Thinking all these thoughts, I looked around at my fellow prisoners. A lieutenant, a gunnery instructor, two leading-seamen, twenty able-seamen and a communications rating. And me. I hummed a tune: it was ‘Soldiers of the Queen. For we’re part of England’s glory, lads …
The lieutenant, whose name I’d learned was Dick Phillips, implored me to shut up. I was out of tune, he said, and I didn’t disbelieve him. He added, “Right now. it’s inappropriate.”
“Why?”
He waved an arm around. “Prisoners of war … ”
“That’s one way of looking at it, Dick.”
“So what’s the other?” He sounded sardonic.
I said, “Trojan horse. Slap bang in the enemy camp. Start thinking about it.”
On we sailed for the Clyde. Fast now: the vibration was intense and I could hear the water hissing down the ship’s side plating.
*
Being a Trojan horse was all very well, but the soldiers of Troy had had an advantage over us: they could, and of course did, get out of their wooden horse. There was no way out of our prison accommodation, which I fancied had been a storeroom until it had been cleared out to accommodate prisoners. There were two ports, both very much too small to admit passage to the thinnest and most stunted man even if there had been a way of smashing the thick fixed glass, which there was not. There was ventilator trunking, but again no use as a way out unless you were a rat. The deck was steel. We were well and truly boxed in and I gave CORPSE credit for having seen to it that escape was impossible except by the obvious means, i.e., attacking any guard who opened the door, but that was too obvious to be viable. However, during the evening and night something curious and remarkable and lucky happened: after I had been incarcerated for some while, the door opened and food was brought under very heavy armed guard, the arms being sub-machine guns. The food was Japanese and fishy and it was left in plastic containers for us to feed from without knives or forks or even spoons. We had more or less to tip it into our mouths or go at it like cats; and it was filthy. I believe it was off, though at first I thought it was merely Japanese and as I was hungry I ate to keep my strength up. I didn’t manage much, neither did my companions. An hour or so later sickness set in, real gut-tearing sickness. Never had I been so revoltingly ill. We were all like fountains, gushing. And with me, much blood and a good deal of pain and alter a while something came up and stuck in my throat so that I almost choked to death. My plight was seen by Dick Phillips, and he staggered over and thumped my back, hard. Then he got his fingers down my throat and probed around and after a racking few minutes of blood and agony, out came that little metal bug with one of its slide-out stoppers gone. The metallurgists of CORPSE had made a balls, or I had a larger throat system than other people.
Anyway, there it was. Up till then I hadn’t told the naval party about the bug, but now I did. They hoisted in the fact that they were close to death, since there was no way of getting rid of the bug, but they took it well. I got groggily to my feet and shoved the bug out of sight in a corner of the deckhead, where it lay concealed by the ventilator trunking. I said casually, “You never know, do you? The most unlikely things, if kept, can come in handy one day?”
What happened next was terrifying: the Sendar Maru gave a bit of a roll, probably as the helm went over for a change of course to stand clear of a vessel crossing ahead. There was a sliding sound, then a series of metallic clanks like a stone dropping down a drainpipe. The bug had evidently gone through some chink in the trunking and had descended willy-nilly and we all expected instant cremation. However, bangs seemed not to harm it and after a while we breathed again. I was in some considerable pain from the thing’s re-emergence, but I felt very much easier in mind, and grateful for that filthy supper. After that, I slept. The atmosphere was foul thereafter, but the sleep was very welcome and refreshed us all. As dawn lit the ports I got up and looked out: there, right on our ETA, fine on the starboard bow, stood the great rock of Ailsa Craig at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde, whitened from its age-old use as a seagulls’ lavatory. As the Sendar Maru swung to starboard to enter the Firth, I lost my view of Ailsa Craig. Up the bright blue stretch of water we went, with the engines eased a little now. Soon we came up to Turnberry, with its expensive hotel and golf course. Even at this early hour, even with Britain moving under the CORPSE shroud, a handful of lunatics strode the fairways with bags and trolleys. I could see them clearly, could imagine them yelling ‘Fore!’ as they loosed their balls. On past Turnberry, with Arran looming immense but to me invisible to port beneath the great craggy peak of Goat Fell. On towards the entry to Inchmarnock Water and the Kyles of Bute, also to port, and the town of Ardrossan coming up on my side. Then the vibration died and the hiss of water ceased and we lost way, and soon, by picking out a couple of leading marks, I saw that way was off us.
I wondered: what next?
