by Denis Pitts
He looked around the office. His desk was bereft of paperwork. The in-tray was empty. His orderly had just removed the contents of the out-tray. He yawned again as the telephone rang.
“Duty officer.”
“Air Traffic Control, sir. Flight Sergeant Peters.” The voice was crisp and Cockney. “We’ve got a Mayday. Some bloke in a Cessna with engine trouble. Wants to come in here.”
“Oh, Christ,” said the duty officer. “Can’t he land in a field or something? You know the Defense Ministry rules on this sort of thing.”
“No chance at all, sir. Says he couldn’t possibly make a civvy airfield.”
“Okay, bring him in. I’ll warn the ground controller.” The squadron leader sighed heavily and picked up the telephone. Civilians in trouble meant paperwork and inquiries and too many bloody forms to be filled in. He wanted that gin and tonic quite badly now.
At exactly that moment, four hundred yards away, in a parking lot near the main gates of the airfield, the big doors on the holds of three coaches were being opened in a position that could not be observed from the main brick-built base itself.
Shaded from the big perimeter lights, 160 men took their weapons from the holds and stood in readiness behind the coaches. As they stood, in complete silence, they heard the distant sound of a small aircraft approaching.
A Landrover, with the sign FOLLOW ME brilliantly illuminated on its rear, was waiting for the Cessna as it made a perfect landing between the blue-and-white runway lights and turned left at the first exit. The driver watched the aircraft in his mirror as he guided it at speed onto the main apron of the base. The truck and the small single-engine aircraft passed along a line of massive Hercules Transports and several military jets.
As they reached the end of this line, the aircraft was maneuvered into a parking position next to a Hercules, which dwarfed it completely. The ground controller crossed the two glowing yellow batons and the propeller of the Cessna shuddered to a stop. Four men climbed from the plane. They stood and waited as the driver of the FOLLOW ME truck climbed out and walked toward them. The ground controller was already walking briskly in the rain to the airport buildings.
The man who had piloted the Cessna walked up to the truck driver. He wore a gabardine topcoat and a soft hat. He pulled the collar of the topcoat over his neck against the rain.
“Super job,” he said. “Very neat and efficient. Thank you, Sergeant ...?”
“Aircraftsman Standish, sir.” The driver looked at the aircraft. “Trouble with the engine, sir?”
“No, Aircraftsman Standish. None at all.” The pilot’s voice was succinct but it remained friendly.
“Now, Aircraftsman Standish, I want your cooperation.” He took a pistol from his topcoat pocket. The barrel glowed blue in the airport lights. “This is a Webley point three eight automatic. Without any further questions or any nonsense, I want you to stand by the aircraft there with your hands on the fuselage. Do it now.”
The last order had been snapped in a tone any aircraftsman could understand. It was an officer who spoke, and Standish was not there to question either officers or pistols leveled at his breastbone.
Even as he touched the body of the Cessna, he heard the Landrover engine leap into life and start to move along the line of Hercules aircraft.
What he did not see was the way it stopped at each aircraft to allow one of its occupants to get out and attach a small time-pencil to the hydraulic lines leading to the wheels. As they reached the middle of the line, the earlier fuses exploded and each aircraft lurched three or four inches to starboard. It took three men exactly seventeen minutes to ensure that seventy airplanes, enough to transport almost the entire British operational army, had been safely immobilized for a minimum of twenty-four hours.
The Landrover returned. The pilot beckoned the air-craftsman into the rear seat.
“Thank you, Standish,” he said. “You’ll be pleased to know that you have just helped us make history.”
Ten minutes later, the Landrover stopped outside the duty office. The pilot climbed out and walked quite casually into the building. He beckoned four Standfast men who were waiting outside.
The squadron leader was getting ready to telephone the air traffic about the Mayday call when the door was opened and the pilot strolled in. A Standfast man stood behind him with a cocked light machine gun.
“Good evening,” he said. His voice was fruity and cheerful. “You are Squadron Leader Day? My name is Craddock. Viscount Craddock.”
