by Simon Royle
Gabriel had used Sir Thomas as the basis for analysis of the founding members tracing back from Francis Oliver, Sir Thomas’s father and through him to identify the first Hawks, or at least some them – the rest were conjecture based on their actions. The more I thought about this, the more impossible I realized it was to actually stop or identify them. If something is impossible don’t try do it. The next best thing to stopping them was exposure. To make people aware of their existence and how they acted. This was not easy because there are always conspiracy theories, and theorists usually end up in the ‘crackpot’ category in most people’s minds. For exposure to work, the evidence would have to be concrete and compelling.
Next to - expose the existence of the Hawks and if possible their members I wrote exposure - get concrete compelling evidence. I ignored the last three things on my planning list. As much as I wanted to see a positive outcome for each of them, they were of secondary importance. Six point three billion people were going to lose their lives in about eighty days. Allowing eight days for the Tags to be delivered to their homes. Stopping that delivery had to be the primary goal.
The most difficult part of my plan was to gain the trust of Sir Thomas, and use that trust to gain access to the Hawks. I had an in via his asking me to write his memoirs, but how to go beyond that I hadn’t yet worked out. I had to come up with a way to push his buttons, to get him to accept my word as trustworthy and then… And that was it, I didn’t really know what was going to happen. And Gabriel’s advice in that area was noticeably vague.
I took a sip of my coffee as the sun peeked over the horizon then I turned and went into the house. The sun cast its warmth on my back when I returned to the unfolded Devstick under the table, under the heat pads. I called up Gabriel’s file of information and pressed delete. I couldn’t keep the information on the Devstick – it was too much of a risk – and anyway I had what I needed in my head.
I folded the Devstick and pushed the clip over to lock it into its hand-held configuration and thumbed my contacts.
“Call Sir Thomas.”
The stored image of Sir Thomas, sitting behind his battleship of a desk, annoyed me, so I flicked over to the global feeds. As the news of the planet filled in, the image was cut by that of Sir Thomas.
“Hello, Uncle. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time?”
“No, Jonah, it’s all right. I was just on my way to UNPOL.” I could see the dawn sky of New Singapore bobbing around behind Sir Thomas’s head as he walked and talked. He must be walking from his Penthouse to UNPOL across Topside, I thought.
“I saw your speech the other night. I thought that you came across really well. It looked good.”
“Thank you, Jonah. And thank you for finding the right words for me as well. I think you may be on to something with this writing idea of yours,” he said, smiling into the camera. I smiled back, forcing my eyes to smile as well.
“I was wondering when you would like to get together to discuss your memoir. I obviously don’t have anything on yet and I have some time on my hands so....”
“Yes of course. Well the sooner the better really. Um, I tell you what. I was looking to get a round of golf in today at the UNPOL Officers’ Course. Would you be free about, say 4:30pm for nine holes?”
“I haven’t been on a golf course in years, Uncle. I’m afraid I won’t give you much of a game.”
“Nonsense, man, it’s like riding a bike and fucking. Once you know how, you never forget!” Sir Thomas laughed loudly in the screen of my Devstick. I couldn’t laugh, but somehow I managed a broader grin. My cheeks hurt.
“Right, well, OK then. I’ll see you at 4:30pm then. Please book a set of rental clubs for me could you? I sold mine before I came out here.”
Sir Thomas nodded and then the screen reverted back to the Global News feeds. No more bombs yet. That was the good news.
“Find me shops selling golf shoes in New Singapore,” I said into the Devstick.
***
I strolled down the narrow white-walled corridor to the entrance of the UNPOL Officers’ Golf Course, near to UNPOL Headquarters on Topside. It was 4:25pm. Reaching the end of corridor I entered the lobby of the Clubhouse and walked up to the reception.
“Hi my name’s Jonah Oliver. Do you have some golf shoes behind there for me?” I said, smiling at the Indian-looking old man behind the counter. He grunted and reached under the counter, pulling out a cloth bag containing what I guessed were the new Nike golf shoes I’d credded that morning.
“Thanks, oh and, ah, where can I pick up rental clubs?”
