The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What did he make of you?’

  ‘He thought I was normal.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘He said that I’d resolved my pre-school oedipal conflicts.’

  Cauldwell smiled and passed the pilot another whisky. ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Not that lucky; I sublimated those desires by becoming an obsessive compulsive.’

  ‘Oops.’

  ‘And that I expected my wife to accept my wanting everything planned out and predictable. When I came back from the war, I couldn’t deal with any more uncertainty – like being blown to smithereens. I just wanted her to be there when I came home. I didn’t give a fuck about meals on the table or the top on the toothpaste tube; I just wanted a home and a woman who was there.’ Blanchard began to shake and rock back and forth.

  ‘Are you laughing or crying?’

  ‘I’m laughing.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘It’s not just funny; it’s fucking hilarious. I can’t stand uncertainty – and look at me now! My wife ran off, I live in a shitty rented apartment – and I’m piloting a hijacked plane with a lunatic waving a gun in my face.’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Okay, I’m calm.’

  Cauldwell looked across Blanchard out the port window. The sky was a snowy blanket of moon-silvered cumulus clouds. There were now two Super Sabres. One of them peeled off to the left and was soon out of sight. The new fighter seemed more agitated than the one it had replaced. It flew in close to the airliner. Cauldwell could make out the pilot’s head as a dark silhouette that seemed to be staring directly at him. The Super Sabre then accelerated forward. The fighter rocked its wings and flashed its navigation lights.

  ‘Should I make radio contact?’ asked Blanchard.

  ‘What do those signals mean?’

  ‘It means we’ve been intercepted and we’re supposed to follow him.’

  ‘Get him on the radio.’

  Blanchard flicked a switch. ‘Super Sabre, this is Delta Charlie Seven.’

  The radio cackled and a sardonic voice answered. ‘Thank you for making contact, Charlie Seven. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad you’re fine and everything is going to be all right.’

  Blanchard closed his eyes and shook his head.

  ‘Delta Charlie, can you still read me?’

  ‘Loud and clear, Super Sabre.’

  ‘Good. Here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m going to turn off to port and you’re gonna follow me. Won’t be long before we’re having a nice breakfast of bacon and eggs with plenty of hot coffee. And your passenger can join us. No hard feelings.’

  Blanchard depressed the push-to-talk button, but before he could say anything he felt the barrel of a gun pressing into his temple. Blanchard looked at Cauldwell and whispered, ‘Okay,’ then spoke into the mike: ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Super Sabre, but it don’t look like that’s going to happen.’

  ‘Gosh-darn, that’s a bit of a shame. I was so looking forward to meeting you fellas.’

  Blanchard grimaced. ‘Maybe some other time.’

  ‘There ain’t gonna be no other time,’ said the Super Sabre pilot. ‘If you don’t follow me to a safe landing place, I’m going to have to hose you down with 20mm.’

  Blanchard looked at Cauldwell. ‘I think he means it.’

  ‘I think he’s full of bullshit.’

  The Super Sabre pilot continued to transmit. ‘I’m so close I can see you guys talking. I can’t read lips, but I bet you’re saying that I’m just bluffing. Well, Captain Blanchard, I can tell you why I’m not bluffing. Your passenger is one high-value dude that a lot of people in very high places would rather see dead than free. Now, if that means your death too, Captain Blanchard, so be it. You’ve done honourable military war service and you know that sometimes soldiers and airmen get sacrificed for the greater good. And if you can’t manage to follow me and land this plane you’re going to be one of them.’

  Cauldwell turned to Blanchard. ‘Is your thumb off the transmit button?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good, because I don’t want him to hear this…’ Cauldwell was interrupted by an enormous bang that shook the airliner as if it were a mouse in a cat’s jaws. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  ‘The Super Sabre must have throttled back and broke the sound barrier. Look, there he goes peeling off to port.’

  ‘Keep calm, he’s trying to scare us.’

  ‘I think he’s serious. Those guys are crazy.’ Blanchard pointed out the window. ‘Look, he’s coming back. I swear he’s going to do it.’

  The sky in front of the DC-7 was suddenly ripped apart by red tracer rounds, as if the night had been slashed by a switchblade.