“Who the hell are you?” The officer stood at his desk. His face was reddening quickly.
“I’ve just told you, old chap. My name is Craddock and I am requisitioning your airport for the next few hours or days. Please don’t pick up the telephone. Stand quite still and obey instructions. This man has orders to shoot to kill. Right?”
“Correct, sir.”
“So, if you don’t mind, Mr. Day, I’d be glad to escort you to the officers’ mess, where I can explain everything to you and to the rest of your personnel. It’s a sort of coup d’état, you see. It’s all right, no need to worry. No one gets hurt unless they start playing silly buggers. You know, this sort of thing goes on all the time in South America.”
The duty officer was clearly confused. It had happened too quickly. His instinct was to throw himself across the desk at the outsider, but he saw the machine gun move in his direction.
He said tamely, “You realize that I am not the commanding officer?”
“Naturally,” said Craddock. “Your commanding officer is attending his daughter’s wedding in Oxford. Your second-in-command is at NATO headquarters in Belgium. Indeed, I could probably tell you where your most lowly airman is this evening. Now then, Mr. Day, please come to the officers’ mess. There is a lot to be done.”
*
The mess was in the tradition of all officers’ messes in the British services. It was oak-paneled, the walls decorated with colorful squadron crests. Sundry military honors were scattered around, and a large glass case contained sporting cups and other trophies. A large wooden propeller, dating back to the early twenties, overlooked a long bar which was usually tended by four surly barmen.
The large room was only a third full when Craddock entered the tall doorway and walked through the assembled company of officers. Only three of these men were in uniform. The others were dressed for golf or squash or tennis or simply in weekend casual wear. They talked loudly among themselves; Craddock could hear the tone of outrage in their voices. The reason was obvious enough. Ten Standfast men stood around the paneled walls with machine guns.
Craddock took off his topcoat and climbed onto a chair. He shouted for silence. The hubbub subsided slowly.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “Now I shall explain, just as quickly as I can, what is happening. I would rather do it in a relaxed atmosphere, without the guards having their weapons trained on you all. They are surrounding this building and this camp and I assure you that they mean business.
“But if I can have your assurance that there will be no attempt to lynch me, I shall have the guards outside. I’m sure that you find it just as distasteful as I do, especially in an officers’ mess.”
After a moment of silence, Craddock observed a few heads nodding and felt the general assent. He motioned the guards out of the mess.
“Well, now,” he said in that same matter-of-fact, confident voice. “It is my job, gentlemen, to tell you that you are all under arrest ... well, let’s call it house arrest. The fact is that the organization which I represent is taking steps to alter the system of government under which we have lived for so long, in the honest belief that it doesn’t work any more. Unfortunately, to achieve this, we have to use the force of arms you have seen. I don’t want to go further at this point because in the coming days you will have considerable opportunity to see the new government in action and I have a feeling that you will very quickly come to support it.
“In the meantime, I must ask y
ou to confine yourselves to this mess, to make no attempt to communicate with the outside world and to await events which, I do assure you, will happen very quickly and decisively in the next few hours. I should tell you that the hot line to NATO has been severed and that my men control all communication areas and the perimeter of the base. They do, alas, have orders to kill anyone who tries to break out or otherwise interfere.
“I hate to be so melodramatic, gentlemen. But we mean what we say and these guards have been well trained.”
Craddock glanced at his watch.
“Six-thirty. So far we are right on time. I have two minutes for any questions, although all will become clear once we have finished this nasty business and started to work.”
No one spoke for a long time, and then one young man stood up.
“Can you just tell us what is the nature of your party? I mean ... who are you?”
Craddock grinned broadly.
“In the first place,” he said, “we are not a party. We are a group of businessmen. To put it as simply as I can, our aim is to tidy up Europe, to get the whole thing working together, know what I mean? And me? My name is Peter Craddock.”
An older officer who stood near the bar asked: “Does this mean the abolition of Parliament?”