He looked to his right. I followed his look. A large sign with white letters carved into dark brown wood said, ‘Rental Clubs’ and had a long white arrow pointing past the reception counter. I gave him another smile. He picked his teeth with a toothpick and continued looking straight ahead to somewhere over my left shoulder.
I followed the direction the sign suggested and came out to a small paved area about a hundred meters away from the first tee. Ten golf bags on three-wheeled Dev caddies were standing around.
“Jonah Oliver,” I said, and a Devcaddy with a black bag of newish looking clubs turned, came towards me and stopped. Its camera rose until it was about the same height.
“Good afternoon, Jonah, I have your clubs ready here in the bag. I understand you’re playing the back nine today. Would you like a quick rundown on the tenth and the weather conditions before we get there?”
“Sure, go ahead,” I said, and sat down on a white stone bench to put on my new golf shoes.
“Wind conditions are good. A slight eight to nine kilo breeze out of the north-east, humidity at a nice sixty-five percent and the stimpmeter is at seven point five. The tenth is a par four, four hundred and twenty yards long, with two bunkers on the right at about two hundred and fifty yards, and a single small bunker on the left at two hundred yards. Best angle of approach is down the right side of the fairway to catch the slope.”
It made me smile to listen to the word ‘yards’. You hardly ever heard it anymore, only on a golf course, where golfers stubbornly refused to adopt the global metric system. I stood up and bounced on the soles of my feet to test the shoes. They felt good, a perfect fit, and walked out of the rental area towards the tenth tee, with the Devcaddy trundling along behind me.
Sir Thomas was standing on the green with a driver tucked behind his back and locked inside his elbows as he twisted back and forth. He was wearing a peaked cloth cap, white polo shirt, khaki long outers and white golf shoes. His eyes frowned slightly as he realized that the guy walking on to the tenth tee wearing green baggy surfer shorts and an orange batik shirt with fluorescent green golf shoes was me. I smiled and waved.
“Hello, Uncle. I’ll be right there.”
Sir Thomas, nodded and smiled weakly back. “Good afternoon, Jonah. Taking this beach thing a bit seriously? Did you lose your clothes in the move?”
“No, not all. I just thought I’d bring a little sunshine into the grim, dark world of UNPOL.”
“Hah, grim dark world indeed.” And saying this Sir Thomas flipped his tee into the air, spinning it. It landed point first towards him. Somehow I knew it would.
“What do you say, Jonah? Fifty creds a hole, and two hundred on the score? I’ll give you two shots on the handicap.”
I nodded and smiled, standing up on the tee. Looking down the fairway, I said, “Yes, that sounds all right. Are you still playing off twelve?”
“Yes, yes. Last time I checked.” A small grin from my uncle made me think that he might not be telling me the truth but I let it slide. It wasn’t quite true that I hadn’t played golf for a long time either. I played a lot of golf on the Dev, just not on a golf course. The world-famous UNPOL Officers’ Course was one that I had played a lot. I knew every hole, bunker and green on the thirty-six hole course having played it hundreds of time on my Dev in Woodlands. Virtual golf is not the same as real golf but it comes very close. I was looking forward to this.
Sir Thomas teed off with a respectable drive that faded right and put him on the fairway about two hundred and twenty yards from us. I selected the two wood and took a couple of practice swings, letting the muscle memory come back into my swing. I addressed the ball and swung, driving the ball low and out towards the right of the fairway, landing about ten yards beyond Sir Thomas’s ball and rolling to stop twenty yards farther on.
“Good shot,” Sir Thomas said, and started walking off up the fairway. Handing my club to the mechanical hand of the Devcaddy I followed and caught up to him as we passed the ladies’ tee.
“So have you had any further thoughts on how you would like this memoir to be constructed? I’m quite excited about the project. Your life has covered a very interesting time in our history and perhaps I may have the chance to learn more about my parents too.”
Sir Thomas glanced across at me and nodded. “Well, yes, uhm, I think I have told you everything I know about your parents but, certainly there have been many changes in the world of ours this past seventy-five odd years. I think tying it into the big moments and movements that we’ve seen these past decades since the Great War of 2056 would be an excellent idea.”
