Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

by Derek Robinson

  “We’ve still got loads of Thor missiles,” Skull said. “Thors never sleep.”

  “But they can’t be kept in immediate firing condition day and night,” Freddy said. “The fuel is very volatile, liquid oxygen, it leaks out, you’ve got to keep topping it up. Face it: Thors or Vulcans, the unhappy fact is that if we want to retaliate effectively, we must have several hours’ warning first. Not a secret we’re about to tell the Soviets, is it?”

  “We’re all doomed. Well done, Freddy,” Silk said. “Drinks on you.”

  “Far from it, old chap. You see, that’s not the whole story. We assume that any nuclear strike would be preceded by a state of mounting international tension.”

  “That ran off the tongue very smoothly,” Skull said.

  “Did it? I’ve read it so often, in strategic planning papers. Written it, too. State of Mounting International Tension: SMIT. Acronyms rule the world nowadays.”

  “Is this Cuban thing a SMIT?” Silk asked.

  “Definitely. It’s given us the breathing space we need to put all our defences on high alert.”

  “So Kruschev won’t attack now,” Skull said.

  “Worst possible option,” Freddy said. “He may be pugnacious but he’s not suicidal.”

  “You sure he knows about SMIT?” Silk asked. “I mean, if Skull’s right, shouldn’t we tell Kruschev this is a bad time to blow up the world?”

  “Now you’re being facetious,” Freddy said.

  “Am I?” Silk looked at Skull. “Don’t just sit there. Have a brainstorm. Have two.”

  Skull pointed a bony finger at Freddy. “We need a SMIT to give us the essential time to prepare. Yes?”

  “Correct.”

  “And a Soviet leader would have to be a maniac to order a first strike during a SMIT.”

  “A very stupid maniac.”

  “Therefore it follows that an intelligent maniac would strike when there is no diplomatic crisis? No SMIT? A bolt from the blue?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Silly question,” Silk said. “He’s a maniac. He can do what he likes.”

  “World leaders aren’t maniacs,” Freddy said. “Nuclear war kills everyone.”

  “Maniacs don’t think they’re maniacs,” Silk said. “Maniacs believe they’re doing God’s work.”

  They walked back along the perimeter track. “Puts the whole silly nonsense in perspective, doesn’t it?” Skull said.

  “They can’t scrap the Vulcan,” Silk said. “Unthinkable.”

  A SCANDALOUS ROMP

  1

  Soon the Cuban Crisis ended. Kruschev agreed to remove his ballistic missiles and Kennedy pledged not to invade or attack the island. Secretly, he also promised to take all the American Jupiter missiles out of Turkey. So: no World War Three this year. Air Force General Curtis LeMay was furious: he believed Kennedy had missed a wonderful opportunity to destroy Communism. The rest of the world stopped holding its breath and got on with its life. This included Squadron Leader Quinlan’s pregnant wife, who showed signs of premature delivery; very premature. She telephoned Kindrick late at night. Quinlan was granted compassionate leave and was gone by midnight. Next morning, the CO stopped Silk as he went into breakfast. “You’re acting captain,” he said. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  ***

  All the crews gathered in the biggest room in the Operations Block, on orders from the station commander. Must be something big.

  “One or two impetuous newspapers have announced the phasing-out of the Vulcan,” Pulvertaft said. “I can tell you that news of its death has been considerably exaggerated. The Vulcan will be part of Britain’s front-line defence for some time to come. Missiles are all well and good, but no missile can do what every manned bomber can do, and that is take orders in flight from commanders on the ground. So your role in the Vulcan will always remain unique. However ...”

  He picked up a clipboard, glanced at the page, put it down. Nice bit of theatre, Silk thought. Make ‘em wait, make ‘em think.

  “Times change, and we change with them,” Pulvertaft said. “Your Vulcan was designed to fly too high and too fast for enemy air defences, and it did. Now their defences have caught up and that superiority has gone. We can no longer fly above the enemy’s reach. Therefore it has been decided that you shall fly beneath it.”

  That stirred them. Pulvertaft allowed the rumble of comment to fade, and said, “Here it is in simple English. You will fly at height to the point of detection, then dive to extreme low level and make your entry below their radar coverage, release your stand-off weapon, and climb to maximum height to exit the area. High-low-high. The Operations Officer will explain more fully.”

