Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

by Derek Robinson

  At midnight, Jack Hallett and Nick Dando were playing chess. Quinlan was reading a book on the Korean War. Tom Tucker was playing with his sliderule. Silk had just finished writing a long letter to Zoë. He re-read it, and looked up. Tucker had found an answer on his sliderule. Or perhaps it was a question, because he was using his forefinger to write an invisible calculation on the armrest of his chair. He didn’t like the result and he rubbed it out, although there was nothing visible to erase. He saw Silk watching. “Jack’s fault,” he said. “His threes look like eights.”

  “He always says that.” Hallett said. He moved his bishop.

  Silk flicked through his letter. He tore the pages in half, and in half again, and dropped the bits in a metal waste bin. Quinlan turned his book sideways to look at a photograph. Silk put his pen away.

  Tucker said, “I bet Special Branch cleans these rooms when we go.”

  “It was nothing special,” Silk said.

  “Special Branch specializes in nothing special. They’ve got a file on you marked Nothing Special.”

  Silk took the waste bin outside and set fire to the bits. They made a fierce little blaze. When he came back, Tucker looked at the bin and said, “You’ve gone and blistered the paint.”

  “Tell you what,” Silk said. “Stuff it in the bomb bay and tomorrow we’ll drop it on Minsk and nobody need ever know.”

  Tucker cracked his knuckles and went back to his sliderule.

  An hour later, an airman brought them sandwiches and coffee. “What’s the score, laddy?” Quinlan asked. “When do we get out of here?”

  “Don’t know, sir.”

  “Poor show. In the war, cookhouse always had the gen on ops before anyone else.” Quinlan peeled open a sandwich. “No mustard. How d’you expect us to biff the Russkis without mustard?” The airman left.

  “Maybe this isn’t an exercise,” Silk said. The others chewed, and seemed not interested. “Oh well,” he said. “I don’t suppose it matters.”

  “What is it, if it’s not an exercise?” Quinlan said. “This is your bog-standard Micky Finn.”

  “Very quiet.”

  “They’ll call us when they need us,” Tucker said.

  “Relax, Silko,” Hallett said. “It’s a routine panic. A no-notice recall and dispersal. God knows, we’ve done it often enough.”

  “So we’ve dispersed to our wartime launch base,” Silk said. “That’s what this is.”

  “Obviously.”

  “If there’s a threat of war, we’d follow the exact same procedure.”

  “It’s a Micky Finn, my friend,” Dando said. “That’s what Micky Finns are all about. Who’s got the sugar?”

  Silk thought of giving up. Nobody cared. It was just a routine panic. But there was a long dull night ahead, probably, so he persisted. “For all we know, there really is a threat of war. Maybe they ordered a Micky Finn to get the squadrons onto their dispersal fields but they don’t want the crews hanging about wondering if enemy missiles have already arrived, back at base.”

  That caused mild amusement. “If enemy missiles had arrived, you wouldn’t be standing there, enjoying your ham sandwich,” Quinlan said. “You’d be sitting next to me, twelve miles over Russia, making Mach point nine.”

  “That’s assuming we had a basket of sunshine in the bomb bay,” Tucker said. “Which we haven’t. It’s a dummy.”

  “You didn’t see it loaded,” Silk said. “None of us did. We could be carrying the real thing.”

  “Or it could be a barrel of tar,” Quinlan said. “Your trouble, Silko, is you spent too long playing cowboys with that cloak-and-dagger Yank outfit. There are direct lines to all the dispersal fields. If an international situation boils over, Bomber Command and Group HQ will be on the blower giving us the gen, keeping us on our toes. Right?”

  “Right, yes, absolutely.” Silk reached for the coffee pot and then stopped, arm outstretched.

  “Try again,” Dando said. “Take a run at it.”

  “Suppose the situation boiled over while we were in the air,” Silk said. He left the coffee pot. “Suppose the Kremlin wants to get it over with in a hurry, so they press the red button and in the time it takes to boil an egg, Soviet tactical nuclear missiles take out Command HQ, Group HQ, Air Ministry and while they’re at it, RAF Kindrick too. Leaving us in the lurch. Whatever that is.”

  “You’re very generous with your supposing,” Quinlan growled.