*
‘Next’ was a boat coming off from Ardrossan a couple of hours after we had hove-to some distance off shore, keeping to the deepwater channel on account of our draught although, as I had noted on first seeing the Sendar Maru from the air, she was high in the water due to not being loaded down to her marks and in all probability was not in any danger of grounding. That boat approached below the portholes and I saw what was in it: an admiral and a general in uniform, and two provosts in their civic robes and chains, plus minions. The admiral was probably the Flag Officer, Scotland and Northern Ireland, the general his military counterpart from Edinburgh. In this I was correct; all we prisoners were brought on deck shortly after the party had boarded and we were told who they were and that they had come to pay court to CORPSE. When we appeared, the admiral at once demanded the release of the naval personnel he wasn’t worried about me, I was a 6D2 responsibility if that organisation still existed at all. The man in purple granted the admiral’s request without ado. CORPSE intended to be correct in its attitudes; the naval men had merely obeyed orders and until such time as they refused to follow CORPSE directives they would be treated properly as would all other service personnel. And much to my astonishment, I was chucked in with the rest. All was going well for CORPSE and the boss had no further use for me. Or so I thought, and I was wrong.
The man in purple took me aside before we went down to the boat and spoke in friendly fashion. “You will see that it pays to be on the winning side, Commander Shaw.” He paused. “All the incoming reports are excellent. The take-over is proceeding reasonably peacefully but remember this: the nuclear-loaded vessels are handy for bringing in if needed.”
“I’m remembering,” I said. “So?”
“So there is something more required of you, Commander Shaw.”
“Well?”
The man in purple said, “Your organisation 6D2. It will be disbanded in its present form, of course, but while it remains in being it constitutes a threat to the new government, since it is outside the Establishment. In other words. I cannot be certain of the reaction of 6D2 Britain”
“Or of 6D2 America and — ”
“All the others, yes. You have put your finger on it. We could face trouble, but we shall not. It is you who shall ensure that we do not.”
I asked, “Why me? You say you have the power. Why not put the army or the police in and shut down Focal House?”
He smiled through his ludicrous slits. “I respect your organisation, Commander, and will have a use for it — when it is reconstituted. There will be a place for you. Even CORPSE has a continuing need for such men, and 6D2 will be incorporated into CORPSE once the old guard have been disposed of.”
I asked, “Can you elaborate?”
“Certainly. The man you know as Max … he is expendable now. A man of set mind and outlook, a man who will never change enough to accept CORPSE. You will go to London and replace him. If necessary you will shoot him. You, Commander, will be the new Max, the new executive head of 6D2 Britain, and you will reshape the organisation along acceptable lines. Do you understand?”
With this ringing in my ears, I went down to the boat. Once away for Ardrossan, I pumped the admiral and the general and the civic dignitaries. Law and order was being maintained largely because the mass of the population was stunned by the immensity of the CORPSE threat and by the sheer speed with which the elected government of the land had handed over power. The backlash would come.
“Then what?” I asked rhetorically. The man in purple had already given me my answer. He expected the backlash and had prepared for it in advance.
*
It was certainly a stunned land. Everyone looked like a zombie, walking around in a dream. There was a crowd watching when we came ashore at Ardrossan, but it was a silent crowd that stared out across the Clyde towards the Sendar Maru, immense and lethal. Even the backdrop of the rearing peaks of Arran failed somehow to dwarf her. The admiral and the general and the provosts were met by a man wearing the CORPSE uniform as aboard the Sendar Maru, a Scot — one of the in situ boys, the gauleiter corps. He was Commandant MacKechnie, he said in rich Glaswegian. He was polite and deferential; CORPSE had a need to inveigle themselves with the ex-Establishment for a while. But behind him he had his uniformed other-rank thugs, hard-looking men with holstered revolvers hanging from black plastic belts. He accompanied us to a car waiting outside the landing pier; I had arranged with the brass for a lift into Glasgow, where I would find air transport to London, but Commandant MacKechnie had made other arrangements as a result of orders from the Sendar Maru. As the brass drove away I was led to another car that would take me to Prestwick.
“Flight arranged?” I asked.
“Aye.”
MacKechnie came with me and sat dourly in the back of the car. There didn’t seem to be much traffic on the road as we headed south and away from the Sendar Maru now doing a slow patrol up and down off Ardrossan, keeping in deep water. I found the whole ambience extraordinary: there was normality yet there was not. Prestwick airport was functioning as usual, but was not as busy as I would have expected at this time of the year. Perhaps not unnaturally: the holiday spirit was certainly in abeyance by now. Just before I was escorted to my flight, which was a special one for me alone, a nasty little incident took place: three raw-faced Scots, surging along in advance of a strong smell of whisky, saw Commandant MacKechnie’s CORPSE uniform and grew drunkenly belligerent. MacKechnie was jostled. I sensed his fear that belligerency would spread; many people were looking on and showing their feelings. But CORPSE, though thin in the ground yet, were in command. A group of thugs shoved through from behind and smashed the Scots on their heads with truncheons, and like three switched-off lights they went out and were dragged away bleeding. Incident over. Feeling murderous, I walked through for my plane. Commandant MacKechnie watched my take-off. The aircraft headed out for Gatwick, where a helicopter waited to ferry me into London and Focal House. All so normal; the sort of routine I’d followed so often in past times. But when I went down from the roof it was all different. Not physically; but as to atmosphere. The staff had changed — the same people, but grown different almost overnight. They wore a hunted look, and no doubt with reason: the new masters would be watching and sorting out. Junior staff hung about in groups, doing no work but drinking a lot of tea. I was stared at as I went along the lushly carpeted corridors to the suite. In the suite I found Mrs Dodge, her face tear-stained. She was alone; the first thing she told me. because she knew I wanted to know, was that Miss Mandrake was coming along well but still in hospital. I let out a long, long breath of relief and asked, “Where’s your bevy of beauty, Mrs Dodge?”
