“You didn’t see it loaded,” Silk said. “None of us did. We could be carrying the real thing.”
“Or it could be a barrel of tar,” Quinlan said. “Your trouble, Silko, is you spent too long playing cowboys with that cloak-and-dagger Yank outfit. There are direct lines to all the dispersal fields. If an international situation boils over, Bomber Command and Group HQ will be on the blower giving us the gen, keeping us on our toes. Right?”
“Right, yes, absolutely.” Silk reached for the coffee pot and then stopped, arm outstretched.
“Try again,” Dando said. “Take a run at it.”
“Suppose the situation boiled over while we were in the air,” Silk said. He left the coffee pot. “Suppose the Kremlin wants to get it over with in a hurry, so they press the red button and in the time it takes to boil an egg, Soviet tactical nuclear missiles take out Command HQ, Group HQ, Air Ministry and while they’re at it, RAF Kindrick too. Leaving us in the lurch. Whatever that is.”
“You’re very generous with your supposing,” Quinlan growled.
“Technically possible,” Tucker said. “Landlines wouldn’t survive missiles. But there’s always radio.”
“Well…” Dando began. He screwed up his face as if he’d found a bad smell. “Not always.”
“I don’t want to hear about the electromagnetic pulse,” Quinlan said. “Nobody’s done it. When somebody can show me EMP at work, I’ll listen.”
“That’s the problem,” Dando said. “Nobody can show it unless they do it. But I haven’t the slightest doubt that if you detonate a hydrogen bomb at great height over, say, Paris, it will generate enough EMP to turn every piece of electronics in Europe into fried spaghetti.”
“The first time would be the last time,” Tucker said.
“I know how to baffle EMP,” Hallett said. “Switch off all your gear two seconds before the big bang.”
“Then what?” Dando asked.
“Put your fingers in your ears.”
“This room smells of old socks,” Quinlan said. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
They went outside and looked at the stars. “If worse comes to worst, I can always navigate by that lot,” Hallett said.
“You’re very quiet, Mr Silk,” Quinlan said.
“I was thinking of the night I met Ginger Rogers,” Silk said. “She had an electromagnetic pulse you could grill a steak on.”
“That’s nothing,” Dando said. “I nearly got Hedy Lamarr’s autograph, once.”
They went back inside.
At 3 a.m. an order came from Command: all crews to cockpit readiness.
Quinlan and Silk went through the familiar pre-flight checks, a drill that was almost as familiar as shaving. No warning lights glowed except the ones that were meant to glow. Mist coated the narrow windscreen. Quinlan let it. There was nothing to see out there.
After twenty minutes’ silence, he said quietly: “Those three chaps in the back… they don’t care. All that bullshit you were spreading about tactical missiles buggering-up our communications – it doesn’t worry them. They know what QRA means. It means getting the hell out of Kindrick before Kindrick gets wiped out in one almighty flash. So what? They know we won’t come back to family or friends. Who cares? The odds are we won’t come back at all. Hullo Russia, goodbye England. Don’t think they haven’t got any imagination. The difference between them and you is they’ve learned how to keep their imagination in a bottle with the top screwed tight. So lay off. They’re professionals. They know their job. If you want to have a fit of the scruples, go to Skull and weep on his shoulder. Better still, get out of 409 Squadron. We’re all house-trained maniacs here. We don’t need you crapping all over the asylum.”
“I knew a maniac, once,” Silk said. “The CIA man in Macão. He dressed up as a ballet dancer and painted his hair green and hit the bishop of Hong Kong with a croquet mallet.”
“Oh, shut up,” Quinlan said.
“Do you play croquet?”
“No.”
“I could teach you. We’ve got an international croquet court at The Grange. Lady Shapland and the under-butler would make up a foursome.” Silk stopped. Quinlan was reading his book on the Korean War.
They were released from cockpit readiness at six: sooner than usual, Dando said. The Micky Finn ended at seven. The four Vulcans flew home. Twenty-four hours without sleep was enough. The crews stood down for the day.
PART THREE
Shoot First
A NICE OLD WIDOW-LADY
Silk slept until two, had a sandwich and a beer in the Mess, and drove to The Grange. Stevens told him that Captain Black wished him to know that he was very grateful for the wonderful hospitality he had been shown. Unfortunately, duty required him to return to his base. That was an hour ago. Her ladyship was taking a bath.
“I hope he tipped you well.”
“Excessively, sir. I felt obliged to return half the amount.”
Silk stared. “You’re joking.”
“Yes, sir. He failed to tip me. In compensation I took a bottle of claret from the cellar.”
“Now I don’t know whether you’re joking.”
“Not the good claret, sir. That would be impertinent. One of the more gullible years.”
Silk went upstairs, thinking: Too bloody smooth. But it was the under-butler’s job to be smooth, wasn’t it? Yes. Maybe. Who cares? The hell with it.
Zoë’s bath stood on castiron lion’s paw feet and it was long enough to drown a Grenadier Guard. Her head looked very small in a sea of foam and bubbles. Silk sat on the edge and popped bubbles with the sharp end of a loofah. “ I hope the Yank wasn’t too much of a nuisance,” he said.
“Quite charming. The ideal guest.”
“I was afraid he’d get in the way of your work.”
“Not a bit. We meshed perfectly.” She let her head sink until her nose and ears were submerged and she blew bubbles as she looked at Silk. Her head rose and she said, “Such a shame you missed him. I asked if he could possibly come again. He seemed quite keen. How was your Micky Finn? Lots of innocent fun?”
“You know I can’t talk about it.”
“No? It was just a no-notice recall and dispersal. Routine panic, isn’t that what you chaps call it? I assume your Vulcans got airborne in a lot less than four minutes, or Bomber Command would have been highly displeased and you’d still be getting a numb bum on the ORP at your dispersal field.”
“Now you’re just showing off.”
“Not half as much as your fat air marshals. They love to boast. Off the record.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m just a flight lieutenant.”
“I’m just an MP, but I know where you went yesterday, and why, and what a complete farce it was. Vulcans are too big and noisy to hide, Silko. What makes you think the Russians haven’t got Yeovilton on their maps?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“The RAF knows where all the Soviet nuclear bomber bases are, and Russia’s vast. England’s tiny. D’you honestly believe the Kremlin can’t plant a missile on every RAF bomber base? Main and dispersal? Twice over?”
“That’s not my problem.” Beside him, Zoë’s right foot had appeared, pink and shiny. He fingered the toes. “All I know is the Kremlin won’t survive an attack on Britain. Is Kruschev prepared to trade Moscow for, say, Kindrick? I don’t think so.” He tickled her foot. “None of which is secret, by the way.”
“Stop. Stop! Or I’ll splash you… the trains run both ways, don’t they?” she said. “We don’t dare attack them first, because…” Silk shrugged. “So nobody’s going to drop the bomb,” she said. “It’s a useless weapon.”