by John Gardner
‘If you’ll give me your address and telephone number, Boysie.’ Petronella put her hands on his shoulders. ‘We’ve got that unfinished symphony to perform. Remember?’
They kissed. Friendly more than fierce—on account of the frogman suit. Petronella departed, sadly, but with full details of the flat off Chesham Place.
Food—Boysie picking at cold chicken and salad—in the deserted dining-room. The Virgins had all disappeared, and there was a definite sense of the decks being cleared. Mostyn joined him and, at ten thirty, Klara came up to take them back to the island villa. A Senior stood by the lift—leather shorts discarded for a black cat suit. She carried a Sten gun. Down the main underlake passage they passed three more Seniors—cat suited again, the leader with a Sten, the others belted with holsters holding unladylike 9mm Super Stars. A far cry from the hockey and lax sticks of Roedean or Vassar. Once in the island villa Klara carted Mostyn away to see the defence preparations and the mechanical devices her Uncle Benno had once built into the island.
Boysie was ordered to relax—in a small rest room (couch, chair, ashtray) leading off Skidmore’s do-it-yourself Cape Kennedy Control Kit.
Since they had forced him into the rubber suit, Boysie’s energy and concentration had been almost totally directed towards mastering the recovery routine. Now, alone on his back, trickling cigarette smoke up between his teeth, Boysie’s mind was free to range over the forthcoming problems. Fear sharpened the imagination. Out of focus, the Chronic Illness missile bobbing on the lake expanded to the size of a ditched airliner, while the lake itself became a heaving Atlantic swell—a brewing storm with fifty-foot wave-troughs keeling the giant missile to and fro: Boysie like a fly trying to climb the wing.
Boysie took a deep breath. Just as quickly the picture righted itself. He could feel his hand on the screwdriver, steady, with the slight movement of the missile below. It was not a question of whether this whole business terrified him, or if it seemed ludicrous, impossible. Weapons like this existed. They were a threat to Boysie personally and to all the Boysies—male and female—who lived and breathed on this stinking planet. OK, his fear, spinelessness, lack of guts, was a personal matter. It was also the fear of millions—those terrified of losing the myth of democracy, and those frightened of the big bad giant democracy. He thought about this for a minute or so. Conclusion: to be afraid was not something of which he need be ashamed. It was true. But he did not help the drunken butterflies staggering through his gut, nor the thumping quake-beat of his heart. For the second time that day, Boysie yearned for comfort—physical if possible, sexual for preference. And, for the second time, the door opened on cue. He expected to see Petronella—broken free from Martin and returning to be at his side, to comfort his last moments. It was Angela.
‘Coffee?’ she said, putting the cup on the chair. Her eyes showed red rims under the careful make-up.
‘Thanks. You all right?’ Slow. Charming.
‘Mm-huh.’ Affirmative.
‘Not going to be shot at dawn then?’ Smooth man-of-theworld.
‘No. I’ve been given another chance. Got to stay on for a year though.’ Dismal.
‘That’s not so bad. Sit down for a minute.’ Tongue hanging out.
‘I don’t think that would be very comfortable,’ said Angela, backing towards the door, a flush breaking through the Rubin-stein French Beige. ‘Doctor Thirel’s methods are old fashioned —and painful.’
Mostyn returned at eleven twenty.
‘Right, old son. This is it.’ Something of the execution chamber about the greeting. Boysie swung off the bed, zipped up the front of his jacket, buckled the straps of both sheath knife and tool kit around his thighs, and picked up the flippers—the inadvertent cause of his predicament.
‘Radio link’s good.’ Mostyn sounded sweetly cheerful. ‘Just checked it out. And wait until you see the tricks that Klara’s got tucked away. Nasty minds, Uncle and Daddy. Didn’t trust people.’
Together they went next door, into the Control Room, and began the altercation about Toad, Rat, Mole and Badger.
‘Before we start ...’ Skidmore, speaking into a microphone on the computer switch board—the voice coming clear through speakers angled in the four corners of the room. ‘Before we start I want everybody to check watches with me. Are you receiving us, Doctor Third?’
Klara’s voice, disembodied through the speakers, from her eyrie at the defence controls. ‘Go ahead. Good luck, Professor.’
