Nodding, Kinsman replied, "Only with his own special outposts, and only for the experiment he's working on. We have an officer up there with him to make sure he doesn't . . . do anything political."
"This is insane," the young scientist argued. His accent was definitely British. "You're going to have half the troops in the United States pouring in here as soon as they realize 463 what's happened. We'll all be clay pigeons in a shooting gallery."
"Maybe," Kinsman said evenly.
"Of more serious consequence," said the Japanese as- tronomer, "is the possibility that America might unleash its nuclear missiles, for fear that this situation has been caused by the Soviet Union."
When they realized what the older man had said, the others turned toward Kinsman. But he had no answer for them.
Captain Ryan closed his codebook with an audible snap. The other officers in the wardroom were staring at him. Not a smile on the eight of them. The Captain's personal codebook was used only for the very highest priority messages, the kind that were marked FOR YOUR EYES ONLY. All lesser priority messages were decoded by the submarine's computer.
"It's the red balloon, all right," Ryan said. The tension in their faces actually eased a bit. The known fear was always easier to face than the unknown. "And a personal message from the Chief of the Joint Staffs. He expects us all to do our duty and make our kids proud of us."
Garcia's kids are living in the open housing development south of San Diego, Captain Ryan knew. They won't be around ten minutes after the button's pushed. He scanned the faces of his fellow officers. Same for Mattingly and Rizzo. Same for my own—and my new grandson!
"Well," he said, leaning his elbows heavily on the green felt tabletop, "it looks as if the shit has really hit the fan. And we've got a job to do."
They showed no enthusiasm at all.
"Listen to me," he said evenly. "When those missiles go, there's gonna be a helluva lot of Americans killed. Our job is to seek and destroy enemy subs. There are two of 'em in our area, according to this morning's sweep, and they wouldn't be patrolling around here if they weren't missile-launching bas- tards."
They glanced at one another, still showing no sign of fire. It was the captain's responsibility to instill a high morale among his crew, especially his officers. The officers must set 464 an example for the men, and the captain must set an example for his officers.
"Now, one of those subs has at least one missile that's got San Diego for a target," he went on. That moved them. They stirred. They sat up straighter.
"We've got to stop that missile from being launched."
"Sir," Garcia said, 'T don't see how we can do that. I mean, a red alert doesn't mean that war's been declared."
"There won't be a declaration of war, Mike," argued Mattingly, with his damned nasal Princeton accent. "The button is pushed and the missiles are launched. No paper- work. No diplomatic niceties."
"Then how do we stop them from launching it?"
Captain Ryan said, "We go for those subs now. Not after they've launched their missiles. Not after we get the code- word from Fleet HQ. NowV
"But—"
"You want to wait until they've blown San Diego off the map?"
