In High Places

James Howden hoped that the five men facing him would share his views and see the issues and alternatives clearly. It could be disastrous if the fulminations of lesser brains than his own resulted in needless delay.

'There can no longer be any doubt,' the Prime Minister said, 'of Russia's immediate intention. If there were ever any doubt, events these past few months have surely dispelled it. Last week's alliance between the Kremlin and Japan; before that, the Communist coups in India and Egypt and now the satellite regimes; our further concessions on Berlin; the Moscow-Peking axis with its threats to Australasia; the increase in missile bases aimed at North America – all these admit to only one equation. The Soviet programme of world domination is moving to its climax, not in fifty years or twenty years, as we once comfortably supposed, but now, in our generation and within this decade.

'Naturally, Russia would prefer its victory without recourse to war. But it's equally plain that the gamble of war may be undertaken if the West holds out and the Kremlin's objectives can be reached in no other way.'

There was a reluctant murmur of assent. Now he continued. 'Russian strategy has never been afraid of casualties. Historically their regard for human life is notably less than our own and they are prepared not to be afraid now. Many people, of course – in this country and elsewhere – will continue to have hope, just as there was hope that someday Hitler would stop gobbling Europe of his own accord. I do not criticize hope; it is a sentiment to be cherished. But here among us we cannot afford its luxury and must plan, unequivocally, for our defence and for survival.'

As he spoke, James Howden was remembering his words to Margaret of the night before. What was it he had said? Survival is worthwhile, because survival means living, and living is an adventure. He hoped it would be true, in the future as well as now.

He went on, 'What I have said, of course, is not news. Nor is it news that in some degree our defences have been integrated with those of the United States. But what will be news is that within the past forty-eight hours a proposal has been ', made, directly to me by the US President, for a measure of integration as far-reaching as it is dramatic.'

Swiftly, perceptibly there was a sharpening of interest around the table. 'Before I tell you the nature of the proposal,' Howden said, speaking carefully, 'there is some other ground I wish to be covered.' He turned to the External Affairs Minister. 'Arthur, shortly before we came in here, I asked for your assessment of present world relations. I'd like you to repeat your answer.'

'Very well. Prime Minister.' Arthur Lexington laid down a cigarette lighter he had been turning over in his hand. His cherubic face was unusually solemn. Glancing to left and right in turn, he said evenly, 'In my opinion, international tension at the moment is more serious and dangerous than at any other time since 1939.'

The calm, precise words had honed an edge of tension. Lucien Perrault said softly, 'Are things really that bad?'

'Yes,' Lexington responded, 'I'm convinced they are. I agree it's difficult to accept, because we've been poised on a needle point so long that we're used to crises as a daily habit. But eventually there comes a point beyond crisis. I think we're close to it now.' '

Stuart Cawston said lugubriously, 'Things must have been easier fifty years ago. At least the threats of war were spaced at decent intervals.'

'Yes.' There was tiredness in Lexington's voice. 'I suppose they were.'

'Then a new war…' It was Perrault's question. He left it unfinished.

'My own opinion,' Arthur Lexington said, 'is that despite the present situation we shall not have war for a year. It could be longer. As a precaution, however, I have warned my ambassadors to be ready to burn their papers.'

'That's for the old kind of war,' Cawston said. 'With all your diplomatic doodads.' He produced a tobacco pouch and a pipe, which he began to fill.

Lexington shrugged. He gave a faint smile. 'Perhaps.'

For a calculated interval James Howden had relaxed his dominance of the group. Now, as if gathering reins, he resumed it.

'My own views,' the Prime Minister said firmly, 'are identical with those of Arthur. So identical, that I have ordered immediate partial occupancy of the government's emergency Quarters. Your own departments will receive secret memoranda on the subject within the next few days.' At the audible gasp which followed, Howden added severely, 'Better too much too early than too little too late.'

Without waiting for comment he continued, 'What I have to say next is new, but we must remind ourselves of our own position when a third world war begins.'

He surveyed the others through the haze of smoke which was beginning to fill the room. 'In the state of affairs today, Canada can neither wage war – at least, as an independent country – nor can we remain neutral. We have not the capacity for the first, nor the geography for the second. I offer this, not as opinion, but as a fact of life.'

The eyes around the table were fixed steadfastly upon his own. So far, he observed, there had been no gesture of dissension. But that could come later. 'Our own defences,' Howden said, 'have been, and are, of a token nature only. And it is no secret that the United States budget for Canadian defence, though not high as defence budgets go, is greater by far than the total of our own.'

Adrian Nesbitson spoke for the first time. 'But it isn't philanthropy,' the old man said gruffly. 'The Americans will defend Canada because they've got to, to defend themselves. We're under no compulsion to be grateful.'

'There is never any compulsion about gratitude,' James Howden responded sharply. 'Though I will admit at times to thanking Providence that honourable friends, not enemies, adjoin our borders.'

