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command would probably be a desk, if he was bloody lucky.
    ‘So I guess, Captain,’ I said, ‘that means you can neither confirm nor deny the absence of a nuclear warhead?’
    Again he glanced at Lonergan, who shrugged, nodded and looked down at his shoes.
    ‘Hell, Mr Murdoch,’ the captain said quietly, ‘I couldn’t even confirm or deny the absence of two nuclear warheads.’
    At that he turned and vomited over the side of the ship, into the sun-kissed, pale-blue waters of Sydney Harbour. I knew exactly how he felt.

SIX
    The Altoona ’s captain insisted on walking off his ship rather than being carried. He paused momentarily on the dock beside the body bags, shook his head slowly, then turned and walked to the waiting ambulance.
    Carter Lonergan was in conference with a group of Navy officers. He broke away from them and walked across the deck to where Julie and I were standing.
    ‘Ship’s executive officer wants to put out a press release,’ he said. ‘Saying there was a small electrical explosion in one of the galley storage bays.’
    I looked at the body bags and the TV crews and the ambulance carrying the captain roaring out of the main gate, siren wailing. ‘Exploding baked beans? That should work,’ I said. ‘Especially if you redirect the wounded to the emergency department at Saint Stupid’s Hospital and have them examined by a bunch of legally blind medical students.’
    Lonergan’s right eye twitched and the scar on his cheek tightened.
    ‘This isn’t the kind of situation you can spin away with a press release and your fingers crossed, Lonergan. This is two missing nuclear warheads, for God’s sake!’
    ‘So what the fuck do you suggest?’ he snapped.
    ‘Well, for starters, how about you don’t bring nuclear weapons into our front parlour. And if you do bring the bloody things in, at least have a responsible adult keep an eye on them.’
    I figured Lonergan’s fist was just about to start on an anger-fuelled, upward trajectory towards my jaw when a khaki-clad US Navy lieutenant joined us. The lieutenant had been sitting on the helicopter deck when we boarded, leaning back on a bulkhead looking totally exhausted. A less evolved person than myself might have noted that this particular sailor had rather perky breasts under her neatly pressed shirt. She was tall, with tawny-blond hair and dark brown eyes and was wearing a blue baseball cap with NAVY in big yellow letters on the front. The whole package was accented by a webbing belt and a pistol in a holster on her right hip. I have to admit I’m a sucker for a girl in uniform, especially when she’s packing a gun.
    ‘I’m Lieutenant Clare Kingston,’ she said, ‘and I would like to point out, without confirming or denying the existence of fissile armaments, that our security systems for transport, storage, sterile containment and safe disbursement of said armaments are second to none.’
    ‘Bully for you,’ I said. ‘But right now your security systems are looking a bit shabby, so let’s cut to the chase. What’s missing exactly, who took them, and why? We can leave the how to the secret commission of inquiry down the track.’
    There was a Beretta M9 semiautomatic pistol in that holster on her hip, and I could see she was very tempted to take it out and use it. If looks could kill I’d already be pushing up gerberas. The M9 is a bit of a hefty gun, but the lieutenant looked like she could handle it. Right about then I noticed some red spatters on the left shoulder of her shirt.
    ‘That looks like blood,’ I said. ‘You get injured in the gunfight?’
    She shook her head. ‘It’s not mine. I was next to the captain when they fired back at us from the helicopter.’
    ‘Sorry, must have been a bit grim out here. But your skipper looks like he’s going to be okay.’
    Lieutenant Kingston seemed to soften a little.
    ‘And I’m sorry if I was short with you,’ I went on, ‘but I haven’t had a decent cup of coffee this