“Good heavens, no,” said Craddock. There was a hint of mock horror in his voice. “As I said, this is a tidying-up operation. We will be changing the functions of members of Parliament, certainly.
“The House of Commons will continue to be a representative body and it will still handle the day-to-day problems of the state — welfare, drainage, that sort of thing. It will have no say at all, however, in the economic planning at which it has bungled so badly for so long. No, gentlemen, Parliament stays. As a viscount, I have every intention of sitting in the House of Lords.”
Squadron Leader Day had moved to the back of the audience, anxious, obviously, not to be thought of as part of this outrage. Suddenly he plunged forward through his fellow officers.
“How the hell can you just sit here talking politics?” he shouted. “Don’t you realize that this bastard, whoever he is, has wrecked our Hercs? Seventy aircraft.”
He made a lunge for Craddock. Two men grabbed him and held him back.
Someone asked, “Is this true?”
“Your aircraft have not been wrecked. They have been put out of commission for a few hours. Just long enough to stop any attempt to bring the army back from Ireland. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
He looked at his watch again.
“I hate to say it, but I must be away. I can’t quite remember whether our policy includes reforming the archaic British licensing laws, but it is nearly six-forty-five and I suggest you open the bar now and take a chance on not being found out. Good evening, gentlemen, and thank you for your attention.”
Craddock was gratified to see, through the corner of his eye, several younger officers stand as he strode out.
OVER STRASBOURG, 2000
The message, delayed by the poor reception, had said: LYNEHAM AIRBASE SECURED AT 1800. LITTLE OPPOSITION. Becker had queried this just as soon as he had a clean line of communication. STATE NATURE OF OPPOSITION, he had asked. The answer came immediately. DUTY OFFICER TOOK SWING AT CRADDOCK. BOTH UNSCATHED. ALL AIRCRAFT DISABLED. BASE FULLY SECURED. PRESTO.
The traffic handled by the machinery in the aircraft’s control room was so dense that the computer screen was occupied constantly with messages. By pressing two keys, Becker could see a complete map of Europe showing the exact strength of Symphony forces on the ground. Urgent messages, which could override this, were flashed onto the screen in red print.
It was while he was studying the buildup in West Germany that the first such message clicked out at high speed on the screen. It read: ALL AIRCRAFT CAPABLE PARADROPPING AND TRANSPORTING PARAS NOW DESTROYED LESLAR AIRPORT PAU. NO RESISTANCE. ALLEGRO SUID.
He eased himself back in the leather seat and relaxed momentarily. That, he thought, was excellent news. The first two victories to Symphony. The British army contained in Northern Ireland, and Les Paras, the most efficient and ruthless division in Europe, sitting harmless and impotent in the remote southwest of France. It would take forty-eight hours, probably more, for them to reach the center of things. By that time, there would be new ministers from whom to take orders.
One of his aides handed him a sheet of paper. He read:
HANOVER SATURDAY (REUTERS) A NATO SPOKESMAN ADMITTED THIS EVENING THAT EXERCISE BULLSHOT, A COMBINED SIMULATED ATTACK MANEUVER INVOLVING TROOPS OF TEN NATIONS, HAD ENDED AS A “COMPLETE FIASCO” WITH OVER THREE HUNDRED ALLIED TANKS BOGGED DOWN IN MUD. HEAVY RAINS HAVE DRENCHED LUNEBERG HEATH IN THE PAST FEW HOURS. THE SPOKESMAN ADDED THE EXERCISE WAS NOW OFFICIALLY POSTPONED FOR 48 HOURS.
He handed back the paper and looked up at the aide.
“Three victories,” he said. “But the main operation is yet to begin.”
*
The one man in Italy who sensed that something was seriously wrong sat in bed drinking hot chocolate, syrupy sweet, and watching his wife undress. She was an attractive woman whose unbraided black hair swept down to her heavy buttocks. Her husband usually looked forward to the pleasurable sensuality of this time.