'Hear, hear!' It was Lucien Perrault, his teeth clamped on a cigar pointed jauntily upwards. Now he put down the cigar and clapped his paw of a hand on the shoulders of Adrian Nesbitson next to him. 'Never mind, old friend, I will be grateful for the two of us.'

The interjection, and its source, had surprised Howden. Traditionally he had assumed that the greatest opposition to his own immediate plans would come from French Canada, whose spokesman was Lucien Perrault: French Canada, with its ancient fear of encroachment; its deep-rooted, historic mistrust of alien influence and ties. Could he have misjudged? Perhaps not; it was early yet to tell. But for the first time he wondered.

'Let me remind you of some facts.' Once again, Howden's voice was firm and commanding. 'We are all familiar with the possible effects of a nuclear war. After such a war, survival will depend on food, and food production. The nation whose food-producing areas have been contaminated by radioactive fallout will already have lost the battle for survival.'

'More than food would be wiped out,' Stuart Cawston said. His customary smile was absent.

'But food production is the single thing that matters most.' Howden's voice rose. 'The cities can be blasted to rubble, and a good many will be. But if, afterwards, there's clean land, uncontaminated; land to grow food, then whoever is left can come out of the rubble and begin again. Food and the land to grow it in – that's what will really count. We come from the land and we'll go back to it. That's the way survival lies! The only way!'

On the wall of the Privy Council chamber a map of North America had been hung. James Howden crossed to it, the heads of the others turning with him. 'The Government of the United States,' he said, 'is well aware that food areas must be protected first. Their plan, at all costs, is to safeguard their own.' His hand raced across the map. 'The dairy lands -northern New York, Wisconsin, Minnesota; the mixed farming of Pennsylvania; the wheat belt – the Dakotas and Montana; Iowa corn; Wyoming livestock; the speciality crops -Idaho, northern Utah, and to the south; and all the rest.' Howden's arm dropped. 'These will be protected first, the cities secondarily.'

'With no provisions for Canadian land,' Lucien Perrault said softly.

'You're wrong,' James Howden said. 'There is provision for Canadian land. It's reserved for the battleground.'

Again he turned to the map. With the index finger of his right hand he stubbed a series of points directly to the south of Canada, moving inward from the Atlantic seaboard. 'Here is the line of United States missile sites – the launching sites for defensive and intercontinental missiles – with which the US will protect its food-producing areas. You know them as well as I know them, as well as every junior in Russian Intelligence knows them.' Arthur Lexington murmured softly, 'Buffalo, Plattsburg,

Presque Isle…'

'Exactly,' Howden said. 'These points represent the spearhead of American defence and, as such, they will form the first prime target of a Soviet attack. If that attack – by Russian missiles – is repelled by interception, the intercept will occur directly over Canada.' Dramatically he swept the palm of his hand across the Canadian segment of the map. 'There is the battleground! There, in the scheme of things now, is where war will be fought.' Eyes followed where the hand had moved. Its path of travel had been a broad swathe north of the border, bisecting the grain-growing West and the East's industrial heartland. In its path were the cities – Winnipeg, Fort William, Hamilton, Toronto, Montreal, the smaller communities in between. 'Fallout will be heaviest here,' Howden said. 'In the first few days of war we could expect our cities to go and our food areas to become poisoned and useless.'

Outside, the Peace Tower carillon announced the quarter-hour. Within the room only Adrian Nesbitson's heavy breathing broke the silence, and the rustle of paper as the official reporter turned a page of his notebook. Howden wondered what the man was thinking, if he was thinking; and if he was, unless conditioned in advance, could any mind grasp truly the portent of what was being said?, For that matter could any of them really understand, until it happened, the sequence of events to come?

The basic pattern, of course, was appallingly simple. Unless there were an accident of some sort, or a false warning, the Russians almost certainly would be the first to fire. When they did, the trajectory of their missiles would lie directly over Canada. If the joint warning systems worked efficiently, the American command would have several minutes warning of attack – time enough to launch their own defensive, short-range missiles. The initial series of intercepts would occur, at best guess, somewhere north of the Great Lakes, in southern Ontario and Quebec. The American short-range weapons would not have nuclear warheads, but the Soviet missiles would be nuclear armed and contact-fused. Therefore the result of each successful intercept would be a hydrogen blast which would make the atom bombing of Hiroshima squib-like and archaic by comparison. And beneath each blast – it was too much to hope that there would be merely two, Howden thought – would be five thousand square miles of devastation,and radioactivity.

Swiftly, in terse crisp sentences, he transposed the pictures into words. 'As you must see,' he concluded, 'the possibilities of our survival as a functioning nation are not extraordinary.'

Again the silence. This time Stuart Cawston broke it, speaking softly, 'I've known all this. I suppose we all have. And yet one never truly faces… you put things off; other things distract… perhaps because we want them to…'

'We've all been guilty of that,' Howden said. 'The point is: can we face it now?'

'There is an "unless" in what you have said, is there not?' This time Lucien Perrault, his deep eyes searching.