  Blanchard let out a low whistle. ‘Shit, that was close.’

  ‘Where’s he gone?’

  ‘He had to bank away. Those Super Sabres are so fast they can overtake their own canon fire and shoot themselves down. But he’ll be back.’

  Cauldwell suddenly felt very sober. The tiredness and alcohol had been replaced by cold clarity. ‘Descend now. Fly as low as you can.’

  Blanchard pushed the yoke forward and the DC-7 nosedived into the clouds. ‘Your ears are going to pop.’ The pilot smiled. ‘I’ve never had this much fun with one of these buses. Hope the wings don’t come off. But if they don’t, he isn’t going to find us if he’s on visual.’

  ‘But what if he gets a radar fix from the ground?’

  ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘That’s why I don’t want to stay in the clouds. Listen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can hear him.’

  ‘There’s two of them,’ said Blanchard.

  The radio cackled. ‘Delta Charlie, Delta Charlie. You’re being a very bad boy. We’ve got your position fixed. Listen, brother, you’ve just bought yourself a one-way ticket on the night train to the big adios. You can still get off that train, but it’s your last chance.’

  Cauldwell thumbed his transmit button. ‘Fuck you, asshole.’

  Blanchard smiled bleakly. ‘You like this, don’t you?’

  Cauldwell suddenly felt high and elated again on the adrenaline buzz. ‘When we get out of the cloud cover, head for the busiest road you can find – a big four-lane highway if you can see one. And try to fly over populated areas.’

  Blanchard nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘He won’t risk shooting us down if there are witnesses and the possibility of casualties on the ground.’

  ‘Unless he’s really stupid.’

  Cauldwell shrugged. ‘You never know.’

  The DC-7 came out of the clouds. The countryside below was rural and hilly. There were few specks of light – aside from a line of headlights on a straight road that cut a swathe through sleeping farms and woods.

  ‘We’re lucky,’ said Blanchard. ‘That’s Route 29.’

  Cauldwell knew it well. It was the main road that connected the University of Virginia at Charlottesville to almost every place else. It was a fatal road strewn with the bodies of young affluent Southern men who, drunk on bourbon and youth, sped between university, the women’s colleges at Sweet Briar and Lynchburg, and the numerous drinking dens with black jazz bands and more cheap liquor. Quentin’s car was one of the wrecks, but he hadn’t been in it at the time – he had lent it to a friend. The state cops found Quentin’s Pontiac Master Six Coupe, a snazzy car with footboards and windshield sunshades, in a tangle of honeysuckle above the Rockfish River. The University of Virginia had been an odd experience. On one level, a four-year course in drinking, wearing fine clothes and wrecking cars. On another level, it had been a voyage of secret discovery.

  ‘I’m going to level off at about 1,500 feet,’ said Blanchard. ‘It means we’re going to make a helluva racket and wake people up.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We’re not just an airplane, we’re a redneck alarm clock.
And pretty soon there will be some big places coming up: Greensboro, Charlotte, Atlanta.’

  Cauldwell looked out the window. There was a Super Sabre on each wing, but their intent seemed less hostile.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’ asked Blanchard.

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘That you’re not going to die – at least right now. We’ve all got a death wish.’

  ‘Freud again?’

  ‘That’s right. My shrink said that my drinking was a death wish; I get drunk because it simulates the oblivion of death.’

  ‘Why are you talking about this now?’

  ‘Because I’m both frightened and exhilarated – and then afterwards, if I’m still alive, I’ll be exhausted and depressed.’

  The drone of the plane engines was soporific. Cauldwell was afraid he was going to fall asleep. He needed to keep talking. ‘You were telling me about Hiroshima and Paul Tibbets. Did Tibbets have a death wish?’

  ‘No, he was Oedipus; he wanted to screw his mom. I worked all this out when I did my therapy. In fact, the psych and I spent more time talking about Tibbets than about my marriage – and it was more interesting.’

  ‘But you didn’t like him.’

  ‘I hated him – just like Tibbets hated his dad. Did you know that Tibbets had been at medical school?’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘He used to talk about himself; big ego, thought he was important. In any case, Daddy Tibbets wanted Paul to be a doctor – something useful. But Paul was bored with all the studying. He wanted to become a fighter pilot instead. Daddy didn’t like it, tried to stop him.’