He hardly noticed her tonight; his face was set in a frown. He put down his cup and stared ahead at a crucifix on their bedroom wall.
His wife let a heavy silk nightdress fall over her body. She smiled at him.
“Tell me,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“I will tell you.” He did so, talking quickly and quietly, and she knew that the words had been building up in his mind.
“Carlo made a little joke tonight. After I told him about all the strange things that had been happening at Novara, he said okay, so what, it’s a coup d’état. Then he went off to the night clubs as he always does on Saturday nights.”
Mazzini’s wife climbed into bed beside him and pulled the cord that turned off their bedhead light.
“So?” she said gently.
“So,” he said. “Observation and instinct tell me that there could well be a coup going on at this very moment. No, seriously, my love.”
His wife nuzzled her chin against his chest and sighed.
“So if I know there is a coup, what do I do? Me, a mid-rank cop with retirement not far away? Do I ring the inspector? Or the commissioner? And what do I say? Good evening, Signor Commissioner, this is Detective Florio Mazzini, did you know there was a revolution happening in Milan this very night?”
His wife placed her ample arm across his soft belly and started to scratch him where she knew he favored being scratched.
“Stop that,” he said. “This is important. So I tell him that and he says now you just listen to me, Mazzini, that’s what he’ll say, so what the hell can I do about it and where’s your evidence anyway, so what if a lot of armed men are chasing about in luxury coaches — you just be at my office on Monday, that’s what he’ll say.”
His wife said in a lazy voice: “Lover, it’s getting late.”
“No, but then just who do you talk to if you know that there is a coup d’état? To the army, maybe. But to whom in the army? Do I tell the switchboard operator at Monza Barracks? Or do I call the commanding general in person? Or do I just shut up and forget the whole damn thing?”
“Yes,” his wife said softly.
“I mean, there’ll still be a rapist in Novara tomorrow, no matter what government we have,” he said. “And they’ll still need policemen.”
His wife said nothing. She sighed again and allowed her hand to stray lower on his body.
“What’s a coup d’état?” she said much later. She turned and saw that her husband was fast asleep. The frown on his face had disappeared completely.
12
A week after that sheer climb in Capri, Jean-Paul came on deck at first light. He was unshaven and his hair was tousled. He rubb
ed the sleep from his eyes to see that they were sailing close to shore and approaching a major harbor. The outline of a big cathedral dominated the horizon, and in the distance the familiar silhouette of the Chateau d’If was coming into focus. The wind was blowing off the land and the familiar smell of smoke and oil and people touched his nostrils.
It was the smell of Marseilles.
The next morning he left the boat at the Quai des Belges and took a taxi to the biggest hotel in the city. He lay on the spacious bed for several hours, looking at the ceiling, his bags lying unpacked.
He had not yet been away a year. There was more than a year to go of this sybaritic life — with freedom to go as he pleased and do as he liked and screw as he willed. He knew that D’Isigny’s present was no more than that traditional grand tour for a young man, with the assurance that every excess would be forgiven on his return.
He got up from the bed and stripped and stood under the shower for a long time. Then he dressed and he placed a call to his home in Paris. The maid who answered was shrill and excited to hear him; but the family, alas, was not due home from the south until the following night.
He called the chateau in Grasse, but they had left that morning.
He called the airport to see whether it was possible for him to get to London that evening. But all flights for the day had left.
He placed another call, this time to the London suburb of Watford, where Claudine was living. He waited for an hour and spent the time rereading her letters.
The telephone rang and he heard the excited French operator haranguing the deliberately slow Englishman at the other end. Finally he heard the sound of ringing.
“Watford 1296.” The voice was English, middle-class and friendly.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “May I speak to Mademoiselle d’Isigny? This is her brother.”
“Oh, hello, Mr. d’Isigny. We’ve heard so much about you from Claudine. I’m terribly sorry, but she isn’t here — she’s taken the children to the zoo for the day. We don’t expect her back until quite late.”