Omega

by Stewart Farrar

  'They were doomed already – they'd breathed it,' Denning said.

  'More than that, Den. They didn't deserve rescuing.'

  'Do any of us? If Operation Skylight's allied to that sort of thing?' It was almost a seditious question and he wondered how Brodie would take it; for the captain, much as he liked and respected him, was a conventional soldier with a very simple sense of duty.

  'That depends,' Brodie said, to Denning's astonishment, 'on what we do now.'

  'Our orders say "In the event of complete loss of contact with Karen Morley and her group, you will report the fact, and your position, to Base, and await instructions",' Denning pointed out.

  Brodie did not answer for a while but rotated the chopper slowly so that the horizon passed before their eyes in a stately panorama. Then he smiled and said, 'Damn the orders. We will spend a little time sweeping the area with our detector scoop open, to see if what I suspect is true -that the only Dust outbreak was at Stonehenge. Then we'll put her down in a nice field somewhere and think. Not awaiting instructions, Den – awaiting enlightenment… Are you with me?'

  The lieutenant leaned back in his seat, feeling a contentment he had not yet even begun to analyse. 'I'm with you, Skip. I'm with you all the way.'

  'B' Company was being transported by the RAF and the major resented the fact. Once, his company had had its own choppers, flown by pilots under his personal command; but all such privileged units had been stripped of their aircraft on Beehive Amber, every machine being transferred to a flexible common pool. The major knew it had been necessary; Operation Skylight, for example, could only have been mounted on a shuttle basis. But at least he might have had the luck to be shuttled by Army machines. The RAF had an infuriatingly irreverent attitude to 'Pongos'.

  He felt unreasonably relieved when the RAF had deposited 'B' Company on the outskirts of the little Suffolk town of Needham Market, his alloted HQ, and departed. Not even a decent salute from that puppy of a flight-lieutenant. Oh well – forget them. 'B' Company had work to do.

  The major wished he could pin down the vague feeling of unease that possessed him. He didn't dislike the RAF that much. And, anyway, they had gone.

  He watched his three platoons deploy for the advance into the town – left front, right front and one in reserve in case of trouble. Of course there would be none.

  Even as he formulated the reassuring thought, the firing started. Shotguns by the sound of it, from that house ahead of No 5 Platoon. But why weren't No 5 replying? The target was clear – he had seen the muzzle-smoke himself…

  He rapped a fire order to the mortar section corporal beside him. A couple of mortar bombs through that slate roof and the rats would come running.

  No 5 Platoon still hadn't replied to the single opening volley. What the hell were they up to? They were out of shotgun range anyway – they had the bastards on toast!

  He realized the mortar hadn't fired yet, either, and he rapped over his shoulder: 'You heard me, Corporal! Get cracking?'

  'Why?' the corporal asked, calmly.

  The major could not believe his ears. He spun round to face the corporal, who stood by the mortar with his thumbs stuck in his belt.

  'Why, man? Because I gave you an order! By Christ, I'll have your stripes!'

  'There are people in that house, sir.'

  'Of course there are bloody people! That's why I want it demolished. They're firing at us!' And what the hell was he doing, arguing with an NCO?

  'Only warning shots, I think, sir. Our lads are still out of range. And the firing's stopped.'

  'It'll bloody soon start again when they're in range!'

  'I don't think so, sir. Look.' The corporal pointed past him towards No 5 Platoon.

  The bewildering unreality of the scene left the major, for once in his life, without even an expletive. The men of No 5 Platoon were walking relaxedly towards the house. Some had their hands shoulder-high; one or two waved white handkerchiefs; some even had their hands in their pockets. And not one of them carried a weapon. The major saw, incredulously, the rifles and LMGs lying abandoned on the grass where the platoon had first deployed… And coming to meet No 5 Platoon, three civilians were emerging from the house, their shotguns broken open and cradled casually in the crooks of their arms.

  'If I were you, sir,' the corporal said kindly, 'I'd take a walk into the town – more of a village really, isn't it? -and start making friends. There's bound to be a committee or something. See how we can fit in with them, like. After all, it's not many weeks to harvest. They could probably do with our help.'