  This he did, and answered questions. What everyone wanted to know was how low was extreme low level. “Certainly below five hundred feet,” he said. “Possibly much lower.” And where would low-flying training take place? “I can’t yet say. Canada and Arizona have been mentioned.” Any further questions? None. Everyone wanted lunch.

  ***

  Silk’s crew were standing around, outside the mess, talking about High-Low-High, wondering how fast a Vulcan could dive from say fifty thou to five hundred without ripping the wings off, when the adjutant came over and introduced Flying Officer Young. “Your co-pilot during Mr Quinlan’s paternity leave,” he explained, and went away.

  “Too bloody young,” Tucker said.

  “That’s what passes for a joke around here,” Silk said. “On the other hand, you don’t look terribly old.”

  “Thirty-two. Married, with children. The usual story.”

  “Another damn Scotsman,” Hallett muttered.

  “Young isn’t a very Scottish name,” Silk said.

  “I’m a MacAskill on my mother’s side. Part of the clan McLeod, from the Isle of Skye, originally.”

  “Hope you can play bridge,” Dando said. “We need a fourth.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Nobody spoke. The crew had lost its Combat status when Quinlan left. Not Young’s fault, but to them he represented bad luck. He felt the need to say something, to justify himself. “Mountaineering is my thing. I’ve climbed all the good peaks in Scotland.”

  “What a shame,” Silk said. “We’ll be going into Russia at extreme low level, very boring for you. Bring a good book.”

  2

  Zoë telephoned. She was at The Grange, come and have dinner. A rare occasion nowadays. Not to be missed.

  When Silk parked the Citroën, Stevens was waiting at the front door. “Remember me?” Silk said. “I’m still the under-husband.”

  “Mrs Monk’s bull terrier is no more, sir. Chased a rabbit, collapsed. A noble death.”

  “Did Tess tell you that? She’s a pathological liar. I saw her dead husband cleaning her windows.”

  “Almost true. An exchange was arranged. One shop-soiled Polish agent was traded for Mr Monk. He’d been in an East German jail for seven years.”

  “Tess married a spy? The windowcleaner was a spook? I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Good,” Stevens said. “That makes it all the easier to forget.” He held the door open for Silk to go in. “Along with Wing Commander Skelton, of course.”

  Silk took off his hat, spun it on his finger, put it on backwards. “I’m sick of your bloody silly hints and riddles. Either speak up or go to hell.”

  “Nothing is worse than being wrong,” Stevens said, “except being right.”

  Silk headed for the stairs. “I need a drink. I need a bucket of booze.”

  ***

  Zoë was alone and happy to see him, and still capable of giving his pulse a kick. Dinner was good. Nobody mentioned politics or Cuba or CND. Mostly they talked about things they had enjoyed together, in years past: trips, theatres, films, friends. Beds. All the dozens of different beds they had shared. “I notice you haven’t included the punt.” He said.

  “I never got bedded in the punt.”

  “That day on the river at Camb
ridge... If I’d agreed, would you really have ...”

  “Yes.”

  He frowned as he pictured the scene. “Not a helpful setting.”

  “But that was the whole point of it, darling. We’d have drifted into midstream and collided with dozens of other punts and probably capsized and got arrested for indecent exposure. All quite absurd, I agree, but ... there was a reason. I had a wild idea that some gloriously scandalous romp would buck up our marriage, and if it failed, at least it would be an afternoon to remember. I’m going to Seattle, Silko.”

  He tried not to look surprised or hurt. He poured more wine and waited.

  “I’m going to join a thinktank on conflict resolution. I’ll give up my seat in the House. Time for a change. The constituency needs someone fresh and new.”

  “Seattle,” he said. “Oregon.”

  “Washington State, actually. You’ll come and see me, won’t you?”

  “I always do, don’t I?”

  “I know, I know. You got this Vulcan job and now I’m leaving, it’s not very kind of me. You can keep the house, of course.”

  Silk looked about him. “It won’t be the same without you. Have I permission to kill Stevens? He broke my cello.”