“There’s no work,” she said. Her voice was Hat, almost entirely without tone. “I told them not to bother to come in. Transport’s so difficult, you know … ever since the panic started.”
“Max?”
She said, “He’s at home, Commander Shaw. He’s been relieved. Sacked,” she added fiercely and bitterly. Her loyalty was intense. I broke it to her gently that I was the new Max and for a moment she brightened just a little, but then grew hostile. “So you’ve joined them,” she said. “I would never have thought it of you.”
“I’ve not joined them,” I said, and trusted to her efficiency to have ensured that her office was free of bugging devices. “I’m here to lead the strike-back, but you’ll keep that under your hat, if you please, Mrs Dodge. So far as anyone else in FH knows, I’m CORPSE’S man and 6D2 becomes a CORPSE agency as of now.”
Many emotions had a chase across her face; she almost got up and hugged me, I believe. She didn’t know what to say, and said what came most naturally: “Would you like a cup of tea, Commander Shaw?”
I said no, I would prefer a glass of whisky but I wouldn’t linger even for that. I had to see Max soonest possible. Out I went again.
FIFTEEN
6D2 still had some cars left and I equipped myself with a Jensen. When I took it over in the underground car park I was saluted by ex-CSM Horridge.
“A sad day, sir. Sad for Britain.”
“Yes. And 6D2.”
“Yes, sir. The suite’ll be missed, sir.” He lowered his voice. “Is there any gen, sir?”
I told him I was the new Max, or in his terms the new suite. He was as frigid as Mrs Dodge had been, but I couldn’t tell him that my appointment was to be turned to advantage: Horridge was a first-class man but he liked his liquor and just might, in the likely circumstances of being pushed around by the CORPSE boys in a pub, lose his cool and be indiscreet. I couldn’t take the risk with so much at stake. I felt his hostility like a stab from a bayonet as I drove out into the city. I had a bet with myself that his notice would be going in pronto. Driving through the city, westbound for Chelsea, I was surprised to find little superficial evidence in the streets of the superchange that had hit Britain. There were the usual crowds, police and traffic wardens patrolled as ever, and the traffic lights were working, and there were jams though there didn’t seem to be any buses. The sun shone and it was hot and London simmered gently, its stone buildings acting as huge night-storage heaters and pumping back the absorbed heat. The crowds were as colourful as ever, jeans and cheesecloth proliferating. At the Horse Guards in Whitehall the Queen’s Guard was mounted yet, but in the background, under the arches by the stables, a quick glimpse of lurking CORPSE uniforms showed what was behind the facade. CORPSE was again in evidence at the gates of the Houses of Parliament, and again outside New Scotland Yard, yet again outside Buckingham Palace. Then I saw commandeered bus-loads of them and assumed the incoming waves of support had started arriving to back up the fifth column inside London.
I found Max in a blue silk dressing-gown, smoking a cigar and staring from his study window like a pugnacious Churchill glaring defiance across the Channel. When he heard me he swung round and pointed the cigar at me.
“We’ve lost,” he said. He sounded personal about it, as though the whole thing had depended on 6D2 and 6D2 were the letters-down. This was bunk and I said so and he snarled at me to shut up.
I said, “I’m your replacement, Max.”
“I’m aware of that. CORPSE must be crazy.
”
“I’m glad of that observation,” I said quietly.
“Why?”
“Because it means you trust me. It means you know I’ve not ratted and am not likely to.”
He grunted, but gave me a sharp look. “Correct so far. What’s your next step, Shaw?”
“To get CORPSE out of Britain.”
“Quite. How do you do it?”
Unbidden, I sat down. Max gave me another sharp look, then crossed his study to a cupboard and brought out glasses and a whisky decanter. He poured and handed me a stiff drink. I told him then about the current situation of the device ex my stomach. I said that the first transmission would sink the Sendar Maru in the Firth of Clyde and that would be the end of the big threat. He gave an un-Maxlike whistle and looked a good deal happier. He asked how I could get that transmission made and I said that currently I had no idea, since Zambellis had been murdered.
“Did they smash up his equipment?” he asked.
“I don’t know, they didn’t say.”
“It’s a long shot, isn’t it? Zambellis dead, transmitter possibly kaput.”
Corpse (Commander Shaw Book 15) Page 17
