Hullo Russia, Goodbye England

by Derek Robinson

  Silk paused on the stairs. “This is a good idea,” he said, “as long as you know I’m not madly in love with you.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said. “For myself, I find you somewhat attractive. That’s okay, isn’t it? Or do you want to go for a long walk and think it over?”

  “Definitely not.”

  He stayed for supper. When he left, he took the cello with him.

  “Since you don’t want to learn to play it, there are much smaller things you could learn not to play,” she said. “I’ve got an old clarinet somewhere. Or a fiddle.”

  “I told Zoë I’m learning the cello. I’d better stick to what I said.”

  “Five pounds for the first lesson,” she said. He paid.

  2

  Quinlan’s crew, and two other Vulcan crews, were sitting in one of the briefing rooms in the Ops Block, when Skull came in.

  “I have never been totally persuaded by the story of David and Goliath,” he said. “It implies that bulk, because it is big, must be vulnerable. The ant beneath the elephant would not agree. And suppose Goliath, not David, had the slingshot? Or suppose David had a squint and he hit, not Goliath, but his own mother-in-law, watching from the side?”

  “Moses supposes his toeses are roses,” Dando said. “But Moses supposes erroneously.”

  “Which confirms my point,” Skull said. “Trust nobody, check everything. Above all, know your enemy.”

  “France,” a squadron leader said confidently. “That’s our natural enemy. So my old dad used to say, anyway.”

  Mild amusement.

  “May the good Saint Émilion forgive you both,” Skull told him. “I see the enemy as a tall, fair-haired, athletic figure, cleanshaven, with a typically Slavic face. Married, two children. Brave – he flew Stormoviks and strafed German tanks in the Great Patriotic War, as they call it. Plays the flute. Not now, of course. Now he is a junior general in the Soviet air force, commanding a missile base at Dukhovskina Vyazma, which is near Smolensk. He has just pressed the red button to complete the firing sequence for an intercontinental nuclear missile. His job is done. So is his life, and that of his wife and their two children, whose names I can’t pronounce, but it matters not because they will soon be pronounced dead, thanks to your pluck and courage. These remarks are in bad taste, but then so is nuclear annihilation. Any questions so far?”

  “You’re very chirpy today, Skull,” Silk said.

  “My back pay has come through. I hope I didn’t offend you with that strictly factual recital of your duties.”

  “It was a bit stuffy,” a flight lieutenant said.

  “That was irony,” Skull explained. “The mustard that excites the meat. It costs so little, yet it means so much.”

  “You’re in a very pissy mood today, Skull,” Quinlan said.

  “The Lagonda’s got a nasty cough. Probably the exhaust. Bang goes my back pay.” A flight-sergeant came in with a bundle of files. “At last,” Skull said. “Luncheon is served.” They got down to the serious business. Each crew was given a Soviet strategic bomber base as their supposed target. Quinlan’s crew got Tartu, easy meat because their Blue Steel could be released while they were still over the Baltic Sea. Silk noticed that Tartu was in Estonia. Rough luck on the poor bloody Estonians. First the East fucked you over, then the West blew you to buggery. But he said nothing.

  3

  The Vulcan climbed steadily across the North Sea. It reached the mouth of the Baltic at fifty thousand feet, still well below its operational ceiling, and going flat out, a little below the speed of sound. The plan was to make a dash towards the target, and get in and out while still over the Baltic.

  The anti-flash blinds were up but there was nothing to see except a few thousand cubic miles of violet-tinged stratosphere. Scandinavia was off to the left, lost under cloud. Even the cloud was out of sight.

  Silk was making his routine check of instruments – altimeter, artificial horizon, air speed indicator, machmeter, compass – when Quinlan shouted: “Christ! What was that?” Silk looked and saw nothing. “What was what?” he said. Foolish question. He shut up. Quinlan was questioning Tucker about radar signals. Tucker said: “What signals? Nothing showed here.” The others in the back agreed. Quinlan said, “We just got bounced. Some bastard just bounced us.” His voice cracked slightly.

  Silk leaned forward and searched. A speck of silver streaked, diving across the sky, almost faster than his eyes could follow, and was gone. “Delta fighter,” he said. “I think.”