  “Technically possible,” Tucker said. “Landlines wouldn’t survive missiles. But there’s always radio.”

  “Well...” Dando began. He screwed up his face as if he’d found a bad smell. “Not always.”

  “I don’t want to hear about the electromagnetic pulse,” Quinlan said. “Nobody’s done it. When somebody can show me EMP at work, I’ll listen.”

  “That’s the problem,” Dando said. “Nobody can show it unless they do it. But I haven’t the slightest doubt that if you detonate a hydrogen bomb at great height over, say, Paris, it will generate enough EMP to turn every piece of electronics in Europe into fried spaghetti.”

  “The first time would be the last time,” Tucker said.

  “I know how to baffle EMP,” Hallett said. “Switch off all your gear two seconds before the big bang.”

  “Then what?” Dando asked.

  “Put your fingers in your ears.”

  “This room smells of old socks,” Quinlan said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  They went outside and looked at the stars. “If worse comes to worst, I can always navigate by that lot,” Hallett said.

  “You’re very quiet, Mr Silk,” Quinlan said.

  “I was thinking of the night I met Ginger Rogers,” Silk said. “She had an electromagnetic pulse you could grill a steak on.”

  “That’s nothing,” Dando said. “I nearly got Hedy Lamarr’s autograph, once.”

  They went back inside.

  At 3 a.m. an order came from Command: all crews to cockpit readiness.

  Quinlan and Silk went through the familiar pre-flight checks, a drill that was almost as familiar as shaving. No warning lights glowed except the ones that were meant to glow. Mist coated the narrow windscreen. Quinlan let it. There was nothing to see out there.

  After twenty minutes’ silence, he said quietly: “Those three chaps in the back... they don’t care. All that bullshit you were spreading about tactical missiles buggering-up our communications – it doesn’t worry them. They know what QRA means. It means getting the hell out of Kindrick before Kindrick gets wiped out in one almighty flash. So what? They know we won’t come back to family or friends. Who cares? The odds are we won’t come back at all. Hullo Russia, goodbye England. Don’t think they haven’t got any imagination. The difference between them and you is they’ve learned how to keep their imagination in a bottle with the top screwed tight. So lay off. They’re professionals. They know their job. If you want to have a fit of the scruples, go to Skull and weep on his shoulder. Better still, get out of 409 Squadron. We’re all house-trained maniacs here. We don’t need you crapping all over the asylum.”

  “I knew a maniac, once,” Silk said. “The CIA man in Macão. He dressed up as a ballet dancer and painted his hair green and hit the bishop of Hong Kong with a croquet mallet.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Quinlan said.

  “Do you play croquet?”

  “No.”

  “I could teach you. We’ve got an international croquet court at The Grange. Lady Shapland and the under-butler would make up a foursome.” Silk stopped. Quinlan was reading his book on the Korean War.

  They were released from cockpit readiness at six: sooner than usual, Dando said. The Micky Finn ended at seven. The four Vulcans flew home. Twenty-four hours without sleep was enough. The crews stood down for the day.

  PART THREE

  Shoot First

  A NICE OLD

  WIDOW-LADY

  1

  Silk slept until two, had a sandwich and a beer in the Mess, and dr
ove to The Grange. Stevens told him that Captain Black wished him to know that he was very grateful for the wonderful hospitality he had been shown. Unfortunately, duty required him to return to his base. That was an hour ago. Her ladyship was taking a bath.

  “I hope he tipped you well.”

  “Excessively, sir. I felt obliged to return half the amount.”

  Silk stared. “You’re joking.”

  “Yes, sir. He failed to tip me. In compensation I took a bottle of claret from the cellar.”

  “Now I don’t know whether you’re joking.”

  “Not the good claret, sir. That would be impertinent. One of the more gullible years.”

  Silk went upstairs, thinking: Too bloody smooth. But it was the under-butler’s job to be smooth, wasn’t it? Yes. Maybe. Who cares? The hell with it.

  Zoë’s bath stood on castiron lion’s paw feet and it was long enough to drown a Grenadier Guard. Her head looked very small in a sea of foam and bubbles. Silk sat on the edge and popped bubbles with the sharp end of a loofah. “ I hope the Yank wasn’t too much of a nuisance,” he said.

  “Quite charming. The ideal guest.”

