THE H-BOMB GIRL, Stephen Baxter [ereader for android txt] 📗

control. “Harry, I think the Minuteman’s tiring. Maybe we should conclude our business.”

“Sure. Laura, maybe you could give us a few minutes. Do you have homework?”

It would be a relief to escape. “OK.”

“Good to meet you, little missy,” the Minuteman called after her. “I hope we get a chance to get to know each other better. In fact,” he rumbled, “I’m darn tootin’ sure we will.”

“Yes,” Mort said, staring at Laura hard. “We really got to make more of an effort, you and I, Laura. We’ll talk later.”

It sounded like a threat.

She heard the Minuteman leave an hour later.

She looked out of the window. The Minuteman’s chair whirred down the drive to his car, a huge black automobile. People came out of their front doors to goggle.

She went downstairs. Mum was in the kitchen. To her relief, Mort was nowhere to be seen. She had thought Mort was here because of his relationship with Mum. But he had seemed different with the Minuteman here, more focused on Laura. Whatever that was about, she didn’t want to know.

She found Dad in the parlour with the telly on, watching the news. He was on his footstool, with his sheaves of papers and photographs spread over the floor beside him. He glanced up at Laura. “Just give me a minute.”

She sat on the edge of the settee, and watched the telly absently.

She hated the news. It always seemed to be bad. Wars in faraway places like Laos and Thailand and Algeria. Tension between Americans and Russians and Chinese. That awful concrete Wall the Russians had built across the middle of Berlin, to divide the American west from the Russian east. And the long, posh, doleful face of Prime Minister Macmillan, droning on about international crises or the Balance of Payments. She’d much rather have President Kennedy, JFK, with his boyish good looks and glam wife and gorgeous little kids.

What was worse was that whenever the news got bad enough, Dad got drawn away into the thick of it.

At last the newsreader said, “And in other news…” The screen filled up with images of gleaming cars. The Motor Show at Earl’s Court.

Dad looked tired, but he pointed to a Cortina. “Got one.”

“Dad. I need to ask you some questions.”

“Fire away.”

“What’s a Minuteman?”

He counted the answers off on his fingers. “One. A volunteer soldier in the American Revolution.”

“When they got rid of the British king.”

“Yes. The Minutemen said they would always be ready to be called out in just one minute. The kind of legend the Americans are very proud of, bless their flinty hearts. Two. A Minuteman is the codename of a new kind of missile the Americans are deploying.”

“A nuclear missile?”

“Well, yes. And three. The nickname of that crotchety old chap who wouldn’t drink the perfectly good cup of char your mother made for him.”

“He probably would have rusted.”

Dad laughed at that.

“What was he doing here?”

“He came with orders for Mort. Not me. The Americans keep some things classified, even from their closest allies.”

“Orders about what? What’s going on now that’s so terrible?”

He looked at her. “Well, we’re in a bit of a spot. I’ll tell you the truth, Laura. This isn’t just another crisis. We’ve never been closer to world war, since 1945. Never closer to a nuclear conflict. Not even over Berlin.”

She stared at him. “So what’s it about?”

He sighed. “It takes a bit of explaining. It would be a lot easier if you ever watched the news. Look, Laura—do you know what the Cold War is?”

She shrugged. “Americans and Russians. H-Bombs.”

“Yes. Exactly. At the end of the war the Americans, and we, marched into Germany from the west, and the Russians came from the east, and we all met in the middle of Germany, and we’re still there seventeen years later, eyeball to eyeball. Only now we’re all armed to the teeth with nuclear bombs and missiles. Enough to blow everybody up several times over, if it all kicked off.”

“So what’s changed now?”

“Do you know where Cuba is?”

“It’s a little island off the coast of America.”

“Yes. But it doesn’t belong to the Americans. It’s independent. And the government is Communist.”

“Like the Russians.”

“Like the Russians, yes. We, I mean the Americans, have known that the Cubans have been mucking about with the Russians all summer. Cargo ships crossing to Cuba. ‘Advisors on land reclamation’ going over. That sort of thing. But the Americans weren’t sure what they were up to.

“Now, a couple of days ago the Americans took some photos of Cuba from a spy plane. And they saw that the Russians are building missile bases on Cuba.”

“Nuclear missiles?”

“Yes.”

“Why would the Russians do that?”

“Actually it sort of evens things up. We have bases close to Russia, in Turkey for instance. If these missiles in Cuba go ahead, the Americans will be under the same sort of threat. It’s fair, in a gruesome sort of way.”

“Has this been on the news?”

“No,” he said heavily. “Not yet. This really is classified, Laura. I’m telling you secrets. Even the Russians don’t know the Americans have those photos. Not yet. So you mustn’t tell anybody about it. I’m just telling you for your own good. Promise me.”

“I promise. So what’s going to happen?”

“Well, since the missiles are right on their front door the Americans are pretty miffed. Unless somebody backs down—”

“There’ll be a ruckus.” She used one of his RAF words.

It made him smile, but it was forced.

“Why am I lumbered with this Key, Dad?”

He shocked her by getting up, crossing to her, kneeling on the carpet before the settee and taking her hands in his. “Look, love, a nuclear war won’t be like the last lot, against the Nazis. It took us years to slug that one out to the finish. Now we have intercontinental missiles and high-altitude bombers, and a war could be fought out in days—hours, even. It won’t even be like a war. It will be like a great shining lid slamming down on us all.

“I’m stationed at Strike Command