  “They’re playing silly-buggers with us,” Quinlan said. “Running rings round us. Look...” Before he could point, another tiny triangle shot past and soared and was lost in the sun.

  “Mach two,” Silk said. “At least Mach two.”

  After a couple of minutes, a formation of three delta-wing fighters dropped from considerably higher and escorted the Vulcan at what seemed a lazily sedate speed. “Swedes,” Quinlan said. “We’re being seen off the premises by a bunch of Swedes.” He turned for home.

  At debriefing, Silk made a sketch and Renouf, the Operations Officer, confirmed that it was a Saab 35 Draken. “That’s Swedish for dragon,” he said. “Very supersonic. Designed specifically to intercept blokes like you.”

  “They left us standing,” Quinlan said. “They made us look like cold treacle.”

  “The Swedes are a bit touchy about maintaining their neutrality.”

  Skull said: “So would you be, with Russia just around the corner. Theirs is not the only delta-wing fighter, of course. France claims their new Mirage can make twelve hundred knots at fifty thousand plus.”

  “The French always lie,” Renouf said. “They add ten per cent. Like their rotten restaurants.”

  “Screw the frogs,” Quinlan said. “What about the bear? Has he got a new delta?”

  “Only the MiG-21,” Skull said. “Probably a trifle faster than the others.” Quinlan closed his eyes. “But it’s also much smaller,” Skull added. “So its range and firepower aren’t as good.”

  “That’s all right then,” Hallett muttered.

  “Hey, speed isn’t everything,” Renouf said sharply. “You can be too fast. I’ve seen fighters so keen, they went slap through the bomber formation, never fired a shot. If a MiG finds you, he’ll be subsonic, and he’ll be bouncing about in your wake, trying to get his guns lined up.”

  “He can’t find us,” Dando said, “because I’ve jammed his VHF channels so bad that his ground controllers are weeping into their vodka.”

  Nobody cheered, but nobody disagreed. “Anything else to report?” Skull said.

  “Has Tartu got a cathedral?” Quinlan asked.

  “Yes. Rather a fine one.”

  “Not any longer, it hasn’t. It evaporated, along with the orphanage, the infirmary, the old folks’ home, and the tomb of St Bruno the Bastard.” Quinlan was feeling better again.

  “Precision bombing,” Renouf said. “Name of the game.” He was gazing out of the window.

  “Game?” Silk said: “What...” He looked at Skull, but Skull just shook his head. Renouf’s mind was elsewhere. Re-fighting the last war, probably.

  4

  Silk got the cello case out of his car and carried it to his room. Stupid bloody shape, too big to tuck under his arm. Why wasn’t there a handle? Or a wheel on the end, like a golf trolley? He scraped the doorframe and flinched with guilt. The cello was probably worth twenty thousand. He opened the case. No damage done, thank God.

  He tried using the bow. After a few minutes he got bored, so he plucked the strings instead. That was hard on the fingertips. Someone rapped on his door and before he could speak, Tucker came in. “Jack Hallett’s up shit creek,” he said. “Lend him a thousand, Silko.” He looked grim.

  “Bloody good idea,” Silk said. “Only one reason why I can’t.” He plucked a few strings. “No, actually there’s a thousand reasons.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. Your old lady’s rolling in the stuff.”

&nbs
p; “Rolling in it but not chucking it away.”

  “Then we’re completely fucked.” Tucker dropped into an armchair so hard that it groaned. “Nobody else has that sort of money.”

  “Okay.” Silk rested the cello in a corner. “So Jack’s up the creek. What creek?”

  “Gambling. He owes his bookie a thousand. The bastard’s threatening to go to the CO if Jack doesn’t pay.”

  Silk made a face. Jack Hallett, the genial, steady, competent nav plotter? Not possible. “Gambling on what?”

  “Dunno. Horses, dogs? Who cares what?” Tucker heaved himself out of the chair. “If Jack gets found out, he’s for the chop.”

  “Security.”

  “Of course bloody security.”

  They stood, not looking at each other. Tucker kept cracking his knuckles. “Can you play that thing?” he asked.

  “Taking lessons. It’s a hobby.”