  She kissed him on the lips, very firmly. That hadn’t happened for a while. And now, when it happened, she was off to Seattle. “You’re a good man, Silko. I’m awfully glad we met. But let’s face it, apart from our marriage, your life never points in any direction, does it? I’m, not saying it must, there’s no law about it, but ever since you left school you’ve simply gone from one aeroplane to the next.”

  “Well, I’m good at it.”

  “Yes, very good. All the same, I think you fly to escape.”

  “Escape what?”

  She knocked gently on his skull with her knuckles. “Whatever’s hiding in there. Now shall we go punting in the bedroom?”

  End of serious conversation, thank God.

  3

  Freddy met Skull at the RAF Club, in Piccadilly. “We shan’t need to whisper here,” he said. “Half the members are half-deaf anyway. All those years sitting next to roaring engines. All that sudden changing of altitude. I say: Cuba was a close call, wasn’t it?”

  “You didn’t drag me down from Lincoln to get my opinion on Cuba.”

  “No, I didn’t. You know how the Service works, Skull, so you’ve already guessed why you’re here.”

  “Either I’m being offered a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List, or I’ve got the chop.”

  Freddy nodded. “Maybe a bit of both. Not a K, of course. Might get you a CBE. Let’s have a drink, shall we? Then lunch.”

  They found a quiet corner of the bar. “I could always join one of the new universities,” Skull said. “They offer such peculiar degrees. Lawnmower technology. History of the fox-trot. I could be a professor of war studies at the University of Bognor Regis.”

  “A chap with your brains? No, no. Total waste. The Service values your analytical brilliance, your penetrating insights, your ...” Freddy’s forefinger made small circles in the air. “Your lust for truth.”

  “Heaven help us. It’s as bad as that, is it?”

  “‘Lust’ was the wrong word. I withdraw ‘lust’.”

  “Last time I got the chop they said I was unorthodox. Lusting after the truth isn’t much of an improvement. They sent me to the Desert Air Force. Would you like to hear the truth about the desert war?”

  “Look, they’ve got a table for us.” Freddy stood.

  “The truth is the flies shall inherit the Earth,” Skull said. “The flies already occupy Libya.”

  They went into the dining room, Freddy nodding and smiling at a few acquaintances. The waiter gave them menus.

  “A pint of Beluga, a double Chateaubriand, and any bottle that says Rothschild,” Skull told him. “Since my rich uncle is paying.”

  “The club doesn’t do a Chateaubriand,” Freddy said. “Their steak-and-kidney pie is well spoken-of.”

  “I’ll have the chops. Lightly grilled. That’s a stunning play on words. Chops. Hilarious. Forget it.”

  When the waiter had gone, Freddy said: “Normally, postings go from Air Ministry via Command and Group to the officer concerned. You know that. So this is an exception. For old time’s sake.”

  “I don’t really want a CBE,” Skull said. “I’d sooner have the lunch anyway.”

  “I just wanted you to know that we couldn’t possibly leave you at Kindrick, not with your irregular views on deterrence and secrecy.”

  “Irregular. Is that the same as uncomfortable?”

  “Try unacceptable. We can’t have a Senior Intelligence Officer casting doubt on our nuclear deterrent policy. You’d corrode morale. Aircrew can’t have doubts. You know that.”

  Skull tore a bread roll in half, and then in half again. He saw a crumb on his left index finger, and he licked it off. “We seem to be in something of a SMIT,” he said. “State of Mounting Interdepartmental Tension. Your department and mine. I can’t stay at Kindrick. You can’t court-martial me or even admonish me, because if you try, I’ll make damn sure Mrs Zoë Silk MP knows all the sordid details, and the result will be the kind of publicity that gives your people nightmares.”

  “And the Vulcan crews’ morale doesn’t concern you?”

  Skull raised his hands, palms upwards. “Since they’ll never return from Russia, they deserve to know the truth before they go.”

  “There you go again,” Freddy said. “Swearing in church.”

  Lunch arrived, and they talked of other things.

  Eventually, as they stood outside the club, enjoying some late autumn sunshine, Skull said: “I appreciate the courtesy, Freddy. Now, what’s your plan?”

  “Send you on a course at a Defence College. In America, perhaps. That’s what we usually do with our loose cannons. But you have to promise to behave properly. Don’t embarrass us.”