  “I was afraid he’d get in the way of your work.”

  “Not a bit. We meshed perfectly.” She let her head sink until her nose and ears were submerged and she blew bubbles as she looked at Silk. Her head rose and she said, “Such a shame you missed him. I asked if he could possibly come again. He seemed quite keen. How was your Micky Finn? Lots of innocent fun?”

  “You know I can’t talk about it.”

  “No? It was just a no-notice recall and dispersal. Routine panic, isn’t that what you chaps call it? I assume your Vulcans got airborne in a lot less than four minutes, or Bomber Command would have been highly displeased and you’d still be getting a numb bum on the ORP at your dispersal field.”

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “Not half as much as your fat air marshals. They love to boast. Off the record.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a flight lieutenant.”

  “I’m just an MP, but I know where you went yesterday, and why, and what a complete farce it was. Vulcans are too big and noisy to hide, Silko. What makes you think the Russians haven’t got Yeovilton on their maps?”

  “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

  “The RAF knows where all the Soviet nuclear bomber bases are, and Russia’s vast. England’s tiny. D’you honestly believe the Kremlin can’t plant a missile on every RAF bomber base? Main and dispersal? Twice over?”

  “That’s not my problem.” Beside him, Zoë’s right foot had appeared, pink and shiny. He fingered the toes. “All I know is the Kremlin won’t survive an attack on Britain. Is Kruschev prepared to trade Moscow for, say, Kindrick? I don’t think so.” He tickled her foot. “None of which is secret, by the way.”

  “Stop. Stop! Or I’ll splash you... the trains run both ways, don’t they?” she said. “We don’t dare attack them first, because...” Silk shrugged. “So nobody’s going to drop the bomb,” she said. “It’s a useless weapon.”

  “Well, mine isn’t. Mine’s on standby, and fully operational. Bugger the Kremlin. How long are you going to soak in this tub?”

  “Here’s something else you ought to know. Your famous four-minute warning begs a very large question. D’you want to know what it is?”

  “No.” The foam was thinning; Silk could see more and more of her. Here and now. Why not here and now? “Yesterday, when I got called to the colours, we left unfinished business behind. Remember? Well, now I’m back, loaded for bear. So: shall we make whoopee?” Four-minute warning? Damn right I want to know. But not now.

  Zoë raised her foot a little higher and wriggled the toes. She took a serious interest in the performance. Steam had turned her hair into black ringlets. She looked no more than twenty years old, which was what she was when Silk first met her. “Afraid not,” she said.

  “Look, I’ll go and fetch the bloody punt,” Silk said. “I’ll carry it up the bloody stairs. I’ll dump it in the bloody bedroom.”

  “I know you would, darling. But that wouldn’t alter the bloody time, and the bloody time is what we haven’t bloody got.” She spoke sweetly. Silk found himself looking at her foot. If he grabbed it, jerked upwards, she’d go under. Hold tight, she’d stay under. And that would definitely solve... what? Nothing. So why was it such a tempting thought?

  He reached out and, with one forefinger, pushed the foot down into the water.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “The end of the world is nigh. Your sources of intelligence have pinpointed...” He looked at his watch. “Sixteen hundred hours. Am I right?”

  “You are clever, Silko. It’s a cocktail party, at five. Go and have a bath, dear. You smell like the inside of a boxer’s jockstrap.”

  “Well, you would know more about that than I,” he said as he went out. It wasn’t often that he got the last word, and it didn’t make him feel any less dissatisfied.

  2

  The Old Rectory, just outside Lincoln, was big. It had been built in an age when parsons could afford large families and cheap servants. Now it was owned by a man who had inherited half a coalfield in Nottinghamshire. To express his appreciation of this good luck, he encouraged the arts in East Anglia by giving cocktail parties where the artists could meet people with taste and money. Like Zoë.

  On their way to the party, Silk asked her if she’d noticed anything sort of, you know, morbid about Captain Black. She said he’d seemed remarkably well-balanced. Silk was frowning at the road, gripping the wheel so tightly that sinews showed up stiffly on the backs of his hands. “Still, what do I know?” she said. “I’m impressed by any man who can take his pants off without falling over.”

  He glanced at her, and went back to frowning.