“You were in Europe during the Great War. Is that correct? I seem to remember you telling me that, or have I just picked that up along the way.”
“Yes, I was in Europe. I was very lucky in a way because I was supposed to be in London, and if I had been where I was supposed to be, I would have been incinerated in the two bombs that hit London. Bit of overkill there, one bomb was more than enough. Anyway, I was supposed to join my regiment in London for the regimental dinner but I got a call from battalion ordering me to replace a lieutenant who had been wounded in a firing range accident the day before. Of course I departed right away and joined the nuclear response command bunker the next day. At noon that day the war started.”
Sir Thomas stopped. We had reached his ball. Hands on hips and looking towards the hole, he said, “Three iron.” He struck the ball cleanly and it flew straight towards the hole, hitting the front edge of the green. But it had too much pace and, reaching the slope that begins in the middle of the green, rolled off into the bunker on the far side.
“Blast!” Sir Thomas exclaimed and there was a loud thunk as he smacked the club into the Devcaddy’s outstretched hand. I walked on without saying anything, thinking about the shot I had to play, and the moves I had to make with Sir Thomas to gain his trust. I was playing it by ear, probing with my questions, looking for an opening. My ball was sitting up nicely.
“How far to the pin?” I asked the Devcaddy.
“One hundred and sixty-two point three five yards to the front edge....”
I laughed and interrupted, “Hey, what’s your name? Sorry I forgot to ask.”
“Name, Jonah? No, I do not have a name. I am a Callaway Devcaddy from the UNPOL Officers’ Course.”
“All right, look. I’ll call you Call, short for Callaway, and from now on just give me the yards rounded down to the nearest five yards. OK?”
“Certainly, Jonah. One hundred and sixty yards to the front edge and the pin is one seventy-five from your current position.”
“Seven iron please, Call.” On my practice swing I saw out of the corner of my eye that Sir Thomas was standing, hands on hips, watching me. I swung and hit cleanly in the sweet spot. The ball soared high and landed just before the front edge of the green. Taking a single bounce it then rolled to a stop about six feet from the pin.
Call, my new electronic buddy, said, “Good shot, Jonah.” Sir Thomas marched off up the fairway, leaning slightly forward and swinging his arms briskly as he went.
At the green I stood to one side leaning on my putter, looking at Sir Thomas in the bunker. He swung but all that came up over the lip of the bunker was sand and, “Blast.” I didn’t say anything. Another swing and the ball came out, landing on the green and rolling about three feet away from the hole. Normally, in a friendly game of golf, I’d just call that a ‘Gimme’ and let the other player have the shot but I wanted to get Sir Thomas off-balance.
I said nothing, walked over to my ball and took a long look at the line of the putt. I dropped it.
“Nice putt,” Call said and I smiled. Call didn’t have a mouth but I am sure he would have smiled if he did. Sir Thomas sunk his three footer and with a little glare at me as he bent down to pick up his ball, walked to the next tee without saying another word.
Despite the warm air, the silence was frosty and loud. The eleventh was a short par four just two hundred and fifty yards to the hole but with a narrow fairway with water running down both sides and a green surrounded by bunkers.
“Eight iron please, Call.” I cleared my mind and swung, putting the ball about one hundred and fifty down the fairway with a good approach to the green. Sir Thomas stepped up, and using his seven iron, landed his ball close to mine. He looked over at me with a tight grin.
“Good shot, Uncle,” I said, and we turned and started walking up the fairway. “So, you were in the command bunker in … where was that actually?”
“Spain. Just outside of Barcelona in a mountain, in a place called Sant Vicen del Horts. I finally arrived after a SNAFU, at 6pm on the 14th of May. I hadn’t arranged accommodation yet as I wasn’t sure how long I’d be there, so I just headed to the command bunker and slept there. In the morning we went on full alert and into lockdown. It was a terrible time and the strain on the men, one in particular, was too much. That strain is now called Holt’s Syndrome from that time.”
“Halt’s Syndrome? How do you spell that? H-A-L-T-S? What is it?”
