Twelve
Before touchdown I’d asked about Miss Mandrake: yes, she was aboard the Sendar Maru. On my journey into the bowels of the ship I asked if i could see her.
“Not yet, old boy — Patience,” Brigadier Bunnelt said. I asked him next about the boarding party from the frigate, and he consulted the accompanying armed guard. The naval men were all right, apparently. Not harmed, or not much anyway; they’d been greatly outnumbered and hadn’t had a chance to show much fight. Brigadier Bunnett went off somewhere and I was taken down two more decks and locked into a small cell that sat smack on the double bottoms. I was left to brood and listen to the sounds of the secondary machinery; now and again there was vibration as the main engines were turned over to keep the Sendar Maru on station. After I had been left alone for a little over an hour, an armed posse came for me and I was taken up three decks to follow the arrow on the sign. I was admitted to a long compartment with three ports down its starboard side and a table running the whole length, or almost, with some twenty chairs, all occupied with men and women in plain clothes. Among them I recognised faces from the Torremolinos call-box and the helicopter. The assembly seemed to constitute the British Interim Government; indeed this was confirmed to me by the man in purple seated at the head of the table. I was taken to stand by him and he swept an arm around, making the introductions. I knew some of the names: well-known men who in the past had been noted for outspoken comments in political and military spheres, an outspokenness that had led to their premature retirements from public or army life. Of the others the professions, or former professions since all these people were superannuated and largely looked it, were varied and gave a wide spectrum of abilities useful in government. There was an ex-judge with a with a wizened face that, when he was wigged, must have given him the appearance of a rat peering out of a ball of oakum. He was possibly bound for the Lord Chancellorship and a seat on a somewhat singed woolsack. There was a solicitor, query Solicitor General. Brigadier Bunnett was a likely candidate for Defence, though he could be run close by a retired rear-admiral, a vigorous-looking man with a beard still fiery red and an autocratic nose. There were bankers, company directors, accountants suitable for the Exchequer or the Department of Industry, I supposed. There was also, curiously, a retired trade union leader, quite a big name in his day, which in fact was only round about yesterday: Ron Gudge. Mr Gudge has been, when active, very much of the Left, which only went to show: when powerless and on a fixed income, people’s views shift.
Anyway, I had to allow that CORPSE: had some formidable talent ready. When the man in purple made this point, I agreed, but said, “Government isn’t all cabinet, is it? Where do you recruit your civil service?”
“There are many now in the Civil Service who are with us. Commander Shaw — ”
“A fifth column?”
“Yes. And when we form our government, many others will join us — you will see. The same applies to the armed forces and the police. We represent what many people have wished to see for many years past, and a fait accompli will bring in its own escalating support.”
This brought a chorus of hear, hears. The laces of the interim government stared at me, fish-like. There was a hint of the geriatrics, but in all truth this bunch were not much older than our current office-holders. There was, of course, a lack of governmental experience, but they could probably cope as well as anyone else in the brand-new situation that would have arisen. And I saw the logic of what the man in purple had said: so many people in all walks of life were sick and tired of what had been going on. They really would welcome change: law and order in place of vandalism and mugging and making life hell for old ladies in council flats: discipline in education: a full day’s work for a full day’s pay: respect for private property. These were just some of the things that CORPSE would have dangled carrot-like before the interim government and would promise the bemused masses when they filled the vacuum created by the nuclear holocaust. These things even rang a bell with me: they were what I would like to see too. But not at the cost, the price of CORPSE plus WUSWIPP, the widespread death to come in a matter of hours now.
I said as much. I added, ‘‘You’ll not get the support you believe. What you’ll get is hate, my friend. When the coastal areas die, there’ll be a strike-back from the inland regions.”
“We expect this,” the man in purple said. I thought how bloody ridiculous he looked in his hood, sitting at the head of all the lounge suits and neat collars and tics. “We’re ready for it — you know that, I believe. There are persons who will immediately take over control, moving to prepared strongpoints in their allotted regions. Support will come in from outside, airlifted clear of the radiation zones or brought in by sea via the unaffected ports. Come and I shall show you.” He turned to his cabinet, courteously. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.” He got to his feet, and all stood politely, scraping their chairs back as we left the compartment.
*
The place the man in purple took me to was deep down in the ship, below the waterline like the cell I’d been in: no ports here. We entered through a watertight bulkhead and the door was clipped down hard behind us once we were in. It was an extraordinary sight, a kind of War Operations Room. Along one bulkhead was a vast map of Britain; along another was a map of all the northern hemisphere. Men sat at consoles, wearing headphones and rapt expressions, and moving knobs that in their turn moved needles on dials. Above them was a platform with a desk at which a man in gilded uniform sat surveying his minions; at his side was a slim girl, also uniformed, and next to her a youngish man with what looked like an ADC’s tassels. It was all rather like good old Dowding directing the Battle of Britain in the days of yore. Sounds of urgency filled the air: the muted shorts and longs of Morse.