  He watched as the major stumbled away towards the houses without so much as opening his mouth. Not a bad old stick, as company commanders go, the corporal thought. Bark worse than his bite. Just a bit slow on the uptake, sometimes.

  At Camp Cerridwen some of the Army assault group lay on the grass enjoying the sky – after all, they hadn't seen much of it recently – while" others strolled around the cabins inquisitively. Those with an eye for craftsmanship admired the way obvious amateurs had solved the problems of building. The Signals sergeant, who had been an electrician before he enlisted, muttered in frustration because the water-powered generating system had had its vital parts removed; it was obviously a neat job and he'd have liked to see it in action.

  The assault group commander, a young captain with a face like a Mafioso, sat on the river bank arguing with his two platoon commanders and the CSM.

  'I'd like it, too, for Christ's sake. But there's nearly 100 of us – and if we can get the wives out of Beehive (and take that grin off your face, Sar'-Major, you randy sod) we'd be more like 150. This place just couldn't absorb us. By the look of it, it's about the optimum size already – they wouldn't thank us for turning it into a ruddy town.'

  'Couldn't we build another, downstream a bit?' one of the lieutenants suggested. He was, after all, a Welshman.

  'Not enough hectares to support us,' the CSM said. 'You could see as we came up – they've got every meadow and clearing in use, right down to the village. No, it's a pity, but I reckon the OC's right.'

  "What do we do, then?'

  'Look around for somewhere with elbow-room, is my idea,' the captain said. 'Settle in and as soon as things are quiet, send the choppers for the wives.'

  'I hope they'll be able to refuel.'

  'Well, if they can't, the girls'll have to walk, won't they? Good for their figures. We're not leaving them in that stinking warren, that's for sure. Besides, if we didn't get 'em to the lads quick, we'd have a mutiny on our hands. And you know how seriously I view mutiny.'

  Everyone smiled politely at the OC's little joke.

  'I wish we could hang around for a day or two and meet the dreaded witches,' he went on. 'They've done a grand job here and it'd have been interesting to talk to them. But they'll probably stay under cover till we're well away. You can't blame them. After all, they may not know what's been happening.'

  'Bet they do, sir,' the CSM said. 'They're bloody telepathic. My aunt was one. Unnerving – we couldn't keep a thing from her.'

  'I think I'll stick to radio,' the captain said. 'You can always switch that off… Right, Sar'-Major, get 'em fell in. Take-off in twenty minutes. We'll put down at the village and ask if there's a site-around here where a mob of old sweats can plant spuds and things… And tell this undisciplined shower that if they leave so much as a fag-end littering this nice clean camp, I'll have 'em on jankers for fourteeen days.'

  The Royal Navy had, naturally, suffered worst from the great earthquake of the year before, with its attendant tidal waves. Of its total tonnage, 64.3 per cent had been lost at sea, either sunk or flung against various coasts; 27.1 per cent had been damaged beyond repair in port; and the remainder, with the proud exception of HMS Ringo, had also been in port but less damaged so that repair might be possible when and if the facilities became available. No estimate of how many men of the lost ships' companies had survived was possible, because those fortunate enough to be ashore or
to reach land had been cut off from all channels of command, and had had no choice if they wanted to survive but to regard themselves as discharged and try to join local communities.

  So all that had been left of the Senior Service, as a functioning organization, was the Admiralty command structure in Beehive, unhappily lent piecemeal to the Army and RAF to keep them employed – and HMS Ringo, alive and well and living at Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides.

  HMS Ringo (Commander J. B. MacLeod, RN) owed her escape from the universal disaster to her function. A nuclear submarine designed for maximum-depth work, she had been on a survey mission 6000-plus metres down in the Cape Verde Basin at the time. Her mother ship on surface, Ringo's only contact with the outside world, had received the Admiralty's urgent warnings, and realizing that Ringo had not a hope in hell of surfacing and reaching port in the hours available, had wisely ordered MacLeod to stay where he was for as long as he could. The mother ship had then raced her guts out to reach Dakar, the nearest port, where she had in due course been smashed to scrap-iron by the tidal wave – though most of her ship's company got away and were absorbed, with seamanlike adaptability, into the life-style of various villages in the Senegalese hinterland, where the earthquake had wreaked much havoc and extra hands were welcome. Ringo had stayed below, riding out currents and buffetings unprecedented at such a depth, for another twenty-three days, till MacLeod calculated that surface conditions should be manageable.