“No, with an O. That’s how you spell it. The extreme stress that comes with knowing that mass destruction is within your power. The man I was talking about cracked under that stress and killed everyone in the bunker except me. I was wounded but was the only other person aside from Holt - that was his name, Keith Holt - with a sidearm. I managed to shoot him before he got me. Terrible thing though. He launched the missile we were in command of. Nothing we could do of course. Flight time was only a few minutes but he wiped out Bucharest, just after the ceasefire was ordered globally.”
We reached my ball. I had played for this spot knowing that this green was bowl shaped with a funnel that would lead you off the bottom left side of it if you played the shot anywhere other than into the top right corner. One of the advantages of virtual golf is that you can take the same shot a hundred times and see exactly where you land on the green.
“Call, give me the sand wedge, please.” Call handed me the sand wedge and I shook it a little to get the feel of the weight. I took a full swing and follow through, trying for as much back spin as I could get on the ball. I didn’t need to see it land to know that it was perfect, and turned to Sir Thomas without looking at the green. He was still watching my shot.
“Wouldn’t such an incident cause a blemish on your career?”
“Well of course there was a court martial but the evidence against Holt was strong. He had emailed his sister with crazy talk about how he could rule the world from where he was, God of the universe, that sort of thing, and I was completely exonerated.” He looked up at me and smiled as he stood over his ball, “Gave me the DSO at the end of the court martial.” Sir Thomas swung and I saw that the line he had taken was wrong. It was a good shot but he’d be left with at least a fifteen foot putt.
“Good shot, Sir Thomas. What does DSO stand for?” I asked, and he beamed at me.
“Yes not bad, eh? Well, let’s go take a look shall we? DSO stands for Distinguished Service Order.” And he turned to walk up the fairway. I joined him.
“And you were what twenty-one, twenty-two at this time?”
“Twenty-one. I’d been in the army since one month after my sixteenth birthday, the absolute earliest age that one can join.”
We reached the top of the slope at the edge of the green and I saw that my ball was about four feet from the hole. Sir Thomas’s ball was way
off to the left of the green with at least a twenty footer. He grunted and I walked down to mark my ball. I walked to the rear of the green and watched as Sir Thomas made his putt. His ball rolled by the hole by a good five feet and I waited while he walked up, my arms across my chest, stroking my jaw and looking at the line of my putt. Sir Thomas putted. His ball rolled to within an inch of the cup and then stopped dead. He stayed bent over at the waist shoving his putter at the hole as if willing the ball to go in, but to no effect. He looked at me, still bent over. I pretended not to notice, stroking my jaw. He straightened up with a glare at me and, stiff-legged, strode to the hole.
“Oh that’s OK. That’s a gimme,” I said, pretending to notice just before he was about to tap in. He bent down to pick up his ball, giving me an appraising look. I ignored his look and stepped over to my ball, kneeling down to line it up. Sir Thomas walked off the green and on to the small wooden bridge that went down to the twelfth. I sunk the putt. As I crossed the green I had an idea.
“Call, can you record the game for me?”
Call’s oval shaped head with his camera lens eye turned to face me as I replaced the putter in the bag, taking out the driver at the same time.
“Oh yes of course, Jonah. That is part of our better golf program. For twenty creds I can also provide you with an analysis of your swing.”
“That sounds good, but if you could record everything that would be great. I mean us walking and talking – I’d like a memento of this game with my uncle. Is that possible, and can you upload the record to my Devstick?”
“Yes, I can do that. Shall I use the impression you gave me earlier at the clubhouse for the twenty cred?”
“Yes, use the earlier impression. Now the twelfth is five hundred and sixty yards right?”
“Yes, Jonah, bunkers at two fifty on the right, water all the way down the left, and the first part of fairway slopes up to the bunkers. If you can crunch a drive then you’ll catch the back slope and roll down, leaving a safe six iron short of the water before the green.” Call said all this with the clubs clattering on his back as he rolled across the wooden bridge. We joined Sir Thomas on the twelfth tee. I walked straight up to the tee and crossed to the right side. Sir Thomas was directly behind me, standing by our Devcaddies. I put my ball on its tee, took two practice swipes and lined up to let one rip.