I asked, “Is this where you blow from, now you’ve deserted the Ark?”
“No. Not that”
“Where do you blow from, then?”
“From this ship, but not from this room. When you got away from us in Spain, the decision was made to use the Sendar Maru, which originally we had not intended — we came to see it as more convenient although there were dangers in concentration. This room is our central control point for the support operation … from here we are in touch with all our incoming groups, and from here we shall direct their movements.”
“A headquarters ship?”
There was a smile. “More than that. Commander Shaw. Britain is to be governed in the initial stages from the Sendar Maru. As you have seen, the interim government is already in being, and will rule from this ship. In effect, you are aboard the new Whitehall.”
“It’s crazy,” I said.
“Quite the contrary, I do assure you. Everything has been provided for.” The man in purple took my arm in a friendly fashion and put me in the picture as regards the work-out after zero hour. At this moment, he said, men were assembling for take-off at remote and in many cases disused airfields in Germany, France and Southern Ireland and also in the United States and Canada. Others would come in from the Middle East — Libya, Egypt, Iran, Israel. It was to be quite cosmopolitan. The numbers involved were not in fact large; this was no Second Front. A good deal of reliance was being placed on the panic element, the shattering of morale, and the instinctive turning of the population to any firm authority emerging to fill a vacuum. That would militate towards the in situ bosses, the fifth-column gauleiters already a-creep towards the Regional Seats of Government with their by no means inconsiderable following. The inflying support groups would be strategically dropped in the places of most need, and they were largely the strong-arm mobs, the international thugs of WUSWIPP and CORPSE, together with certain technicians, specialists and what-have-you. And another vital point had not been overlooked, either: the centralised government computers upon which virtually all administration depended. One being the Department of the Environment’s vast computer set-up at Hastings. For too long Whitehall had delayed the full provision of alternative manual methods w
hich could have allowed a minimum service of administration to be maintained, and now CORPSE was about to throw everything out of gear either by wrecking the computers themselves or by ordering their fifth column to produce total frenzy. Order would go right off the beam: pension payments, driving licences, Health Service supply, ERNIE, salaries and wages in the public sector, rail operation, all that and more — the lot. Small beer in an attack situation of life and death, perhaps; but it would give the people pause and assist thoughts of surrender when they found they couldn’t renew the colour telly licence. Crazy it all was; but possibly only to the conventional-democratic-government minded. It could work out. I was still there to see that it didn’t happen. I looked at a clock high on a bulkhead where all could see it: the time was 0935.
*
I was still not permitted a view of Miss Mandrake, though I was assured she was all right. From the operational control compartment I was taken to a room where all BBC broadcasts were being monitored and I was able to form a mental image of what things were like in Britain. They were not good. The public had been informed of the facts in a broad sense and an inland rush was in progress, or anyway an attempt at one. The roads, in fact, were unable to cope and the police, in their attempts to impose control, had been attacked all over the country. Result, many serious injuries and an unacceptable number of deaths with many more feared. All army commands were assisting but were not doing much good — this was not precisely uttered, but I was well able to read between the lines. An emergency evacuee-billeting scheme was being set up in all inland regions like in the war, and though all the schools were so far doing their best to carry on and function normally, they were being turned into casualty clearing stations around the teachers and pupils. Mobs were on the march as was only to be expected, and there had been looting viciously carried out. There was a sharp increase in rape and mugging and there was a good deal of hysteria, I gathered. The area around the Houses of Parliament sounded like death city already: virtually total desertion except for police and troops, nobly standing to their duty. Parliament had evacuated to overcrowded conditions in Lewisham Town Hall, displacing the mayor and his council — this was a temporary measure pending the taking over of an unnamed stately home in a hopefully safe area. The Royal Standard flew splendidly from the flagstaff of Buckingham Palace, and crowds had gathered at the gates where Her Majesty’s Guard would change that morning as usual. There had been demonstrations of loyalty and these were continuing. You can’t keep some Londoners down, and it would be those on whom CORPSE would founder. I said this to the man in purple.
“Possibly,” he said, which was quite an admission. He said it somewhat enigmatically, but I was paying more attention to the broadcasts as they came through minute by minute than to him. Some news was creepy in the circumstances: in Cleethorpes, Merseyside and Milton Keynes groups of workers had gone on unofficial strike against the threat, apparently believing that their manifestation of righteous indignation would influence CORPSE. On the other hand the National Union of Railwaymen had behaved magnificently, calling off a threatened official strike by a sizeable majority so as to keep the trains running out of the ports and the capital. The strike threat had had to do with an inter-union dispute over the entitlement of Inter-City drivers to privileges not available to other drivers and, with almost hysterical emotion in his voice, the announcer ferved away about democracy and unselfishness and the essential goodheartedness of the British work force which was capable of putting the national interest first in times of emergency. Because it all sounded like an intercessionary prayer-hint to the Almighty that we were not as bad as we were painted after all, I said Amen to myself.