  The Admiralty had been incredulously joyful to learn, by atmospheric-laden radio, that they actually had a seagoing ship under their command, in full working order. They had ordered MacLeod to Stornoway, which was known to be usable and relatively clear of wreckage and MacLeod, a Hebridean himself, had been glad to comply. There, he was to await further orders, which were unlikely to be forthcoming until Operation Skylight.

  There had been much to keep MacLeod and his men busy, for the Isle of Lewis had been hit by earthquake, tidal wave, and one – fortunately localized – Dust outbreak. Ringo's greatest gift to the island's survivors was her nuclear engines which could run virtually for ever. Within three weeks they had rigged a power supply to Stornoway itself and in the following months had steadily extended it to neighbouring homesteads. There had been nine marriages, during the winter and spring, between members of the ship's company and island girls, for the tidal wave, catching all too many Lewis men at sea or vainly trying to secure their precious boats at the last moment, had left many widows. MacLeod himself had every reason to believe that he was a widower, and only the impossibility of confirming the fact had kept him back from regularizing his very satisfactory relationship with the Provost's eldest daughter.

  The warning order for Operation Skylight had seemed to come from an unreal world, but it was an order, and MacLeod and his officers had made the necessary preparations.

  When the operational order came, MacLeod and half a dozen ratings were a kilometre outside Stornoway, puzzling over the problems of a blown-down power line that had to cross some awkward terrain, and for which new poles, which were in short supply, would somehow have to be improvised. The Yeoman of Signals came hurrying up the hill on a bicycle and handed the signal from to MacLeod.

  'From C-in-C Home Fleet, sir.'

  Commander MacLeod found himself strangely reluctant to look at the signal. He was aware, too, of the sudden anxious silence among the men at his side. With an effort, he read the signal – for some reason, aloud, which was not his habit.

  'C-IN-C HOME FLEET TO HMS RINGO. PROCEED FORTHWITH TO STRANRAER WIGTOWNSHIRE AND PLACE YOURSELF UNDER COMMAND OF ARMY OFFICER I/C STRANRAER AREA TO ASSIST IN CONTROL OF CIVILIAN POPULATION.'

  MacLeod looked around the faces of his men. He looked at the fallen line. He looked down the hill at the little harbour town. Then he turned back to the Yeoman of Signals who stood with signal pad and ballpoint ready.

  Commander MacLeod said, loudly and firmly: 'Make:

  "HMS RINGO TO C-IN-C HOME FLEET. NO THANK YOU. WE LIKE IT HERE." '

  At Windsor Castle it took a little while longer than elsewhere for the position to become clear. For an hour or two, the wary defenders could hardly believe that the soldiers who strolled in the garden at the foot of the Round Tower were not setting some devious trap to tempt them out. When this misunderstanding was finally cleared up, the lingering military instincts of the assault group were a little disappointed that the King would not allow them to mount a ceremonial Royal Guard until after lunch. In the event, the mounting of the Guard was put off until the following morning, for the King decreed major inroads into the hitherto carefully rationed Castle wine cellar and the lunch – with soldiers, witches and the Royal Family amicably intermingled – became celebratory and somewhat prolonged.