  Tucker nodded. Silk noticed a vein throbbing on the right side of his neck. “Jack’s bookie’s waiting outside the Main Gate,” Tucker said. “The SPs won’t let him in, of course. Let’s go and reason with him.”

  Hallett was in the corridor. “It’s my idiot son,” he told Silk, wretchedly. “Same name – Jack. He’s been placing bets, using my telephone account, they thought he was me. He’s twenty-one, it’s legal. Isn’t it?”

  “It’s brainless,” Tucker growled.

  They walked to the Main Gate. Jack’s bookie was small, not young; an ordinary man in an ordinary blue suit. Only the brown shoes were wrong.

  “You can’t come on the base,” Tucker told him. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “I didn’t come here for exercise. I came for my money.” He was calm. He’d done this a hundred times before.

  “We’ll talk as we walk,” Tucker said.

  They walked. The bookie explained that it was a simple business matter. People thought bookies were rich. In fact they worked on a very tight margin. A thousand pounds one way or the other made all the difference. “If you ran a garage and you serviced my car, I’d expect to pay you,” he said. “Well, I serviced Mr Hallett’s bets, and he should pay me.”

  “Can’t we do some kind of deal?” Silk asked. “You know, pay off so much a week, or ...”

  “Tell that to my other clients, the people who placed bets and won. What would they say if I offered them a deal? So much a week?” He looked almost amused.

  “Give us some time, at least. Maybe – ”

  “Time? This isn’t the first time of asking. Is it, Mr Hallett?” But Jack Hallett was looking at the horizon.

  “You haven’t come to any old aerodrome, you know,” Tucker said. “This is a Vulcan base. What are the odds against you being in business if Russia takes over?”

  “I see,” the bookie said. “This is your way of saving me from Communism, is it? Wiping the slate clean? You bet, you lose, you don’t pay? That’s your style in the Raff, is it?”

  “Yeah,” Tucker said. “And we’re not in the Raff.”

  “I can probably find a couple of hundred soon,” Silk said.

  “Soon,” the bookie said. “Probably. How often have I heard that before?”

  They had turned a bend and were out of sight of the Main Gate. “I know how we can settle this here and now,” Tucker said. “See that patch of nettles? I bet you one thousand pounds you’ll lie in those nettles.” The bookie laughed. Tucker punched him, a fast short right to the ribs, just below the heart. The man’s legs folded and as he fell, Tucker’s left fist swung and whacked his head sideways. He lay on the road in an untidy sprawl. Tucker picked him up and threw him in the nettles. “Now we’re all square,” he told him. The bookie crawled out. Tucker picked him up and threw him back. Then he put his foot on the bookie’s head and rubbed it in the nettles. “That’s a bloody silly thing to do,” Silk said. Tucker had stepped away from the bookie. Now he turned back and seized a bunch of nettles. He ripped them up by the roots and lashed the bookie’s face with them.

  “Hey, enough, enough,” Hallett said. His voice was thin. His face looked crumpled about the eyes.

  “He wasn’t going to change his tune,” Tucker said. “So I stopped his clock. Now he knows not to bugger us about.”

  They walked back towards the Main Gate. Hallett said, “I think you bust his ribs.”

  “Next time, I’ll bust yours. And any other manky bastard who calls me Raff.”

  “Your trouble is you think with your fists,” Silk said.

  “Shouldn’t we ...” Hallett began, but he couldn’t finish. “Leaving him there, it’s ...” He gave up.

  “Nettles are good for him,” Tucker said. “My granny in Glasgow rubs her legs with nettles. Cures her rheumatism.”

  “That’s bollocks. Suppose he goes to Pulvertaft,” Silk said. “Then we’re all in trouble. Assaulting a civilian –”

  “I didn’t touch him,” Hallett said.

  “You didn’t stop it.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “And for why?” Tucker demanded. “Because deep down in your flabby hearts a spark of esprit de bloody corps was still burning! The crew always sticks together, right? That bookie had his knife into Jack, and if Jack got the chop we’d get a new nav plotter and bang goes our Combat status! And we start all over again. Bottom crew. Well, no poxy civilian is going to destroy our Combat status. If I can take out Murmansk East any day of the week, then God help any mouthy bloody bookie who gets in my way.”

  “You didn’t hit him because he was in the way,” Silk said. “You hit him because he was small.”