The man in purple went back to my last comment. He said, “There are persons in Britain who will stand out against us.”
“Rather a lot actually,” I said. “Like the NUR, for example.”
The slit showed an understanding grin. “Yes. And we don’t want trouble.”
I stared at him and gave a hollow laugh. “You don’t?”
“We don’t. It can be avoided, and this would be better for all concerned.”
“Cold feet at the last?”
“By no means. The threat is there, and it will be used … if necessary.”
I nodded; I understood fully. All along, I’d guessed that CORPSE would much prefer to gain their ends by persuasion rather than the inconvenience and danger to themselves of operating inside a cloud of radiation. Such was human nature, even CORPSE nature. But I held my tongue and let CORPSE expound for themselves. CORPSE, the man said, had already induced a nice degree of panic and Britain was currently bedlam. The panic could not in fact be much worse after the blow-up, and that essential part of the CORPSE plan had already been achieved. Besides, surrender by the British Government would not lead to withdrawal of the death-ships: they would remain as the big stick. Indeed, there would be even more security for CORPSE that way. The threat, once blown, no longer existed and a strike-back could come. It was better to hold it as a continuing inducement to obey.
“You should have thought of that earlier,” I said.
“We did.”
“Really? And how, now, do you back pedal … how do you get the British Government to hand over to CORPSE short of the actual blow-up — which is something the tone of the broadcasts tells me they’re not in fact inclined to do?”
Another smile. “Yet,” the man said.
“Time’s short.”
“Yes. Very.”
I lost patience: the strain was telling on me. “For God’s sake,” I yelled at him, “stop this bloody stalling and tell me how you expect to get surrender, will you?”
“You and Miss Mandrake will get it for us,” the man said. “That is why you’re here.”
*
It was simple enough, really: diabolical, but essentially simple. First, I was taken back to the compartment with the portholes for an informal chat with the assembled interim rulers of Great Britain. The idea was an indoctrination or impressment course, designed to convince me that resistance would be futile and very messy. Whitehall couldn’t win this one, they said, and I was inclined to agree from the start. Nevertheless, they all had a concentrated yack at me and very earnest they were. I believe they were all half-way round the bend, but in quite a nice way so long as you could disregard the nature of the threat they’d all put their signatures to as it were. The ex-judge was very matey, and drooled on about his speciality, which naturally was the law and order angle. I began to feel I was in the Old Bailey and about to be sentenced, then I was handed over to a stout woman in a large hat, overdressed like the Conservative Women’s Conference assembling for a garden party. She was an addict of hanging and the birch, and again I didn’t disagree with her views, though I would have expressed them less viciously and without such relish. I gathered that she expected the portfolio of the Home Office. Ron Gudge seemed to be the only sane one, out simply, I believed, to feather his own nest and get back at some former cronies who’d unfairly ousted him from his trade union pinnacle before he’d been ready to go. I could understand that; there was no bull about Ron Gudge, but he was going to be a right bastard at the about-to-be-formed Department of Trade Union Reformation. A kind of Selective Eradication Department, I felt it would be, rather than pure Reformation, with a lot of old cronies biting the dust before Mr Gudge was through. Brigadier Bunnett had another go at me too, along with the retired rear-admiral. I was good material, Bunnett said convincingly, the right sort for advancement within the new security organisation. Just the type they wanted. I would be invaluable, with all my experience and inside knowledge. I was almost promised a Secretaryship of State …
When indoctrination ended, I was removed under guard to the medical section. A superbly equipped sick-bay — a hospital in miniature with two wards, an operating theatre and the usual offices — was presided over by a Japanese doctor with a full staff of junior doctors and nurses, all Japanese. The senior Japanese told me to sit, and pointed to a
thing like a dentist’s chair. As I sat, this chair was suddenly flattened into the horizontal position and steel arms came out, bent and held me fast, one round my chest, the other across my legs. To my side moved two more Japanese, grinning mightily, and laid hold of my arms. The doctor came across to me and stood looking down. He held something in his fingers: an oversize pill.
He said, “You take pill, please.”
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“Not important. Just take.”
I said I would not take it. He nodded towards another sick-berth attendant who clamped his fingers over my nose. Then he yanked my mouth open and dropped the pill in, followed by a glass of water. My swallow was automatic; down went the pill, and it felt like lead. I could track its descent all the way down until it lodged somewhere in my gut. My nose was released and the chair mechanism was operated so that I sat up.
“All right,” I said, feeling vicious. “So it’s down. It won’t stay there.”
“Will stay. Will neither come up nor go down further. Can be removed only by lengthy surgical interference needing opening of stomach in lay language.”
“Balls,” I said.
“Not balls.” The doctor was washing his hands now, quite finished with his patient. “Under heat of stomach, pill melts a small bit, enough to allow slides to emerge and prevent regurgitation or passage into duodenum … slides like stabilisers from side of ship to stop seasickness. Very effective.”
Corpse (Commander Shaw Book 15) Page 14