  ‘He told you that.’

  ‘No, my shrink did.’

  ‘How did he know?’

  ‘He knew because it all fitted in. You see Enola Gay didn’t love Daddy Tibbets – who was also named Paul. She loved her little boy, who was the real Paul, the one she really needed. So she said, “Don’t worry, son. It’s okay. Drop out of med school and become a pilot. You can’t let Daddy Paul push you around – you’ve got to be a real man. I want you to be a real man.”’

  ‘You think she actually said that, or even words like that?’

  ‘The actual words don’t matter; maybe no words were said at all. The important thing is the emotional and sexual truth which is hidden in the subconscious.’

  Cauldwell stared straight ahead as they plunged further into the night. They were flying so low that the land flew past them like a dark treadmill speeding out of control. He imagined the airliner as a herald angel waking up a sleeping South of shotguns and bibles. He had been cradled in that South and had tasted both its poison and its beauty. And Cauldwell knew this was his last visit. Someone else could redeem the place; it was beyond him and his generation. The mental chains were too stiff and fast. Cauldwell closed his eyes. It felt like he was falling down a long shaft and it was taking forever. Then he really was falling, forward and out of his seat. He woke with a start when his gun hit the cockpit deck with a metallic thud.

  ‘Hey, careful. You don’t want that thing going off. Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Cauldwell shook himself into consciousness and wondered why Blanchard hadn’t reached for the gun when he nodded off. Maybe he thought it was too risky. Cauldwell realised he needed to stay alert and awake; he needed to keep talking. ‘Tell me about the subconscious.’

  ‘According to my psych, it’s a place where we store thoughts and desires that we can’t consciously admit we have because they are taboo or unacceptable – like boning your sister or your mom.’

  ‘So Colonel Tibbets wouldn’t consciously admit he wanted to kill his father and have sex with his mother.’

  ‘No, that’s why he joined the Army Air Corps instead of knocking his dad’s brains out with an axe. It’s called “transference”. It’s socially unacceptable to kill your father so Tibbets became a bomber pilot and killed the enemy instead.’

  ‘He transferred his murderous impulses to people he didn’t even know.’

  ‘Exactly. But Tibbets gave the game away when he named the Hiroshima Stratofortress Enola Gay. Talk about obvious – but he was too stupid to see it. He put himself in Enola – right in her cockpit – and made her fly like Daddy never could. He rode her hard and good and, of course, he got her pregnant – with nearly five tons of bouncing Little Boy.’

  ‘So the bomb became his own self.’

  ‘Exactly. Little Boy went in her and then came out of her. The biggest bang in the history of the world and a hundred and forty thousand dead. Daddy killed not once, but 140,000 times. And Mama loved it all; she was so proud. Paul showed her that he was a real man.’ Blanchard paused. ‘I need a drink.’

  Cauldwell handed him another miniature of bourbon from the hospitality trolley. ‘Death wish?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘One of the Super Sabres has gone.’ But just as he said that, there was an ear-piercing wail and whooshing sound. ‘He’s back.’

  ‘He’s diving at us. Hoping he can force us to crash without canon fire. Ignore them; I haven’t finished telling you about Tibbets and Oedipus.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Tibbets wasn’t Oedipus, not by a long way. When Oedipus found out the truth of what he had done he gouged out his eyes. But Paul Tibbets was no hero and not very bright; he still has his eyes but will never see the truth.’

  ‘But you’re okay; you resolved your pre-school oedipal conflicts.’

  Blanchard nodded. ‘Completely. I get on fine with my mom. She may be a simple, uneducated Québécoise who still works at the sawmill, but she ain’t stupid. When I came back from the Pacific she wanted me to say the rosary with her and to go to confession to get absolution for what I had done. But I told her there wasn’t no absolution. And then later, she said something interesting.’ Blanchard finished his bourbon.

  ‘So what did maman say?’

  ‘She said that the Americans would never have dropped those As on the Germans because they were white. But it was okay to drop them on the Japanese because they were the yellow peril, a different race. That’s what America does now. Look what happened in Korea – I bet they’re going to go after the Chinese next. If you got yellow skin, watch out.’