‘And good luck to you, dear lady. It will be 23.32 at zero. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.’
Boysie checked the dial on the Breitling Navitimer which came with the diving suit—compliments of Strategic Intelligence. Accurate. Stop watch needles set at zero.
‘All ready then, Fortescue?’
The old man jumping up and down, as if on springs, in front of his intricate array of instruments below the screen at the far end of the room. He turned and nodded from the waist, violently. ‘Tally-ho. Ban the Bomb. Damn the Mods and Rockers.’
‘Up scanner then. Give me some power.’
The solid whine of a generator followed by the shaking of floorboards. Next door the radar scanner was being lifted on to the roof.
Skidmore’s hands were moving across the consol as if having a go at the D minor Toccata and Fugue. Fortescue, an aged ape at play, nipped smartly among his instruments—patting and caressing. The radar receiver indicators came on—long white arcs of light circling the screens. Then a wide flash over the big wall opposite. Colour. Switzerland, Italy and the Yugoslavian coast spread before them, mapped in blue, orange, green, black and white. Better focus. Thin dark blue lines moved, crossed and recrossed, patterning the map. In the bottom right corner, sliding up the Adriatic, parallel with the Yugoslavian coastline, a tiny trail of red crept on a steady course heading roughly in the direction of Venice.
‘That’s the carrier aircraft. The red one—others are commercials. She’s there, a little ahead of time, but she’s there.’ Skidmore like a race commentator. ‘What price Fortescue now, Mossfin? All his work, this. All done by mirrors—and the help of photochromic dyes and a few valves, of course. Show us the carrier’s turning point then, old lad.’
The map dissolved. In its place a close-up of the Adriatic with details of the two coastlines. The red line ‘advanced towards a prick of light roughly a foot from its apogee.
‘That’s her turning position—the light about two hundred miles from the Italian coast.’
Boysie was watching Skidmore’s head, bending over the consol making quick and urgent calculations. ‘My god he is ahead of time. I shall have to begin running the release tape within seven minutes. We’re in a good position now.’
‘Go ahead.’ Klara on the loudspeaker. ‘If she’s well positioned go ahead now. We’ll cope if they try anything.’
Boysie glanced at his watch. The second hand clocked ten.
‘OK.’ Skidmore with excitement. ‘Right, Fortescue?’
Fortescue glanced toward the consol, lips going like a bulldog clip under regular pressure—the sound of words lost in the whine of the generator.
‘Give me the release map.’
The screen dissolved and altered again.
‘Wonderful things these light-reversible dyes.’ The Professor talking to himself.
Genoa was in the top left corner of the screen, the Adriatic bottom right—the carrier aircraft still tracing its neat red stream.
‘You ready Mossfin and Boysie?’ The big shaggy head turned from the consol and grinned—toothy. Boysie raised a limp hand of acknowledgment.
‘It only takes a flick of the forefinger.’ Skidamore’s scrubbed claw hanging over a large central switch. The hand came down and the twin drums of tape began to revolve. ‘Tape running. Watch the red line.’
*
Major Yusykov, at the controls of his TU-20 felt the aircraft buck underneath him. For a moment he thought it was a jet stream. Then the hooded light to the right of his ma
chmeter began to wink. There was a fractional pause before he pushed the plunger—ensuring radio silence and warning his four crewmen that they had slipped into Condition Red. He had long expected this moment. Now it had arrived there was a burst of relief. Tusykov had come to terms with tension a long time ago. He concentrated, holding the aircraft on course. For a moment he did wonder if there would be reprisals and how soon they would come. His wife and children were on holiday with his parents in the city. Major Tusykov felt his stomach contract. In the nose of the aircraft, signals were coming through the transistorised guidance system and being thrown out again—hurled at UR/39.
*
The red line split on the screen, turning into two definite marks—a V-shaped road junction on a map. The second line moved much faster than its parent.
‘She’s gone. She’s off. We’ve done stage one.’ Professor Skidmore quite still, hunched over the consol.
The line turned into a fast curve, moving straight and true towards Genoa.
‘Give me the final phase map.’