  “Joke,” she said. “Well-balanced. Remember?” She squeezed his thigh. “Relax, Silko.” He took his hand off the wheel and flexed his fingers. “Now smile,” she said. He did his best. “Ghastly,” she said. “Go back to looking miserable.”

  After a mile or so, he said, “It’s just that I got the impression that Captain Black doesn’t like his job. Prospects are deeply depressing. He’s even thought of taking the easy way out.”

  “Suicide,” Zoë said. “It’s called suicide, Silko.”

  “Anyway, I did my best to change his mind. Buck him up.”

  “Did you? Why? He’s flying an F-100 in a squadron that’s tasked to make tactical nuclear strikes on population centres in Eastern Europe.” She looked out of her window and waved to three children who were riding a fat old pony, bareback. They waved back. “If he’s going to kill a couple of hundred thousand civilians, and himself, then the least we can do is let him kill himself first, don’t you agree?”

  Silk changed gear, unnecessarily, and changed back again. “I don’t know anything about any of that,” he said.

  “Yes, you do, darling. You do now.”

  “Well, it’s all balls. I want to ask you about Stevens. Don’t you think he’s got a funny attitude? And why is he only the under-butler when we haven’t got a proper butler?”

  “No particular reason. He came with the house, rather like the death-watch beetle.”

  “I never know what to say to him. All I know about is flying. How can I make conversation with ordinary people when... What’s there to talk about? Cricket? I hate cricket. At school, I could never hit the damn ball. It hit me. I had scars on my scars. Maybe I should talk about that. Are you interested in my cricket scars?”

  “You need a hobby,” Zoë said. “Give your bored old brain a break. Find yourself a nice hobby, Silko.”

  “I could rob banks,” he said. “That would be something to talk about.”

  “Do it. Do anything. Just get one foot in the real world.”

  * * *

  Something artistic was happening everywhere at the Old Rectory: in the library, the music room, the drawingroom, the study; and activities overflowed
onto the terrace, the lawns, the summerhouse. Poetry readings, pianists, displays of paintings, a string quartet, actors giving readings, pottery, prints, sculpture, weaving. Flower-arranging. Embroidery.

  Silk toured the lot in fifteen minutes. Nothing was worth tuppence. Nobody mattered. He gave up. He noticed a small wrought-iron balcony, high up, so he went upstairs.

  A man was leaning on the rail. Below, on the terrace, the string quartet was making short work of Mendelssohn. “Mind if I join you?” Silk said.

  “Please do.”

  “I’ve taken all the culture I can stand. Wait a minute... This is your party, isn’t it? Sorry.”

  “Not a bit. My contribution to the arts is writing a fat cheque for the booze.” He pointed at a group of people. “If you’re looking for sparkling conversation, I strongly recommend the lady in the green silk.”

  “Me too. She’s my wife.”

  “Is that so? Lucky chap. Let me see... How about that one-armed man? Interesting fellow. Glass-blower. Can’t be easy, can it? One arm.”

  “Quite a challenge.” But Silk was looking at a slim woman in khaki trousers and a v-neck sweater. The trousers fitted her like skin. The sweater was blood-red and, from this distance, appeared to be v-necked down to somewhere just north of the navel. She had pulled up the sleeves until they bunched above her elbows. She turned her head, and Silk crashed and burned, right there. “Interesting face,” he said.

  “It’s the glass-blowing,” his host said. “Develops the cheek muscles.”

  “Really? Sounds fascinating.”

  Silk hurried downstairs, weaved through the crowd on the lawn, found the blood-red sweater listening to the glass-blower. “It all starts with the diaphragm,” he was saying. He patted his stomach. “I can move a grand piano ten feet, just using my diaphragm.”

  “Excuse me,” Silk said, “but there’s a woman in the Music Room who wants to buy your glass. Lots of it.” The man stared. “Didn’t give her name,” Silk said. “Plump, about fifty, big cheque book. Music Room.”

  They watched him go. “Thank Christ,” Silk said. Beneath the sweater’s deep cleavage she was wearing some kind of skin-coloured undergarment. He forgave her everything. “For a moment I didn’t think he’d buy it,” he said. No reply. Maybe she couldn’t speak English. Swedish, maybe. Italian. Greek. “Who are you?” he asked. “Tell me you’re not married.” Fool, he told himself, and shut up.