  Cauldwell smiled bleakly.

  ‘I’m feeling a bit drunk. Do you want to drive?’

  ‘You’re doing fine. How long have we got to Lawson Field?’

  ‘About forty minutes.’

  Cauldwell began to calculate the risk. He knew how bureaucracies worked and he doubted that the people who ordered the Super Sabres to shoot them down would have the time to organise an ambush at Lawson Field.

  ‘Do you want to land at Lawson?’

  ‘It depends if we can contact them by radio.’

  ‘I’ll look up the frequency, but you’ll have to drive. We’re too low for autopilot. Pull the yoke back if you see a mountain ahead.’

  Cauldwell put the pistol on his lap and grabbed the yoke wheel with both hands. He tilted it slightly and felt the aircraft respond. The yoke had a solid feel that was firm and smooth. Controlling the power of the enormous mechanical beast thrilled him. It was a night of driving lessons that had begun with an eight-cylinder Chevrolet Bel Air sedan and went on to a Mack truck – and now Cauldwell was at the controls of a four-engine DC-7 airliner. He smiled. He was living the dream of the All-American Boy – and it had its wonder.

  Meanwhile Blanchard was leafing through a ring binder titled ‘Terminal Procedure Plates’. ‘Found Lawson. We get them on 67. Should I try to raise them?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Blanchard selected the frequency and pressed the transmit button. ‘Lawson Air Control, Lawson Air Control, this is Eastern Flight Delta Charlie Seven. We’re pretty famous. I bet you’ve heard of us. Over.’

  There was a long pause. When the transmission came there were muffled background voices talking to each other. One said, ‘Who the fuck is that?’ Another said, ‘Hey, hey, listen up, Chip. That’s that
fucking plane that was hijacked.’ There was another silence, then the first voice again: ‘Delta Charlie, this is Lawson Tower. How can we help you?’

  Cauldwell looked at Blanchard. ‘You drive. I’ll handle this.’ Cauldwell thumbed the transmit button. ‘Lawson Tower, you can help us. I want two T-10 parachutes with reserves. And I want the guy that delivers them to be stark hairy-ass naked. Your man will approach the rear door of the aircraft completely alone. The parachutes will be attached to a rope with a grappling hook. Your man will toss the hook up into the open door so we can retrieve the chutes. If there’s any funny business the pilot gets a bullet in the head. If you do what I say, no one gets hurt.’

  ‘Delta Charlie, I’ll have to get back to you. Complying with your request is above my pay grade.’ The radio went silent.

  ‘What now?’ said Blanchard.

  ‘Do you know those saltwater lagoons behind the outer banks of Cape Hatteras?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The water’s nice and calm. You could ditch there and we’d swim ashore.’ Cauldwell knew the marshes were an impenetrable wilderness. He reckoned he could escape. It was the iconic landscape of convicts on the run chased by baying bloodhounds.

  ‘I’d better sober up then. Water landings are tricky.’

  The radio came to life again. ‘Delta Charlie, this is Commanding Officer Fort Benning. I understand that you want to land here and pick up a couple of chutes.’

  ‘That is correct. I don’t know whether or not you’ve been briefed on the situation, General, but I assure you that I am a loyal American citizen and government official who is being pursued by rogue elements of the intelligence services.’

  ‘That sounds highly unlikely.’

  ‘I appreciate, General, why you may think that. But I recommend you contact the following colleagues to ask for verification.’ Cauldwell reeled off a list of the highest-ranking army officers he knew. They weren’t completely gormless, but he was pretty sure none of them knew about his arrest and incarceration. The US intelligence services were famously at war with each other. The CIA not only despised the FBI and withheld information from them, but also treated military officers with contempt, as if they were dim-witted spear carriers. ‘Try Courtlandt Schuyler, CofS SHAPE, George Decker, CINCUNC/COMUSFK, Bruce Clarke, CG CONARC – or the Commanding Officer of the Berlin Brigade.’ Even if the Fort Benning CO was unable to contact his fellow generals, Cauldwell was certain that the list of names would convince him that he was dealing with an establishment insider.