  “Years ago, when they shunted me off to the Desert Air Force, Air Ministry gave me another ring on my sleeve. Up to squadron leader.”

  Freddy put his head back and stared at the pure blue sky. “Group Captain,” he said. “You want to be Group Captain Skelton.”

  “Analytical brilliance. Penetrating insights. Your words.”

  “Blackmail,” Freddy said. “Don’t go back to Kindrick. Stay at my place. I’ll get all your stuff sent over. And do us all a favour, Skull. Learn how to lie, will you?”

  “Yes, of course, at once, fluently,” Skull said. “How did that sound?”

  Freddy flagged down a taxi. Another problem solved.

  ***

  Freddy arranged for Skull’s stuff to be packed and taken to his house, but he forgot about the Lagonda. Skull immediately caught a train to Lincoln and a taxi to Kindrick, collected the Lagonda from the Motor Transport Section, and he was quietly driving away when Silk saw the car and came running. Skull stopped.

  “You weren’t at our briefing,” Silk said. “We had an idiot flight lieutenant Intelligence Officer who doesn’t know Arthur from Martha. Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. Freddy’s place. He’s putting me up for a while.”

  “Oh.” The Lagonda’s huge engine began to grumble, and Skull made tiny adjustments to the choke. “You mean you’re off,” Silk said. “Leaving for good.”

  “Good or ill.”

  “Well ... that’s bad news, that’s all I can say. I mean, stone the sodding crows, this whole damn place is falling apart. Bloody hell ... You weren’t much good, Skull, but at least you never let the bullshit baffle you.”

  “Raw cunning, Silko. It’s as easy as falling off a bicycle. Try it, sometime.”

  A quick handshake. Silk watched the Lagonda go. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said aloud. “More’s the pity.” It sounded like bad advice from a stupid friend who meant well and should have shut up.

  4

  The flight was a routine training exercise: a trip to Benbecula on the Isle of Lewis, where No.81 Signa
ls Unit would test Dando’s air electronic warfare kit.

  Six-monthly servicing. No sweat. Even the weather was friendly, for late autumn. Patchy cloud, the odd shower, light winds.

  Silk captained the bomber, with Young in the right-hand seat, and Silk flew it for the first twenty minutes, until they were high above the commercial airliner routes and heading for the Atlantic south of Ireland. Then he gave the control to the co-pilot. Hallett would navigate them around Ireland and north to the Western Isles of Scotland. Young could drive the bus. Quite soon, Silk regretted it. Young flew well; too well. There was nothing to tell him, nothing to do but think.

  Silk thought about Skull. It couldn’t have been an ordinary posting. Movement orders normally took days, or weeks; they didn’t happen overnight. The odds were that Skull had got the chop again. He’d been shat on from a great height. This was such a bleak thought that Silk forced it out of his mind, searched for a happy replacement, and got Zoë. She could easily capture his mind with a royal flush of memories; but Zoë was moving to Seattle. The better the memory, the bigger his loss. He kicked Zoë out, and in came Tess Monk, riding her bike. She’d chucked him out. He forgot her. What he couldn’t get rid of was this act of forgetting. Everywhere he looked, he lost people, one after another, bang crash wallop, and it hurt. He turned to Young. “So you’re a mountaineer, are you?” he said. “You must be mad. Explain to me how you’re not mad.”

  “Ah, well now...” Young didn’t turn his head. His flying was rock-steady. Maybe this was a test, an attempt to distract his attention. He checked the major dials and indicators: all correct. “Good mountaineers have a love of the mountain, they understand the rock and work with its shape. Bad climbers treat the mountain as hostile, and they fight it and lose, sometimes they die. Ten years ago, the newspapers said Everest was conquered. Wrong. Nobody conquers a mountain. What happens is it lets you share its space for a while.” He checked the fuel gauges. Okay.

  “Still, it’s dangerous,” Silk said. “You wouldn’t do it if it was safe.”

  “I wouldn’t be on a Vulcan squadron if I wanted a quiet life.”

  “Nothing lasts forever, not even Vulcans.” That got no reply. “We’re the last in line,” Silk said. “After us, empty skies.” Still no comment. “Make the most of it, I say. What’s the best mountain in Scotland?”