The screen did its dissolving magic again. Zooming close in on Genoa, Voghera, Maggiore, the crimson trail inched its way to Genoa.
*
One hundred miles south of Genoa the coiled brain of UR/39 vectored on to its target. The inertial platform tilted. The signal bleeped through at a millionth of a second and the power pack activated the safety device. Fifty miles from the target the vehicle registered its new course. The accelerometers made a minute change and the long silver germ dropped to 20,000 feet and began to lose speed.
*
‘Watch her. Just about now. She should lock about now.’
The line faltered, still creeping forward, slower now. Over Genoa and turning. Turning and thickening—the sign, Skidmore said, that she was reducing height.
‘Down to 10,000.’
The line wavered and then seemed to pick up a scent. Straight towards Voghera beacon and in line with the Isole di Brissago.
‘We’ve got her. By god we’ve got her. Off you go, Boysie.’
Boysie’s reaction was a second behind that of Mostyn. Out of the room, over the scanner lift—metal floor now—across the landing and into the lift. Come on.
‘Faster, damn you.’ Mostyn brutally to the lift.
Down. Boysie’s guts six inches above his head.
‘Five. Four. Two. Eight. A stroke CX.’ Mostyn beating Boysie again, speaking into the perforated circle. The steel door swooping up. Mostyn away, running up the passage. Boysie lumbering behind, not so fast in his rubber suit. Sweat already. Why the hell hadn’t they waited down on the hovercraft? Because Skidmore was determined that rotten Mostyn should see Fortescue’s brilliant display screen. Up Mostyn. Up Skidmore. Up the both of them with the bloody Chronic Illness.
Through the Seniors’ wash room—no underwear this time. A twitch of desire. Fear promoting desire. A Senior by the door (long black hair, good thighs and a Sten). Up the stairs. Up. Up. The narrow spiral of stone steps. Church bells. No, that was a century ago. His hand on the safety rope, the big Navitimer round his hairy wrist. ‘The man of action uses Schloop’s Hair Dressing.’ A mustiness in the summer house. Along the path. Cypresses. Mimosa. The water.
Frederick had already started the hovercraft’s motors. He jumped clear as Mostyn scrambled down into the cabin. Boysie panting next to him—a shin barked on the metal as he clam-bered in. ‘Swive it.’ An oath from Boysie.
The cockpit canopy was pushed right back to give them room for manoeuvre once they got to the missile. Mostyn’s hands sure—almost casual—on the controls, phones clamped over his small ears. Boysie cursed Mostyn’s easy professionalism, remembering his keck-handed attempt with the hovercraft. A switch down. A spear of light from the nose. A push and roar. Vibration as the compressor fans began to whir. Heavy rumble from the airscrew high in the rear. Lift. The light stabbing in front of them as they gathered speed—a long oval skimming across the water. Boysie went through the drill—swivel mounting free on the hand-operated spot they had fitted outside the starboard edge of the cockpit; rope and sling; flippers on, tight round his feet. Uncomfortable. They were ripping out on to the lake, tearing up the water behind them, the island a black splodge to their left.
Mostyn’s hand suddenly to his ear. ‘Splash-down.’ He yelled. ‘Splash-down.’
Boysie jumped a couple of inches—keeping level with his heart—and pressed the stop watch plunger on the Navitimer. Mostyn pushing up the revs, one hand down on the compass, setting course from Skidmore’s instructions filtering through the earpieces.
At the same moment, two things happened. Behind the island —from the direction of Locarno—a violet flash cut across the sky, followed by a burst of silver stars dropping and arching out, willowing on to the lake surface. The fireworks were beginning. Automatically, Boysie’s head turned towards the flash. As it did so his eyes picked up another moving image—on the lake, less than twenty yards away. The noise of motors seemed to have got louder. Boysie’s head whipped round again—a double-take on the object—a dark shape moving rapidly away from them, heading into the black mass that was the island, a broad strip of white spreading out behind.
‘What the hell’s that?’ he shouted.
Mostyn lifted an earpiece—irritation round the eyes and forehead. ‘Can’t hear. What?’ Shouting.
Boysie bawled, pointing. ‘Over there. What the hell is it?’