  General Mullard's professional nose told him that something was going wrong long before the truth penetrated Harley's megalomaniac euphoria. At first it was only a vague feeling; the sense of gathering momentum which always marked a well-conceived operation was taking longer to reach him than it should have done. The big Ops Room map was full of symbols, indicating units already airborne and reporting their positions en route. The progress chart on the opposite wall to Mullard's high desk had also begun to fill up on schedule; it listed the designated HQs and special objectives by name, and had blank columns for 'Take-Off', 'Landing', 'Occupation Achieved', with a wider one for 'Remarks'. Similar but smaller charts flanked it, for reports from regional Hives of the progress of their own operations. On all of these, actual departure times for the first waves had been entered in the 'Take-Off' column with commendable punctuality. The 'Landing' column had also begun to fill but too many of the times were anything from five to twenty minutes later than the ETAs laid down. If the weather had been bad, Mullard could have understood this, because the ETAs had been calculated on the basis of normal June flying conditions. But the day was fine, clear and almost windless everywhere. Some unknown factor was slowing down the flights by a roughly uniform percentage and the puzzle nagged at Mullard's mind.

  As the shuttle proceeded, the delay was becoming cumulative. Second-wave entries were beginning to appear in the 'Take-Off' column and they were all behind schedule -some of them even more so than could be accounted for by the mysteriously longer flying times. Delays were taking place on the ground too, at the helicopter bases where all should have been going like clockwork. The general detailed a GSO1 to chase up the bases and the other Hives for explanations. The replies were all blandly reassuring; the shuttle was going smoothly, any delays were due to the late return of the first shuttles, there were occasional technical or refuelling problems but nothing more than had been allowed for in planning. General Mullard did not like it. Even the tone of the reports lacked the note of slightly nervous self-justification normally to be expected when the top brass asked questions. They were too bland and it was the general who felt nervous.

  Beside him, Harley clucked with delight every time a new entry was made in the 'Take-Off' or 'Landing' columns. After a while Mullard felt in duty bound to remark 'The reported times are lagging behind schedule, you know'.

  Harley brushed it aside. *What's a few minutes here or there? This is a military operation, General, not Trooping the Colour. Your boys are doing splendidly.'

  Maybe, Mullard thought, with a sudden angry flash of dislike for the man beside him. But all he said was: 'There should be more in the "Occupation Achieved" column by now.'

  'There are three – no, four. The others are probably too busy to report.'

  'A force commander,' Mullard snapped, 'whether he's a lance-corporal or a bloody general, is never too busy to report.'

  Harley smiled loftily. 'You're an old Blimp, Mullard.'

  Mullard bit back a retort and instead snatched a phone. 'Get me Needham Market,' he barked, having picked one of the four 'Occupation Achieved' names at random. It took about seven minutes for him to be put through, announce himself and demand to speak to the force commander, and another two for a
mere lieutenant to be brought to the radio.

  'Sorry, sir, the OC's busy. The committee chairman's showing him around the place.' The boy's voice was amiably casual.

  'Are you in charge in his absence, Lieutenant?'

  'I suppose so, yes.'

  'You suppose so.' The general's voice was pure ice. 'Then give me your own progress report.'

  'Oh, we're settling in nicely, General. Nice place, nice people.'

  Some instinct warned General Mullard not to react as he would normally have done to this incredible conversation, but to handle it like a nurse with a slightly delirious patient. 'Any casualties?' he asked calmly. 'On either side?'

  'Oh, no. Of course not.'

  'So I take it you have established control without trouble.'

  'The question doesn't arise. I don't think you quite realize how things are, General. The war is over.'

  This boy is mad, the general told himself. He's got to be. 'Is there any other officer with you at HQ at the moment, lieutenant?'

  'Yes, sir. Lieutenant Spillman.'

  'Put him on.'

  After a pause, another voice. 'Spillman here.' 'Lieutenant, this is General Mullard. Did you hear the other end of this conversation?' ‘Ye-es.’

  'Then you will realize that your brother officer's mind has become unhinged, for whatever reason. You will place him under arrest and have your commanding officer report to me personally by radio the moment he returns.'

  Spillman's laugh was relaxed, genuinely amused. 'Oh, really, General Mullard. Get stuffed.'

  The radio went dead.

  Mullard stared at the telephone in his hand. In that moment, with awful certainty, he knew that he was not dealing with one mad officer or even two or even with a mutinous unit. He knew, and he could not tell how he knew, that Operation Skylight faced total, irretrievable, inexplicable collapse.