  “That’s true. You’re not very big yourself.”

  Hallett said, “If he was a small bookie, he shouldn’t have taken such big bets.” Nobody laughed.

  “You break my ribs and I’ll break your neck,” Silk said to Tucker. “That’s my Combat status.” They stopped and stared at each other.

  “Oh, come on,” Hallett said miserably. “Today just keeps getting worse and worse.”

  5

  Skull and Leppard sat at a rustic table on the lawn outside the Bum Steer and drank beer. Leppard said that his boss, a two-star general, wanted him to organise a War Game at the base. Nothing colossal: just a tactical exercise, something to keep the squadron staffs on their toes.

  “Tactical,” Skull said. “Define tactical.”

  “Kiloton weapons, maximum,” Leppard said.

  “Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Mere firecrackers.”

  “Look: I’ve got to begin somewhere.” Leppard said his starting-point would be a Soviet seizure of West Berlin: small, vulnerable, isolated, a thorn in Kruschev’s side. No warning. A swift grab. What then? Skull could join in, representing Bomber Command. Take a couple of hours. No big deal.

  “That’s what God said on Monday morning.” But Skull agreed.

  VIOLENCE BEGETS VIOLENCE

  1

  Silk was sitting on the farmhouse doorstep with a bunch of flowers wrapped in patterned cellophane and tied with a big red ribbon. When she arrived on her bicycle, he stood up. “What the hell have you got there?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I found them in a graveyard. Quite fresh.”

  She saw the florist’s name on the cellophane. “Robbers,” she said. “Crooks.”

  They went inside and he gave her the flowers: tulips, carnations and some kind of silvery spray. “I look like I just won an ice-skating championship,” she said.

  “The under-butler gave them to me. He fancies me something rotten. You should have read the card.”

  “He fancied me, once.” All she could find to put them in was the brass casing of a World War One artillery shell. She added tap water. “Weddings and funerals,” she said. “That’s what they smell of.”

  “We can’t have a wedding. I suppose I could always go and kill someone for you.”

  She was holding bottles up to the light, searching for anything to drink. “I don’t think you’re capable,” she said. “Not with your bare hands.”

  He looked at
his hands, clenched them, stretched the fingers. “Maybe not. I thought about drowning Zoë, once. But then I didn’t. So I’m no good at murdering women.”

  She yawned. “There you go again. Sweet-talking me into bed.”

  It was dusk when he left. “About the flowers,” he said. “I haven’t done that since I was eighteen.”

  “Next time, buy booze. Algerian red will do. Is that your cello in the car? I charge for lessons.” Silk paid her.

  2

  Silk drove to The Grange, not because he wanted to spend the night there but because it was time for a fight. He was tired of being the silent partner, of having to listen while Zoë made her cheap points. He felt rebellious. Fine. Let’s have a rebellion. Then he remembered: she was in London.

  Stevens was waiting at the front door. Inevitably.

  “Don’t bother to put the car away,” Silk said. “I’m going back to the base.”

  “It’s no bother, sir. Her ladyship left instructions that no cars be left standing here.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Stevens gave the smallest of shrugs. “In order not to create the appearance of a used-car dealer’s forecourt, sir. Her words, I should add.”

  “Yeah? Well, the Citroën stays. I’m here. She’s in London. My words. Add them to hers, subtract the price of little green apples, and multiply by the speed of sound.” He took the key from the ignition. “Got it?”

  “Switzerland, sir. Her ladyship is in Geneva.”

  “Serve them right for being so goddam neutral. Where were you in the war, Stevens?”

  “Utterly invisible, sir.” He went ahead. “Shall I run a bath, sir?”

  Silk tossed his car keys from hand to hand. “Do I stink so strongly?”

  “I noticed your cello in the car, sir. A strenuous instrument. Some might say... exhausting.”

  Silk wanted a hot bath. Sex in the four-poster had been strenuous and squeaky and sweaty. Alternatively, he’d like to thump Stevens, but that could wait. He followed Stevens into the house.

  After the bath, after some smoked salmon and an omelette and salad with a chilled lager, he went out. “Hullo,” he said. “Fancy seeing you here. Anybody tried to buy my car?”