Mostyn’s head jerked in the direction of Boysie’s unsteady finger. Another burst of fireworks—gold, red, green flowers, high, lighting the lake like misty dusk. For five seconds the island was plainly visible—a small open bathing beach on the west side, and, in front, the unmistakable fast shape of a motor boat turning in. Behind the boat, three skiers, straining backwards on their taut ropes. Further out, coming in behind the first lone boat, another formation of three—each with its trailing trio of skiers.
‘She’s left it too late.’ Mostyn yelling on a high note. They banked alarmingly. ‘Klara’s left it too bloody late.’
As he shouted, the island seemed to explode into a haphazard glare of bright eyes—a battery of searchlights bringing the whole area into dazzling vision. The first boat was completing its turn, coming parallel with the beach and thrusting away, its skiers sliding round in its wake. As they reached the centre of the turn, head-on to the beach, they cast off their ropes—three white skid marks clawing up towards the shore, slowing as the skis lost planing speed, and sinking into the shallow water for a ‘dry landing’.
‘They’re going in on skis.’ The obvious bursting out.
‘Why the hell doesn’t Klara use her barriers. Watch them, Boysie. Must keep on course. You watch them.’
The three other boats were positioning for their turn towards the beach, flying through the water, dead for the shore. Boysie thought he saw the flicker of hand gun fire from the trees near the land spot. Certainly all the lights had now been turned on to this one area. Klara must be operating something. She had said the defences were foolproof. Barriers. Mostyn had shouted. The boats were about fifty yards from the shore, ready to turn, their positioning, in a wide V, immaculate. Boysie craned back, his line of vision splendid between the boats and the island. Without warning, ten yards ahead of the lead boat, a curtain of water rose up—stretching round the whole of the western end of the island in a long curve. The water fell away, leaving what looked like a tall metal grid growing from the lake. A crash barrier. Steel net, eight feet high, sloping outwards. The barricade.
‘Bloody hell. Metal things out of the water.’
‘That’s it.’ Mostyn talking like a deaf man on the telephone. ‘Steel wire. Dangerous. Set in concrete bunkers, operated hydraulically and electrified. Live for five seconds on contact. Lethal. She’s got three of ‘em.’
The lead boat was too close to do anything. The man at the wheel probably did not even see the obstruction. They struck the net bows on—wood and metal folding back as if hit by a blow torch. Then a confusi
on of fire exploding in a tall snake of flame.
The three skiers did not even have a chance to react and drop their lines. In horrific slow unison they were pulled forward—catapulted into mid-air. The centre man kept hanging on—through shock, or perhaps an unconscious clutch at self-preservation. Boysie saw him turn on the rope and disappear into the column of flame. The other two let go—slithering forward out of control, splattering into the barrier in a shower of sparks.
The remaining boats attempted to slow down and turn away —one making it at the expense of his skiers who were dragged suddenly inwards bouncing one after another into the barrier—the line of sparks running and flashing over the whole fence. The other misjudged his turn and hurtled broadside into the metal. Once more the grind, pyramid of fire and flying bodies like somersaulting dolls. Behind, a huge blossom of rockets from Locarno—raining balls of coloured fire against the mountains.
Boysie’s stomach felt hollow. The carnage, witnessed in the past few minutes, had about it the ring of unreality. Amid the noise of wind and motors in the cockpit it had been like watching a Technicolor silent film—the effects department responsible for the fire and explosion, stunt men performing their ‘derring do’ on skis. The bodies, which he knew floated, charred, on the lake, were only dummies. They had to be dummies.
‘Crumbs,’ he said, an unconscious wish for childhood. ‘Bleeding crumbs.’ The diving suit felt insufferably hot. Boysie looked down at his watch—only four minutes since Mostyn received the splash-down signal. He glanced back at the island—now receding rapidly (Mostyn batting up the knots). But for one lone spotlight, playing round the area of the beach, the Isole di Brissago were in darkness. The metal barriers had disappeared and two floating fires marked all that remained of Assault One’s invasion force.
‘Coming up to it.’ Mostyn dragged Boysie’s mind back to the real issue. ‘Switch on that spot, Oaksie. Got your bath salts and plastic ducks?’