swing around the solar system’s fulcrum, ninety-six million miles from the launch site. Considering the distances involved, the slightest miscalculation of trajectory at the launch site was unthinkable.

  “Launch complete. All missiles successfully deployed. Repeat. All deployed.”

  Over the next twenty-four hours, waves of missiles rose on cue and in perfect formation from sites all around the world, kept at a safe distance from each other by tiny, delicate in-flight controls made possible by Pete Whelan’s StarChess computerised graphics.

  The former members of the Eyes and Ears team sat in a crowded bar at the Ship & Mitre, watching the missiles rise and disappear on a giant TV screen, which was strictly contrary to the real ale pub chain’s entertainment policy. There was no soundtrack or commentary to accompany the streamed images on the screen, and although the pub was filled to its utmost capacity and beyond, there was little conversation beyond an occasional murmur between friends.

  “Guess it’s all in the lap of the gods now,” Dave said. Brenda didn’t reply but squeezed his hand a little harder, then winced and wriggled free, chafing her palms to counter the pins and needles as the pressure of Dave’s grip loosened and blood started to flow back into her fingers.

  “It looks as if your brother’s done a mighty fine job with his StarChess,” Errol commented. He opened his cigarillo etui, then frowned and put it back in his pocket. Somehow, it seemed too much trouble to barge his way through the crowd to reach the door and stand outside for a smoke. Maybe it was time to kick the habit once and for all.

  “Listen, Dave. Assuming this one-off roll of the dice works, and we have a future to look forward to, I think I can persuade my father to invest a generous amount of research funding into development of your brother’s software. It could be extremely useful in logging and mapping on a grander scale than we’ve ever considered before, especially if we ever want to expand our horizons beyond the Third Rock at any time.”

  “Name a price, I’ll buy a ticket on the first flight.” This from Eddie, who hadn’t seen much point in making plans for an uncertain future, not until or unless there was a positive result and the mad gamble of staking the planet’s continued existence on one, single putsch succeeded.

  “You buy the next round of drinks, and maybe we got ourselves a deal,” Errol replied with a grin. “You can begin by explaining just what skills an ex-banker could possibly have to offer anyone recruiting a team to colonise another planet.”

  It was close to ten p.m. GMT on Sunday, 17th March. So far, silos in twenty-two of the world’s time zones had released the missiles they had available. Woomera and several of the larger bases had re-armed and would fire a second volley as they circled to face the optimum direction once more. Before the end of the week, the first-strike volley would pass beyond the scope of even the most sensitive tracking equipment, but the data being continuously transmitted from every missile already fired was encouraging.

  “I can assure you, we’ll know if we hit it,” Joey had said time and time again over the past six months. “An explosion of that magnitude would be impossible to miss—especially when we know what part of the universe we ought to be looking in.”

  “But what if you’re wrong, Joey? What if we don’t see anything? What if our sensors and computer programmes don’t show us what we all hope to see? What then?” Brenda was clearly petrified at the thought.

  “If we have no readings, no signals whatsoever, it could mean a total miss, but I can’t see that happening. Even if we only manage to break up this rock into smaller pieces, it becomes less of a threat to our continued survival. Hell, even if we don’t damage it at all but deflect it just a degree or two from its present course, that should be enough for us to live and fight another day. It may still affect our climate for a while, or even permanently, depending on how far away from us we can nudge it, but if we can avoid a direct hit, we’ve achieved something worthwhile.”

  “So if we’re still here on Midsummer’s Day and aren’t freezing our balls off in green snow falling from a pink sky, we can thank the Lord and pass the gravy?” This came from Errol, slouched back in his chair with a devil-may-care glint in his eyes.

  “That’s three months away, Errol, and we’ll know for sure in two, so yes, that about sums it up. Though personally,
I’d have tried to dress it up in more scientific terms.”

  One by one, the dots on the TV screen which represented the missiles hurtling through space winked out of existence as they passed the limits of the recording devices’ ability to receive signals. A vivid imagination and a leap of faith would be needed to extrapolate the most likely course of their onward thrust, and over the next two months, many people who had never considered themselves to be religiously inclined would discover they were praying for the miracle of success.

  ***

  Beyond the limits of the unique blend of breathable gases which had shaped the development of the flora and fauna indigenous to the third planet of an insignificant star in one of billions of galaxies, well-ordered, rank after rank of the most powerful weapons the dominant life form on that world had ever constructed hurtled through the silent, lightless vacuum of nothingness, seeking an impossibly small target in the vastness of infinite space. The payload was easily identified as solid, physical, measurable megatonnes of destruction, but they also carried the unquantifiable, immeasurable, weightless hopes and prayers of a whole species.

  About the Author

  Born in the Year of the Tiger, Paul has always had the feline instinct to roam.

  After spending most of his teaching career as an eternal supply teacher throughout Europe, Liverpool’s siren song was too strong to resist, so Paul came home and got himself a ‘proper job’ writing books.